The Fleeting Years Read online

  ‘No, don’t worry. I don’t need potatoes today.’

  ‘Now then, Mrs M, m’dear, it may not be my place to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, but start cutting down on enjoying your food and you’re on a slippery slope. It’s plain to see that you’ve lost weight these last months – and I wouldn’t mind betting that Mr M is picturing you just the way he left you. What’s he going to think when you turn up out there amongst all those big bosomed, red lipped, toothy women, like a skeleton dressed in her best?’

  It was too much for Zina. Quite spontaneously she hugged the daily who through the years had woven herself into their lives. ‘Oh Mrs Cripps, you’ve no idea how much I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘Get along with you!’ And out came the handkerchief again for another nose polish and a sniff. ‘Just you bear in mind what I say. Let him find you as he left you.’ But what chance was there of that when it was she on her own, poor girl, who had to bear the breaking up of their home?

  Leaving her, Zina retreated to the music room. There was no recital that week but she needed the comfort that never failed her. Like a caress she ran her hand over the beautiful shining wood of the back of her fiddle, then tucked it under her chin and started to adjust the tuning. Already the dark, grey day seemed lighter. The next hour passed quickly and she was surprised when, with a light tap on the door, Mrs Cripps appeared.

  ‘Just to say I’m off now. I did you a few tatties, want them or not. They’re all cooked and mashed so they’ll be nice and tasty if you just give them a fry with whatever you’re having. Oh, hark now, there’s that dratted phone. You run on down and take it. See you tomorrow.’

  But instead of running on down, Zina went into the bedroom and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hold the line, I have a call from the United States.’

  She seemed to freeze. Something must be wrong. When Peter rang, because of the time difference, it was always late, often after she was in bed. But in California it wouldn’t even be daylight yet. Every conceivable disaster crowded her imagination and then she heard Peter’s voice.

  ‘Zina, all night I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ In her hurry she had left the bedroom door open and she saw Mrs Cripps was waiting, her face a picture of worried curiosity.

  ‘Shooting finished yesterday except for maybe a few retakes and I’ve been offered a five-year contract. Reason tells me I ought to take it.’

  ‘Reason tells you?’ Why was her heart thumping so hard? ‘You mean you’re hesitating?’

  ‘For your sake and the kids’ I ought to snatch at it, they are offering me more than I ever let myself hope for. But oh dammit, Zee, we don’t belong out here. Everyone has been hospitable, welcoming – but this isn’t the life for us. I want you to be honest, tell me the truth. Would you be disappointed if I turned it down? That’s why I’m ringing. You’re having to hang around so long and if all this time you’ve been looking forward to moving out here, then of course I’ll sign. Even if it’s not our sort of lifestyle, we’ll be together, we’ll make a home. Perhaps I’m a fool even to hesitate …’

  ‘Disappointed? Peter, if you knew how I’ve been dreading saying goodbye to all this. I wanted to come, because I wanted to be with you. Wherever you go that’s what I want, you know that. But each morning I dread picking up the post in case I find that everything is going ahead with the sale and they want me to sign the contract.’

  ‘Don’t sign it. Oh, that’s wonderful.’ She could hear the relief in his voice. ‘This is going to upset Fiona, she has been thrown in the air and come down right side up, you’ve never seen anyone so thrilled with each day. In her mind she’s on her way to stardom already. But she’s a child, she’ll adapt.’

  Mrs Cripps had crept nearer the open door by that time and was trying to attract Zina’s attention with a stage whisper. ‘Everything awright, Mrs M, dear?’

  Her hand over the mouthpiece, Zina nodded, her smile saying it all. ‘Wonderful. Peter’s coming home. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

  So, satisfied, in fact more than satisfied and with new hope in her heart, Zina’s faithful protector stomped back down the stairs and out to collect her bicycle. It took more than a rainy day to deter Phyllis Cripps, especially with Zina’s words echoing in her mind. Peter coming home. What did it mean? That he was coming to take his share in clearing the house? And so he should, it wasn’t right for an able-bodied man to go swanning off, leaving everything. In her opinion a man should be head of the house, just like her Bert was, and that shouldn’t mean leaving all the donkey work to his wife. But supposing he was really coming home, shaking the stardust of that Hollywood place off his boots and coming back where he belonged? No wonder she pushed her bike out of the shed hardly noticing either wind or rain. Then tying her waterproof hood more securely under her chin, off she pedalled.

  Back in the bedroom, by that time Zina had replaced the receiver. Like everyone’s life, hers had seen highs and lows, but never had she experienced anything to equal this. She for whom lunch had held no interest was suddenly hungry.

  By mid afternoon she had told the estate agent they were withdrawing Newton House from the market, she had phoned their solicitor with the same message and, getting no reply from her mother, she had driven over to Myddlesham and put a note through the letterbox. Tom’s days were very full, a school syllabus had to be covered as well as the hours of music, so she could never talk to him until after eight in the evening. The hours seemed endless as she waited impatiently. When at last she was able to tell him the news he was silent so long she thought the line must have died.

  ‘Tom? Are you still there, Tom?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just … gosh … oh gosh, Mum … are you sure? We’ll still be there, at home, all of us? Gosh …’ Miles away though he was, she seemed to see him so clearly.

  ‘We’ll sleep soundly tonight, Tom.’

  ‘I’ll say! And Dad turned the contract down, he wants to be back at home too.’ Then, with a undeniable hesitation, he added, ‘What does Fiona say? Awful, Mum, we’re over the moon – and Dad wants to come back too – I hope she’s not too cheesed off about it. Did he say if she was all right?’

  ‘He hadn’t told her until he’d spoken to me. But you can be sure he’ll see she’s OK. They understand each other.’

  By the next morning the rain had stopped, driven away by a gale that made the boughs on the trees dance wildly. The garden was a glistening wonderland, or so it seemed to Zina in her relief that it had been given back to her. As promised she told Mrs Cripps of the change of plans, and administered the necessary hug when a few tears of joy escaped.

  ‘I’m that pleased, I could cry. Been so miserable I have, thinking you’d all be gone and I’d never know whether it was all bright and good for you. You’re not too cut up about not getting your trip?’

  Zina laughed. ‘Do I look cut up? We all love it here. It takes something like what happened to make you realize how lucky you are with the things you already have. Peter turned down a wonderful opportunity, and he was right. This is where we belong – over there what would I have done without you to keep me in order?’

  ‘Get along with you! Bless the girl. And what about young Fiona?’

  ‘You know what I think? If when she comes home we all show how excited we are that they have decided they’d rather be here, then I think she’ll slip into the role. On the other hand, if we ask her how much she minds, we are likely to have a tragedy queen on our hands.’

  ‘Bless ’er heart, ’tis to be hoped you’re right, but she was mighty puffed up with pride when she went off. Now then, Mrs M m’dear, what would you like me to be getting on with? No point in wasting more polish on the furniture for a week or so now we know no one’s going to be poking about. What about I give Fiona’s room a real good doing, get the curtains washed and make everything nice and welcoming for the child?’

  Leaving her to her labour of love, Zina decided to drive to Deremout
h. Knowing Peter and Fiona would be coming home as soon as the final retakes were done, she felt she couldn’t settle in the house. But before making for the coast she couldn’t resist breaking her self-made rule not to disturb Celia and Jacques before she knew they would be ready for callers. Exactly how much help Celia gave Jacques as he prepared himself for the day she had never been told but she was sure he would hate to be found before he felt ready. On that morning though she seemed incapable of thinking of anything beyond her own relief and joy.

  Still at breakfast in the dining room, Celia saw her car draw up.

  ‘A car,’ Jacques held up his head, listening. ‘It sounds like Zina’s Volvo.’

  ‘Ten out of ten,’ Celia laughed. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong; it’s not the usual time for a social call. I’ll go and let her in.’ Then as she opened the door and ushered her in, she said to Zina, ‘Go and say hello to Jacques in the dining room, I’ll just get another cup and saucer. We were lingering over breakfast. Nothing wrong is there?’ But just to look at Zina told her whatever she had come to tell them couldn’t be bad news.

  ‘Never mind the cup. I want to tell both of you. I ought not to barge in so early, but I just couldn’t wait to tell you. I did try phoning you a couple of times yesterday.’

  ‘We were in Exeter all day. Come on then, don’t keep us in suspense.’

  And so she told them, even admitting to them for the first time how much she had dreaded leaving Newton House and how some inner voice had told her it was a mistake for them to pull up their roots and live abroad. Only now that she was certain Peter felt exactly the same did she feel free to be honest.

  She knew their delight was as real as her own. Despite it not being quite ten o’clock in the morning Jacques moved four precise steps to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of Madeira.

  ‘It may not be our usual tipple but …’ He ran both hands over the bottle as if to reassure himself. ‘Yes, I think this is the one, Madeira fits the bill quite well. We can’t hear news like this without raising a glass. A little thanksgiving. We are not going to lose our friends, Celia my love. I’ll leave you to pour it out.’ Then turning in Zina’s direction, he stated with a teasing smile, ‘I’m in disgrace,’ and reached his hand out to touch Celia. ‘I didn’t aim straight getting us our nightcap. And I’ve been caught out before by these long-stemmed glasses.’

  So they drank their first sip to ‘a long future of friendship’, their second to ‘Peter and his wish to be back in the British film industry’ and drained their glasses to ‘all our tomorrows’.

  Zina continued on her way to Deremouth, not because she needed to shop but because doing nothing was impossible. Although with dawn the heavy rain had gone, the gale showed no sign of decreasing. It suited her mood perfectly. She drove the car up the track towards the cliff-top walk where, battling against the wind, she locked it and left it, buttoning the keys into her anorak pocket. From here on she would walk the path, invigorated by the wind, which was almost fierce enough to lift her off her feet and blow her on her way. It would be too far to go all the way to Chalcombe, the nearest village, or more truthfully it would be too far to battle her way back from Chalcombe against the headwind, but she meant to stride out for a mile or so before retracing her steps. After so many dreary days there were other walkers making the most of the sunshine, a couple ahead of her on the cliff path and one or two walking their dogs on the shore below. Lost in thoughts that twenty-four hours ago she would have been frightened to let herself so much as imagine, she felt herself to be projected forward by the wind. Wonderful!

  Then she heard something. It sounded like a child whimpering – or could it be an animal? Going to the edge of the cliff she leant over and saw a small, black and white terrier puppy. He must have been blown over the edge and his fall been broken by a clump of bushy undergrowth. For him to get back up was impossible and with one false movement he would be hurled to the beach.

  ‘All right, boy, I can reach you. Steady boy, don’t move, I’ll get you.’

  The dog tried to wave his overlong tail, which did nothing for his security. But how could she tell him to stay still when the sound of a human voice was met with his natural reaction? He was near the top, in fact the top of his bushy protection was level with the top of the cliff. She knelt down and leant over, feeling his grateful lick on her hand. But she still couldn’t get a grip on him, so she moved a little further towards the edge and tried again. She had him! Clutching him by the scruff of the neck and gritting her teeth, she raised him until she could grab him with her other hand too, and then he was on terra firma. For a moment he stood quite still as if he was sizing up the situation and then forgetting all about his rescuer he shook himself vigorously, sneezed twice, then raced after the couple of walkers, presumably his owners, who by then were a long way ahead along the cliff top. For him the adventure was over and they were unlikely to hear about it as the puppy had no means of telling them.

  From half-hanging over the edge of the cliff, Zina wriggled back and got to her knees preparing to stand. It was as she was half-kneeling and half-standing that an extra ferocious gust of wind almost made her lose her balance. She heard the noise, it sounded like thunder but thunder didn’t make the ground move like this. A yard further from the edge she would have been safe, but reason seemed to have left her as she felt the ground under her crumble and she was thrown. The bush that had broken the little terrier’s fall slid away, the grassy cliff-top crumbled to follow, taking her with it. The walkers on the beach below heard the great roar of broken red sandstone that only minutes before had been the cliff face. One or two screamed, a child cried; but Zina, her long fall bringing both her and the one-time cliff face to the beach, was still and silent.

  Seven

  ‘Oh Lawks, now what can they be wanting?’ Mrs Cripps muttered to herself, climbing from the steps where she was taking down the curtains in Fiona’s bedroom. One thing she was sure, a police car didn’t come calling at a house unless it brought trouble. Oh Lawks, surely not something gone amiss with young Tommy, away like he is. Or the missus? No it couldn’t be anything wrong with her, she was right as nine pence when she went out.

  She heard the slam of the car door and hurried down the stairs, for some reason feeling she was protecting herself from bad news if she could get the front door open before the policeman knocked. But hurry though she did, he got there first.

  ‘I believe this is the home of Mr and Mrs Marchand.’ The uniformed officer greeted her.

  ‘And so it is, but the missus is out. There’s only me here. Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Just tell me where I can contact Mr Marchand.’

  She didn’t like his manner. For two pins she’d like to knock him off his perch. Some of these chaps thought that get them in a uniform and they were a cut above everyone else. She sniffed, a sign of her displeasure. But what could the law be wanting here? Not trouble, please not trouble.

  ‘That I can’t do,’ she answered, hoping her tone told him she was in control of the situation. ‘There’s only me at home. He’s out there in Hollywood.’

  ‘Ah, Peter Marchand. I knew he was local. I hadn’t made the connection. Perhaps you can tell me where a relative might be found.’

  ‘There’s Mrs Marchand’s mother, Mrs Beckham she is, she lives just as you get almost into Myddlesham village. I know the house right enough, but I can’t think what she calls it. Drive on the road to Myddlesham and just before you get there there’s a pair of semis on the right side of the lane, then on a bit and one house standing all by itself on the left. That’s hers. Why don’t you step inside and speak to her on the phone? That would save you the journey if she’s out. There’s no one else. Or if you give me the message I could see it gets to them.’

  ‘I’ll call on Mrs Marchand’s mother. Thank you for your trouble.’

  She shut the door on him almost as he turned away, then leant back against it as if her spring had suddenly broken. The police, oh
dear, oh Lordie, it must be something bad or he wouldn’t have made such a secret of it. Then she straightened up and hurried to the telephone. The bobby couldn’t be there for a few minutes; she’d have a word first.

  ‘This is Phyllis Cripps, Mrs Beckham. I’m just giving you the tip that the police just called here wanting to speak to someone in the family. Closed up like a clam, wouldn’t give an inkling of what he’d come about. So now he’s on his way to you. And there’s the missus out in that motor car, well it stands to reason I’m sick with worry.’

  ‘Of course you are. I expect they have their rules.’ Jenny forced her voice to sound calm and not hint at the panic that gripped her. ‘Perhaps it’s something with one of them in America and the message got sent through to the local police. Please God it isn’t trouble, real trouble. Don’t worry, Mrs Cripps. I’ll call you back when they’ve gone.’

  ‘Thanks ever so much. I knew you’d understand that I can’t go home worried that one of them is hurt. But it may not be that at all, it may be – I don’t know what, but something that doesn’t concern me. Surely not trouble though, today of all days just when the missus was so bubbling over with happiness that they aren’t packing up and going off to that movie star place. I reckon we’ll all say a big thank you that he’s come to his senses. We’ve all got our allotted place in this world, that’s what I always say, and if we think we make our own rules and do as we like, then we’re asking for trouble. That’s why I was so cut up when I thought I was going to have to say goodbye to this place and all of them. Feel they’re like my own after all these years.’

  Jenny tried to focus her mind on what Mrs Cripps was saying and keep a smile in the tone of her automatic replies, but it wasn’t easy when in her imagination she saw Zina in a car crash, perhaps firemen cutting her from the car … Zina, our little Zina, Richard. Richard, help me to be strong. It must be a road accident, what else could it be? Surely any trouble in America would have been phoned to the house, and so it would if something was wrong with Tommy. Zina had always been a sensible driver – but the same can’t be said of some of them on the road.