Читать книгу Everything to Gain - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 11

Four hours later I carried a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke out to the low wall which surrounds the terrace in front of the sunroom.

Selecting a corner which was well shaded by one of the large old maples, I sat down and took a bite of the sandwich, enjoying it. I was starving, having been up since before dawn. Also, besides changing all the bed linen, Nora and I had done a marathon job of cleaning the bathrooms and the bedrooms. The hard work had helped to give me an appetite. Not only that, I wanted to fortify myself for the rest of the day; there was still the entire downstairs to clean.

I take great pride in Indian Meadows.

I love it most of all when everything sparkles and gleams and looks perfect. Diana has always said I should have been an interior decorator. She thinks I have great talent for putting furniture and things together to create unique and attractive settings. The idea doesn’t appeal to me; I don’t think I would enjoy doing this kind of work for clients in the way that Diana buys antiques, paintings and beautiful objects for the customers who patronize her prestigious antiques shop in London. I am sure it would be far too frustrating, trying to please other people, not to mention convincing them that my taste is superior to theirs.

I prefer to be an amateur decorator creating a home which pleases Andrew and me, in much the same way that I’m an amateur painter who paints for my own pleasure, for the satisfaction and gratification it gives me.

Nora never joins me on this wall for a picnic. Invariably, she eats her lunch inside, preferring the cool, air-conditioned interior, Certainly it is much more comfortable inside the house today; it is positively gruelling out here. A great yellow orb of a sun seems to be burning a hole in the fabric of the sky, which is of such a sharp and brilliant blue it almost hurts my eyes to look at it.

The wall where I’m sitting is wide, with big flat stones along the top, and it is very old, was built by hand by a local stonemason many years ago.

In Yorkshire, drystone walling is an ancient craft. All of the stones have to be perfectly balanced, one on top of the other, so that they can remain tightly wedged together without the benefit of cement. It is the crofters who do it on the Yorkshire moors and in the lush green dales, but it is a dying craft, Diana says, almost a lost art. I’m sure it is here, too, and more’s the pity, since these ancient walls are beautiful, have such great character.

I am extremely partial to this particular wall on our property, mostly because it is home to a number of small creatures. I know for a fact that two chipmunks live inside its precincts, as well as a baby rabbit and a black snake. Although I know the chipmunks well, and have spotted the bunny from time to time, I have never actually seen the snake. But our gardener Anna has, and so have the twins. At least, that is what they claim, most vociferously.

Ever since my childhood, I have loved nature and the wild creatures who inhabit the countryside, and I have encouraged Jamie and Lissa to respect all living things, to treasure the animals, birds and insects that frequent Indian Meadows.

Unconsciously, and very often without understanding what they are doing, some children can be terribly cruel, and it always makes me angry when I see them hurting small, defenceless animals, pulling wings off butterflies, grinding their heels into earthworms and snails, throwing stones at birds. I made my mind up long before the twins were born that no child of mine would ever inflict pain on any living thing.

To make nature more personal, to bring it closer to them, I have invented stories about our little friends who inhabit the garden wall. I tell Jamie and Lissa tales about Algernon, the friendly black snake, who has a weakness for chocolate-covered cherries and wishes he owned a candy store; about Tabitha and Henry, the two chipmunks, married with no children, who want to adopt; and about Angelica, the baby bunny rabbit, who harbours an ambition to be in the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade.

Jamie and Lissa have come to love these stories of mine; they can’t get enough of them, in fact, and I have to repeat them constantly. In order to satisfy my children, I’m forever inventing new adventures, which entails quite a stretch of the imagination on my part.

It’s struck me several times lately that perhaps I should write down the stories and draw pictures to illustrate them. Perhaps I will, but only for Jamie and Lissa. This idea suddenly took hold of me. What a wonderful surprise it would be for the twins if I created a picture book for each of them, and put the books in their Christmas stockings.

I groaned inside; how ridiculous to be thinking of Christmas on this suffocatingly hot summer’s day. But the summer will soon be drawing to an end; it always does disappear very quickly after fourth of July weekend. Then Thanksgiving will be upon us before I can blink; Christmas is not far behind, after that.

This year we are going to spend Christmas in England. We will be staying with Diana at her house in West Tanfield in the Yorkshire dales. Andrew and I are really looking forward to it, and the children are excited. They are hoping it snows so that they can go sledging with their father. He’s promised to take them on the runs he favoured when he was a child; and he is going to teach them to skate, providing Diana’s pond has frozen solid and is safe.

I was ruminating on our winter vacation ten minutes later when Nora poked her head around the sunroom door. ‘It’s Sarah on the phone,’ she called.

‘Thanks,’ I called back, but she had already disappeared.

I slid off the wall and went inside. Flopping down on a chair, I picked up the phone which sat on a nearby end table. ‘Hi, Sarah. When are you coming out here?’

‘I don’t think I will be coming,’ she replied.

I thought she sounded woeful, a little glum for her; she was normally so cheerful.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, gripping the phone a bit tighter, instinctively aware that all was not right.

We had been best friends all of our lives, ever since we were babies in prams being walked on Park Avenue by our mothers, who were also friends. We had attended the same kindergarten and then Miss Hewitt’s. Later on we had gone off to Radcliffe together, and we have always been extremely close, inseparable. I know Sarah Elizabeth Thomas as well as I know myself, and so I understood that she was very upset about something.

Since she had remained totally silent, I asked again, more insistently, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Tommy. We had a foul row last night, the worst we’ve ever had, and he’s just informed me, by phone no less, that it’s over between us. Finished, terminated, kaput. He doesn’t want to see me … ever again, he says. And he says he’s going to LA this afternoon. To be succinct, Mal, I’ve been dumped. Dumped! Me! Can you imagine that! It’s never happened to me before.’

‘I know. You’ve always done the dumping. And I’m sorry you’re upset. I realize you cared about Tommy. On the other hand, I’ve always felt —’

‘You don’t have to say it,’ she cut in softly. ‘I know you never liked him. You were always a bit wary, not sure of him. I guess you were right. As usual. How come you know men better than I do? Don’t bother to answer that. Listen, recognizing that Tommy’s a bit of a louse doesn’t make it any easier for me. I sort of – liked him.’

Her voice had grown tiny and I knew she was on the verge of tears.

‘Don’t cry, it’ll be all right, Sash,’ I soothed, using the nickname I had given her when we were children. ‘Admittedly it’s cold comfort, but it is better this way. Honestly. Tommy Preston III isn’t worth weeping over. The break was bound to happen. Sooner or later. And preferably now than later. Think how awful it would be if you married him and then this kind of thing happened —’

‘He did ask me,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘Half a dozen times.’

There was a sniffling sound and then I heard her blowing her nose.

‘I know he proposed. You’ve told me about it – numerous times, actually,’ I muttered. ‘And I’m glad you were cautious, didn’t take the plunge. But why aren’t you coming for the weekend? I don’t understand.’

‘I can’t come by myself, Mal. I’ll feel like a spare wheel.’

‘That’s ridiculous! You’ll be with me, your very, very best friend, and Andrew, who loves you like a brother. And your godchildren, who adore you. And Diana, who thinks you’re the greatest thing since Typhoo tea.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, but then you know that,’ she said, and I heard the laughter surfacing in her voice. ‘However, I think I’ll stay in Manhattan and lick my wounds.’

‘You can’t do that!’ I protested, my voice rising. ‘You’ll only pig out on ice cream and all those fattening things you love to eat when you’re upset. And just think of the hard work you’ve put in, losing ten pounds. Besides, it’s going to be hotter than hell in Manhattan. Nora told me they predict a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade.’

‘I’m afraid I take Miss Nora’s weather forecasts with a grain of salt, Mal.’

‘Honestly, it is going to be hot in the city. I heard it on television myself. Last night. Just think how much cooler it will be out here in Sharon. And then there’s the swimming pool, some shady corners in the garden. You know how much you love it here. This is your second home, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Nevertheless, at the moment I think I prefer the blistering sidewalks of Manhattan, the lonely confines of my stifling apartment. At least I can wallow unashamedly in my memories of Tommy,’ she intoned dramatically. ‘My lost love, my greatest love.’

Her theatricality, such an integral part of her personality, was coming through all of a sudden and I was relieved. It told me she wasn’t quite so heartsick as she had made herself out to be earlier, at the outset of this conversation. I began to chuckle.

‘Don’t you dare laugh at me, Mallory Christina Jordan Keswick. Stop laughing, I tell you!’ she cried indignantly. ‘I’m heartbroken. Heartbroken.’

Still laughing, I whooped, ‘That’s a load of codswallop!’ This was one of Andrew’s favourite expressions and I had made it my own over the years. ‘You’re no more heartbroken about him than I am. Your pride’s injured, that’s all it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you something else, I bet if the truth be known, that … that … that little creep was always intending to go off to the West Coast for the July fourth weekend. To see his family. You’ve always said he dotes on his mother and adores his sisters, and constantly complains about their recent move to California.’

‘Oh.’ She said nothing more for a moment, then she murmured thoughtfully, ‘I must admit, I hadn’t thought of that.’ There was another brief pause.

I could visualize her digesting my point.

Slowly, she said, ‘But we did have a terrible row, Mal.’

‘No doubt one he manufactured,’ I replied sharply. I had never liked Thomas Preston III, eastern seaboard uptight WASP, tight with a buck as well as with his emotional give, high on snobbery, low on brains, employed by a famous private merchant bank as a vice president only because the bank bore his family name and was run by his uncle. My beautiful, generous, talented, loving Sarah deserved much better; she deserved the best. Personally, I thought Tommy Preston was the worst, and a poor excuse for a man. He wasn’t even all that good-looking; at least I could’ve understood it if she’d fallen for a pretty face.

I took a deep breath. ‘So, when are you coming out to Connecticut? Tonight or tomorrow?’

‘I’ve just arranged to take one of my buyers to dinner tonight. I’ll come sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?’

‘It sure is, Sashy darling. July fourth wouldn’t be quite the same without you.’