Canarino

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Where’s my pony?’

‘Tomorrow we’ll find out all about ponies,’ she said vaguely. ‘It’s late now, and, anyway, Mr Richards who manages the farm went with Norma. Remember?’ There, she thought, no farm manager. Settle down, Hope.

She looked at her watch again. She thought about turning on the lights. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun had gone beyond the corner of the house. The kitchen seemed dim, the children puny, marooned in it. She wondered how the television worked. That would brighten things up. Then she caught herself: get a life, she thought, by which she meant to remind herself that television was for people who had absolutely nothing better to do, for the lonely, the weak. She was not ready for last resorts. Not by any means.

There must be a newspaper somewhere which she could look at. And she cast her eyes around the room. It was bare, bleached, a place of work, without sin or distraction. Without home comfort.

And her thoughts veered in a new direction. What kind of mother is so restless, so impatient, that she reads the newspaper when she ought to be looking after her children?

Elizabeth sighed. How she longed to be a good mother. It was something she really cared about and could entirely justify. But how was it done? So much of it seemed to be standing by while the children did what they would do anyway even if she wasn’t standing by. How could she engage with them, really? How should she? They could carry you anywhere, unplanned, into chaos, wasted time, and Elizabeth felt it must be right to let them do that, in small things anyway. It wasn’t all about exercising her own will. It couldn’t be. Children called for self-immolation, for non-existence of some kind.

Was it because she cared so much that she found it so hard—getting inside their heads? But she knew that wasn’t it. She knew that when she got close to imagining what things looked like through Gordon’s eyes, through Hope’s eyes, she couldn’t actually bear it, the desperate emotions, the pell-mell striving, the life-and-death fussing which never achieved anything. Childhood wasn’t something she could do again. She had fought too hard to grow up herself. She stood back from childhood. She soothed it down. She skirted around it.

‘Let’s go upstairs and have a bath.’ She nuzzled Gordon’s neck.

Hope asked, ‘Do we have to go to bed now, Mummy? Before Norma gets back from the doctor?’

‘Hope likes Norma at bedtime, Mummy,’ Gordon announced.

‘I know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But I can read you a story tonight and tuck you in.’

Hope looked away, frowning.

‘And maybe Norma will be back in time. You can surprise her by being all ready.’ Elizabeth tried to sound encouraging; she tried not to command.

In a noble voice, Gordon said, ‘Norma’d like that, Hopie, wouldn’t she?’ Gordon got off his stool and put his arms around Hope and lifted her down to the floor. ‘Be good for Mummy, Hopie. Mummy gets tired.’

He preened for his mother, knowing that he was being the angel grown-ups liked to praise. But Gordon had no idea just how big a hole he was trying to fill. He was like the little Dutch boy with a finger in the dike.

So they had the baths and the stories, and Elizabeth took off her shoes and climbed into Hopie’s little pink and white bed and the three of them nestled there sleepily like puppies. They were slightly hungry and they were numb with fatigue; it made them weak, cozy, gentle. After a while, when both of the children had fallen asleep, Elizabeth roused Gordon again, half-carried him to his own bed and wrestled him as gently as she could under his covers. Then she lay down beside him, one hand floating up and down on his slow-heaving chest. There was nobody else anywhere near them for miles and miles.

Elizabeth woke up when Pedro and Mr Richards finally came back. They had left Norma in the hospital for observation. Maybe she’d be okay in a few days. Tomorrow they would do a brain scan. Mr Richards planned on driving back to see her again first thing in the morning. He said good night and left abruptly.

‘I’m sorry about your dinner, ma’am,’ Pedro said. ‘Mr Richards instruct me to hold up the young lady’s head in the car. It was no choice that way.’

Elizabeth nodded with a look of wise patience. Of course she understood. After all, it was an emergency, wasn’t it? No, she really wasn’t hungry now. She didn’t want anything to eat.

Pedro watched her, dipping his quick, dark head, alert to the famished languor of her expression. He thought madam was hungry, but he didn’t say anything. He’d found over the years that his employers were unpredictable at first. He was always cautious in a new job.

Even so, Elizabeth felt scrutinized, and she didn’t like it. She said, ‘I gave the children some fruit.’

Pedro nodded. ‘Of course, ma’am.’

Then she opened the back door and went out onto the veranda in the teeming black night.

A few minutes later, Pedro came with the telephone and found her sitting on the wicker sofa among the scattered, small, soft pillows with which she was so disappointed.

‘It’s your husband, ma’am.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Good night.’ He bowed and went back inside.

‘What happened?’ Elizabeth managed to smile into the phone. She teased David as if he were a boy who had gotten lost on his way home.

‘I ran into an old friend.’ David’s voice sounded sleepy, incredibly close by.

‘An old friend?’ She wanted to know who, but she didn’t let on how much she wanted to know. She kept her curiosity in check, casual, friendly.

‘Honey, it was Leon! I’m completely drunk.’ There was a lazy pause as David rubbed his eyes. ‘He hasn’t changed, I’ll tell you. He’s a wild man! We had a lot of fun.’

‘Well, I’m glad.’ Elizabeth’s drawl grew broader, indulging him, a southern belle with her frippery admirer. It felt right to drawl, curled up on the veranda in the Virginia night, the crickets and frogs creaking their hearts out all around her and the slight breeze lifting her sweat-fatigued hair from where it was sticking to her temples and the back of her neck, lightening it, floating it dry. She said nothing about Leon. Suspicion made a twist in her gut. Why had Leon gotten in touch with David the very day she left town? What were they up to?

Past the black, looming box bushes, way off to the left, she thought she could make out the willows’ green veil sweeping the grass, lanky tendrils hiding the brink of lawn where it ran down to the stream. Somebody switched off a light along the staff wing and the willows disappeared. Pedro had gone to bed.

‘It’s beautiful here, darling,’ she crooned. ‘The night is black as pitch, no lights for miles, apart from our own. We’re all alone, away from everything. Real privacy.’

‘How’re the kids?’

‘Asleep. They asked about you. Well, they asked about Puck.’

David laughed in his throat. ‘Selfish little bastards.’

‘We’ve had a bit of a misadventure, though.’

‘What—you’ve already had a riding accident?’

‘I’m serious, David. Norma fell down—or maybe fainted, I don’t know. She’s in the hospital. I’m all alone here with the kids. I don’t know how I’ll cope. They’re such a handful. They went all around the farm today completely by themselves, didn’t tell anyone where they were, and nearly drowned in the stream!’

‘Jesus.’ David felt bewildered. He had no idea there was a stream. ‘What about the swimming pool, then?’

‘They haven’t found that yet.’

‘Well, you’ve got to stay with them all the time, Elizabeth.’ David felt angry suddenly; he hardly knew why. Through helplessness, maybe. He pictured them, white-clad, wading, unattended, but he had no idea what the farm looked like.

Elizabeth yawned, a delicate kitty-cat yawn, then wider, gaping, throwing her head back like a lioness. ‘Norma’s going to be in the hospital for a few days at least. I have no idea what shape she’ll be in when she gets out. Maybe useless! It’s a complete nightmare.’ She put a hint of melodrama in her voice, exaggerating on purpose to lighten David’s anger, to make him laugh.

‘There must be some nice local woman who could help out?’ David tried to be practical. ‘It’s summer; what about a college kid or even a high-school kid?’

‘Oh, God, and then I have to interview them, train them! It’s so time-consuming,’ Elizabeth wailed in self-pity, half-mocking, then chuckled dryly.

This was their married banter. David had to offer suggestions, although they both knew she would reject them. The solution had to be her own. It was a game. Comical. Cynical.

‘Maybe you should have gone to Nantucket?’ David was cautious.

She was dulcet-toned but dismissive. ‘It’s a little late for that.’

‘Well, at least you wouldn’t be all alone.’

‘I’d much rather be alone!’ Now her lament was authentic. ‘The way people drop in on you there. No privacy. Having to make conversation all day long at the beach, or at that awful little yacht club. Those old ladies who ask me about your parents and your sisters!’