The Fountain Page 3

  She wandered round the house, looking at everything, the comfortable old furniture, the pictures and photographs, the porcelain ornaments her mother had collected over many years. She picked up a little shepherdess, standing with a crook in one hand and a lamb cradled in the other arm. She stood admiring its delicacy, the pale colours of the girl’s features contrasting with the blue of the dress and the green of the grass on which she was standing, remembering the day the tiny tip of the crook had broken when her mother was dusting it. All three of them had dropped on hands and knees to search for it in the pile of the carpet. Barbara’s sharp young eyes had spotted it first and picked it up with a cry of triumph. Dad had glued it back in place, commenting that the repair would take pounds off its value. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ her mother had said. ‘It’s like its owner, a little worn.’ Barbara had laughed and so had Dad, and she had not realised the significance of the remark.

  She replaced it carefully, then cooked the dinner she had planned to surprise him with, but he did not come for it. When it was past keeping warm any longer she scraped it into the bin and went to bed, where she lay sleepless for hours. Surely he knew they needed to talk? She wanted reassurance, to explain how she had felt on seeing Virginia in the house, to tell him she was sorry for her outburst, that all she wanted was for him to be happy. Instead he had stayed with his new love and shut her out. She dozed off at last, only to wake when she heard him come in and creep up the stairs and past her room. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was five o’clock and the light was strengthening. She turned over and buried her head in the pillow. She was no longer his little girl to be cuddled and pampered: she was a grown woman. But she felt so alone.

  ‘Mother, this is Barbara.’

  Elizabeth Kennett was very tiny, with birdlike features and small, dark eyes. Her hair, once fair, was faded. She was, Barbara guessed, in her fifties. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a long black skirt.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Kennett,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘It is very kind of you to invite me.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Come into the parlour, there’s a nice fire in there.’

  To Barbara, used to the large rooms of the farmhouse, George’s home seemed tiny. The stairs went up almost at the front door and a hallway went alongside with three doors leading into the downstairs rooms: first the parlour, then the dining room and at the far end a tiny kitchen.

  The parlour had a square of carpet on the polished wooden floor and was furnished with a sofa and two armchairs, a bookcase, and a display cabinet with a cupboard under it. On a chenille-covered table in the centre of the room stood a tray containing three glasses and a bottle of wine. There was an ornate mirror over the mantel on which stood a chiming clock and some ornaments. Several photographs of George at various ages adorned the papered walls. Christmas chains in red and green and silver were strung across the room and holly decorated the pictures.

  ‘Would you like some champagne?’ George asked.

  ‘You’ve got champagne?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a celebration, not just Christmas.’ He picked up the bottle and pulled the cork with a satisfying pop, then poured the wine. ‘A toast,’ he said, handing round the glasses. Barbara waited expectantly, wondering what was coming. ‘To Kennett’s!’ He laughed at her puzzled expression. ‘It’s the name of my new company. I am no longer George Kennett who does a bit of building work, I am Kennett’s, the Builders. It’s all set up and I’ve got my first sizeable contract.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ She raised her glass. ‘To Kennett’s, the Builders.’

  ‘To you,’ his mother said. ‘I’m proud of you, son.’

  He hugged her. ‘I know you are, Mum, and I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I’ll go and see how dinner is getting along.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘No, you stay and talk to George.’

  Elizabeth had been taken aback when George suddenly announced he had every intention of marrying Barbara Bosgrove. She had had him to herself for so long, had brought him up, made huge sacrifices to send him to grammar school, bought his uniform and all the sports kit he needed, had watched him grow more and more like his dead father. At twenty-nine, it was time he married, but it was going to hurt. On the other hand she knew John Bosgrove was well-to-do and owned acres of land. His daughter was a catch for her son. She would raise his status and that was something Elizabeth desired above everything. Her son was going to be a somebody in Melsham, erasing the recollections of its older inhabitants, who had long memories and liked to gossip. It would be the culmination of her life’s work.

  ‘I know she’s a cut above me,’ George had told her. ‘But that’s good, isn’t it? Not that I am ashamed of my roots, because I’m not. I’m proud of you and what you’ve done for me. Nothing can change the love I have for you, but what I feel for Barbara is different.’

  Of course it was different! He didn’t need to tell her that. But this feeling of inferiority, of having to strive harder than anyone else and his fear of failure, was a chip on his shoulder he could never quite eradicate and to cover it he had cultivated a confident, brash attitude which was sometimes a little too abrasive. She supposed that was her fault. It was she who had nurtured his competitive instinct, told him that if he put his mind to it, he could be as good as any man who had two parents instead of one. She had been determined he would never suffer from the lack of a father and he had repaid her with singular devotion. Those ties were too strong to be broken by a slip of a girl.

  ‘Tell me about your new business,’ Barbara said after his mother had gone. She wanted to talk, to hear him talk, to stop herself thinking of her father enjoying his Christmas with Virginia. He hadn’t asked her to make herself scarce, quite the contrary, but she knew their cosy little twosome was over and life at the farm would never be the same again, so when George asked her to meet his mother and spend Christmas Day with them, she had agreed. She was going back to college in the new year and would come back at Easter to attend her father’s wedding and settle down into a completely different regime and she didn’t know how she was going to cope with that. Virginia was always moving things about, delighting in telling her what changes she would make when she became Mrs Bosgrove. We’re going to do this and that, she would say, putting her arms round her father’s neck, shutting Barbara out.

  George drew her down beside him on the settee. ‘I knew there was a council contract going and I wanted it, but without a viable business behind me, I didn’t stand a chance. To get that contract I had to take on a proper labour force and buy tools and machinery. It also meant a bigger yard, a proper office. It was a gamble, but I undercut the opposition and got the contract. It’s taken all Mum’s savings, but she’ll get them back with interest.’

  ‘You are very close to your mother, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. My father died when I was a baby. Mum brought me up alone. I owe everything to her.’

  She smiled. ‘Including your tenacity?’

  He laughed. ‘That too.’

  ‘What does she think about me?’ He had been so understanding and comforting over the business with Virginia, helping her to put it into perspective. And he had been honest with her about his ambitions, his personal aspirations. Beside him, Simon seemed a stripling, which was unfair, considering he had spent the best part of four years in the trenches and that would surely age a man. Why had she suddenly thought of Simon? Since Penny had left college, she had not seen him. She had liked him, had liked his quicksilver mind, his ability to make her laugh, but he belonged to a different life, one far away from Melsham and her father and the problems that beset her here. She had kept in touch with Penny so she supposed that one day she might meet Simon again, but they would be like strangers, the easy familiarity they had enjoyed would be gone.

  ‘She wants me to be happy. Just as your father wants you to b
e happy.’

  She turned startled eyes on him. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Naturally I have. I wanted his approval.’

  She began to laugh. Nearly twenty years after the old queen had died, he behaved like a Victorian. Was that his mother’s influence? Whatever had her father made of him? ‘And does he approve?’

  ‘Yes, so long as it’s what you want.’

  ‘I don’t know what I want.’

  ‘You will,’ he said confidently. ‘When the time comes to ask you properly, you will know.’

  His mother came into the room at that point and announced that Christmas dinner was on the table and they followed her into the dining room. Barbara wondered what he meant when he said ‘when the time comes’.

  It came at the New Year’s Eve Ball, as the clock chimed midnight and everyone turned to their neighbour with kisses and cries of ‘Happy New Year! May 1920 be all you hope for it.’ Caught up in the euphoria of the moment, she accepted.

  Chapter Two

  The dress was made in heavy white silk, the bodice curved over her breasts and down over her slim hips to the floor. There was a huge bow at the back of the waist that fanned out into a train. Penny set the orange blossom circlet on Barbara’s blonde hair and carefully arranged the lace veil over her shoulders. ‘There! Now you can look.’ Barbara moved carefully over to the mirror. The veil softened her features, gave her a dreamy quality which was not altogether false. She was living in a dream. Nothing was quite real.

  ‘Nervous?’ Penny was wearing a pale lime-green dress in the same style as Barbara’s but without the train. But unlike Barbara’s, which had a boat-shaped neck filled in with lace, and long narrow sleeves, Penny’s was off the shoulder and had short puffed sleeves. Both had matching velvet capes lined with white fur to keep them warm. February was hardly the month for a wedding.

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘You aren’t having doubts, are you?’

  She wasn’t, was she? George loved her and she loved him and she meant to be a good wife to him, to have his children, to help him in his business, to be there supporting him. Always. It was how her mother had been with her father and theirs had been a particularly happy marriage, which was why she could not understand his obsession with Virginia. Virginia was nothing like her mother. She stopped her thoughts from spiralling away and turned to Penny. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Good. I’m off.’ She rose and went to the door. ‘See you in church.’

  Barbara stood looking round the room. It looked bare. The picture of her mother, the bookcase containing her books, her tennis racket which had been propped in the corner, sundry photographs and ornaments, had already been taken to her new home. Dad had offered her the furniture too, but even the small amount she had taken had crammed their bedroom to bursting point and there was no room for more. George had laughed and said there wouldn’t be space to swing a cat. Her battered old teddy bear sat on a cushion on a basket-weave chair, looking at her balefully with his one beady eye. She had picked it up to take with her, but then George, helping her carry everything down to his van, had seen it and laughed. ‘You’re never bringing that old thing with you, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a child’s toy and you’re not a child. Leave it. We’re looking to the future, not dwelling on the past.’

  She walked over and stroked its nose, then turned her back on it and hurried from the room and went downstairs to join her father before her overflowing emotions got the better of her.

  He looked distinguished in his tail suit. His face had very few lines and the little grey in his hair served to make him look distinguished. Just lately he seemed a lot younger, though she would not admit it might have anything to do with Virginia. He had done his best to persuade her to finish her studies. ‘Why the rush?’ he’d wanted to know the morning after the new year ball, when she told him she wanted to marry George straight away. ‘I’ve nothing against George Kennett, he’s a likeable enough young man, but he is only just starting in business, it’s not going to be easy and you are so young. Why not wait a year or two?’

  ‘I don’t want to. Please, Dad, give us your blessing, it’s important to me.’

  He loved her and had always spoilt her a little, more than her mother had. He had sighed and reached out to take her hand. ‘If you’re sure…’

  Now she smiled at him, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Everyone said getting married was an emotional experience and she was certainly finding it so. He offered her his arm. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.’ He wished he had tried harder to dissuade her but, to his eternal shame, had realised that this marriage would be a way to avoid conflict between his daughter and Virginia. If they were not living under the same roof, sharing their lives, then he would not be torn apart by their antipathy towards each other. But was he being fair to Barbara, catapulting her into something she might regret?

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind. Are you?’

  He looked startled, as if she were confirming his fears. ‘No, but I sincerely hope that’s not the reason for this…’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ she said quickly, picking up her posy of lily of the valley from the table. ‘I only meant that if you can fall in love and want to get married, so can I.’ She meant it, she really did.

  Dora Symonds, who had never been married, loved weddings, and she could never pass a church if she saw white-ribboned carriages at the gate. Brides were lovely and grooms were handsome and, like the chimney sweep with his brushes, she liked to wish them well.

  ‘Blimey!’ she said, as Barbara emerged from the large hired car and took her father’s arm to be escorted into the church. ‘If it i’n’t John Bosgrove and his daughter, old enough to be married. Don’t time fly?’

  ‘Who’s John Bosgrove, when ’e’s at ’ome?’ Rita demanded. In her late twenties, she was a younger version of her mother, though her hair was a natural carrot colour and her mother’s owed more to a bottle. Both were plump and freckle-faced. Dora had a black shawl pulled tightly over her deep-puce dress and a battered straw hat with red ribbons. Rita wore a three-quarter coat but no hat. Between them was a young girl in a faded blue coat several sizes too small for her. She was bored and looking mulish. The women ignored her.

  ‘He owns Beechcroft Farm, that big house on the Lynn road. The family’s been there for donkey’s years.’

  ‘How d’you come to know him?’

  ‘There i’n’t many people I can’t name in this town, me girl, you ought to know that.’

  ‘True,’ her daughter said and laughed.

  ‘It weren’t like that,’ Dora said, huffily. ‘Not with ’im it weren’t. I knew his wife more’n him. She was always good to me, never judged me. I met her at the church…’

  ‘Church? You?’ Rita laughed again. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘They were giving away second-hand clothes. Mrs Bosgrove arranged it for the poor and needy and I was needy all right, leastways you were growin’ that fast I couldn’t keep you in clothes. She helped me choose dresses and shoes for you. Give me a guinea too to keep us outa the workhouse. She died a few years back. I often see him in town and he always speaks.’ She grinned at John and called ‘Good luck’ to the bride as she made her way down the church path on her father’s arm. ‘Let’s wait and see them come out, see who it is she’s marrying.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Rita demanded. Her feet ached, the potatoes and onions and the bit of scrag-end in her shopping bag was heavy and Zita was tugging on her arm. ‘They’ll be ages yet and I haven’t got time to stand about doin’ nothin’.’

  Reluctantly Dora moved away and did not see George Kennett, or his mother in her beige silk suit and matching hat, which was just as well. It would have spoilt her day.

  The service seemed to be over before it began and most of the time Barbara was shivering, though whether from cold or nerves she couldn’t tell. Then she was walking down the aisle on her husband’
s arm, Mrs George Kennett, and out into the weak sunshine, smiling at well-wishers who stood along the church path. There were photographs and showers of confetti and then everyone climbed into motor cars, carriages and pony traps, or took Shank’s pony, back to the farmhouse for the reception.

  ‘Happy?’ George asked her, as they mingled with their guests.

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Happy?’ asked her father, standing beside Virginia, who wore a navy silk dress, matching three-quarter coat and a large navy hat with a pink rose on the brim.

  ‘Happy?’ queried Penny, dragging Simon behind her. He was the same as ever, blonde hair falling on his forehead, his smile very much in evidence. It was strange how the sight of him brought a great lump to her throat. She told herself that it was because he reminded her of a carefree time which could never come again.

  She shook the mood away and smiled. ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And you can tell your husband from me, if he doesn’t treat you right, he’ll have me to answer to.’ He was looking at her in a strange crooked way, his eyes boring into hers, sending her messages she could not, would not interpret.

  ‘I heard that,’ George said. And though he was laughing, making a joke of it, Barbara sensed undercurrents. Could he be just a little jealous? Had he understood more than she had?

  She looked up at him. Beside the slim-hipped Simon he appeared very large, a man beside a boy. His grey tail suit seemed to be stretched across his broad chest, as if he had grown an inch or so since it was fitted. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. He grinned with pleasure. Penny and Simon melted away. It left her feeling strangely down: she would like to have talked to them, asked what they had been doing with themselves since she saw them last, shared a few memories of college with Penny, which seemed such a long while ago.