‘Why?’ asked Henry easily.

  ‘Oh, there must be so many more interesting places you could go to, I sometimes think.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. Caroline’s hand stopped over his face. He looked up, and saw that she was really anxious. He said, ‘I don’t mean to leave, you mustn’t think that. I’d say if I did. I mean – I wouldn’t go without you. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline, and began again to clean him, like someone cleaning moss from an effigy in a churchyard.

  Outside Anna’s door, as she had half feared, Oliver was waiting with his harrying look. Anna knew that her face was mottled and bulging with tears, and that Oliver would be able to work out his own not too inaccurate reasons for this. She hesitated, turned back indecisively towards Henry, then gathered herself, and went on, towards him. He began immediately:

  ‘Please listen to me for a moment, Anna. I want you to understand. I don’t think you’re being quite fair.’

  Anna licked up a tear. She said, ‘I’ve been sent to bed. At least let me go there.’

  Oliver looked as though he was thinking, in some general direction, ‘I told you so,’ but at least he did not say it. He was in her way: she would have had to push past him to get at the handle of her door, and at that moment, wound up as she was, she was physically terrified of him; if she had had to touch him, with both of them so angry, she would have broken down completely. So she stood, and trembled, and faced him, very forlorn.

  ‘I want to say, I didn’t mean to hurt you, this afternoon. I’m sorry you think I’m interfering, I really only mean to help. I’m sorry if we have to quarrel. You’re one of the last people I’d willingly hurt. I –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I can see you don’t mean any harm. I think you make too much of things.’

  ‘But you’re half frightened I don’t.’

  Anna began to cry again. ‘Don’t keep telling me. If I’ve got to be adolescent, at least let me get on with it my own way.’

  ‘It isn’t just adolescence.’

  ‘Stop telling me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Oliver, very red. ‘I didn’t mean to start again. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that at all. I meant to say – I know I go about it the wrong way – I’d like you to think I was there. I mean, that I care what happens to you. I thought you might like to know there was someone who really cared – but –’

  ‘It’s a funny kind of caring,’ Anna said ungraciously; she was frightened by this new attempt at intimacy much more than by his earlier pontifications. It was harder to defend oneself against him in this position. She said, ‘It’s nice of you. But I really do think you think there’s more wrong than there is.’

  Oliver looked at his shoes, and said gloomily, as though he was trying to extract some residual comfort from the situation, ‘I’m glad you find it possible to be honest with me, at any rate.’

  Anna felt suddenly very mean. It was true what he said, he was trying to help, and it was kind of him to care, she had no right to reject him, or to hurt his feelings, which were obviously very susceptible, just because her own were hurt, partly over Michael it was true, but partly at least by her father about whom Oliver had been, it appeared, however hatefully, right, and for whom he was certainly not responsible. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just being nasty because everything’s so muddled. I don’t mean it. You’ve done a lot for me and I’m grateful, honestly …’

  ‘Let’s forget it, all of it,’ said Oliver, brightening up immediately. He held out his hand. Anna could not bring herself to take it; it was still immensely important not to touch him, she knew that without thinking about it at all. She began, instead, to droop at him, deliberately playing for sympathy, hanging her head and leaning drunkenly against the doorpost. She said, ‘I feel terrible. So tired. All the heat and all this fuss …’

  Oliver became immediately, in his own way, solicitous.

  ‘You look done in. Poor Anna. You’d better lie down and try to sleep. Very important to develop a capacity for rest.’ He held the door open for her. ‘Now, get along with you, go to bed and relax. We may well have been over-working you, you must take the evening off.’

  Anna scurried past him before he could pat her shoulder, gave him a weak smile, and closed the door firmly on his sharp enquiring face. She was not sure that it had not entered his head to come after her and tuck her in. The idea crossed her mind that he had manoeuvred her in such a way that she had to be grateful to him for opening her door and encouraging her to lie down, when it had been he who had prevented her in the first place. But, as she took off her clothes, and climbed in between the sheets, she was able to smile to herself with a new feminine indulgence over him. He was very tiresome, but what he said was true, he did care for her, he seemed to think she was worth caring about. And, however many reservations she might make about the direction of his caring it would be uncharitable not to accept it. She was so lonely, she thought, with a new access of self-pity, she couldn’t afford to refuse anybody’s interest. He thinks I’m someone, he thinks I’m too good to leave alone, she told herself, remembering his fury over her theoretical future as a country wife, and was almost amused. And he’s a clever man, he should know, I’d better be nice to him, she thought further as she fell asleep.

  The next day went on as usual. The day after that, Michael telephoned twice, but Anna put him off with vague, expressionless little promises about next week, if she wasn’t working too hard. By that time they were all involved in preparations for the picnic.

  5

  The picnic at St Anne Crane had been organized by Caroline as a regular family event, every summer, very soon after they came to Darton. She had to believe – being the woman she was – that ‘a family must do things together’, that ‘children need both a father and a mother’. Since they had never gone away anywhere on a long holiday together, largely because Henry’s best work was always done at home in the summer, she had insisted with unusual firmness that he must make a part of her picnic – this had thus become a ceremonial event, laden with ritual importances and anxiety that it should go well. St Anne Crane was some miles away, on the coast. It was the kind of little place, unspoiled and natural, that everyone dreams of finding and conceals the existence of jealously from friends and acquaintances. It was outside the usually acceptable radius for expeditions from Darton, and thus getting there required a long and arduous car journey, beginning, in order that the picnic should be as expansive as possible, very early in the morning, before any of them would normally have been up.

  Caroline had arranged the picnic, this year, for the last day of the Cannings’ visit; two years ago, she had decided, with reluctant realism, that family solidarity would be better maintained if there was some alien element in the party. Otherwise it was only too likely, whatever the ideal, that Henry would forget himself and wander away entirely, or that Anna would turn nasty and refuse to play with Jeremy; there had been one or two very unpleasant incidents already. This year she was quite glad that it had turned out as it had; it would keep the Cannings occupied and show them that an effort was being made to entertain them which went beyond board and lodging; it would also give Henry, if he behaved, some chance to alleviate the bad impression he had made on Oliver without having to talk to him too much or too intensively; he could show him the Norman church which would be friendly and not taxing.

  She had made a lot of the arrangements, with faith, whilst Henry was away. She had arranged the hiring of a second motor-car, and had hunted out the wicker picnic baskets, flasks and cutlery several days in advance; she had ordered food, and washed swimming things, packed canvas stools and checked the maps in the car. Now, on the day itself, she had only two worries – the usual one of the weather and when it would break, which was really, she told herself, slightly absurd by now, and Henry’s health. The sky shone as blue and clear as ever – Caroline returned its serene stare across the breakfast table as she poured coffee and ladled kedgeree for a party roused early for the occasion. At the other end of the table, Henry looked well enough; his cuts were healing, he had spent two good nights and was eating a large breakfast. Jeremy, working busily through his second plateful of kedgeree, saw her look towards the window and said solicitously, ‘I do hope the weather doesn’t break. That would be awful, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, surely it won’t,’ said Margaret. ‘Not just when it’s important.’

  ‘You have a touching faith in the weather’s sympathy,’ said her husband. ‘However, in this case, I can’t see it as likely that it will rain. Even taking the law of averages into account.’

  ‘You are always laughing at me,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Not at all, I said it was touching and I’m touched. I mean it.’

  ‘I can’t eat kedgeree in this heat,’ said Anna, pushing her chair back. ‘May I get down?’

  Caroline stiffened with automatic annoyance. Anna had come down late, in her old jeans, with her hair obviously uncombed and her face flushed. If she was in for another of those days it was really too much. Caroline said, as pleasantly as she could, ‘You look feverish, dear. Are you sure you’re quite well? Did you sleep?’

  ‘Like a log. I don’t think I’m feverish. I just don’t like kedgeree.’ She stood up and went out slamming the door.

  Caroline said, ‘Really, her manners.’

  Margaret said, ‘I don’t think she does look very well.’

  ‘She never does. It’s hardly surprising. She thinks it beneath her dignity to take any care of herself. So someone else has to and there has to be a row about it.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Oliver, and went out, after Anna. Henry got up, as surreptitiously as his bulk allowed, and padded off towards his study. Caroline caught his sleeve.

  ‘Henry! The second car. Who will collect it?’

  ‘Oliver. And Anna, in our car. Give them something to do. Anna can drive back. What did she learn to drive for?’ He went out, incontrovertibly. Caroline sighed. ‘Everyone enjoys picnics, but no one seems to think they might need arranging. Anna is impossible. Do you think Oliver would mind?’

  ‘I should think he’d be only too pleased.’ Margaret hesitated. ‘I really don’t think Anna looks well.’

  Caroline drew her mouth together. ‘I expect I handle her badly. I’d like to see anyone else do any better, that’s all. You wouldn’t think anyone could show such a complete lack of interest in everything. And such a complete lack of comprehension about ordinary things – she’s quite frighteningly stupid with pressure cookers, and Hoovers. And she’ll have to cope with them some day, she’s a woman, nobody’ll cope for her. But she won’t be interested. She can’t manage anything. Not even school and everyone gets through that somehow, don’t they? She ran away from school twice, I don’t know if I told you, they expelled her in the end. I suppose it was a bit hard, but I can’t say I blamed them. I suppose it’s my fault – it’s supposed to be, isn’t it – but what I think sometimes is if you look at people they were born the way they are, really – I mean, all this putting it on to the parents leaves people with nothing that you could call them, does it? I can see my getting cross with her makes her no better, but what flummoxes me entirely is just that – that – that I feel she’s nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me. She repudiates me. That’s what it is.’

  Margaret said, ‘Isn’t it simply that it’s time she left home? She’s just not at an age where it’s possible – for most people – to be at home. I know I felt like that – I don’t think there’s anything unusual –’

  ‘No,’ said Caroline, who did not want to have to think there was anything unusual and may indeed have been right about that. ‘In any case, I don’t see where else she can go.’

  ‘She could come to us for a bit. I’d have her willingly; she’d be company for me when Oliver’s out and Oliver could go on coaching her. He thinks highly of her; it must be good for her to have someone so interested … that is, I mean, someone who knows of something she can do … Would you like that? I’ll ask Oliver, I’ll ask Anna herself, she might talk to me better, I might be able to find out what she does want …’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Caroline said dubiously, trying to weigh the disadvantage of being further indebted to Oliver, against the advantage of having Anna out of the house and usefully employed. ‘It might be too much for you. I’d have to ask Henry. We’ll think …’

  ‘Do,’ said Margaret. ‘And I’ll ask Anna, tactfully, shall I?’

  An hour later Caroline had them all together on the lawn and covered them with a counting look, whilst she ran over the inanimate objects which had been collected earlier.

  ‘I really never thought I’d get you off. Now – the baskets are in the boot of our car. The rugs, the swimming things, the first-aid box, and Jeremy’s cricket and Jeremy’s frogman’s things are in the hired car. There are maps in both; it will be best if Henry drives our car and Oliver follows in the hired car. Margaret and Anna had better go with Henry and Jeremy and I will go with Oliver, so that I can guide Oliver if Henry gets out of sight. I think that’s all; the house is locked, is it, Henry? Have you all got hats?’

  They all had, except Oliver, who did not mention this but looked the other way, deliberately vaguely; Anna, watching him, thought, he has to pretend he hasn’t heard because even he can’t face mother telling him to take a hat without giving in or excusing himself. Anna herself had been made to change, and now she and Jeremy looked oddly alike, in timeless grey shorts and white shirts and linen sunhats. They stood together, brown and long-legged, any country children on any country outing. Anna’s hair was bunched up in her shirt collar, not yet long enough to fall free of it. She stood with her hands in her shorts’ pockets, which were not intended for that; her stomach protruded and her shoulders sloped awkwardly back. Caroline said gently, ‘I wish you would learn to stand more gracefully, Anna.’ Anna shifted from one foot to the other.

  Margaret wore a cotton sundress, rose and white striped, with a full skirt and petticoats; over it she had a white piqué jacket, buttoned with tiny pearl buttons. She wore white strapped sandals with a little heel, and an enormous white cartwheel of a sun-hat tied with a rose ribbon under her chin. It was one of her feminine days – she had decided on these clothes as proper for the occasion and rejected jeans and espadrilles. In her hand she carried a little leather case of lotions and protective creams. Oliver had told her – mockingly but with obvious pleasure – that she looked very nice. He liked female clothes, swinging skirts and low necks, hats and necklaces, whether they were fashionable or not. Caroline on the other hand frowned slightly over the probable fragility of the sandals – no good for scrambling over stones – and the impracticability of a froth of petticoats on a cliff edge. The childless, she thought, had no sense of the realities of life. Herself, she wore a blue and white printed linen dress and Clark’s ladies’ sandals, with a summer version of the Henry Heath gardening hat. Short sleeves, and no petticoat. She noticed that Oliver had no hat.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, attacking, ‘you would like to borrow one of Henry’s hats?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you. I’ve a thick skull, the sun doesn’t affect me. Hats irritate me.’

  Caroline flushed. ‘The summer is exceptional and the sun by the sea is always brighter …’

  ‘Let him be.’ Henry by the car was buried as far as the bridge of his nose in an enormous panama which Caroline had once brought back in triumph from the Army and Navy stores, after Henry had protested that his head was too large for any hat he could purchase. ‘Let him be. He’s over twenty-one and no relation. I don’t suppose he’ll suffer. I was out without a hat and look at me. Perfectly fit.’

  Caroline was effectively distracted. ‘Are you sure? Are you really fit? Do you think you can drive? Perhaps Anna –’

  ‘Don’t fuss, my darling,’ said Henry. ‘I’m all right. I prefer to drive myself to my own destruction. I’d tell you if I wasn’t all right.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Oliver, but this gratuitous piece of trouble-making passed unremarked.

  The journey was long, and dusty and not very exciting. Anna sat behind Henry and Margaret and did not speak. She still believed firmly that to travel, even unhopefully, was almost certainly better than to arrive and was disturbed unpleasantly from her drowsiness when Henry swung the car over a last little rise – they had been climbing for some time – and they found themselves falling rapidly down a wide, cobbled main street, between high, railed pavements and higher houses, into the village of St Anne Crane. At the foot of the main hill was a square; Henry parked in it, and opened Margaret’s door. It was very hot in the car, but Anna was gripped by lethargy. The air was clear, the sun washed the white square, and gulls called, but Anna felt that the effort of moving her body, of having to notice or move herself at all, would be altogether too much; she sat curled in the back seat and surveyed the place through the dusty glass of the window, whilst Henry strode around the square which was the end and centre of the village and explained it to Margaret. They seemed to be some way ahead of the others. Margaret tripped after him with quick little steps and exclamations of delight. Her skirts swung and flashed in the sun.

  ‘This is all there is,’ Henry said. ‘This street and then the square, and the pubs, one on each side. The wall at the far end here is the sea wall – here.’ Margaret came and stood beside him and leaned over the wall to stare down; there was a long drop, a steeply shelving beach, a landing stage with two or three fishing boats and to the right a tongue of cliff, enclosing the strip of shingle altogether. ‘All the beach here is luckily inaccessible to traffic,’ Henry went on, ‘which is why it’s been left alone, I suppose. And this stretch isn’t particularly nice, anyway – the coves further along are where we picnic, and it takes a good walk and some scrambling to get down to them, though there are rudimentary staircases cut in the cliff in places.’