The Little House

  Upstairs Ruth went to find Patrick. ‘I should like to go home now,’ she said.

  Patrick was dressing Thomas and had one hand inexpertly laid on Thomas’s stomach while spreading cream on his bottom with the other.

  ‘Oh!’ he said.

  Ruth nodded. ‘As soon as Thomas is dressed. I have a whole load of things I want to get done today.’

  ‘I rather thought we’d stay here, till you’re completely better.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the least wrong with me,’ Ruth said simply. ‘I came home last night to a dark house and my baby missing and I was terribly upset. If he had been there, as he should have been, then everything would have been all right. If you want to make sure that I am not upset, then you should let me look after my own baby.’

  ‘Hush …’ Patrick said, glancing at the open door.

  ‘Elizabeth had no right to take him out of the house without my permission,’ Ruth said as clearly as before. ‘And she has no right to tidy my deep freeze, or peel potatoes, or tie back my bloody kitchen curtains!’

  ‘Everything all right up there?’ Frederick called up the stairs. ‘Time for a cup of coffee?’

  ‘We’re just going!’ Ruth called back. ‘I’ll have coffee at home, thank you.’

  She stepped forward and slipped Thomas’s vest over his head, and pulled his shirt on top. Thomas let out a wail of protest while she captured each foot, put on his socks and his felt slippers. She picked him up and carried him downstairs.

  ‘If you’re sure …’ Elizabeth said. She glanced at Patrick, coming down the stairs behind Ruth. He shrugged.

  ‘Frederick will pop down at midday,’ Elizabeth suggested. ‘And I’ll come down this afternoon.’

  ‘On one condition,’ Ruth specified. They were all wary of her.

  ‘What is that?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘That Thomas is never, never to be taken out of my house, without my express permission.’

  Elizabeth prompted Patrick with a glance.

  ‘But, Ruth, that was my idea, not Mother’s,’ he said. ‘I rang and said I would be late. It was my idea that we should all come up here for dinner, to save you the bother of coping with Thomas on your own and cooking dinner.’

  ‘I am a wife and mother,’ Ruth said, laying claim to titles she would have despised a year earlier. ‘I am a wife and mother and I have a job to do. I have to care for Thomas and I have to manage our house. If I can’t do it, I’ll get help. I’ll hire help. But I won’t have people continually interfering. Thomas is to stay at home.’

  There was a silence; they all looked down the hall towards Frederick. ‘For a trial period of one week,’ he said carefully. ‘And if there is another upset, or any cause for concern at all, then we will reconsider.’

  Ruth, holding Thomas under her chin, met his gaze. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘If there is another upset, then you will have to seek treatment,’ Frederick said frankly.

  For a moment he thought she had not heard him, her face was so blank. ‘Treatment?’ she said. ‘I’m not ill.’

  ‘That is not for you to judge,’ Frederick said simply. ‘You are not qualified to judge. Neither am I; none of us are. But if things do not get better we’ll call in the experts.’

  ‘You want me to go back to Springfield House?’ she asked incredulously.

  Frederick shook his head. ‘A closed hospital,’ he said quietly.

  Ruth’s breath came out in a little hiss. ‘You’re planning to have me committed,’ she said slowly. ‘You’re planning to call me a loony and send me to a loony bin.’

  Elizabeth and Patrick recoiled at the words but Frederick never wavered. ‘If that’s how you want to describe it,’ he said steadily. ‘I have the power to do it, Ruth. Any close family member, with a doctor’s agreement, can do it.’

  She nodded, saying nothing. Her eyes met his, but he saw from the dark dilation of her pupils that she saw nothing. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I know you have the power.’

  They were all silent for a moment, as if they were all aghast at how far they had come.

  ‘I don’t want to do it,’ Frederick said gently.

  She nodded again. ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘I believe that you would do it very reluctantly and sadly.’

  ‘I will only do it if it is my duty: to keep Thomas safe, and to keep you safe.’

  She focused her shocked eyes on his face. ‘And those are your only criteria?’ She glanced towards Elizabeth. ‘Thomas’s safety? Not what anyone else says about me? Not whether I’m good enough – or not?’

  ‘No,’ he said steadily. ‘Your safety and Thomas’s safety are the only criteria.’

  She breathed out again, and moved slowly down the hall. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I understand what I am facing.’

  Slowly she walked past him to the front door. He opened the door for her and she walked past him, without a word of thanks, without turning her head. Patrick followed her and got into his car, while Ruth put Thomas into the baby seat in her car.

  ‘What was this?’ Frederick asked, pointing to the crumpled wing.

  For a moment she looked blank, then she said abruptly: ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all,’ and she got in the car, started the engine, and drove steadily away.

  Elizabeth caught a glimpse of her son’s set face as he too drove past. He raised a hand to them, and followed Ruth’s car down the drive.

  In the little house things were incongruously normal. The heating was on and the house, thanks to Elizabeth’s tidying, looked smart and welcoming. Ruth was taking off Thomas’s coat in the hall when Patrick came in.

  ‘There’s no note,’ she said abruptly.

  Patrick looked at the hall table, where his mother said she had left a note for Ruth. It was empty.

  ‘There must be,’ he said.

  Ruth looked at him but said nothing. ‘Are you going to work now?’

  ‘If you can manage.’ Patrick glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t be late tonight, especially if I can get in now.’

  ‘I can manage.’

  He paused at the front door. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  She nodded, her face blank. ‘Your father is supervising me this morning, and she’s coming this afternoon, and you’ll be home by six. I won’t ever have more than an hour on my own with my son, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘You know it’s not what we want!’ he exclaimed, but broke off. ‘We’ll talk tonight,’ he promised, hoping that they would not have to talk. ‘We’ll have a good long talk tonight.’

  He kissed her gently on the side of her face. To his surprise she turned and kissed him back, on the mouth. He tasted the slightly sweet warmth of her breath. There was a promise in the kiss; Patrick felt desire.

  ‘It’s not me that needs to get back to normality,’ Ruth said quietly. ‘Think about it, Patrick. It might be the rest of you.’

  When Elizabeth came down at two o’clock she rang the front doorbell, as she had been told to do. Ruth, who had dropped the latch to prevent Elizabeth’s walking in, took her time opening the door, and when she saw Elizabeth she turned and went back to the kitchen, where Thomas was sitting in his high chair, watching his mother, and hammering a spoon on the tray.

  ‘As you know, there was no note,’ Ruth said over her shoulder. She was frying mince on the stove. Elizabeth watched as the little droplets of hot grease spattered on top of the Aga and Ruth did not wipe them up.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There was no note to tell me where Thomas was. You said you had left a note but you did not.’

  Elizabeth suppressed a small sigh, put down her handbag and went back out to the hall. In a few minutes she came back in holding a folded sheet of paper. ‘It had fallen down behind the hall table,’ she said. ‘But I am surprised you did not see it on the floor.’

  Ruth peremptorily took it and read it. It was very clear and very reassuring. She handed it back to Elizabeth without comment.


  ‘Has he had a sleep today?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘No,’ Ruth said. She took the frying pan over to the sink and drained the fat off the meat, letting it run down the drain. Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress the advice that Ruth would get blocked drains if she poured melted fat down them.

  ‘I will sponge his face and hands and change him and rock him in the garden then,’ Elizabeth offered. ‘It’s quite warm in the sun.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘I’m going down to the village to get some tomato purée,’ she said. ‘Remember that he is to be here when I come back. Whatever Patrick says. Whatever anyone says.’

  Elizabeth nodded, and lifted Thomas out of his high chair. Ruth once again had not fastened his safety straps.

  Nineteen

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was Saturday, and Patrick did not go in to work. They had a cautious weekend together. Patrick suggested Sunday lunch at the farm, but Ruth gave him a look that was a clear refusal. Instead, he took Thomas up to the farmhouse after lunch and brought him back in the evening. Ruth slept away the afternoon.

  When the routine of the week started again, nothing changed. Elizabeth and Ruth spoke less and less at arrival and departure, but Elizabeth did not touch things in Ruth’s kitchen, or do her chores. Ruth waited, without much hope, for someone, Frederick or Patrick, to acknowledge that the house was well run, that the child was well and happy, and that she no longer need be supervised.

  When Thursday came, and Ruth had an appointment with her therapist, she found that Patrick had taken the afternoon off work and was going to drive her in to Bath and back out again in the evening. ‘Or we could stop for a drink if you like,’ he suggested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of last week,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I was upset last week because Elizabeth took Thomas out of the house without my permission and without telling me where they had gone,’ Ruth repeated steadily.

  ‘She left a note,’ he said.

  ‘She says she left a note.’

  He looked at her with open dislike. ‘I hardly think that my mother is likely to lie,’ he said.

  Ruth got into Patrick’s car and slammed the door. ‘Oh, don’t you,’ she said under her breath.

  Her session with Clare Leesome was uneasy. Towards the end, Clare asked her: ‘Are you feeling angry, Ruth?’ and saw from the swift, direct look that Ruth was too furious to speak: even to her.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Ruth said unhelpfully.

  At the end of the session Ruth said, ‘I don’t think I will come again. I think I should finish now.’

  Clare’s face showed nothing but interest and concern. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth said. ‘As long as I am coming here, then they have something on me. It reminds them that I was ill. They say “visiting your therapist” as if I was completely mad. They can use it against me.’

  Clare nodded. ‘You could see me and not tell them,’ she suggested.

  Ruth thought for a moment and shook her head. ‘She would find out,’ she said. ‘She reads my diary, she would check the milometer on the car, she knows everything.’

  Clare privately thought that it was unlikely that anyone would go that far, but she said nothing. ‘I think your main concern should be whether you feel you have finished working with me,’ she said gently. ‘Not what anyone else may think about you.’

  Ruth stood up. ‘Nothing matters more than that I keep Thomas,’ she said flatly. ‘Seeing you is jeopardizing that. So I’m going to stop seeing you. If things ever get better, I may telephone and ask to come back.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘Thank you,’ she said shortly. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘I cannot ask you to stay,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But it is not a choice between seeing me and keeping Thomas. Anyone would understand that it is a sign of good health for you to work through your feelings with a therapist. No one would take a child away from a mother who was a progressing patient.’

  Ruth shook her head, and went to the door. ‘They will if they want to,’ she said flatly. ‘So thank you. Good-bye.’

  ‘I’ve stopped seeing my therapist,’ Ruth said baldly, when they got home. Thomas was in his high chair eating squares of toasted cheese. Elizabeth poured Patrick a cup of tea.

  Elizabeth and Patrick exchanged a swift alarmed look.

  ‘Why?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Because I don’t need a therapist any more. I am completely cured of depression,’ Ruth said briskly.

  Elizabeth hesitated. ‘But you are still – sometimes – very unhappy, Ruth,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Ruth said with open dislike. ‘I’m very, very unhappy, and I am very angry with the situation that you, the three of you, have put me in. But none of that needs therapy. What is needed is that the situation change.’

  Elizabeth turned and unfastened the curtains from the tiebacks and drew them against the darkening sky.

  ‘It will change,’ Patrick said reassuringly. ‘Everything will change as soon as you are completely relaxed and on top of things.’

  ‘And when do you think that will be?’ Ruth challenged him, but she was looking towards Elizabeth. ‘Next month? February?’

  ‘Oh, for sure,’ Patrick said. ‘February.’

  But February came and went and still Frederick arrived for an hour every morning and Elizabeth for two hours every afternoon. It was very cold and misty, and they played with Thomas in the sitting room while Ruth tidied the rest of the house, or did the ironing, or cooked Patrick’s supper. There was not enough for her to do to fill three hours every day. Elizabeth suggested that she make matching cushion covers for the sofa, and promised her some wonderful material, and the loan of her sewing machine. Ruth looked blank. ‘We have cushions already,’ she said.

  Ruth’s antagonism solidified and settled in the four weeks in which it became apparent that nothing would ever change. Thomas had been adopted into his grandparents’ routine and Ruth had to go along with the rhythm of their lives, however empty it left her own.

  As the weather improved in March, Frederick took Thomas for longer walks up the drive. One day they were caught by a sudden shower of rain and he took shelter in the farmhouse, telephoned Ruth to say that they were in the dry, and he would bring Thomas back as soon as the shower lifted. Thomas stayed for lunch at the farmhouse that day, and Elizabeth brought him back in the afternoon. Frederick’s hour in the morning imperceptibly extended to two, and Elizabeth lingered on in the afternoons. Ruth found that she was gradually excluded from Thomas’s play times and wakeful times. He woke her in the early mornings, at about seven o’clock, and she had the task of trying to dress a protesting and growing baby, and feed him his breakfast. But when he had eaten and was sponged clean and all smiles, it was Frederick who took him out for a walk and pointed out catkins and the early snowdrops. When Frederick brought him home he was either asleep or grouchy and hungry and Ruth had the task of feeding him, changing his nappy, and laying him down for his nap. When Elizabeth arrived, he was generally still in the garden sleeping, and when he woke he was all smiles. Elizabeth had the relaxed afternoon playtime; when she left at between four and five o’clock, he was starting to get tired and hungry again. From five till bathtime was his worst period of the day. Hungry but refusing to eat, tired but it was too early for his bath and bed. The two or three hours until Patrick came home were the most onerous and least satisfactory of the day, and Ruth coped with them alone and unaided, after a boring, lonely day on her own.

  ‘If she would only ask for help,’ Elizabeth sighed to Frederick. She had telephoned to check the arrangements for tomorrow and had heard Thomas wailing lustily in the background and banging his spoon on his plate. ‘I can manage that baby with one hand tied behind my back.’

  ‘She only has him for a couple of hours,’ Frederick said. ‘You would have thought she could have managed that.’

  Elizabeth did not explain that Ruth’s couple of hours were always
the busiest and most stressful hours of the day. She just smiled. ‘I would have hoped so,’ she said.

  During the days Ruth did not have enough to do. She wrote a couple of proposals for programmes for Radio Westerly, but they rejected one without even discussing it, and the other she lost heart in, and threw away. She started to practise cookery and bought herself a couple of books of menus. When the weather grew warmer in March, she tried to take an interest in the garden.

  But always, over her shoulder, was the knowledge that her mother-in-law knew far better what should be done. Elizabeth would pop into the kitchen while Ruth was kneading pastry, with flour spilled on the floor and smeared against her jumper where she had leaned against the worktop, and she would smile and say, ‘Gracious! What are you making! Enough to feed an army?’ and go back to Thomas, leaving Ruth to realize that she had got the quantities wrong, and that a huge lump of pastry would go to waste.

  When Ruth was weeding on her hands and knees on the damp lawn, Thomas sleeping in his pram beside her, Elizabeth arrived through the back gate, leaned over the pram to see her grandson, and then turned to Ruth.

  ‘Those aren’t weeds, darling,’ she said helpfully. ‘They’re dwarf asters. You’d better put them back in again.’

  Ruth looked at the huge pile of plants she had spent an hour digging up.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And those are daffodil bulbs, which shouldn’t have been disturbed. I don’t think you’ll get a lot to flower now.’

  ‘I’ll put them back,’ Ruth said grimly.

  ‘Let me help. Thomas is still asleep,’ Elizabeth offered. ‘I’ll get some gloves.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Ruth said.

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘You do like to learn the hard way!’ she exclaimed and went inside the house, leaving Ruth to the cold soil and the muddy lawn, and the pile of wilting plants. Ruth could see the kitchen curtains move as Elizabeth tied them back in the right way.

  Ruth no longer protested at Elizabeth’s tidying of her house. It was easier to find things in the freezer when they were all on labelled shelves. It was more convenient with small things at the front of the larder. The curtains did look prettier tied back. The only habit Elizabeth still maintained that Ruth still hated was the casual way that she entered the house through the garden gate, checked on the baby, and then came in through the back door with a casual ‘Hello!’