Anne Mather - Relative Sins

Which was why Elizabeth Reed hadn’t approved of their association. A fairly ordinary girl from what she regarded as a doubtful background was not what she had had in mind for her son. Linda Erskine had been only one of the contenders. Mrs Reed had paraded a selection of would-be candidates before both Harry and Alex. She’d wanted to ensure the purity of her grandchildren, thought Sara ruefully. Even Ben, enchanting as he was, must give her some doubts.

But now was not the time to worry about that particular bugbear, or about any future bones of contention that she might face about Ben’s education. Both of the Reeds’ sons had gone to boarding-school as soon as they’d been old enough, whereas Harry—and Sara herself—had been adamant that Ben should continue to live at home.

As she shut the kitchen door behind her she realised that her son was not in the room. She had been hoping to see Ben’s cheerful little face, but instead all she saw was Alison, Mrs Fraser’s assistant, wiping down the table where the bread-making had been taking place.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Reed,’ Alison greeted her warmly. ‘I expect you’re wondering where Ben’s gone.’

‘Well…’ Sara arched a questioning eyebrow. ‘I know he can be quite a handful. Particularly when it’s time for his nap.’

‘That’s exactly what Mrs Fraser said,’ declared Alison, straightening from her task and flexing her back tiredly. ‘So she’s put him down for an hour, just to save you the trouble. She’s up there now, as it happens. Reading him a story, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Oh—thanks.’

Sara was relieved. For a moment she had wondered if the two women had let Ben go wandering off on his own. But she should have known better, she reflected. Although Alison was younger than she was, Mrs Fraser had told her that she already had a couple of children of her own, and she was supplementing the rather modest income her husband made as a farm-worker by helping out at Perry Edmunds whenever she could.

‘He’s a nice little boy,’ Alison added now, clearly willing to take a break. ‘Rattles away nineteen to the dozen with us, he does. Been telling us all about where you used to live, and what him and his daddy used to do—’

She broke off abruptly as the realisation of what she had said brought a surge of hot colour to her cheeks. ‘Oh, Mrs Reed!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t mean—that is, I didn’t think.’ She chewed at her lower lip anxiously. ‘What must you think of me?’

‘I think you and Ben must have got along famously,’ said Sara, with a warm smile. ‘And it’s natural that Ben should talk about his father. I don’t want him to feel it’s a forbidden subject.’

‘No, but—’

‘I understand, Alison. I really do. And I hope you won’t feel that you can’t mention Harry’s name to me either. What happened—well, it was—awful. But I have to go on living, and so does my son.’

Alison nodded. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t like you to think…’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Sara reassured her gently. ‘Just go on treating Ben like one of your own children. I’m sure you’re making him feel really at home.’

Leaving the kitchen again—mainly to relieve Alison’s embarrassment—Sara started up the back stairs. She had no desire to rejoin the gathering downstairs, and, although she knew that she would have to sooner or later, for the present she decided that a pretended visit to the bathroom would provide an excuse.

She met Mrs Fraser coming down, and after exchanging a few words about her son with the other woman she continued upstairs. The news that Ben had crashed out didn’t surprise her. She herself was still feeling the effects of the jet lag, and his system was so much more delicate than hers.

She paused on the small landing that overlooked the gardens at the back of the house and gazed somewhat disbelievingly at the view. It had begun to rain a little now; the lawns and the paddock beyond were particularly English in appearance, and it seemed incredible how swiftly her life had changed in such a very short time.

Reaching the main landing, she made her way to the suite of rooms that the Reeds had allocated to her. They had been Harry’s rooms, she knew, when he was alive, and although it was many years since he had lived at home their décor had changed little in the interim. His school sports pictures still adorned the walls of his study, which had been converted into a bedroom for Ben, and the toys he’d once played with had been saved for posterity, though Sara didn’t think they’d interest his son.

The sound of the television was the first thing that Sara heard when she entered her apartments, and she went quickly to the door of Ben’s room. Just as she’d thought, the old black and white set was on, though her son was lying motionless on his bed. She assumed that Mrs Fraser must have left it on for him—for company, perhaps—but as she went to turn off the rather violent cartoon that was playing the boy spoke, startling her.

‘Can’t I have it on?’

Sara swung round. ‘I thought you were asleep. Mrs Fraser said…’

‘I was—for a bit,’ admitted the little boy, hauling himself into a sitting position. ‘But I heard cars moving outside, and I went to see who was leaving, and then I just thought I’d see what was on.’

There was a certain diffidence in this statement, and Sara felt a sense of compassion for the child. He knew better than anyone that his father hadn’t liked him to spend his time glued to the box, and generally he’d been outdoors, either in the swimming pool or in the garden, playing with the children of other members of the mission staff.

But he couldn’t play outdoors here—not right now, at least. It was too cold for one thing, and for another he didn’t know any of the children in the area. In addition to which there was no pool, no tropical gardens, no toys of his own to play with. Their personal belongings were coming by sea and were probably still in the middle of the Atlantic.

Deciding that the rules had to be changed here, along with everything else, Sara’s lips tipped into a rueful smile and she left the television on. It was going to be hard enough for Ben to adjust without her stifling any independence he showed.

She nodded now, grimacing at the images on the screen but not making the mistake of switching channels and expecting him not to notice. Ben was fairly shrewd, and there was no way that she could alter the programme without his approval—not unless she used a heavy hand, which was something she hoped to avoid.

‘Don’t you like the Slime Monster, Mum?’ he asked, wriggling round to look at her, and Sara pulled a wry face.

‘Does anyone?’ she asked. And then, sitting on the end of the bed, she went on, ‘I want to talk to you. Do you think we could turn it off for a while? There’s something I want to say.’

Ben grimaced. ‘I s’pose so.’

‘Good.’ Sara leant across and did just that. ‘It’s difficult to think with that racket going on.’

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s just a cartoon, Mum.’

‘I know.’

‘But you don’t think Dad would like it, hmm?’

Sara hesitated. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. And…’ She paused. ‘It’s about Daddy that I want to talk to you—’ She broke off again. ‘This was his study, you know. When he was a boy. He used to do his homework here.’

‘But Daddy said he went away to school.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Did he have homework in the holidays?’

‘I’m not sure.’ There were times when Sara wished that her son weren’t quite so bright. ‘In any event he kept his toys here. And those are his pictures on the walls.’

‘Mmm.’ Ben looked about him. ‘They’re very old, aren’t they? Sort of yellow at the edges.’