Philippa Gregory - The Little House

‘I have some grounds for celebration – but only if you two are absolutely happy about it. Your mother and I have a little proposition to put to you.’

Ruth tried to look intelligent and interested but the taste of the wine was bitter in her mouth. The taste for champagne, they had assured her, was acquired. Ruth wondered if she would ever like it.

‘It’s Manor Cottage,’ Frederick said. ‘On the market at last. Old Miss Fisher died last week and, as you can imagine, I was onto her lawyer pretty quick. She left her estate to some damnfool charity…cats or orphans or something…’ He broke off, suddenly embarrassed, remembering the orphan status of his daughter-in-law. ‘Beg pardon, Ruth. No offence.’

Ruth experienced the usual stab of pain at the thought of her lost parents, and smiled her usual bright smile. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

‘Well, anyway,’ said Frederick, ‘the house will be sold at once. I’ve waited for years to get my hands on it. And now, with you getting into more regular hours, it’s ideal.’

‘And the land?’ Patrick asked.

‘The garden, and the field, and that copse that joins our bit of wood. It rounds off our land to perfection.’

‘Pricey?’ Patrick asked.

Frederick laid his finger along his nose to indicate inside knowledge. ‘Her lawyer is the executor. And the charity won’t be putting it up for auction. They’ll want a quick, simple sale. The lawyer will take the first reasonable offer.’

‘Who’s the lawyer?’ Patrick asked.

Frederick grinned – this was the punch line. ‘My lawyer,’ he said. ‘As it happens. By happy coincidence. Simon Sylvester.’

Patrick chuckled. ‘We could sell our flat tomorrow.’

‘We should make a handsome profit on it,’ his father concurred. ‘You could stay here while the cottage is being done up. Couldn’t be better.’

‘If Ruth agrees,’ Elizabeth reminded them.

Both men turned at once to her. ‘I don’t quite…’ Ruth said helplessly.

‘Manor Cottage is on the market at last,’ Patrick said. ‘Come on, darling, the little house at the end of the drive. The one I’ve always had my eye on.’

Ruth looked from one bright impatient face to another. ‘You want to buy it?’

‘Yes, darling. Yes. Wake up!’

‘And sell our flat?’

They nodded.

Ruth could feel that she was being slow, and worse than that, unwilling.

‘But how would I get to work? And we like our flat.’

‘It was only ever a temporary base,’ Frederick said. ‘Just a little nest for you two young lovebirds.’

Ruth looked at him, puzzled.

‘A good investment is only worth having if you’re ready to capitalize,’ he said firmly. ‘When the time is right.’

‘But how would I get to work?’

Elizabeth smiled at her. ‘You won’t work forever, dearest. You might find that when you have a family-sized house in the country you feel like giving up work altogether. You might have something else to keep you busy!’

Ruth turned to Patrick.

‘We might start a family,’ he translated.

Frederick gave a shout of laughter. ‘Her face! Dear Ruth! Have you never thought about it? We could be talking Chinese!’

Ruth felt her face stiff with stupidity. ‘We hadn’t planned…’ she said.

‘Well, we couldn’t really, could we?’ Patrick confirmed. ‘Not while we were living in town in a poky little flat, and my hours were all over the place, and you were working so hard. But promotion, and Manor Cottage, well, it all comes together, doesn’t it?’

‘I’ve always lived in town,’ Ruth said. ‘And my job means everything to me. I’m the only woman news producer on the station – it’s a real responsibility, and this week I broke a national story –’ she glanced at Patrick. ‘We scooped you,’ she reminded him.

He shrugged. ‘Radio is always quicker than telly.’

‘We were going to travel…’ she reminded him. It was an old promise. Ruth was an American child – her father a concert pianist from Boston, her mother an Englishwoman. They had died in the quick brutality of a road accident on a winter visit to England when Ruth was only seven years old. Her mother’s English family had taken the orphaned girl in, and she had never seen her home again. When Ruth and Patrick had first met, he had found the brief outline of this story almost unbearably moving and had promised Ruth that they would go back to Boston one day, and find her house. Who knew – her childhood toys, her books, her parents’ things might even be in store somewhere, or forgotten in an attic? And part of the chasm of need that Ruth always carried with her might be filled.

‘We still can,’ he said quickly.

‘We’ll finish this bottle and then we’ll all go down and look at Manor Cottage,’ Frederick said firmly. ‘Take my word for it, Ruth, you’ll fall for it. It’s a little peach. Bags of potential.’

‘She’s not to be bullied,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘We might think it paradise to have the two of you on our doorstep, but if Ruth doesn’t want to live so close to us, she is allowed to say “no”.’

‘Oh, it’s not that!’ Ruth said quickly, fearful of giving offence.

‘It’s just the surprise of it,’ Patrick answered for her. ‘I should have warned her that you’ve had your eye on that for years and you always get your own way.’

‘Amen to that!’ Frederick said. The father and son clinked glasses.

‘But I like our flat,’ Ruth said.

Ruth borrowed a pair of Elizabeth’s Wellington boots for the walk, and her waxed jacket and her headscarf. She had not come prepared, because the after-lunch walk was always Frederick’s time alone with Patrick. Usually Elizabeth and Ruth cleared the lunch table, stacking the plates in the dishwasher, and then sat in the living room with the Sunday papers to read and Mozart on the hi-fi. Ruth had once gone with the men on their walk, but after a few yards she had realized her mistake. They strode along with their hands buried deep in their pockets, shoulder to shoulder in a silent enjoyable communion. She had delayed them at stiles and gates because they had felt bound to hold her hand as she clambered over them, or warn her about mud in gateways. They had kept stopping to ask if they were going too fast for her or if she was tired. Their very generosity to her and concern for her had told her that she was a stranger, and unwelcome. They wasted no politeness on each other. For each other they shared a happy, wordless camaraderie.

The next Sunday Frederick announced: ‘Time for my constitutional,’ and then he had turned to Ruth: ‘Will you come with us again, Ruth? It looks like rain.’

As she had hesitated, Elizabeth said firmly, ‘You two run along! I won’t have my daughter-in-law dragged around the countryside in the rain! Ruth will stay here with me and we can be cosy. We’ll kick our shoes off and gossip.’

After that, the two men always walked alone after lunch and Ruth and Elizabeth waited for them to return. There was no kicking off shoes. Elizabeth was a naturally formal woman, and they had no mutual friends for gossip. Ruth punctiliously asked after Miriam, Patrick’s elder sister, who was teaching in Canada. But Miriam was always well. Elizabeth inquired about Ruth’s work, which was filled with drama and small triumphs that never sounded interesting when retold, and asked after Ruth’s aunt, who had brought her up after the death of her parents. Ruth always said that she was well, but in truth they had lost contact except for Christmas cards and the occasional phone call. Then there was nothing more to say. The two women leafed through the newspapers together until they heard the dog scrabbling at the back door and Elizabeth rose to let him in and put the kettle on for tea.