‘You don’t always have to buy me a present when you go out, you know,’ he remarked.
‘Right, I’ll have it back then,’ she said quickly, reaching out as if to snatch the package away from him.
He swung his body backwards, laughing, avoiding her.
The bag contained a rare early edition of The Trumpet Major, probably Freddie’s favourite Thomas Hardy, beautifully bound in leather with gold embossing. Freddie, although a well-educated man, was no intellectual and not a great reader either, but he had a passion for the famous Wessex writer, perhaps because Hardy wrote about things that Freddie instinctively understood and that did not seem to him to have changed fundamentally since Hardy’s day.
Freddie’s face lit up. He put down the book and took Constance in his arms.
‘Where on earth did you find this?’ he asked, his delight bubbling over.
‘I’ve been on the case for months,’ she said. ‘I take it you like it.’
‘Not as much as I like you, but it’ll do,’ he said.
She poked out her tongue at him.
‘You know, I think if my mother had ever done that to my father he would probably have collapsed in shock,’ remarked Freddie. He couldn’t stop smiling.
‘Easily shocked, your family,’ said Constance. ‘Forgetful too. Where’s that drink?’
He reached behind him for a glass already half filled with fine whisky.
‘Just waiting for you, you impatient woman,’ he told her.
He picked up the book again, handling it carefully, appreciatively turning the pages. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said. ‘It is so beautiful — really the most wonderful present.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘You deserve it, and more actually — only don’t get too big-headed.’
She raised her glass, taking a long appreciative swallow. He turned around to pour himself a drink.
When he faced her again it seemed that she had changed slightly, as if slotting back into a different mould. And indeed when she spoke again her thoughts were obviously no longer on her day away, the shopping and lunch she had told him she had enjoyed in Bristol, her visit to her aunt, or indeed on him. She had switched her attentions to the village she was so much a part of, with its almost daily round of rural drama. Drama was how it seemed to Freddie. Connie took things much more calmly.
‘Did Harley Phillips come out of hospital today as planned?’ Constance asked.
‘Uh huh.’ Freddie grunted. He didn’t really want to talk about Harley because the boy was now yet another problem that had to be dealt with. Harley’s arm had been saved but nobody knew yet how much it would return to full use. And certainly, at best, it would be a long time before he could work properly on the farm again. Freddie had no wish to lay Harley off and in any case knew his wife would not allow it — but, although his was a rich farm, Freddie had relatively little disposable cash. Like most farmers, his wealth was in his assets and he could not afford to carry passengers.
As if reading his mind, Constance spoke. ‘I’ll visit Harley tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘And we’ll have to think of some gainful employment for him as soon as he is able. Knowing Harley, he’ll try like mad. You know how eager and energetic he is.’
Yes, thought Freddie, with a mixture of affection and irritation. And that was what had probably caused the boy’s accident in the first place. More brawn than brains, like the rest of his family.
Out loud he merely said, ‘Yes, he’s a good lad. If he does his best for us, and I’m sure he will, we’ll just have to do our best for him.’
‘I knew that’s what you’d say, Freddie,’ replied Constance, smiling broadly at him. ‘That’s what you always say.’
It was too. And it was what his father used to say before him. Indeed if that wasn’t the way of his family they might all be multi-millionaires by now, he reflected. But Freddie had never sought to make a fortune, any more than had his father. It was his wish only to keep Chalmpton Village Farm at the very least in the fine fettle in which it had been handed to him, and perhaps, if possible, hand it on to his own son in even better shape.
His own son. William. Oh God. The news from William, received that morning only minutes after Constance had left, had put a blight on his entire day. It was quite extraordinary. The elation he always felt when he was reunited with his wife, even after such a brief parting, and the joy of her wonderful gift, had put the whole sorry episode right out of his mind.
He must tell her, he supposed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he had quite found the words, she began to talk first.
‘You know, I’m really quite worn out,’ she said, as she emptied the whisky glass with a second big swallow. ‘It’s been a long day. And I don’t like driving as much as I used to. I think I’ll have an early night. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not,’ said Freddie. He decided the news of their son could wait till morning before he shared it with her. He knew she would be upset. She idolised the boy and sometimes, Freddie felt, put him on a pedestal he did not deserve.
Freddie was up at six as usual. He pottered in the kitchen making tea and then laid up the fire in the sitting-room which this year they were already lighting in the evenings even though it was still only early September, because the weather remained unseasonably cold and damp. He contemplated how best to break the bad news to his wife. He could come up with no easy way.
He took tea up to Constance at a quarter to seven as he always did.
‘By the way, William will probably be home today,’ he told her conversationally as, sipping from her favourite mug, she propped herself up on the pillows. And not until he had finished speaking did he realise what a clumsy approach that had been.
Momentarily her face lit up. Then the clouds came.
‘Freddie, the new term has only just started, what is going on?’
Her voice was sharp. But he knew her so well, knew she was not really angry, only anxious.
“Things aren’t too good, apparently...’ Freddie stumbled over his words, wanting so desperately not to hurt her, knowing he could not avoid it.
‘For goodness sake, Freddie!’ she said.
He sighed. ‘He’s been given his marching orders.’
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. First she looked merely distressed, then puzzled. ‘I knew he wasn’t doing very well, but surely not that bad, and why now, at the beginning of term?’
‘There’s more to it than that. They’ve only been back a week and he’s already turned up drunk for afternoon lectures at least twice and missed one morning session. He was warned last term, apparently.’ Freddie sighed. ‘Yesterday he actually threw up in the lecture room, the idiot. And that was his lot!’
Constance now seemed to be both upset and exasperated.
‘But why, Freddie? I know he likes a pint, but I’d no idea his drinking was getting out of hand. The boy’s got everything, why does he need to get drunk like that?’
Freddie sighed again, he understood that if you hero-worshipped somebody, especially your own son, the blow was all the greater when you realised that maybe he wasn’t quite such a hero after all.
‘I think he’s just going through a bit of a wild patch...’
‘God, Freddie, with all he has to look forward to, he is so lucky...’
Freddie knew she was thinking of her own childhood and how hard she had had to fight in order to make anything of her life before meeting him.
He spoke to her very gently. ‘You know, it is not always so easy when you see your life mapped out before you, either. Not at twenty. He’s rebelling, that’s all. He’ll grow out of it.’
Freddie turned away slightly. He was, after all, trying to reassure her. He didn’t want her to see how worried he also was. But he guessed that she saw all right. She never missed much, not Constance. Particularly not about how people were feeling. She had such wonderful natural sensitivity. He thought it was that, more than anything, that had made him fall in love with her. She had understood all his doubts and insecurities and given him a belief in himself, both emotionally and physically, that he would not as a young man have thought possible.