Free A Period of Adjustment by Dirk Bogarde Page B

of the way. They’re doing
Contes et légendes
this morning. Very advanced. I am sorry for you, but we guessed that there had been a problem. You were late, and he had been crying. I thought perhaps it was something to do with your brother. But I think you managed to spare him much of that? And now his mama. Oh Lord! If she fights to keep him? What then? Clearly he wants to stay with you, but can you cope with a boy of ten that you hardly know? You write. You need a certain amount of peace and quiet, don’t you? You can’t be expected to suddenly go fishing, or wash his socks and neck. Or cook his breakfast. You know?’
    She made it sound so idiotic that I laughed.
    â€˜No. I can’t wash his socks. I’m not terribly good at washing my own come to that.’
    She got up and picked another rosemary plant from an old Tide carton lying on the path, dug a small hole in the sandy soil, scattered a handful or two of tourbe in, stuck the root-ball carefully in place.
    I got up and lifted the watering-can, carried it to her. She poured carefully.
    â€˜Water here is like platinum. We had a terrible drought for two years. I’m so late getting these in. You’ll live here, I suppose? As you have told me. At Jericho.’
    â€˜Yes. I suppose that I have
done
the right thing altogether. For him and indeed for myself.’
    â€˜There was little alternative, was there? I am afraid, Will, that it is simply a question of responsibility. That’s all.’
    She handed me the watering-can, took up another plant, wandered to the next pre-dug hole.
    â€˜How long, Dottie, does it go on for?’
    She looked up swiftly, her kind pale eyes glinting with wry amusement. ‘How long does
what
go on? Being “Daddy”? Being responsible? Looking after them?’ She did her little act with the tourbe, the hole, then beckoned for the can, which I handed her, and she stuck in the rosemary plant. ‘That what you are asking?’
    â€˜Yes. That’s it. How long does it go on?’
    She raked the soil round the plant, patted the moist little hump, and looking at me over her shoulder she said, ‘For the rest of your life, Will. Unless he does a runner or goes to Australia or the Antarctic, marries a Hottentot or something. Even then, you are never entirely free of them. Never.’
    I sat back on the edge of the tourbe sack.
    â€˜Even when they get married to the most wonderful girl in the world and litter the place with their young they’ll still hang around. You’ll see. Bad luck!’
    We laughed together. I suppose I looked rueful because she said, ‘And you can’t retract now. Not after this morning. You’ll just have to see things through.’
    â€˜I will. Somehow. It’s this bloody lunch I have to face today in a couple of hours. That’s what I fear most.’
    She threw the trowel into the bucket, it clanged. ‘Some coffee?’ I looked at my watch. ‘You have time?’
    We walked together up to the house.
    â€˜My first battle on his behalf. Today. Probably a fight.’
    She pushed the bead and bamboo curtains apart into the kitchen. ‘I hope you
won’t
have to fight. You said it was an amicable arrangement? Very civilized? I feel certain that your wife will be flexible. Don’t you? She obviously caresrather more for your daughter, which is unusual I’ll agree. Mothers are desperately fond of their sons, sometimes dangerously so. But, of course, Giles was not first-born. That makes a subtle difference.’ She turned on a tap and filled the kettle, went over to the arched doorway and called up into the shadow above, ‘Arthur? Giles? I’m making coffee.’ She came back and set out cups and saucers. ‘I do so loathe mugs, don’t you? Casual and careless, I think that they “taste” the coffee, tea … whatever it is. But this is only instant.’
    She removed her straw hat,