A Suitable Vengeance

“I’m afraid I can’t promise the same thing, darlings,” Lady Helen said. “I plan to compete ruthlessly with Sidney to be in the foreground of every picture Deborah takes. Surely I’ve a future as a mannequin just waiting to be discovered on the Howenstow lawn.”


Ahead of them, Sidney laughed and marched southeast, in the direction of the sea. Under the enormous park trees, where the air was rich with the fertile smell of humus, she found myriad sources of inspiration. Perched on a massive branch struck down by the winter storm, she was an impish Ariel, freed from captivity. Holding a cluster of larkspur, she became Persephone, newly delivered from Hades. Against the trunk of a tree with a crown of leaves in her hair, she was Rosalind, dreaming of Orlando’s love.

After she had explored all the permutations of antic posturing for Deborah’s camera, Sidney ran on, reaching the edge of the park and disappearing through an old gate in the rough stone wall. In a moment, the breeze brought her cry of pleasure back to the others.

“She’s reached the mill,” Lady Helen said. “I’ll see that she doesn’t fall into the water.”

Without waiting for a response, without giving the other two a passing glance, she hurried off. In a moment, she too was through the gate and out of the park.

Deborah welcomed the opportunity to be alone with Simon. There was much to say. She hadn’t seen him since the day of their quarrel, and once Tommy had informed her that he would be part of their weekend party, she had known she would have to say or do something to serve as apology and to make amends.

But now that a chance for conversation had presented itself, Deborah found that anything other than the most impersonal comment was unthinkable. She knew quite well that she had severed the final ties to Simon in Paddington, and there was no way she could unsay the words that had effected the surgical cut between them.

They continued in the direction that Lady Helen had taken, their slow pace dictated by St. James’ gait. In the silence that grew, broken only by the ceaseless calling of the gulls, the sound of his footsteps seemed an amplified deformity. Deborah finally spoke in the need to drive that sound from her ears, reaching aimlessly back into the past for a memory they shared.

“When my mother died, you opened the house in Chelsea.”

St. James looked at her curiously. “That was a long time ago.”

“You didn’t have to do it. I didn’t know that then. It all seemed so reasonable to my seven-year-old mind. But you didn’t have to do it. I don’t know why I never realised till today.”

He brushed a tangle of Dutch clover from his trouser leg. “There’s no real easing a loss like that, is there? I did what I could. Your father needed a place to forget. Or if not to forget, at least to go on.”

“But you didn’t have to do it. We could have gone to one of your brothers. They were both in Southampton. They were so much older. It would have been reasonable. You were…were you really only eighteen? What on earth were you thinking about, saddling yourself with a household when you were just eighteen? Why did you do it? Why on earth did your parents agreè to let you do it?” She felt each question increase in intensity.

“It was right.”

“Why?”

“Your father needed something to take the place of the loss. He needed to heal. Your mother had only been dead two months. He was devastated. We were afraid for him, Deborah. None of us had ever seen him like that. If he did something to harm himself…You’d already lost your mother. We none of us wanted you to lose your father as well. Of course, you’d have had us to take care of you. There’s no question of that. But it’s not the same as a real parent, is it?”

“But your brothers. Southampton.”

“If he’d gone to Southampton, he’d just have been a spare wheel in an established household, at loose ends and feeling everyone’s pity. But in Chelsea, the old house gave him something to do.” St. James shot her a smile. “You’ve forgotten what a condition the house was in, haven’t you? It took all his energy—mine as well—to make the place habitable. He didn’t have time to keep agonising over your mother the way he had been. He had to start letting the worst part of the sorrow go. He had to get on with his life. With yours and mine as well.”

Deborah played with the shoulder strap of her camera. It was stiff and new, not like the comfortably frayed strap on the old, dented Nikon she had used for so many years before she had gone to America.

“That’s why you came this weekend, isn’t it?” she said. “For Dad.”

St. James didn’t reply. A gull swept across the park, so close to them that Deborah could feel the wild rush of its wings beat the air. She went on.

“I saw that this morning. How thoughtful you are, Simon. I’ve been wanting to tell you that ever since we arrived.”

St. James thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, a gesture that momentarily emphasised the distortion which his brace brought to his left leg. “It has nothing to do with thoughtfulness, Deborah.”

“Why not?”