Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online Page B

why I want to stay here.”
    “I’m filled with admiration for you, and astonished at what you’ve achieved. I just can’t bear to think of you struggling on on your own…”
    “You mean the house? But that’s been a sort of therapy. It’s got me over a lump. It’s got me over Terence.”
    “What’s happened to Terence?”
    “He’s gone back to France.” She closed the doors of her cupboards and turned the latch, as though she were shutting Terence away. “You know, Tom, when I knew that you were coming north this weekend, I wished that you weren’t. I didn’t want to be reminded of that terrible evening when you took us out for dinner and Terence got so drunk. I suppose it makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed. Nobody ever likes to feel ashamed. Or guilty.”
    “You have nothing to feel guilty about. I think you’ve come through a long dark tunnel, all on your own, and you’re still in one piece, and you’ve still got Crispin. As for Terence, you can write him down to experience.”
    “Then you don’t think this house is another mistake?”
    “Someone who never made a mistake never made anything. And even if it is a mistake, it’s a magnificent one. Like I said, I’m filled with admiration.”
    “You mustn’t say that. You mustn’t be too kind.” He realized, with some surprise, that she was on the edge of tears. He could not remember, ever, having seen Kitty cry. “I’m … I’m not used to people being so kind…”
    “Oh, Kitty…”
    “It’s just talking about it. Even Mabel thinks I’m insane. I haven’t been able to talk to anybody. Not like this. Not to someone like you.”
    “You mustn’t cry.”
    “I know I mustn’t, but I can’t help it.”
    She felt hopelessly for a handkerchief that did not materialize, and he gave her his own one and she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “It’s just that so many things have gone wrong, that sometimes—like this winter—when I’m tired and the car won’t start, and the caravan’s icy cold, and there’s nowhere for Crispin to play … I lose confidence in myself and begin to wonder if I’m ever going to get anything right, if I’m really as irresponsible as everybody keeps telling me I am. ‘Kitty, you don’t want to bury yourself in Northumberland. Kitty, you must think of Crispin. Kitty, you’re so selfish to cut yourself off from your family.’” The tears welled once more. “‘Kitty, what are you doing with your l-l-life?’”
    Tom could bear it no longer. He crossed the floor and turned her towards him and pulled her into his arms. He could feel the skinny ribs beneath the wool of her sweater, and her thick hair was soft beneath his chin.
    He said, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry any more. I don’t associate you with tears and having you cry makes me feel that the world is coming to pieces.”
    “I don’t mean to be so stupid.”
    “You’re not stupid. I think you’re fantastic. You’re beautiful and you’re still in one piece, and you’ve got your child. That’s what I think. And I’ll tell you something else as well. I’m hungry. And I need a drink. Let’s go down to the pub and sit by the fire and talk about cheerful things, like summer coming and Mabel’s party. And after we’ve had something to eat, I’ll take you for a drive, and we’ll go and walk on the moor; or we’ll go down to the beach and throw pebbles into the sea, or we’ll go to Alnwick and find an antique shop and I’ll buy you something marvellous for your house. Whatever you’d like to do, Kitty. You only have to say. You only have to tell me…”
    *   *   *
    Dusk was falling as, that evening, he drove back to Kinton. The first of the lights came on as he turned the corner of the village street, and the castle loomed ahead of him, silhouetted against a turquoise sky.
    It was odd to realize that tonight, perhaps for the last time ever, Kinton would be en fête. Lights would shine and music would play. Cars would roll up