then we could take a stroll around the town and have tea at the Hôtel de Paris … watch the world go by for a while, like we used to with Gran.’
‘What a nice idea, Emily, yes, I’d like that.’
Emily gave her a sunny smile, then bustled her charges forward, half bending down, talking to them as they made for the villa.
Paula watched the three of them go up the path together, the two little girls walking on either side of Emily, clinging to her hands. Linnet and Natalie bore a strong resemblance to each other, could easily be mistaken for sisters since they had both inherited the famous Harte colouring – Emma’s red hair and vivid green eyes and English rose complexion. They were beautiful. Dazzling children, really. A couple of Botticellis.
Patrick now came to Paula, stood by her chair, touched her arm, stared deeply into her face. ‘Mummy …’
‘What is it, darling?’
‘Mummy … poor birdie. Gid took it. No funeral now.’ The child shook his head and looked sad.
‘Of course we’ll have a funeral,’ Paula said gently, taking his small, rather grubby hand in hers, looking into his angelic face. His black O’Neill eyes were bright and lively for once, not devoid of expression and vacant as they so frequently were. Her heart lifted with joy to see such life in them today.
She gave her son a reassuring smile, and went on, ‘I know Gideon will bring the little bird back, and we’ll ask Madame Solange for one of her old tin biscuit boxes to put the birdie in, and then after lunch we’ll have the funeral. I promise, darling.’
Patrick put his head on one side and studied her carefully. ‘Bury it in the garden?’ he asked, and gave her a slow, tentative smile.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do. Oh darling, look who’s coming!’
Patrick swung his head and when he saw Shane approaching his face lit up and he extracted his hand from his mother’s and ran to meet his father.
Paula called out worriedly, ‘Patrick, do be careful. Don’t fall.’
Patrick did not answer. He sped ahead as fast as his little legs would carry him, shouting, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’
Shane caught his son in his arms and swung him up high in the air, then placed him on his shoulders, and the two of them laughed merrily as Patrick rode Shane back to the pool area, crying, ‘Gee-up, gee-up. Nice horsey. Gee-up, gee-up.’
‘I’m going to take him for a swim. Is that okay, darling?’ Shane called. He knelt down and carefully lowered Patrick to the ground.
‘Yes, of course,’ Paula called back.
She sat up straighter, so that she could see the two of them better, shading her eyes with her hand.
Shane jumped into the shallow end of the pool, holding Patrick tightly in his arms, and immediately they began to frolic in the water, still laughing, and shouting with glee, and Patrick’s face was bright with excitement and happiness and so was Shane’s.
From this distance, her son seemed like any normal seven-year-old; the problem was that he would always have the mind of a seven-year-old. His body would grow and age, but his mental capacities would remain as they were now for the rest of his life. He would never be any different; they had given up hope of that. When they had first discovered Patrick was retarded, Paula had blamed herself, believing she carried some flaw in her genes which had been inherited from her grandfather. Paul McGill had had a legitimate son, Howard, by his legal wife, Constance, in Australia, and the boy, who had been dead now for a number of years, had been retarded. She had so convinced herself that this was the case, she had told Shane she dare not risk having any more children. But Shane had immediately pooh-poohed her theory, and he had insisted they see Professor Charles Hallingby, a leading geneticist.
They had both been tested and the results had proved conclusively that neither she nor Shane had passed on any kind of deficiency to their son. Patrick’s condition was inexplicable, simply a terrible fluke of nature. Professor Hallingby, having studied their family histories, had pointed out to Paula that her grandfather’s son may well have suffered prenatal damage because of Constance McGill’s heavy drinking during her pregnancy, a possibility her mother, Daisy, had mentioned innumerable times. She had finally conceded that the professor and her mother could be right. Not unnaturally, the knowledge that Professor Hallingby had imparted had helped to ease her mind. Shortly after, she had conceived again, and when Linnet was born she was a perfectly normal baby.
Paula loved her children equally, and tried not to have a favourite, but deep down in the innermost regions of her heart she was aware that Patrick was special to her, that he had a unique place in her affections. There was a terrible fierceness about her love for her afflicted child, perhaps, in part, because of his affliction, which made him so vulnerable and dependent.
His siblings also loved him dearly, were patient, and took great care with him, and for this she was thankful. Often she thought how heartbreaking it would have been if they had despised him or treated him badly or shunned him, as sometimes happened in families where there was a retarded child. But Lorne, Tessa, and even little Linnet, were as protective of Patrick as she and Shane were and, in fact, so were his many cousins. Not one single child in the family had ever made Patrick feel that he was in any way different to them. It was an awful tragedy that her little Patrick had not been born a perfect child, that he was damaged in the way he was. But Paula recognized that his inherent sweetness, his gentle nature, and his loving disposition compensated for so many things and endeared him to the family, and certainly he brought out the best in all of them.
An afflicted child is like a bruise on the heart, one never quite gets rid of the aching pain, Paula thought, and she sighed under her breath and held herself very still, pressing down on her sadness, continuing to watch the two dark heads bobbing around in the water. Her husband, her son. Oh how she loved them both, and with a love that was heartstopping at times.
It did her good to see how much they were enjoying their nautical games. Shane could be very gentle and tender with Patrick, or roughhouse with him, as he was doing now, and from the joyous shrieks and the whoops of delight filling the air, she knew the little boy was having the best time with the father whom he worshipped. A great rush of happiness filled her to the brim, displaced the sorrow she had felt a moment ago.
Paula lay back and closed her eyes, feeling a measure of contentment, but she lifted her lids almost immediately and sat up at the sound of Winston’s voice.
He walked into the pool area carrying a large tray of plastic tumblers, and trotting dutifully behind him was his nephew, Giles Standish, second son of his sister Sally, the Countess of Dunvale. Giles was carefully holding a large jug of lemonade with both hands.
‘Bonjour, Tante Paula. Voilà! Ici citron pressé pour toi,’ the nine-year-old Giles said, showing off his little bit of French, as he had been doing all through the summer. He was having special tutoring in the language and made a point of speaking it whenever he could, much to the irritation of the other children, who were not as fluent as he was becoming. But their constant ribbing rolled off his back; he was independent by nature, so he paid no attention and went on speaking French whenever he felt like it.
Giles put the jug down on one of the tables in the shade, and politely stood aside to make way for his uncle.
‘How delicious it looks, Giles dear,’ Paula said. ‘Just what I need, I’m getting quite parched from this heat. Did
