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Everybody knew about the pending divorce now, of course, and very probably about Venice’s pregnancy. Nick was living openly with her, after all. Fern had seen them both the previous day as they drove through town in the expensive new Rover saloon car Venice had bought him.
‘We preferred the safety features on the German models,’ she had overheard Venice confiding to someone as she passed her in the street yesterday. ‘But we both feel that we have a duty to support British industry and the British working man.’
The pity she could see in her friend’s eyes irked her a little; was it silly of her to feel increasingly annoyed by the show Venice was putting on of publicly and repeatedly acknowledging her guilt and responsibility for the unhappiness she had caused ‘poor Fern’; cleverly making something of a virtue out of a vice by adding with modestly lowered head and soft, whispery, half-ashamed voice that there was of course the baby to consider?
She was feeling decidedly tired of being miscast in her unwanted role of grieving martyr, Fern reflected to herself as she prepared to try for the umpteenth time to convince Roberta that she was neither suicidally depressed nor emotionally devastated by Nick’s defection.
The trouble was that it wasn’t really possible for her to announce the truth… and besides, who would believe her if she did?
Perhaps if, when the news had first broken, she had not taken refuge with Cressy… But at the time it had seemed a sensible thing to do… for one thing she had then still been half afraid that Nick might change his mind and come back, still been half afraid of believing in her good luck.
And then, when she had come back, she had had to spend a lot of time in Bristol checking up on courses, accommodation and part-time jobs.
At Cressy’s insistence, she had plucked up the courage to approach Relate and had been surprised and delighted by their positive response to her and the helpful advice they had given her on the kind of qualifications and training she would need if they were to consider enrolling her, with a view to her eventually practising with them as a counsellor.
She remembered from her previous reading of their literature how arduous and demanding the training course was, given the kind of work involved, but what had surprised her had been the fact that the extent and intensity of the commitment and work involved had only hardened her determination to go ahead.
The realisation that she could be so determined and motivated had not just increased her self-confidence, but had also brought with it a sense of excitement and anticipation she could not remember experiencing for years.
She had come home late the previous evening after a brief return visit to Cressy to inform her of her progress and to meet Graham.
Seeing them together had firmly convinced her that the two of them were ideally suited for one another. Their obvious happiness and completeness together had saddened her a little but she had very quickly controlled the small tendrils of envy which had tugged at her emotions.
She had come into town today intending to put the house on the market for sale, and despite what Venice had said to her she had no intention of letting her patronise her by making her accept Nick’s share of the profit.
There was, after all, nothing to keep her here now. She had already been accepted on the Relate training course starting in October, and she had narrowed down her choice of accommodation to three definite possibilities. The course would be run in the evenings with some weekends also given over to training, so she would have the opportunity to find some work during the day to support her.
The thought of leaving the familiarity of the town and her own safe domestic routine, which would have once filled her with apprehension and insecurity, was now, instead of something to be dreaded, something to be eagerly anticipated.
It had hurt her a little at first to realise how many of those she had considered to be, if not friends, then at least acquaintances now seemed anxious to avoid her.
There were exceptions, of course, and Roberta was one of them, but even in her manner towards her Fern could detect a change… a hesitation… an avoidance of the subject of Nick’s apparent desertion of her and his relationship with Venice.
Fern tried not to mind. After all, if Roberta had raised the subject, what could she have said? That she had already decided to end the marriage herself before Nick had left? Would Roberta believe her?
Probably not, but it still made her pride sting that she should be the object of so much curiosity and well-meant pity.
‘Are you going to the meeting tonight at the Town Hall about Broughton House?’ Roberta asked her.
Fern frowned, her thoughts momentarily diverted from her own problem. ‘What meeting?’
‘It was in the paper last week… you must have seen it,’ Roberta insisted. ‘Oh, of course, you were away, I’d forgotten. It was very interesting, and extremely well informed. It pointed out what the town would stand to lose if planning permission was granted on Broughton House. I must admit I hadn’t realised until I read it that the gardens had been designed by Gertrude Jekyll, nor that there’s a society especially devoted to the preservation of her work… I…’
‘Only part of the gardens were designed by her,’ Fern interrupted her friend quietly. A tiny niggle of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on was beginning to stir in her brain.
‘Really? Oh, well… The point is, Fern, that towns like ours are being eroded and damaged all the time. Plans are passed, buildings, places of historical value are destroyed under our very noses, and by the time most of us realise it it’s too late. Sometimes the very people we think are there to protect our heritage for us can be the ones…’ She broke off. ‘Local councillors are not always able completely to separate their public responsibilities from their private needs, especially in a time of recession. It’s easy to understand how someone might feel tempted by the thought of a large profitable contract into ignoring his moral responsibility to the people he represents…’
She was talking quickly now, her voice and manner almost defensive, and as Fern listened to her she suddenly realised what Roberta was trying to say.
‘You’re talking about Adam, aren’t you?’ she interrupted her. ‘Adam and that supermarket consortium he’s involved with.’
‘Well, you’ve got to admit it is all a bit suspect,’ Roberta told her defensively. ‘Adam must know what people are saying, but he’s done nothing to contradict or deny that he is involved in plans to acquire Broughton House as a potential development site.
‘Personally, I think whoever wrote that article does have a point. It was very intriguing, really… Its being anonymous, I mean. At the end of it there was a paragraph inviting everyone who was interested in oppo
sing the granting of any kind of planning permission and preserving the house and gardens as they are as part of the town’s history to attend a meeting tonight at the Town Hall. You’ve always loved the house, Fern. Why don’t you come along?’
‘Perhaps,’ Fern told her non-committally. She wasn’t ready yet to make public the fact that she would soon no longer be part of the town, and if the meeting had been about anywhere other than Broughton House she knew she would not even have considered going.
