To Be the Best (Harte Family Saga Book 3) Read online

  ‘Patrick, don’t lean over the edge,’ Linnet warned from the door of the pool house. ‘You’ll fall in.’

  ‘Won’t fall.’

  ‘Will you take five pence an hour for Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?’ Toby negotiated hopefully.

  ‘Eight pence… perhaps.’

  ‘No thanks, Miss Sharpie. You can go and shove it up your… jumper.’

  ‘Oh Mummy, Mummy, look! A bird. Dead,’ Patrick cried. ‘Oh poor birdie. Funeral. Can we have a funeral?’

  ‘Auntie Paula, please make Gideon get rid of that foul, disgusting, revolting object,’ eleven-year-old Jeremy Standish exclaimed. ‘It pongs to high heaven and it’s contaminating the air.’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ Gideon glared at his cousin. ‘We’re going to bury it, like Patrick wants, aren’t we, Auntie Paula? Auntie Paula, cooee! Auntie Paula, we can bury it, can’t we?’

  ‘Mummy, can birdie have a funeral?’

  ‘Mummy, I want some dry knickers.’

  ‘Mother, look at Linnet now. She’s waving her knickers in the air. She’s a disgusting child. Just look at her, Mummy. Mummy. MOTHER!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Tessa, stop screaming,’ Lorne shouted. ‘How can I concentrate on my Homer with you bellowing in my ears. I’ll be jolly glad to get back to school next week and away from you. Far, far away. There’s never a minute’s bloody peace when you’re around. You’re a bloody little pest, a bloody nuisance.’

  ‘If Daddy hears you swearing, you’ll catch it.’

  ‘And who’s going to tell him, Miss Tattle Tale?’

  ‘I’ve never split on you yet, you MORON.’

  ‘If I’m a moron, then so are you, TWIN!’

  ‘Don’t bring that frightful smelly disgusting thing anywhere near me, Gideon, or I’ll punch you on the nose,’ Jeremy threatened. ‘Auntie Paula, please make him stop waving that beastly dead bird in my face.’

  ‘Auntie Paula! Auntie Paula! Natalie’s being sick! I knew she would be. Look, over there by the tree. Auntie Paula, did you hear me?’

  ‘Gideon Harte, I’m warning you. Keep your distance or I’ll thump you!’

  ‘Stop it, Gid, stop being childish,’ Toby ordered loudly.

  ‘I’m not. He is. Sissy! Sissy! Lord Jeremy Standish’s a sissy!’

  ‘I’m going to really thump you for that!’ Jeremy cried, jumping up.

  ‘Gideon, give me that dead bird,’ Toby shouted, racing after his brother, catching him by the top of his wet bathing trunks.

  ‘Auntie Paula, tell Toby to let go of me!’ Gideon screamed. ‘He’s hurting me.’

  ‘And it’s my turn next,’ Jeremy threatened with sudden manic glee.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, make the boys stop fighting,’ Linnet shrieked.

  Paula threw down her book and angrily leaped to her feet.

  She began to chastise them loudly and vociferously, but they heard nothing. Her voice was drowned out by a series of strange booming echoes that reverberated on the warm air, and as the echoes died away, Paula was able to ask, in a tone that rose slightly, ‘What on earth was that?’

  ‘The gong,’ Linnet said.

  ‘Gong,’ Paula repeated in perplexity, and it instantly struck her how chastened the children seemed and she stared at them sharply through narrowed eyes. ‘What gong? Whose gong?’

  Lorne explained, ‘Auntie Emily’s gong… she bought it—’

  ‘From the house up the mountain,’ Tessa quickly interjected, then volunteered to her still-baffled mother, ‘The old lady who owned the house died, and there was a sale. Two weeks ago, just after you left, the last time you were here, Mummy. And we all went with Aunt Emily, she thought we might find some bargains.’

  ‘But all we found was the gong,’ Jeremy muttered.

  ‘And where does Aunt Emily keep this gong?’ Paula inquired, her eyes flicking over each one of them with considerable interest.

  ‘Up there in the gazebo,’ India replied.

  ‘But why did Emily buy the gong?’ Paula wondered out loud.

  Toby supplied the answer, when he said quietly, ‘Mummy uses it to signal us. One strike means that breakfast’s ready, two is for lunch, three is to summon us inside, to get ready for dinner, and—’

  ‘When she bangs and bangs and bangs, like just now, it means we’re going to catch it,’ Linnet confided and grimaced. ‘For being bad. For something terrible we’ve done.’

  ‘I see,’ Paula said and her shrewd eyes swept over the group of youngsters yet again. It was more apparent to her than ever that each child was suitably intimidated—even the most recalcitrant of them. She turned away to hide a smile, thinking how terribly clever Emily was.

  ‘We’re definitely in for it. Because of the unholy row we’ve been making,’ Lorne muttered, jumping up, edging away.

  ‘You’re right,’ Toby agreed. ‘Come on, Troops, let’s skedaddle before my mother gets here and starts giving us stupid chores to do, or worse still, starts thinking up idiotic activities to keep us properly occupied.’

  Within the space of seconds, the older children had raced after Lorne and Toby, as always the ringleaders, who were heading at breakneck speed for the steps that led down to the beach below the promontory. Only Patrick, Linnet and Natalie remained with Paula in the pool area.

  ***

  Silence finally reigned.

  Paula sank gratefully into her chair, delighted to have peace and quiet for the first time that morning. She had done her utmost to ignore them, had remained aloof from their endless bickering—as she had learned to do over the years—at least until Toby and Gideon had started fighting and Jeremy had seemed about to join in the mêlée. She couldn’t permit that to happen. Anthony and Sally Dunvale’s eldest son had not been well, and the last thing his father had said, before leaving for Ireland earlier that morning, was for them to make sure the boy did not overtax himself for the rest of his stay at the villa. Paula knew that if Jeremy went home to Clonloughlin looking as if he had been scrapping with the boys, she and Emily would never hear the end of it from his mother. Their cousin Sally fussed a great deal about her first born, the heir to the Dunvale title, lands and fortune.

  Paula took a deep breath, and was about to give her small daughter a stern lecture about removing her underclothing in public, when she saw Emily hurrying down the path between the lawns.

  ‘Cooee! Cooee!’ Emily called, waving.

  Paula waved back.

  A moment later, Emily drew to a stop and she and Paula exchanged looks. They began to laugh.

  Emily said, ‘I know it’s noisy, but it’s very effective.’

  ‘And how,’ Paula agreed. ‘I’ve never seen them silenced quite so quickly. Never. It was an inspired buy on your part.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily chuckled, ‘so it’s proved. My God, they were kicking up such a racket, I’m surprised you don’t have a splitting headache by now. I know I could hardly hear myself think when I was in the kitchen, talking to Marcel about the meals for today.’

  ‘Mummy, I’ve been sick,’ Natalie announced, going over to Emily, tugging at her shift. ‘I frowed up.’

  ‘Don’t talk like a baby, you’re a big girl. And it’s threw up,’ Emily corrected. She looked down at her youngest child, frowning, and put a hand on her forehead in concern. ‘Are you feeling all right? Are you better now, angel?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mummy.’

  ‘It’s because she ate all the ginger snaps,’ Linnet said.

  ‘Now, now, Linnet, you know it’s wrong to tell tales out of school!’ Paula reprimanded sharply, scowling at her daughter. ‘And let’s not forget that you’ve been very naughty this morning. First, flinging Tessa’s sun hat in the pool, and then taking your knickers off in public. I’m terribly cross with you, and ashamed of you, Linnet.’ Paula shook her head, trying hard to look appropriately angry without much success, but nevertheless, she added, ‘You’ve disgraced yourself, and the only reason you haven’t been punished yet is because I’m sti
ll trying to think of a suitable punishment.’

  Linnet bit her lip, adopted a sorrowful expression, and wisely said nothing.

  Emily looked from her daughter to her niece and then glanced at Paula. She exclaimed, ‘Why do I do such stupid things? Such as letting both nannies have the same day off, so they can go up to Grasse to buy perfume. And today of all days—the last chance you have to get a bit of rest before you go to New York on Wednesday. I’m sorry, Paula.’

  ‘It’s all right, really it is, lovey.’

  Sighing under her breath, Emily now took hold of Natalie’s hand. ‘Come along, let’s go inside and get something to settle your tummy. And you’d better come along, too, Linnet, for a pair of clean underpants.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Emily,’ Paula murmured, settling back in her chair.

  ‘Lunch is at one,’ Emily said, ‘and I’ve booked a table at La Reserve for dinner tonight. Just the four of us.’

  ‘I should jolly well hope so,’ Paula laughed. ‘And it sounds absolutely lovely. It’s ages since we’ve been over there… it’s one of my favourite places.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Emily replied, looking pleased as she turned away. She took a couple of steps, stopped, and said over her shoulder to Paula, ‘Oh by the way, I’ve got to go into Monte Carlo this afternoon, to pick up a repair from my antique porcelain man. Do you want to drive in with me? I’ll only be a few minutes with Jules, and then we could take a stroll around the town and have tea at the Hotel 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, secon
d 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 your parents get off all right?’

  ‘Yes, but Nice airport was jammed, wasn’t it, Uncle Winston?’ Giles said, reverting to English.

  ‘It was bloody awful, Paula,’ Winston asserted, pouring lemonade into a tumbler and bringing it to her. ‘Chaotic. I’ve never seen so many people. Sally and Anthony were thankful they were returning on Shane’s private jet, and I must say, that plane’s turned out to be a real godsend. I’m certainly glad Emily and I will be able to use it to get the mob back home at the end of the week. Now, Giles, do you want a glass of this?’

  ‘No, thank you very much.’ Giles glanced around. ‘Where are Jeremy and India, Auntie Paula?’

  ‘I believe your brother and sister decamped to the beach. With the rest of the troops.’

  ‘Oh goody! I bet they’re all fishing or looking for oursins. I’m going down there too!’ Giles squealed excitedly. ‘Please excuse me, Auntie Paula, Uncle Winston,’ and so saying he took off, leaping across the grass in great bounds, making for the long flight of steps.

  Winston stared after him, and said to Paula, ‘That kid’s got the best manners of the whole bunch of them. If only some of the others—mine in particular—would borrow even half a page from his book I’d be happy.’ He lowered himself onto a nearby chair, took a long swallow of lemonade, and continued, ‘Emily told me every single one of them was raising hell earlier, driving you crazy.’