The Courtyard by Marcia Willett

help her along, ask her what she meant. But Elizabeth sat quite still, watching her, her face thoughtful. Gillian gave a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘I felt I simply must do one or two things. Not much. The poor old place needs so much attention. I know you’ll sympathise. But the thing is, you see, although Henry gave me some idea as to what to spend I think we got our wires
crossed a bit. Anyway,’ she made another face, ‘I put some of it on my credit card and I haven’t got enough to pay the bill.’ She glanced quickly at Elizabeth and took a sip of her wine.
    â€˜What does Henry say?’
    â€˜Well.’ Gillian swallowed and smiled. ‘I haven’t told him. You see, he simply hasn’t any idea what these things cost and when I realised the sum he had in mind …’ Gillian shook her head. ‘Honestly. It’s ridiculous really.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s on my mind a bit, that’s all. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bore you with it.’
    Gillian gave Elizabeth another quick glance and saw that she was smiling a little. It wasn’t a very comforting smile.
    â€˜How much?’
    Gillian wondered whether to pretend not to understand but abruptly abandoned subterfuge. ‘Sixty-three pounds.’
    â€˜That’s the total amount owing?’
    Gillian hesitated.
    â€˜Oh, come on,’ said Elizabeth impatiently. ‘No lies. What is the amount outstanding?’
    Gillian told her. Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment and Gillian took another hasty gulp at her wine.
    â€˜You spent all that on furnishings?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Gillian stared her godmother straight in the eye, praying that she wouldn’t ask to see the account. ‘You of all people must know that it goes nowhere.’
    â€˜I shall look forward to seeing the results,’ said Elizabeth drily. ‘I hope you got your money’s worth.’
    Gillian shrugged. ‘So do I. I got a bit carried away, I suppose. And in a house the size of Nethercombe it’s just a drop in the ocean.’ She crossed her fingers under her thigh. ‘You must come and give me your opinion.’
    Elizabeth got up and went to her bureau. She took her cheque book out of a pigeonhole and unscrewed her fountain pen.
    â€˜To whom shall I make it payable? Which credit card do you have?’
she asked, and when Gillian – who had hoped to use some of it to clear her overdraft – told her, Elizabeth sat down and began to write.
    Gillian took a deep, deep breath and relaxed back into the cushiony chair. The room seemed to gather itself round her as though, in the last few minutes, it had withdrawn, holding its breath, waiting. Now, time moved on again, life flowed back. The tick of the clock was suddenly loud as the fountain pen whispered over the paper, the flames burned and crackled merrily in the shining grate and the strident voices of the rooks, quarrelling vociferously in the tall trees beyond the long sash windows, impinged upon her consciousness. She realised that she had been tense, watchful, waiting for opportunities, calculating her replies, and she drank deeply from her glass.
    Elizabeth tore the cheque from the book and stood up.
    â€˜This is the last, the very last time, Gillian, that I intend to bail you out. Do you understand? I’d decided that your wedding was to be my last contribution, as I told you at the time, but I’ll give you one last chance to grow up and start taking responsibility seriously. You can look on it as your Christmas and birthday presents for the next ten years.’ She dangled the cheque in her fingers, inches from her goddaughter’s head and, after a moment, Gillian took it. Her face was sulky and she muttered her thanks with a very bad grace. She glanced at the figure and her eyes widened. When she looked up at Elizabeth, her expression was genuinely grateful.
    â€˜That’s … that’s really good of you,