A Summer in the Country (13 page)

“Look, it doesn't matter. I'm OK, really.” Her voice was much more cheerful, deliberately light. “Forget it. I'm being an idiot. Sorry, darling. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“That's very sweet of you.” His relief, his gratitude at being let off the hook, blossomed into an unnatural excess of warmth. “Honestly, honey, I'm missing you too. Well, of course I am. But I can't simply walk out on the boys, can I?” He appealed to her now with confidence in her response, chuckling a litde, luscious with thankfulness. “Now look, sweetie. Have a word with a pharmacist or something, if you're a bit off colour. Could you do that?”

“Oh, it's not that important. Just the wrong time of the month. You know?”

“Ah, I
seeV
He was completely reassured. “Well, if you're certain…?”

“Quite certain. I suppose I'd better let you get back to whatever it is you're doing. I hope I haven't disturbed anything; put anyone off their stroke.”

“Of course not. But if you're absolutely sure, perhaps I ought to be catching up with the boys.”

“Positive. How's Alec's ankle?”

“Alec's…?”

“He sprained his ankle, didn't he? I thought there was some question as to whether it would hold up?”

“Oh, his
ankle.
Sorry. I lost my signal there for a moment. Thought you said his
uncle.
He's fine. Fine. The walking's doing it good. Well, sweetie …”

“Sure. Off you go. Enjoy. I might phone again sometime.”

She hung up. It was odd that she'd almost enjoyed the contest; that during the brief battle of wits she'd been able to ignore the gnawing, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She crossed the road and walked back to the car park, pausing, as she always did, to look at the books displayed in the window of the Dartmoor Bookshop. Usually there was nothing she enjoyed more than a browse amongst the tantalising selection of second-hand books, and a chat with Barbara or Anne, but now she felt unequal to any social intercourse, however friendly. She felt suddenly tired, depressed, and she needed time alone, to think, to sift her information, weigh shades of expression, consider his words. Yet in her heart she already knew the truth of it.

What would she do without Martin? How would she manage without him, standing, as he did, between her and the past? She simply mustn't think about it Fear plucked in her throat, scraped along her veins, squeezed her heart Trembling and confused she delved for her keys and unlocked the door. Getting into the car, she sat for a few moments. Where should she go? To whom should she turn? Brigid was her first thought: but Brigid was sharing precious time with Humphrey and it was impossible to imagine a scenario which included taking Humphrey into her confidence; anyway, it was clear that at present Brigid had her own problems.

Louise shook her head, resisting weak tears. She longed to rest, to stop the clamouring of memories in her head. In her mind's eye she saw a bright, airy room full of watery reflections; a cat asleep in a chair. She remembered an atmosphere of warm, comforting friendliness. Switching on the engine she drove out of the town, heading towards the coast.

Jemima sat staring at the computer screen, checking dates, noting which cottages would need cleaning on Saturday morning. She hated changeover day: harrying recalcitrant holidaymakers, who had no desire to go home, so as to make all fresh and clean for those who were already on their way to the West Country. She'd compiled her list and was about to telephone—in order of reliability—the various members of her team of assistants when the doorbell buzzed.

“Rats!” she muttered, replacing the receiver, glancing at her watch. She left her litde office and crossed the hall to the front door. Louise was standing outside. She looked tired and desperate, in a muted kind of way, as if she were holding herself under strict control.

“What a lovely surprise. Come on in.” Jemima stood aside, smiling warmly but feeling anxious. Their last meeting had ended somewhat inconclusively. “I can't tell you what good timing this is.”

“Is it?” Louise sounded relieved, although her smile was slipping a little, and she looked about her as though puzzled to find herself in Jemima's flat. “It was … I just thought… I was driving about, you see…”

“Oh, I know just what you mean.” Jemima took charge, herding her towards the sitting room. “That feeling of being at a loose end and being quite incapable of deciding what you should do next.”

“That's it.” Louise looked at her, pleased with such ready understanding. “I just couldn't think straight and then I found myself here.”

“Brilliant.” Jemima scooped MagnifiCat from the sofa and almost pushed Louise down in his place. “I have a wonderful excuse now to stop and make some tea. Work is very dull sometimes, isn't it, and it's always great to have an excuse to stop. Sit there in the sun while I switch the kettle on.”

She hurried away to the kitchen, almost afraid to leave her. There was a strange blankness in Louise's eyes which made Jemima feel nervous. Whilst the kettle began to boil, and in between preparing the tray, Jemima ran back to the door several times just to check up; but Louise was sitting quite still, staring at nothing. Her hand lay on Magnificat's back but she seemed utterly unaware of his presence. Jemima's own hand shook a little as she poured boiling water into the teapot. She had a horrid premonition that Louise's state of mind might be in some way related to their conversation about infidelity and she felt unqualified to deal with the possible result. She decided to keep the conversation casual if she could.

“So how's everyone at Foxhole?” She put the tray on the low glass table. “Is Humphrey still there?”

Louise frowned a litde, almost as if she were wondering who Humphrey might be, and Jemima felt another frisson of anxiety.

“Yes. Yes, he's there.” Louise took her cup. “Sorry. We all had dinner together last night, and drank rather a lot. It was very late by the time we got to bed and I was up at dawn. My head feels as if it's full of cotton wool.”

“Oh, that's more or less standard for me,” said Jemima cheerfully. “I'm a Bear of very little Brain. Dear old Humphrey has a generous hand with the wine, hasn't he? Brigid will miss him when he goes off to the Bahamas. It's a long way off and six months is a long time.” And ten out of ten for banality, she jeered silently to herself. “Of course, she's used to it,” she added desperately, when Louise made no attempt to respond.

There was a short silence.

“I telephoned Martin earlier.” Louise seemed unaware that Jemima had spoken. “He didn't want to tell me where he's staying. Don't you think that's odd? Suspicious, I mean?”

Jemima stared at her. She thought: Help me, someone.

Louise sipped her tea, frowning again. “It's the little things,” she murmured, after a moment, rather as though she were talking aloud to herself. “Tiny things give you away. It wasn't Alec's ankle that was sprained, you see. It was Steve's. It was a test question.”

“Right.” Jemima nodded, swallowed some tea, smiled anxiously.

“But he didn't pick it up. He'd forgotten.” Louise shook her head. “Unlikely, don't you think, if he's playing golf with him every day?”

“Absolutely!” Jemima's response was so enthusiastic that Louise glanced at her, jolted momentarily from her preoccupation. “Pretty difficult to forget,” sheer nerves moved Jemima to elaborate, “if they're together all the time.”

“That's what I thought.” Louise set her cup in its saucer and yawned suddenly. “Sorry.” She pushed back the cloud of dark, curly hair and closed her eyes for a second. “I am just
so
tired. I can't think straight.”

Jemima forgot her own fear at the sight of the strained, pinched face. “You look exhausted,” she said gently. “Don't talk for a bit. Just relax in the sun.”

“It's a bit rude.” Louise tried to smile but the effort was too great and, for one appalling moment, Jemima thought that she was going to weep. Her face crumpled, her lips trembling, her brow furrowing as if in protest at some internal pain, but she was too tired for any emotional outburst and her face smoothed into a kind of weary indifference. “Sorry,” she murmured again.

“Please.” Jemima moved the tray away. “It's not a problem. You just need some rest. Sleep, if you can, while I make a few telephone calls and then we'll have another chat. You could stay for supper.”

“Thanks. That's so … kind.”

Her eyes were almost closed; her head rolled sideways. Standing, the tray in her hands, Jemima looked down at her.

She thought: It's almost as if she's too unhappy to be able to care. It's like something's given way. Finding out that she's right about Martin, I suppose.

She edged quietly from the room, pulled the door so that it was not quite shut and, having dumped the tray in the kitchen, she hurried into her study, closing the door behind her. She dialled quickly, one ear straining towards the sitting room, but there was no reply from the telephone at Foxhole and she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After a moment, she made the few calls necessary to her work and stood up. Going out quietly into the hall, creeping up to the door, she peered into the sitting room. Louise was soundly asleep; relaxed into the deep cushions, bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, MagnifiCat curled beside her. Jemima stood watching her for a few moments and then went into the kitchen and poured herself some more tea. She sipped at the hot liquid, her face thoughtful, and then, taking her cup with her, she went back to her study to try to telephone Brigid again.

F
RUMMIE COULD
hear the telephone ringing as she stood watching the doves. Sometimes, when she knew that Brigid had gone off in the car, she went into the courtyard to sit on the bench in the sunshine and look at the flowers in the big wooden tubs. Her own small patch of garden faced south too, but it was open to the hills and moorland and Frummie felt more at home here, flanked by stone walls. She preferred this enclosed, ordered space, the neat round cobbles, the bright flowers in terracotta pots and painted tubs. Up here, on the moor, summer arrived a little later than in the valleys and coastal villagesbut Brigid always managed some clever arrangement, some warm splash of colour, in this sheltered corner. In January and February, snowdrops and winter aconites grew in a container fixed to a wooden post over which ivy trailed, making a charming varicoloured backdrop to the white and yellow blooms; in March purpley-blue, wineglass-shaped crocuses blossomed in the terracotta crocus-pot whilst dwarf narcissi and puschkinias filled the painted tubs, and daffodils nodded in long troughs against the walls.

Now, in May, the tulips, tall and elegant in their stone bowls edged with pansies and hyacinthus, were almost over but, as she sat on the bench, listening to the cooing of the doves in the sunshine, Frummie inhaled the wallflowers' heady scent and was transported back forty years in time. Even then, before people had begun to do such clever things with tubs and containers, wallflowers had grown in the narrow border beneath the windows. There had been a bench too— not this elegant affair of wood and cast iron but a simple rough bench, brought from one of the stables and placed in the angle of the wall to catch the sunshine. It was here that she'd read the letter from Richard, inviting her back to London for some party or social gathering; a light-hearted, amusing letter but underpinned with a deeper emotion. The postman, bumping down the track in his van, pausing for a chat, could have had no idea that he'd delivered such a momentous package.

Her eyes closed, Frummie remembered that she'd offered him coffee, casually, easily, the letter rustling in the pocket of her tweed jacket, hiding any eagerness or impatience. He'd refused—he'd been running late, some problem or other—and she'd raised a hand to him as he'd turned the van and driven away. She'd even—she shook her head, amused now, at the remembrance—she'd even gone indoors to make some coffee and had carried it out here, to this same spot, before she'd opened the letter; as if this deliberate postponement might possibly convince herself of her indifference.

She'd read the letter, whilst the doves tittuped over the cobbles on thready feet, eyes bright, heads tilted, hoping for corn.

“Darling Fred
…”

Strange, this stinging stab of vivid, agonising memory. No doubt the sun, the doves, the wallflowers, even the mug of coffee in her hand, had recreated that moment, first lived forty years before, and made it real. So real that her fingertips were surprised to find drill, not tweed, as they brushed against her thigh, and, when she opened her eyes, she half expected to see Diarmid, returning unexpectedly from the farmers' market in Buckfastleigh.

“I forgot my chequebook,” he'd said cheerfully, self-deprecatingly, and she'd stared at him, shocked by the strength of her resentment at his intrusion.

“I didn't hear the car.”

“I left it up the track. It's nearly out of petrol so I walked down.” He'd been clearly surprised by the sharpness in her voice and he'd glanced at the letter, eyebrows raised. “Not bad news, I hope?”

“No.” She'd looked down, folding the letter with carefully slow fingers. “Just the usual screed from Margot.”

“Ah.”

What was he waiting for? she'd wondered irritably—and had refused to look at him but raised her cup of coffee and sipped calmly.

“Hadn't you better get on?”

Now, forty years later, she flinched against the needling pang of remorse. Perhaps he would have liked some coffee, would have been happy to sit in the sun with her for a moment, watching the doves, breathing the scented air. Instead, he'd turned away and gone indoors whilst she'd sat quite still, waiting with a clenched impatience.

“See you later.” He'd waved the chequebook, smiled and then gone away up the track, leaving her alone.

After a few minutes, she'd unfolded the letter again.

“Darling Fred
…” The letter had been full of anecdotes, references to mutual friends, a scandal amongst actor acquaintances; and, scattered through the pages, those lightly teasing, thrillingly exciting phrases which turned her gut to water. She'd longed to be there, in London, in Richard's cluttered Chelsea flat, laughing at some malicious rumour, calling up chums to arrange a lunch, knowing that his eyes, full of secret knowledge, were upon her. Wherever they'd gone, to crowded ballrooms, packed theatres, busy restaurants, their eyes would meet and they would laugh: delicious, private, knowing laughter. He'd always been able to make her laugh, had known just how to amuse her, to drive away the sudden onslaughts of depression which dogged her; unlike Diarmid who, head in book, might not even notice that she was ready to tear Foxhole down, stone by stone, in furious, desperate boredom.

As she'd read the letter, hearing his laughter, excited by his carefully worded persuasion, she'd known that she'd give in, agree to another visit, but this time she'd known too that it would be different. She hadn't wanted to admit to this knowledge.

“Just a few days,” she'd said aloud to the doves, “not long“—but, as she'd talked to them, she'd been making plans. Even Diarmid, too honourable himself to be suspicious of others, might be surprised to hear that she would be making another trip to London so soon. As for Brigid …

Frummie remembered how she'd stood up suddenly, then, scattering the doves, thrusting the letter deep into her pocket.

She'd thought: Don't think about Brigid. Deal with that later. She's quite happy with Diarmid…

She hadn't realised that “later” would prove too late; that Diarmid would prove so stubborn or so determined to keep his daughter or that the batdes would be so savage. Diarmid had been inexorable in his position of strength. His care and love for Brigid had been irrefutable but, oh! how he'd exacted his revenge for his own humiliation and pain. He'd written:
“Do you really consider yourself to be responsible enough to have the care of a child? You've abandoned her once for your lover How can I be certain you might not do it again?”
Frummie shivered and opened her eyes. Forty years ago she'd sat here in the morning; now, it was late afternoon and the seat was in shadow. She took up her mug and reached for the letter. Puzzled she looked about, fumbled in her pocket, even peered under the seat before she came to her senses.

“Old fool!” she muttered contemptuously. “Stupid bloody woman!”

She stood up stiffly, wincing a little, and, as she crossed the courtyard, die telephone began to ring again.