A Summer in the Country (14 page)

It wasn't until Humphrey had gone back to London that Brigid felt able to give her mind more fully to Louise.

“What was all that about?” he'd asked, when she'd at last replaced the telephone receiver. “Jemima, was it?”

“Mmm. Nothing much. Shall we have a drink while I get some supper?”

She'd been unwilling to spoil the golden mood of the long, happy day by discussing Jemima's fears for Louise. Humphrey was not the sort of man who took an interest in her girl-friends' problems. He had no real understanding of the deeper psychological processes and he quickly became impatient with drawn-out analyses of other people's anxieties.

“We probe about too much these days,” he'd say. “Everyone wants to be a counsellor, amateur or otherwise. It isn't always good to delve about in our inner psyches; sometimes it's better just to shut up and get on with life.”

Brigid felt that he probably had a point Despite her own private soul-searchings, her attempts to understand her own feelings and come to terms with her sense of failure—how else could a mother leave her daughter unless that daughter was negligible?—in the end she'd had to get on with her life. Humphrey, because of his love for her, had been sensitive to these emotions, patient, loving, kind, but she rarely imposed other people's emotional problems upon him; especially when he had only a short leave period. So she'd pushed Jemima's anxious warnings to the back of her mind and concentrated on their precious time together.

She'd noticed Louise's safe return, kept a watching brief from a distance, but it wasn't until she'd seen Humphrey off on the train and driven back to Foxhole that she was able to think about the things Jemima had told her. Dropping her bag on the table, hanging her car-keys on a hook on the dresser, Brigid glanced at the telephone to see if there were any messages. The red light glowed steadily and she turned away, relieved. It had been a private terror, whilst Humphrey was home, that Jenny might ring and leave a message and that he might listen to it. So great was her fear that she'd actually switched the answerphone off each time they'd gone out, just in case. Now, it no longer mattered.

With a sense of desolation, Brigid sat down suddenly at the table, resting her head in her hands. There was none of her usual pleasure, no contentment in being here this afternoon. Her peace had vanished, shattered by Jenny's news of possible disaster, by the prospect of Humphrey's long absence, and now, it seemed, she had Louise to worry about too.

“She looks really odd.” Jemima's voice had sounded anxious. ‘Terribly tired and not with it.”

Odd, the sensations her sister's voice engendered in her. First there was the tiny but insistent twinge of resentment: however hard she tried she could never be wholly, unconditionally friendly. Brigid could hear that cool note in her own voice, disliked herself for it, but could never quite achieve a genuine warmth. Was it because Jemima approached her with caution? There was a faint anxiety beneath the cheerful greeting, a wariness that could not be disguised. Perhaps, if they'd known each other much sooner, whilst they were still children, this antagonism might have been overcome. Of course, it would be a great deal easier if their mother was not so open in her favouritism—but that was hardly Jemima's fault. She neither sought such approval nor seemed particularly happy with it, and tried hard to form a bond with her elder sister. Now and again there had been evidence of affection between them, a blossoming of sisterly feeling, which had pleased them both. Yet it seemed difficult to sustain it No sooner had it put forth its fragile blooms than some blight annihilated it. This usually took the form of a remark from Frummie—some slighting observation, some show of partisanship, which roused all die old requirement for self-protection.

Brigid thought: It's me, really. I'll never come to terms with the fact that she left me but wouldn't leave Jemima. I can't seem to overcome my jealousy.

Blot came to sit beside her, resting his chin on her knee, and she pulled his long ears and stroked the silky, rounded dome of his head.

“I'm a twit,” she told him—and he wagged his stumpy tail encouragingly. The telephone rang and she sat for a moment, almost too nervous to answer it, afraid it might be Jenny with bad news, seizing the receiver only seconds before the answerphone clicked into play.

“Thea,” she said with relief. “How are you?… Yes, so I was, wasn't I? With Louise. Only Humphrey's been home… Yes, absolutely fine… That would be good. I'd like to… Yes, of course I'll ask her but she hasn't got much holiday left now… I'm sure she would. I'll phone you back… I will. Love to the girls and Geoige.”

Brigid hung up and stood for a moment, thinking.

“She's quite sure her husband's having an affair,” Jemima had said. “She suspected it for a while but now something's made her certain and she's behaving very oddly. I'm worried about her.”

Apart from the usual antagonism it had irritated Brigid to discover that Jemima knew such intimate details about Louise's life.

“She's
my
friend,” she'd wanted to say—and had been disgusted by such a childish reaction, the old familiar fear threatening her confidence.

She shrugged it away but it clung persistently. After all, it
was
odd that Louise had achieved such intimacy so quickly with Jemima. She'd never seemed the type of woman to spill confidences and this was such a very personal problem. Brigid frowned thoughtfully. Of course it was possible that she'd been too preoccupied with her own terrors, as well as by having Humphrey at home, to notice that all was not well with Louise. Grimacing guiltily to herself, Brigid shook off the deadening threat of inadequacy. The important thing was to see Louise and give her the opportunity to talk, to share her fears. At least she now had a good excuse to go across to the cottage and remind her about Thea's invitation. Louise hadn't seemed too keen when it was first mentioned but she might have changed her mind. Feeling slightly nervous, Brigid went out into the bright, cold evening.

L
OUISE WAS
sitting at the table in the big living room, painting. She frowned at the sound of Brigid's knock, accompanied by a call of “It's only me.” However, at the familiar sight of her, tall and casually elegant, her short fine blonde hair pushed back behind her ears, Louise felt an easing of this strange, new, tight tension in her chest and was able to smile at her: but she did not stop painting.

“How clever.” Brigid approached to look. “What delicate little pictures.”

Louise did not respond. It might be a trap. She must be very careful, even with Brigid, but she continued to smile.

“I haven't seen you for a day or two.” Brigid hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “I've been making the most of having Humphrey home.”

Louise nodded; she knew all about that. You needed to make the most of every second, every single, tiny second, because otherwise… She realised that she was still nodding and blinked, frowning. Had she spoken? Betrayed herself?

“Louise?” Brigid was looking at her curiously. “Are you OK?”

She felt the need to giggle but knew that she mustn't. Not yet. She nodded again. Yes, she was quite OK. Never been better. Only she needed to be very, very careful.

“Shall we have a cup of tea?” Brigid had stood up again and was filling the kettle.

Louise smiled a wider smile. She recognised that note, a brightness in her voice, that gave Brigid away. Careful! If she opened her own mouth toads might jump out, just like in the fairy story; toads that might turn into terrible, frightening words, and let loose all those things that were waiting behind the door in the wall. The door must stay shut. She leaned with all her might against it, feeling it pressing against her back. Oh! how heavy it was; how tired she was. She'd like to sleep and sleep but she mustn't break her vigil even for a second.

“Thea just phoned.” Brigid was making tea. “She's invited us over for lunch. I know you were wondering if you had the time to come too. What do you think?”

Louise stopped smiling. Danger was here, all about her. She remembered Thea; she was nice, strong and good, but she was connected, somehow, to all the dreadful things that were waiting behind the door. No, she could not see Thea. She shook her head.

Brigid stood the mug of hot tea near at hand on a little round mat The mug had a picture on it but it was not her own mug; perhaps Brigid didn't know that she always brought her own mug so as to feel at home…

“I wish you'd come with me.” Brigid had sat down again now, and was smiling at her.

Louise smiled too. She picked up the mug, holding it close so as to look at the picture.

“I thought you might like to see Oscar again. And Hermione.”

Hermione… Louise's hand trembled. The danger was close, so close now, and she couldn't move; not a muscle. The door was opening, ever so slightly, and someone was trying to slip through. Someone small, with long bright hair… Oh! she must press against it, slam it closed, but they were so strong…

With a convulsive movement she flung herself backwards, the hot tea spilled over her wrist, across her book, and Brigid leaped to her feet with a cry. She took Louise's mug, forcibly wresting it from the clenched fingers, set it down and ran to get a cloth. By the time she'd wiped the table, blotted the book, dried Louise's hand and wrist, her heart was hammering and her throat was dry.

“There,” she murmured. “There we are. My God, you did give me a fright. Are you OK?”

Louise's eyes were blank, but very bright, and she was smiling. The door was closed again, shut tight, but it had been a very near thing. Nobody must guess; nobody must know. She stared back at Brigid, an idea hovering, and her smile became fixed. Was Brigid dangerous too, now? Had she seen something when the door opened? But what? She must be lulled back to safety. Louise nodded and then sighed suddenly. She felt so tired; so very tired.

Watching her, Brigid shivered. There was something terribly wrong here and she needed help to deal with it.

“I have to go,” she said gendy. “Will you be OK? I'll be back soon. Why don't you try to rest? You look very tired.”

Louise pushed her paints aside and leaned her elbows on the table. The door was closed, slammed shut and she could rest, just for a moment… not for long, no, but for a moment or two. She put her head on her arms and her eyes closed.

Brigid stepped quietly back. Looking round, she took Louise's car-keys from the other end of the table, picked up the black leather handbag, and moved silently to the door. Outside she took several very deep breaths and went quickly across to Frummie's cottage.

F
RUMMIE, WATCHING
Casablanca,
was pleased by the unexpected interruption. She knew the film by heart and the evening stretched emptily ahead.

“Hello,” she said, reaching for the remote control. “Missing Humphrey? Like a drink?” She caught sight of the handbag and her spirits fell. “Are you going out?”

“No. It's Louise's.” Brigid dropped the bag on a chair but still held the car-keys. “I'm really worried about her. She's behaving very strangely.”

“How do you mean?” Frummie was intrigued. She hauled herself out of her chair, impressed by Brigid's expression; she looked quite frightened. “What's happened?”

“Jemima telephoned.” Brigid perched on the sofa's arm. “She said that Louise had called in, quite unexpectedly, and that she'd been… well, distracted and peculiar. She suspected her husband of having an affair and decided she'd phone him up. It seems that she asked him some kind of trick question which convinced her that she's right Jemima said she looked terribly tired and then simply fell asleep. She slept for hours, apparently, and then woke up quite normal and very bright, but seemed puzzled to find herself in Salcombe. Jemima offered her some supper and tried to persuade her to stay but she wouldn't She says she wasn't absolutely certain that Louise knew who she was and seemed to think that Jemima knew Martin. That was two days ago.”

Frummie looked thoughtful. “I've seen her about,” she said. “She looks fairly normal.”

“She wasn't just now.” Brigid shivered. “She was just sitting there, painting. She wouldn't speak, just kept nodding and smiling. I made her a cup of tea and she picked it up and then… she sort of flung herself backwards. It was so sudden and… violent The tea went everywhere. But she didn't make a sound and the tea was really hot I'd just poured it out She hardly seemed to notice.”

“How extraordinary.” Frummie laid a hand on Brigid's shoulder. “And frightening. Like a fit, or something.”

Brigid looked up at her anxiously. “I'm not sure I should have left her alone. I brought her bag and her car-keys, just in case ”

“Very sensible. But what do you plan to do next?”

“I think we should telephone her husband,” said Brigid firmly. “Louise's not well, I'm sure of it, and he ought to know. I don't want to go through her belongings but I'm hoping there's a number somewhere.”

She looked so unusually helpless that Frummie took charge.

'That sounds reasonable. Look, what about a drink? Just to fortify ourselves? You've had a shock, by the look of you.”

“That would be good.” Brigid nodded gratefully. “There was something so… weird about it. Scary. Yes, a drink would be nice.”

Frummie was already dealing with it. “Shock can push you over the edge, you know. I saw a lot of it after the war. People can be terribly brave and then all of a sudden, they crack. She's probably been worrying about it for a very long time but trying not to let it show.”

“Probably.” Brigid shivered again. “I hope she's OK on her own. You don't think she might do something silly?”

Frummie smiled her down-turned smile. “Depends what you mean by ‘silly.' Here, take this. Let's not get too melodramatic.”