A Summer in the Country (17 page)

“Perhaps you'd prefer the modern word ‘partner,'” suggested Frummie suavely. “Hideous,
I
think. So businesslike and boring. Sounds like a company instead of a relationship. Mistress is
much
better.”

“Well, anyway …” Brigid had lost her thread and paused to drink some tea. “She's going up to London, isn't she? To get it sorted out?”

“She is indeed. I must say I'm very happy to let her stay but she needs to make some plans of her own.”

“It's been really good of you,” said Brigid almost shyly, expecting a sharp rejoinder; Frummie was not a gracious receiver of compliments. “More than a month. It's a long time with someone you don't know terribly well and it was so awful at the beginning.”

“She needed to talk. To go over it again and again. Poor child. She was carrying so much guilt, never mind the terrible grief and pain. She's come through splendidly.”

“I hope she doesn't have a setback when she sees Martin again. Do you think she's over him too?”

Frummie looked thoughtful. “I don't think there's been much
room
for him,” she said. “She's had too much to deal with and she hasn't had the energy to work out what she's feeling about him. She's gone back into a past which didn't contain Martin and she's been coming to terms with it. His turn comes next.”

“What a ghastly tragedy. I wonder what happened to her husband. Imagine what it must have been like for him! His whole world vanishing overnight.”

“Louise hasn't got that far. At least, she hasn't mentioned him to me. Only that he went on an exchange to the Canadian Navy.”

“If he'd been with her at the time, they might have worked through it together. She couldn't forgive him for not being there. Oh God, how appalling it must have been. Poor Louise! And then to be confronted with Hermione.”

Frummie set down her cup. “If the older girls, Julia or Amelia, had been with Thea instead nothing would have happened. It was the name that triggered it. It might have happened any time or anywhere. Once she suspected that Martin was no longer standing between her and the past she became vulnerable.”

“I wonder if she and Martin might get back together. This other woman could just be a bit of a fling.”

“Unlikely. Timing is so crucial. If Rory had been at home when their child died I doubt they'd have ever parted. If Martin had been around when Louise finally cracked they might have been able to make a go of it. As it is, I think the dislocation is too great.”

“It's frightening, isn't it? So precarious. Small things can make such huge differences.”

“The difference between a ‘yes' or a ‘no.'” Frummie sounded sad. “Between a ‘sorry' or remaining silent. Between writing a letter or making a telephone call rather than waiting for the other person to make the first move. Life never waits and we are so profligate.”

Brigid stared at her, longing to ask her if she had regrets, if it were her own experiences that made her sound so sad, but Frummie's eyes were closed again, her face turned towards the sun, and Brigid was unable to frame the question.

Later that evening, Brigid walked up to Combestone Tor. The granite slabs, folded and heaped haphazard, were stained with a sunset glow and a thin, sickle moon hung in the east. Below her, Blot, a dark, dense shadow moving over the short turf, investigated the stony crannies whilst a raven flapped slowly westward with a hoarse croaking cry. Perched on an outcrop, Brigid watched his flight. The immensity of the landscape—peaks and summits of blue and lavender and gold, receding into the mysterious, insubstantial, vaporous distance—was having its usual soothing effect. Here in these airy spaces, high above a shadowy mosaic of moorland and fields and valleys, she was filled with a surging, singing joy; thin hands linked about her pointed knees, straight-backed, her cheeks stroked by a cool current of air, she felt a quivering, exciting tingling in her veins: that long-familiar delight which was the physical manifestation of brief, true union with nature. As the brilliant light faded, sheep grazing on distant slopes metamorphosed into dim, pale, bulky boulders; hawthorn trees dislimned into spectral, twisting, curious shapes. In the valley the rising mist, white as milk, drifted above the river, sliding and curling along the steep-sided combe.

Here, for this moment, remote, separated from the well-worn pattern of the days, she felt all the real possibility of the existence of another, greater design: some loftier, nobler composition which might be attained, lived, accomplished. Here, as the barn owl, numinous and unearthly, drifted on blunt wings above the feathery, plumy tops of Combestone Wood, she was absorbed, overwhelmed, with an unnamed longing which sprang from some deep intuitive source: a longing for something almost forgotten, dimly seen, lost beneath layers of numbing, mind-coarsening cares and desires. True contentment of spirit, the promise of an unshakeable inner peace, trembled tantalisingly beyond her reach, ephemeral—but
there
…

A scrabbling beside her on the rocks, something cold and wet thrust against her cheek—and the magic swiftly faded, along with the dying light—yet a quiet joy remained. Blot whined, demanding action, and Brigid stood up, reluctant but resigned, and began the descent. On the moorland road sheep were settling for the night, making the most of the day's heat still locked in the warm tarmac. Keeping Blot to heel, skirting the woolly, immobile bundles, she walked quickly, the lights of Foxhole glimmering among the rowan trees. Across Saddle Bridge, Blot now scurrying ahead, and up the hill she went, joy still beating in her heart.

It sustained her as she passed down the track and into the house and, even when she heard Jenny's voice on the answerphone, she was still so enraptured by her private delight that she could not quite take in the words.

“I suppose it could be worse. The receiver's letting us keep going because it will be easier to sell as an up-and-running business but it seems that there's a twelve-thousand-pounds shortfall. Oh, Brigid, I simply don't know what to say. You'll be getting a letter any day now. I was hoping to see you but I daren't leave the place at the moment. Sorry to have missed you.”

Brigid stared at the unwinking red light. She had managed to convince herself that no news was good news; that Jenny and Iain had found some solution. The crisis with Louise, as well as Humphrey's departure for the Bahamas, had helped to distance her; to lessen the fear. Twelve thousand pounds. She shook her head: it couldn't be true; she must have misheard. Quickly she pressed the button, holding it down so that it overrode the “No new message” response. “…
but it seems that there's a twelve-thousand-pounds shortfall. Oh, Brigid
…” Grim-faced, she wiped the message, opened her address book, dialled a number. ‘There's no one here at present to take your call…” No doubt Jenny and Iain were avoiding angry creditors—and who could blame them?—but there was no telephone at Iain's mobile home and no other way of contacting Jenny. Brigid left a short message, trying to keep her voice friendly, asking for Jenny to call her as soon as possible, and then went to pour herself a glass of wine.

Twelve thousand pounds? How did one raise such a sum? Mortgage, of course, but what would Humphrey say? Her joy evaporated, enmeshed in impotent fear, Brigid kneeled beside Blot, hugging him, needing his warmth, feeling miserably, frighteningly alone.

J
EMIMA SWITCHED
off the engine and cursed beneath her breath as a tall figure appeared from the back of the cottage and stood waiting. The fact that he stood so—arms folded, face expressionless—indicated that a great deal of placating would be necessary.

“I'm so terribly sorry.” She almost fell from the car in her eagerness. “A frightful jnuddle. Someone was supposed to be here to let you in. I only got the message half an hour ago. I am
so
sorry.”

He was thawing very slightly, arms dropping to his side, taking a step or two towards her, and she smiled, registering the fact that he was drop-dead sexy in a casual, indifferent kind of way. Briefly she wished that she'd changed out of her old jeans and had had the time to put on some make-up. She held out her hand to him, smiling warmly, unconsciously breathing in and straightening her shoulders.

“I'm Jemima Spencer. The wretched woman who was supposed to be meeting you has only just telephoned. Some domestic drama, I'm afraid. Have you been here for hours?”

She knew he hadn't but she could see that this abject business was working and decided to stay with it. He was looking at her appraisingly as he advanced across the grass and she had a moment to weigh him up: tall, tough, with a wide curling mouth, brown eyes and very short red-brown hair.

She thought: Ohmigod! He's gorgeous! “Not too long.” He wasn't giving too much away. “But it's already been a rather trying day.”

“Oh dear.” Not that this was her fault but sympathy seemed in order. “Have you had a long drive?”

He shrugged, watching her finding the key. “Not too bad. The traffic's bloody awful.”

“Saturdays in late July, I'm afraid,” she said ruefully.

“The A38 is hell. Is your…? Is Mrs. …? Sorry. I should have checked before I rushed out but my one thought was to get here. Janet said it was a couple.”

“She's right. It
was
a couple. Now it's just me. My partner broke it to me last night that she wasn't coming with me.”

“Shit!” Jemima stared at him. “How awful. I'm so sorry.”

“Yes. So,” he shrugged again, “I decided that I might as well carry on as planned. It gives her a chance to move out in peace and it gives me a month to recover.” He was following her into the cottage now, but was pulled up short by her cry of dismay.

“Oh, I don't
believe
it.”

“You sound like Victor Meldrew. What's the problem?”

He was peering over her shoulder as she stared despairingly at the mess in the kitchen: unwashed dishes on the draining board; the remains of food on the table; a general air of disorder.

“This is awful.” She turned to him, genuinely distressed. “I'll kill Janet when I get hold of her. She didn't say that she hadn't been in to clear up, only that she couldn't let you in. Nothing's been done, I'm afraid. I am just
so
sorry.”

He was frowning, looking past her, and she watched him anxiously, wondering if he would lose his temper, report her, storm out: he might do all three. It wouldn't impress her boss to lose a month's rent, especially at the top height-of-summer rates.

“It won't take long to put right,” she said rapidly.

“Honestly. Perhaps you could go for a walk? Or just sit in the sun? There's a nice little garden area with chairs …”

“Forget it,” he said resignedly. “I might have guessed that it was going to be one of those days. We'll do it together, it'll be quicker.”

“That's … that's really good of you.” Sh6 looked at him gratefully. “I can't tell you how sorry I am.”

“Forget it.” He laughed briefly. “Good job Annabel's not here. She doesn't take kindly to this sort of thing and she likes to see heads roll if mistakes are made. Can't stand inefficiency. I'll wash up. OK?”

“Yes, of course.” She watched him as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, feeling an odd need to defend herself. “Well, in that case I have to say that I'm relieved that she isn't here.” She hesitated. “I'm not usually inefficient. This has never happened to me before.”

He glanced at her quickly, eyebrows raised, and then smiled. “I didn't mean to imply that you were. Anyway, if I'm honest, I found the whole perfection bit rather wearing. Self-righteousness isn't exacdy my bag. Is the stuff in this cupboard? Oh, yes. Will there be hot water?”

“Damn!” She pulled herself together. “Probably not It's money-in-the-slot stuff and visitors who leave cottages in this condition aren't usually too free with their pennies. I'll check.”

When she returned he'd already piled the dishes neatly together and was throwing the rubbish into a black sack.

“I'm well trained,” he said, seeing her surprise.

“So I see,” she said. A pause. “I think Annabel must be a bit of a twit,” she added casually.

He smiled. “Thanks.”

“I'll be changing the beds,” she said, suddenly shy. “We'll have a cup of coffee later, if you like. At least there's some milk in the fridge ”

“Great,” he said. “Or perhaps a pint Is there a decent pub round here? It seems seriously remote, if you know what I mean. Rather end-of-the-worldish. Glorious views but a bit short on human habitation. Since I shall be on my own I'm hoping there's a relatively local hostelry.”

“Yes,” she said, after a moment. “There is, actually. The Pig's Nose at Prawle is only ten minutes away.”

“Great name,” he said, putting in the plug and turning on the tap. “Any chance you could show me where it is? Or are you … otherwise engaged?”

“No,” she said, trying not to grin foolishly. “No, not otherwise engaged. I'd love to.”

Humming under her breath, she went away to find the clean laundry.

L
YING AWAKE,
staring into the darkness, Louise allowed the tide of her thoughts to wash gently in and out of her consciousness. No more need for vigilance; those years of watchfulness were over. It seemed impossible to have buried a whole past so deeply, yet she had managed it. It was another life which had happened to someone else, to a different person who could be shut away, ignored, denied. Now, painful though the memories were, she let them come. At first she had been obsessed with reliving the tragedy itself but lately other images passed on the screen of her mind, scrolling slowly before her inward vision, carrying her back in time: Smugglers Way; the view across the Gare Loch to the mountains beyond; walking through the woods, pushing Hermione in her buggy, to the little shop in Rhu village; waiting on Rhu Spit with the other families to watch the submarines sailing or arriving.

From the beginning she'd found the homecomings difficult: even when she'd missed Rory so much that the weeks stretched like months and life seemed hopelessly empty, she'd been unable to pick up the threads with the easy cheerful jokiness which other wives used as an aid to readjust. She discovered that his actual presence—the disturbing reality of his warm, blue eyes; the impact of his vitality—was a shock to her. She'd reacted with a silent shyness which frustrated her but which she was incapable of overcoming. He'd never let it worry him, allowing time to reattune, adapting his pace to hers until the strangeness passed. He'd always known when that moment had arrived, when the old familiarity was warming her into relaxed, loving normality, and at that point he'd slip an arm about her.

“So that's that,” he'd say, as if putting the weeks of separation and any other obstacles firmly behind them. “Now! Where were we?”

A whole world of meaning was encapsulated in that “Now!” It implied that real life was about to resume; that everything which had happened between their last goodbye and this “Now!” was utterly unimportant. She was his love, his life, what truly mattered. That small phrase “Where were we?” was a password which carried them into their own, private world. Hermione had become a vital part of that world; she'd helped with the adjustment: carrying them over the difficulty with her delight at his homecoming, demanding his attention, making them laugh with her enthusiasm. Even so, once she had been put to bed and they were alone together, the shyness still hung between them, a fragile but obscuring curtain, until that moment of recognition. “So that's that. Now! Where were we?” His arm about her shoulders, his cheek against her hair, oh! the comfort of it.

Hot tears slid from Louise's eyes, trickling over her temples and into her hair. She'd given him no opportunity on that final occasion; no chance for healing, loving words. Three weeks were too long to bear such agony alone. She'd projected the unbearable weight of guilt on to him: if he had been at home it might not have happened; he might have been suspicious, insisted on calling a doctor. Rory had always been overanxious where Hermione was concerned. By the time he arrived home she, Louise, had already begun the long journey into denial and it was too late to return. Not even the familiar password could have called her back: she'd been beyond his reach.

How had he managed? Now that she could no longer blame him or resent him for his absence, she must deal with this new pain. How had he felt?

“You're not the only one,” her mother had shouted at her, worn down by her own grief and shock. “Other people are suffering too, you know. How can you behave like this?”

She could remember her mother's furious expression, the tears of anger and sorrow in her eyes, but at the time it was as if it were superimposed over the persisting picture of the silent child in the bed, unnaturally still, alabaster pale. Beside that image nothing else had seemed particularly real. Perhaps if she'd remained in the flat at Smugglers Way, if she'd been in their own home when Rory had arrived back from sea, things might have been different. She had spent the days after the funeral there, between Hermione's room and the graveyard, until the other wives had begun to fear for her and had contacted her mother. She'd put up one brief fight, one manic struggle to stay with what remained of her child, but she'd been physically weak with sleeplessness and lack of food, and easily overborne.