A Summer in the Country (19 page)

“We have indeed. I'll be there. With Nina Simone.”

“And a botde,” added Frummie.

“And a botde,” agreed Louise.

Each morning—and often in the long, dark watches of the night—Brigid woke to the grip of fear. It twisted her gut and stampeded her heart into a choking racing beat. Twelve thousand pounds. No word had come from the Bank although she had managed, at last, to speak to Jenny.

“I've been trying to raise the money myself,” she'd said, “but I don't have any security. We put everything into the business, you see. I just didn't imagine anything like this would happen to me. I thought of all sorts of other disasters but not this one. Bryn was so keen on it. It was his baby. It's bad enough, him running off with another woman, but to cheat and steal…” She'd paused, as if words were beyond her.

“And what can I do?” Brigid asked herself desperately on this particular morning, after a disturbed and unrefreshing night, as she flung back the quilt. “I want to scream at her. To say, ‘I don't give a shit about Bryn. How the hell am I going to tell Humphrey?' But she's lost so much, it would be too cruel.”

She thrust her long, narrow feet into moccasins, dragged on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Blot wagged a sleepy greeting from his basket by the Aga and she bent to pull his silky ears.

“I know it's early,” she told him, “but I can't sleep.”

Blot watched her for a moment and then setded himself again. Brigid stood at the window watching the sun rising away over Combestone Tor, remembering the evening she'd sat there. How quickly the peace and joy had faded in the face of her fear. For a brief moment she'd glimpsed something which she'd believed to be enduring, some strength that would sustain her through any crisis. Yet at the first threat to her wellbeing it had vanished, leaving her alone. Or was it simply that she lacked the courage to hold on to it; to continue to believe in it, despite the storms that buffeted her security?

“It's Humphrey,” she said aloud, as if she were justifying her lack of faith to someone. “It's having to tell Humphrey that I went behind his back and agreed to something which I know he'd disapprove of because he doesn't like Jenny. It seemed so mean to penalise her because Humphrey finds her irritating. She's been such a good friend and I felt I owed her my loyalty. And now Humphrey will say, ‘I told you so.'” She laughed bitterly. “God, if that were the only thing he'd say! He's going to be so angry. And hurt, a$ if I care more about her than I do about him, which is just not true. But it might look like that. I risked his future for her. We'll have to remortgage or pay it out of his gratuity which means, either way, that he won't be able to retire.”

She turned away from the window as the kettle began to boil. It was possible that Humphrey might not want to retire full time—although as a commander of fifty-three, with no likelihood of further promotion, he would certainly be leaving the Navy after this posting—but the point was that now he wouldn't have any choices. He'd often discussed what he might do when he came out—he had several local charity projects in mind—but his idea had been to diversify. He was looking forward to being out of uniform and free of rules and regs. Brigid made coffee, her heart weighted with misery. She could not decide whether she should warn him or wait for the letter from the Bank. For some reasons—cowardly ones—it would be easier telling him whilst he was so far away, yet it seemed so unfair to give him this shock by telephone or letter. If she could only find some way through without his knowing anything at all about it… and on top of all this muddle and anxiety she had Humphrey's father arriving in four weeks' time.

“His name's Alexander,” Humphrey had said rather awkwardly. He was still feeling guilty that Brigid should be left to deal with this alone. “I don't know if I've ever told you before.”

“Probably. I don't remember. You always refer to him as ‘Father.'” She'd been seized by a moment of panic. “He won't expect me to call him ‘Father,' will he?”

“I doubt it very much.” Humphrey had sounded faintly amused by the idea. “He's not at all conventional.”

She'd looked at him curiously. “That sounds oddly ominous. What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.” He'd hastened to reassure her, not wishing to alarm her. “He just doesn't look at things the way most people do.”

“Are you basing that on the fact that he remarried so quickly after your mother died or have you been hiding things from me?” she'd asked suspiciously. “Come on, Humphrey. It's bad enough as it is, without you hinting at anything more sinister. Look at what ‘things,' for instance?”

“It's difficult to define.” Humphrey had been on the defensive. “It's not anything weird. Just the way he sees life in general. He comes at it from a different place than most people. He's entirely unmaterialistic and rather penetratingly honest.”

Brigid had frowned, confused. “I've never imagined him like that,” she'd said. “The way you talked about his going off made him sound a very selfish person.”

“He is. But that's the kind of thing I mean. He didn't think about how I might feel or how it looked or anything. He just did his own thing. But when you confront him his reasons can be … well, disconcerting, to say the least.”

“DM you confront him?”

“Not sensibly. I was too young and still too upset about Mother dying. I remember he asked me how it would benefit me if he stayed single and I said that it looked bad and that people would get the wrong impression.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked what people I had in mind and why their opinion was important. I couldn't think of a sensible reply. So then he asked me again how it would benefit
me
and I couldn't think how. After all, I was nearly twenty-one and about to go to sea. It sounded so childish to insist that he stayed put because it gave me a sense of security but I resented his insensitivity. Everything happened all at once: Mother dying, me going off to sea, Father going away. There seemed nothing solid to hold on to and I felt he should have understood that.”

“And he didn't?”

“That's the point. He said he did. And then he said, ‘But does it matter?' That's what I mean when I say he doesn't behave or react like other people.”

“Then he should get on well with Mummie,” she'd said rather crossly because she was feeling nervous. “Thank God it's only for three months.”

Brigid finished her coffee and put the mug in the sink. Suddenly she was possessed with a great weariness; an inability to deal with the problems life was presenting; a need to escape. She went quietly out of the kitchen and back upstairs. Crawling into bed she pulled the pillows into a nest about her and almost instantly plummeted into a heavy sleep.

J
EMIMA, TOO,
had woken unusually early. She lay for some moments, luxuriating in a sense of true relaxation; her limbs heavy with a kind of boneless immobility. It was impossible to move; even her eyelids were weighted with sleepy content; her mind working with a slow, satisfying happiness.

She thought: I love him. Oh God, I really do.

Excitement surged, shattering her torpor, and she rolled on to her stomach, closing her eyes tightly, hugging herself, lest she should lose even a second of this sudden moment of delight She had several meetings, now, to tell over, reminding herself of special exchanges, heart-stopping glances—but he was playing it cool, very cool. A morbid curiosity led her into conversations about Annabel, which made him moody, but she simply couldn't help herself. This was a completely new experience for her. Hitherto, she had been uninterested in her companions' partners: they belonged to a different world in which she had no interest. This, she told herself, was because she'd never been in love with any of the men whose paths had briefly marched with her own. Now it was different and she needed to know what qualities had drawn him to Annabel, dwelling on it with the kind of painful insistency with which one presses the tongue against a nerve-jumping tooth. His moodiness, the drawing together of his brows, instinctively set off a flutter of fear in her gut, yet still she could not resist. Once he'd overcome his initial reluctance, however, he'd been quite lyrical in his praise. As he described Annabel, Jemima's own private reactions became soundless grace notes to his glowing recital.

“She works in IT,” he'd told her. “She's a very bright girl. She got a first at university“—
She would.
—“and was offered several really good positions with top companies. She was head-hunted for this job“—
Naturally!
—“and she's had a lot of promotion. You can tell that she's being groomed for something pretty special“—
Who could doubt it?—
“and they think very highly of her. That's where the trouble really started“—
Aha! Now we're getting to it!
—“and I should have seen it coming. The chap who's training her clearly fancies her. Well, I can't blame him for that“—
Ohy of course not
— “but it came as a bit of a shock to find that she fancied him too. Enough to break up our relationship so … well, so brutally“—
She must be an absolute bitch.
—“but I suppose I've just been stupid …“—
No you're not. You're absolutely gorgeous and she's a silly cow.
—“You're very quiet. Sorry. This must be all rather boring for you. I got a bit carried away.”

She'd caught at her self-possession and shaken her head. “Don't apologise. It's a terrible shock, I can see that.”
Keep it low-key. Casual.
“I expect she's pretty attractive, as well as clever?”

He'd smiled. It had such a sadly reminiscent quality, his gaze drifting beyond her to some past, precious memory, that she'd had to hold her clenched fists under the table lest he should see the jealous spasm which made them tremble, and her smile had slipped into a fixed grimace. You asked for it, sweetie, she'd told herself grimly. And now shut up. I know you want to ask what she looks like in detail but don't even go there.

'To be honest, she's rather gorgeous“—
Shit! I don't want to know this.
—“and a bit of a clotheshorse. She's so slender that she looks good in anything“—
It's too late to sit up straight and hold your stomach in, so forget it
—“and she's tall too. Very, very, dark colouring—but, hey, who cares about Annabel?. Let's talk about you. Much more interesting.”

“That's true.” She'd regained her poise quickly, assuming a jokey sophistication, hiding her sense of insecurity, and his good humour had been restored. He'd almost missed the last ferry.

Jemima rolled on to her back, chuckling to herself. It wasn't her fault he'd caught it. She'd kept a surreptitious eye on her watch, thinking up all kinds of delaying tactics, until he'd glanced at his own watch. She'd had mixed feelings about his determination to get back across the harbour but had kept calm, waving him off cheerfully. He'd telephoned her later…

The indolent, relaxed mood had passed and she sat up, yawning, pleased to see the sunshine, listening to the gulls and the familiar water sounds: the diesel on a fishing boat chugging out to sea, the rhythmical dipping of oars, the lapping of the tide against the ferry pier. Later, they would meet for a drink and then she'd drive him out to Bolberry Down for a walk along the cliffs, followed by supper at some pub. This time, he'd probably be too late to catch the ferry. Pretending that she would have done it anyway, Jemima slid out of bed and began to drag off the sheets. She pottered to and from the airing cupboard until the bed was freshly made; clean, crisp linen; plump, downy pillows. Humming, she flung the blue and cream patchwork quilt across its surface and smoothed it carefully, thoughtfully. Smiling to herself, she pushed the blue, heavily figured cretonne curtains right back and leaned for a moment from the open window, looking up the estuary, beyond the Bag, where gorse and heather bloomed gorgeously, gold and purple patches of colour on the headland.

It was nice, the way he let her drive him about—“You drive like a man,” he'd told her. “And from me that's a compliment. I don't like being driven“—and encouraged her to decide what they should do. She liked the way other women looked at him; it made her feel good in a possessive, strong, sexy kind of way.

“I must admit,” he'd said on one occasion when the pub was crowded and they'd had to wait for a table, “that it's good to be with a woman who doesn't fuss all the time.”

“Fuss?” She'd looked surprised, as if she'd never heard the word before; a light “Whatever can you mean? What's to fuss about?” tone in her voice. And when he'd answered, “Oh, I was just thinking about Annabel. She could be a bit heavy sometimes if things weren't absolutely just so,” she'd said, “Oh, right,” with just the correct amount of amused indifference; a sort of “What? Oh,
Annabel
Yes, of course,” carelessness and made a point of being positive and jolly whenever things were a bit iffy; like the pubjtitchen running out of lobster just when she'd said that she'd set her heart on it or it starting to rain when they went for their ferry trip to South Sands. He'd smiled at her, that smile that made her heart behave like some crazy yo-yo, and told her he couldn't remember when he'd enjoyed himself so much. “Me, too,” she'd answered—but still jokey, so that he'd slipped an arm about her and murmured, “You're rather special, aren't you?”

“Rather special.” Jemima straightened up and turned back into the bedroom; fair-haired, not dark; size fourteen, not a clotheshorse; no university degree, no IT qualifications—but “rather special” all the same.

She made a rude face at an imaginary presence. “Eat your heart out, Annabel,” she said—and went to take a shower.