A Summer in the Country (24 page)

Brigid sat in the courtyard, a large writing block on the table before her, watching Blot stalking a magpie. The doves perched, heads cocked, twittering anxiously at this intruder who was so clearly unmoved by their distress. He hopped cockily, not even troubling to fly so as to avoid Blot's pursuit, running a few steps, and then turning back to inspect the bread which had been put out for the robin. Blot was trying not to appear intimidated by this large thief and, in an effort to save face, burst into a volley of sharp short barks accompanied by a determined rush across the cobbles which sent the magpie flying up into the branches of the rowan tree. Pleased by this success Blot sat down and scratched vigorously whilst the doves cooed their approval from the stable roof.

The entertainment over, Brigid turned her attention once more to her letter. She had almost decided to write to Humphrey, explaining the whole wretched dilemma: almost but not quite. This letter was a practice run: an attempt to put it all into words. If it could be done in a reasonably acceptable way, then she might write it out properly and send it. On the other hand…

Brigid laid down her pen and stared at nothing in particular. Mentally, she'd examined every method of approach; no avenue was unexplored, no stone unturned. She could write to him—but imagine his reaction on opening a letter from home only to read such news! The shock of it! It was this aspect which made her hesitate. She might telephone him, except that the idea of stumbling through the whole story at long distance was appalling. How did you start? “Oh, by the way, before you hang up …” “I meant to tell you about this when you were home but it slipped my mind…” She might get a flight out so as to tell him face to face—but on what pretext? He was working, at sea a great deal of the time, so what excuse could she give for her sudden decision to leave Foxhole—she who loathed holidays—so as to visit the Bahamas, knowing he would be too busy to spare her much time? She could pretend some drama which would necessitate his being flown home but imagining his expression when he discovered her duplicity made her shudder. If only it hadn't been Jenny …

Brigid swore violently beneath her breath, so as to relieve her desperation, and hastily arranged her face into welcoming lines as one of the visitors from the cottage appeared in the courtyard entrance. This couple, quiet and contained, were having their first holiday in the Dartmoor National Park.

“And I hope their last,” Brigid had said grimly to Louise the previous evening. “They didn't realise walking would be so unpleasant, apparently.”

“Unpleasant?” Louise had looked surprised.

“Shit,” Brigid had explained succinctly—and burst out laughing at the expression on Louise's face.

” ‘We have to watch where we're putting our feet, dear,'” she'd mimicked in refined accents, ” ‘because of the mess. It's everywhere. Horses' dung as well as sheep's droppings and dogs' mess. And even cowpats. We didn't know there would be cows.'”

“You're kidding?”

“No,” Brigid had said morosely. “Not kidding. I'm not at my best with city dwellers who regard the countryside as their personal playground. I think they expected some kind of sanitised theme park with the locals dressed in smocks and saying ‘Oh-ar' when poked with a stick. Never again. I shall be booked up next year. Not that I think they'd want to comeback.”

Now, she smiled at Mrs. Prout and called “good morning.” At least they hadn't been able to complain about the weather. The Bank Holiday had been unusually hot and the fine weather seemed set fair.

“I just thought I'd mention, dear,” Mrs. Prout raised her voice, a wary eye on Blot lest he should rise and savage her ankles, “that the water's a funny colour.”

Cursing silently, a smile on her lips, Brigid stood up. “Really? How d'you mean …?”

“It's a kind of brown colour, dear.” Mrs. Prout glanced about for dog-turds and advanced a few cautious steps. “It's got a cloudy look to it.”

“I'm sure it's nothing to worry about,” said Brigid, accustomed to many variations of water colour from their private supply. “It's spring water, you know, so it might be anything.”

“Anything?” Mrs. Prout looked alarmed. “How d'you mean, dear?”

“Well, it's probably just a bit peaty. Nothing to hurt you, honestly. I've lived here all my life and I've never had a problem with it.”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Prout looked unconvinced. “Hubby's not too happy with it, you see, dear.”

“Perhaps you should drink mineral water, just until it clears,” suggested Brigid desperately. “And boil everything else. It will soon clear itself, I'm quite certain.”

“If you say so, dear. I'll tell him. Only he thought perhaps a call to the Water Board …?”

“But it's a private supply, you see. Spring water. It's not piped.”

“Fancy. No one told us that.”

“It's been tested, don't worry. It's perfectly safe to drink. But we do get this discoloration occasionally.”

“Well, we'll keep an eye on it. We're off to the coast this morning, anyway.”

“I'm sure it will be normal by the time you get back,” said Brigid with determined cheerfulness. “Have a lovely day.”

“I'm sure we will. See you later, dear.”

Brigid sat down again and picked up her pen. How far had she got? …
and somehow I couldn't find the courage to tell you face to face. I didn't want to spoil those last few days together.
Yes, well, so far so good. She rolled up her shirtsleeves a little further, tilted her cotton hat against the sun and scribbled a few more words.
The real problem is that it's to do with Jenny and I know we never see eye to eye about her. Not that that's any excuse for not telling you the truth
… So how to go on from there? To explain her loyalty and sympathy for her old friend whilst not ever believing that she was taking a serious risk? Phrases and sentences jumbled in her head…

“Good morning, darling. You look very industrious.”

Brigid's fingers clenched on her pen. “You made me jump,” she said. “Are you off somewhere?”

“Louise's driving me down to Holne to the mobile library,” said Frummie. “You've got a book, remember? Steve ordered it for you specially. I'll take it back for you.”

“Book?” Brigid tried to remember. “Oh, yes. Yes, he did. Look, could it wait until next time?”

“I'm sure it's due back. Do you want me to look for it?”

“No. No, really. I've no idea where it is at the moment. Do you think you could explain to Steve? I know he'll understand. It's just that I want to get this done.”

“Oh, very well. If it's that important…”

“I'm sure it's not due back yet. I only had it out a fortnight ago. Don't worry about it and tell Steve I'll see him in a fortnight. Enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I shall. I always enjoy a chat with Steve. Louise and I have decided to have lunch in the Church House afterwards. Would you like to join us?”

“Can I see how I get on?”

“Yes, of course. Just turn up. If you can tear yourself away from your magnum opus.”

“I will.” Brigid ignored the sarcasm. “See you later.”

Presently the Prouts' car drove slowly away up the track, followed after a short interval by Louise's. Brigid let out a deep sigh. Solitude closed in peacefully about her and she could feel her muscles unknotting, her body relaxing. The shutters of her mind opened gently, allowing thoughts to flow freely, unimpeded by panic. She wrote for a while, phrases coming easily, explanations forming clearly, reasonably, until, pleased with her lucidity, she put down the pen and began to reread the letter. The sound of an engine approaching alerted her and she looked up, listening. Could the Prouts' progress have been impeded by some giant dropping in the road? Had her mother forgotten one of her books? Her nerves, so gloriously freed from anxiety, began to tighten. The engine idled for a moment and was switched off. A door slammed. Silence. Brigid frowned, listening intently. Who was it and what were they doing? Suddenly she thought about the recent murder and was gripped with a spasm of uncharacteristic terror.

Footsteps approached and a figure appeared, pausing at the entrance to the courtyard, looking round with an open, almost childlike interest. He was tall and one of the thinnest men that Brigid had ever seen. His long legs were clothed in rather disgraceful sailcloth trousers and he wore an ancient tweed over his checked shirt. His shoulders were wide, his arms hanging with an angular sharpness, scarecrow-like. As his gaze came to rest upon her, she rose to her feet, as though his glance had drawn her up from the bench, and they gazed at each other in amazement.

“You're Brigid,” he said—and his face creased into a thousand lines of delight. “This is very good. So very good.”

He advanced towards her, a thin, strong hand outstretched, and, automatically, she held out her own hand which he took, holding it tightly, bending slightly to peer into her face. A white, fierce bristle of eyebrow was drawn down over his keen grey eye and he grimaced.

“You're not expecting me. My dear girl, have I made a mistake? Got the dates mixed? I do hope not. So like me to get off on the wrong foot. I'm Alexander. Humphrey's father.”

“B
RIGID'S NOT
looking well,” mused Frummie, as the car crossed the cattle-grid and approached Saddle Bridge. “She's lost weight and she's got a drawn look. She doesn't concentrate on what you're saying. Have you noticed it?“

“I'm afraid that I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice anything much,” admitted Louise. “Can it be that she's missing Humphrey?”

Frummie wrinkled her nose dismissively. “Unlikely. Anyway, not more than usual. No, it's not that kind of thing. She's jumpy and distracted. Something's on her mind.”

Louise, herself distracted by the gold and purple splendour of heather and gorse blooming riotously together, slowed the car to allow a group of ponies to cross, leaning from the window to watch a foal pressing shyly against its mother's flank. She put the car in motion again, thinking about Brigid.

“Can't you ask her?” she suggested.

Frummie frowned. “Brigid's a very private person,” she said, almost defensively. “It's not quite that simple.”

Louise, thinking of her unhappy relationship with her own mother, wondered why such barriers should rise between those who should surely understand each other best. It was odd that Frummie should have been so intuitive and caring to
her
whilst she seemed to delight in needling and upsetting her own daughter.

“Could I help?” she wondered aloud. “Do you think she might confide in me?”

“It's possible. I've always thought that Brigid seems very fond of you. Perhaps, if a moment suggests itself. Nothing too obvious.”

“Of course not. I'll be very tactful.”

“Well, then.” Frummie shifted more comfortably in her seat, as though a problem had been taken care of, and looked out of her window. “What a splendid day! Such a good idea to have some coffee at the Caf6 Forge before the library van arrives. We can have a chat with Chloe if she's not too busy.

She won't have gone back to college yet. Such a pretty girl, isn't she, and such fun? Of course, you haven't met Steve, have you? You'll like Steve. He always knows what books to suggest for me and he has such clever children. His son is doing a PhD, you know …”

As she talked, Louise wondered how someone who enjoyed people so much managed to survive in this isolated environment. She tried to imagine Frummie as a young woman, fresh from London, attempting to adapt to these bleak, wild moors with only a small child for company. Diarmid, she'd gathered, had been much absorbed by his research and Frummie thrown back on her own resources. She was not a particularly maternal woman and it was evident that she preferred the company of adults to babies and tiny children. She rarely made references to her great-grandson and tolerated Brigid's enormous pride in him with a kind of patient indifference. Louise found herself wondering about Diarmid; what kind of man he must have been, what qualities he'd possessed to lure the young, urban, fun-loving Frummie into marriage. How had he felt when she'd left him?

She thought: What a muddle we make of our lives. What terrible mistakes we make.

Rory's face appeared briefly before her inward eye and she winced with pain.

“So that's that. Now! Where were we?”

What madness had possessed her so that she had allowed herself to lose him: him, who had always been her comforter? Had it really been necessary to be so destructive?

'There seems to be even more people about than usual, have you noticed?” Frummie's voice was comfortingly matter-of-fact. ‘That's because it's Bank Holiday week. Schools start back next week, thank goodness. Let's hope there will be a space in the caf6's car park.”