A Summer in the Country (29 page)

“Yes.” Frummie gave a sigh of relief. “I'm just glad to see you back safely.”

“I only went to Ashburton, you know.” Louise reached into the car for her shopping and locked the door. “Oh, and I stopped on the, way home to climb Combestone Tor in the company of about four hundred tourists.”

“You may well joke,” said Frummie grimly, “but another woman was attacked last night at Buckfastleigh.”

Louise stared at her. “Oh, no. How do you know?”

“It was on the lunchtime news. Luckily some young chaps going home from the pub heard her screams and went to her rescue. Her attacker ran off but the girl was able to describe him. She thought that she'd seen him about The police say that it sounds as though he spies on lone women, watches their movements and then strikes. They think it's related to those three murders.”

“How horrible.” Louise shuddered. “Oh, Frummie, supposing it was him last night…”

“We might just tell them about it. It's not far from Venford Reservoir to Buckfastleigh, after all. Anyway, I'm very glad to see you home again and, for the time being, no more evening walks for you or Brigid.”

“No,” agreed Louise. “Absolutely right. No more evening walks.”

“I'd love to see you.” Jemima was on the telephone talking to Louise. “Come and have lunch. Or supper. I can look through my files and see if we've got any winter lets that might suit you … No, not this weekend. It's just hectic, I'm afraid … Oh, just lots of different things. There's a private viewing at the Cove's Quay Gallery … David Stead. I love his water-colours so I'm hoping to do that. And then I've got a friend coming for supper and a lunch with Mandy and Ness. It's terribly muddly. But next week sometime would be great… Tuesday? For lunch?… OK. About one o'clock? Great. See you then.”

She replaced the receiver and let out her breath in a gasp of relief. It was not in her nature to dissemble and she was finding it difficult being quite so discreet. Yet this time, her new love affair was so important, so precious, that she'd become quite superstitious, deciding that if she told anyone about her feelings and her hopes it might all disappear; vanish as if it had never been.

Sometimes she wondered if she'd imagined it. Now that he was back in London, that her life had resumed its more ordinary quality, it seemed impossible to believe that she'd actually lived through those few blissful weeks. Yet on Friday he would be here again.

“Friday,” she said ecstatically to MagnifiCat, who was eating his supper. “He'll be here in forty-eight hours. Two days.”

MagnifiCat continued to eat, unimpressed by the treat in store, unmoved by her transports of delight. His tail twitched dismissively, contemptuously. Jemima wandered into the sitting room and lay full length upon the sofa.

“I'm missing you,” he'd said. “It's awful here. She's taken so much.”

“How beastly.” She'd wanted to show support, and it was so tempting to bad-mouth Annabel, but she'd managed to restrain herself. “It must be awfully depressing.”

“Well, it is.”

She'd imagined him looking round the deserted flat, familiar objects and pictures gone, and her heart went out to him.

“She's left a note.”

“Oh?” It had been difficult, at a distance, when she couldn't see his expression, to know quite how to play it. She was by no means confident of her ability to hold him once he was back in his own territory. His and Annabel's territory. Fear seized her and she'd wanted to scream, “Well, read it then. What does the bitch say? How's the girlfriend from hell?” but she'd been too afraid. He'd sounded pretty low—which in itself was disappointing. Why should he care any more? Hadn't they got a pretty good relationship going between them? Why should he feel it so much after these last few weeks together?

She'd had to hold herself in check, tell herself that it wasn't quite that simple. Going back to the flat was bound to resurrect old memories, open old wounds. A month-long holiday romance was hardly to be compared with a five-year-old relationship and it was unrealistic to expect him to be unmoved as he confronted the break-up.

“She's explaining why she's taken certain things,” he'd said, “and suggesting that we discuss them if I feel it's not fair. She's trying to be civilised about it. There's an address and a telephone number and she's saying we could meet for a chat”

“Well, that sounds … OK.” It didn't sound OK at all. It sounded absolutely all wrong. “Don't go,” she'd wanted to beg him. “Please don't go. It's over. Finished,” but he'd been talking about how important it was that they should remain friends and she was unwilling to show herself in a selfish, jealous light. At least there had been no question of his changing his mind about the weekend.

“Can't wait to see you again,” he'd said. “Seems like weeks already and I only left a few hours ago. Salcombe seems like paradise compared with this place.”

Jemina had been able to raise her game, then, to joke a little, tease him a bit, so that he'd forgotten Annabel and her letter and had talked, instead, about his plans for making some enquiries about IT jobs in the southwest.

“You're sure you wouldn't mind sharing your flat?” he'd asked.

“I'd consider a trial period,” she'd answered lightly, glad that he couldn't see her face, her wide, delighted grin. “Anyway, it's MagnifiCat you have to persuade, not me.”

“Don't tell me that our future depends on that neurotic fleabag,” he'd said cheerfully. “God!” His voice had changed, deepening, not at all steady. “I really miss you.”

She'd taken several deep breaths lest her own voice should betray her. “Me, too,” she'd said. “Honestly.”

“Well.” She'd been able to sense him glancing about, bracing himself to deal with the depressing situation; his new status. “I'd better see what I've got here and get myself sorted. I just wanted to say ‘Hi' before I got stuck in. Give me a call, won't you?”

“Course I will,” she'd said. A tiny pause. “Hey. Not long till Friday.”

“No.” His voice had brightened a little. “Not long till Friday. Talk soon.”

She'd made herself wait until the next evening, praying that he might phone first but taking her courage in both hands and dialling his number on Saturday evening.

“At least she left the television,” he'd said—he'd sounded just the least bit surly—“and a couple of videos. Big deal!”

She'd felt a nervousness at the pit of her stomach, a tightening of the muscles as if she were bracing herself for some kind of contest.

“Was it worse than you thought, then?”

“If it wasn't nailed down then she tried to take it,” he'd said bitterly. “I didn't notice, not to begin with, but she's taken all the ornaments, all the paintings and most of the books. I still can't believe it”

“Have you … spoken to her?”

“Not yet.”

She'd cast about for some kind of comfort but her mind had remained obstinately blank. “I'm so sorry,” she'd said at last. How feeble it had sounded—and how hurt he must feel. “It seems very unfair. I mean, they must have belonged to you both, jointly.”

“I must say that that was my view of it.”

“Well, perhaps you can sort it out with her.” She'd said it tentatively—she who hadn't wanted him to go near Annabel. “Surely she'll be reasonable?”

“If she was reasonable, she wouldn't have taken them in the first place.”

“No, well…” There hadn't been much she could say to that.

“Sorry, love. I'm in a shitty mood to be honest. I don't want to take it out on you. Look, I'll give you a buzz tomorrow. I'll have pulled myself together by then. OK? ‘Bye then.”

The next twenty-four hours had stretched themselves interminably, giving her time to imagine every conceivable scenario, from his being unable to stand it another second and rushing back to Salcombe, to forgetting her completely in the upheaval of his new situation. It seemed, in this fraught, tense state, that every single one of her friends and relations decided to talk to her during that period of time. She'd wanted to scream at them, trying tef concentrate whilst wondering if he were trying to get through, her eyes fixed desperately on her watch until she could hang up with relief, only for the bell to ring again almost immediately with some other well-meaning and utterly time-wasting prattler on the other end of the line. By the time he'd telephoned, late in the evening, she'd hardly dared to pick up the receiver.

“How are you?” she'd asked, trying to pitch her voice between cheerfulness and concern.

“OK.” He'd sounded resigned. “Sorry about last night. It hits me every now and again, if you know what I mean. Being here brings it all back. Anyway” he'd sounded as if he were making a great effort, “how are things with you?”

Remembering, Jemima smiled to herself. She'd made an effort too, trying to cheer him, make him laugh—and she'd succeeded. She'd hung up, her confidence restored. He needed her. As the week progressed his mood improved. Once back at work he'd sounded more balanced, more positive. He'd been making those enquiries about jobs and had sounded quite hopeful: there would be quite a lot, he'd hinted, to talk about on Friday. She stretched, excited and nervous, and gasped as MagnifiCat landed heavily on her stomach, purring heavily, full of delicious rabbit. She stroked his soft fur with long sensuous strokes, her eyes closed, imagining delightful scenes for the weekend ahead, waiting for Friday.

“BRIGID'S WONDERING
if she should suggest that Michael and Sarah should come down to meet you.” Frummie looked at Alexander inquisitively. “How do you feel about it?”

“Confused,” he answered calmly. He laid the newspaper courteously to one side and watched Frummie taking notes on the contents of his breakfast table. “I like a good old-fashioned breakfast,” he told her, lest some detail might have escaped her. “Sausages, bacon, toast and marmalade. All those years abroad, I never got out of the habit.”

She was entirely unabashed. “I was never one for more than a cup of black coffee,” she said. “So how do you manage to stay so thin?”

“Much the way you do, I imagine. It's genetic.” “How do you know that I don't diet madly?” He smiled. “Because you look quite right with your thinness. Now Brigid is too thin.”

She settled down on the chair opposite, enjoying this opportunity to be intimate with him. The big kitchen-living room was full of sunlight, and various cooking utensils lay carelessly abandoned on the worktops, yet a faindy impersonal atmosphere clung to the room. Perhaps Alexander did not have enough luggage with him to stamp his personality upon the house—or perhaps it was simply too early. Although he had allowed her to assist with his moving in, he had been quite intractable in refusing to permit her to unpack for him. There were some books on the windowsill, and newspapers littered the big square table, but there was very little other evidence to give clues to the kind of man he was. No doubt all would be made clear in time. Meanwhile she was very ready to discuss Brigid's thinness.

“Why shouldn't that be genetic, too? Diarmid was thin. Well, lean and rangy. Brigid's just like him.”

“You don't think she's too thin?”

“Well…” She wriggled impatiently. If she said “yes” he might ask her the reason and if she couldn't give one it might sound as if she didn't care about her daughter. If she said “no” it might be the end of this little session. Anyway, he was right: Brigid
did
look rather gaunt. “I've noticed that it only needs the loss of a pound or two for Brigid to look peaked. It might be Humphrey going off. It's quite a long spell, this time.”

“Isn't she used to it by now?”

“Yes.” Nettled by his obstinacy she took a more direct line, “Of course she wasn't too happy about you being here, you know.”

He seemed unruffled by this oblique accusation. “I can well imagine it. So you think I am the cause of her weight loss?”

Frummie shrugged. “A contributory factor,” she said airily. “There might be other reasons. Brigid and I are not particularly
en rapport,
you know.”

“I had suspected as much.” His thoughtful tone robbed the words of any sting. “It's odd, isn't it, how much easier it often is to relate to people other than one's own flesh and blood?”

She looked at him approvingly. “You're so right. Why should it be, I wonder?”

“Probably guilt. But I might think this way simply because it happens to be my own personal experience. Humphrey and I will never be able to be close. He mistrusts me and I feel guilty about certain decisions I took relating to his upbringing. My guilt and his mistrust stand between any other feelings of love and anxiety which we might feel for each other. Yet because of our relationship we cannot treat these feelings lightly and circumnavigate them as we might with other people less important to us. Precisely because he
is
my son I am unable to connect.”

Frummie regarded him with amused surprise. She hadn't expected such honesty so early in their growing friendship. “It's exactly the same with me,” she admitted. “I feel guilty because I ran off to London and left Brigid with her father. She resents me for abandoning her and my guilt makes it impossible to relate naturally with her as I do to Jemima, my other daughter. I feel her resentment. It's fatally easy to dislike people that you hurt.”

“It's because they are a constant reminder of our weaknesses and failures.”

“Is that why you stayed away?” she asked curiously.

“We stayed in touch,” he answered carefully, “but he made it clear that I was not to be a part of his new life. I went abroad when his mother died, you know, and remarried quite quickly. Humphrey felt that he was forced to build a new life for himself, that I had abandoned him. He was very proper in letting me know everything that happened in it but made it clear that I had no right to participate in it. All my letters went to his BFPO address.”

“It doesn't sound like Humphrey.” Frummie shook her head, her brow wrinkled. “He's such a friendly, open person.”

'Is he?” He was watching her almost eagerly. “You like him?”

“Oh, tremendously. He's been, terribly kind to me, you know.”

“I'm glad.” Alexander turned his chair aside, crossing his long legs. “I'm very glad. And so Brigid is thin because of me and not because of Humphrey.”

“Well, I didn't quite say that.” Frummie felt a strange empathy with him. “She and Humphrey have been terribly happy together, have no fear about that. I think, if you want the truth“—“Yes,” he said soberly, “I want the truth“—“that their early bond was based on the fact that they'd both been abandoned, if you see what I mean. They were a bit like the babes in the wood. Humphrey and Diarmid got along famously together. They might have been father and son …”

She paused, aware of her tactlessness. Alexander was staring ahead of him. “I envy him,” he said gently—and she felt a pang of anguish for him.