A Summer in the Country (31 page)

“So you said in your letter.” His voice was cold but it was clear that his rage had passed. “The point now is: what do we do about it?”

“I've thought about it over and over again,” she said miserably. “I suppose the only thing we can do is to add it to the mortgage.”

“Great,” he said heavily. “Well, that's my retirement plans out of the window.”

“Oh, Humphrey, I'm so sorry—”

“Oh,” he said irritably, “it's not that I particularly object to working a bit longer. It's just that it would have been nice to have a choice. I wanted the time to think about things. My gratuity would have dealt with most of the mortgage and the cottage would have kept us going. Now I shall have to look around. The Bank won't object, I expect, but if they ask about my retiring from the Service next year you'll need to tell them that I shall be getting a job, otherwise they might not be quite so happy about it.”

“I'm sorry.” She couldn't think of anything else to say.

“The trouble is it's not going to be easy, finding something down there. You'd better start looking out for bursars' jobs, that kind of thing.”

“You see, it all sounded so unlikely to go wrong. And, to be fair, if Bryn hadn't decided to syphon off the moftey and disappear it wouldn't have crashed. They were making a real success of it.”

“So you said in your letter,” he repeated coolly. “But you might have guessed that anyone Jenny picked
up with
was likely to be suspect.”

“Oh, I don't know.” She couldn't help herself.
“You
seem to have a lot of time for Peter. She picked
up with him
first and, if I remember rightly, it was he who started
having
an affair, not Jenny.”

“OK. OK.” Irritability was back in his voice. “So you've supported your old school chum and now I'm going to have to pay for it. The question is: how?”

Remorse took hold of her again. “Oh, darling, I
am
so sorry.” Her voice was ragged with weariness and worry. “I'll do everything I can to help.”

“Yes, I know.” Irritability softened into a kind of impatient affection and she felt relief flood through her. “OK. Let's stop the bitching and decide what to do. But not now. You sound bushed. Go to bed and we'll talk again soon.”

'Tomorrow?”

“No, I'm at sea for a few days. I'll call as soon as we're back in. And, Brigid? Take care of yourself, OK?”

“Oh, Humphrey …”

“Look, I love you. We'll manage somehow. Get on to the Bank tomorrow. Now, go to bed and try to get some sleep but call the police if you hear or see anything the least bit unusual.”

“Yes, I will.” She wanted to weep: remorse, gratitude, anxiety weakened her. “I love you too.”

“Then take care of yourself and go to bed,” he said—and hung up.

She sat down at the table, resting her head on her folded arms. The worst was over. There would be moments of reproach on his part and guilt on hers but the real worst was over… Her eyes closed and, for the first time in weeks, she relaxed, allowing her thoughts to spin into welcome, unanxious oblivion. In a few moments she was fast asleep.

Louise, driving from Foxhole to Salcombe, was thinking about Frummie; how she'd changed since the arrival of Alexander. There was a sharpness to her, a bright, shiny quickness, so that she seemed to dart to and fro like a little bird, alert, cocky. She hummed as she flitted about, breaking into song, preening in the smart new clothes which had suddenly appeared, pecking at her food, taking tiny sips of wine or water. She never alighted anywhere for very long but was up again, hopping off to some new task. The videos had lost their power of attraction, her attention too easily distracted, and only late in the evening would she sit, broody and quiet, clucking secretly to herself.

As she drove down from the moor, through the back of Holne and turning right at Play Cross, it occurred to Louise that perhaps Frummie hadn't changed at all. It was simply that, with the advent of Alexander, certain characteristics were showing themselves more clearly. Behind the cruel ravages of old age, she could see the younger Frummie: the Frummie who had sat in the jazz cellar, obsessed by love and driven by jealousy. It was as if she'd grown young again. Louise, touched by die metamorphosis, teased her a little whilst encouraging her.

“You look great,” she'd say. “Where's the party?” Frummie merely smiled her self-mocking smile and uttered some witty retort. She \Vas aware of her foolish vanity but was, nevertheless, enjoying herself. Life had offered her an unexpected opportunity for fun and she was seizing it with both hands.

“I wonder,” Louise had said naughtily, “how Margot will like Alexander?”

Frummie's inaccurately rouged lips had stopped smiling, the bright blue eyelids had dropped calculatingly. “I could put her off,” she'd said thoughtfully. “After all, it's more important that you have a roof over your head than Margot has a holiday.”

Louise had felt rather shocked at this reaction, wishing she hadn't joked about it. “Poor Margot,” she'd said lightly. “She'll have been really looking forward to it. You couldn't disappoint her at this late date.”

Frummie had made a face, shrugging a little, and Louise felt the first stirrings of anxiety. It was clear that she must remain positive and forward-thinking. Yet it was becoming impossible now to discuss her future with Frummie, who was busily thinking up new reasons why she should not yet implement her plans to find a job and move out. Even with Brigid she felt uneasy. Having promised Frummie that she'd talk to Brigid, she'd made a very real attempt to discover what was occupying her thoughts—but it had been surprisingly difficult to be natural with her. The old ease was absent and Louise saw quite quickly that Brigid had no intention of unburdening herself. It was evident too that Brigid was feeling deeply embarrassed by her mother's behaviour. Here, Louise could sympathise. She knew that people were likely to react much more sensitively towards their own relatives and that Brigid had a horror that her mother might be looked upon as pathetic or ridiculous. Despite attempts to reassure her, Brigid had remained gloomy, preoccupied—and then, that evening, all these small confusions had resolved themselves in the greater drama. Their sanctuary had been invaded and they'd all drawn together to protect themselves.

Now, a few days afterwards, everyone seemed more balanced and, although the smaller tensions had discharged into a larger anxiety, yet a calmer atmosphere prevailed. Brigid seemed to have overcome some private worry whilst Frummie was quite above herself now that her fears had been realised. The reality of the man on the track, the arrival of the police, die seriousness of the situation seemed to invest her with an importance which oddly neutralised her former terrors. Everyone was obliged to take her very seriously and she was making the most of it As for Alexander… Louise smiled to herself. Alexander seemed as unchanging as the eternal verities.

“Frummie's very fond of you,” he'd said, when she'd explained how hard it was to find the courage to leave; to break away on her own.

“She's been wonderful to me,” she'd answered warmly. “like a mother. Much more so, in fact, than my own mother. I know I have to go but I love being here with her. I feel so safe.”

“I expect that's why you need to go,” he'd answered— and she'd frowned after him, puzzling at his odd remark.

Once on the A38 she accelerated, looking forward to seeing Jemima.

“I might be late back,” she'd said. ‘If there's no reply go and have some coffee in The Wardroom and I'll come and find you.”

Louise drove carefully, concentrating automatically whilst part of her mind wrestled with the problem of work and accommodation. She tried to take Frummie's advice; looking beyond panic and despair at some more positive future. At present, however, there was nothing to fix her gaze upon. Thea had telephoned Charles Price who, though he had expressed a great willingness to meet Louise, had warned that there were no vacancies for staff at Mount House's pre-prep school. He'd suggested that Louise should visit The Ark and then they could have a talk.

“After all,” Thea had said to her, “you never know when a vacancy might come up and then you'd be first in line.”

She'd agreed, telling herself that an opening now would have been a miracle, trying not to feel too downcast, whilst looking forward to seeing the school and meeting Charles Price. Meanwhile, she must explore other avenues. It was hardly likely, after all, that there would be teaching vacancies so close to the beginning of term; she'd set her sights too high and must be prepared to content herself with something outside teaching. Her other enquiries to playgroups and schools had been fruitless but her name and telephone number had been filed. The important thing was to remain optimistic. There were other jobs, and maybe Jemima might be helpful in finding her a suitable winter let. The ones she'd seen advertised in the local paper were demanding frighteningly high rents.

There was still a lot of holiday traffic and she was glad to leave the dual carriageway at Wrangaton, driving through the lanes again, noticing the turning of the year: milk-green hazelnuts ripening in the hedges; bleached grasses, tall and feathery, fading in the ditches; beech leaves, glossing and yellowing, kindling on the trees. Her heart was comforted by the beauty of the gently rounded hills and placid river valleys; the pale gleam of harvested fields and the scarlet flash of rich, red earth. She drove on the back roads from Kings-bridge, round Batson Creek—where a heron stood in humped, immobile contemplation—into the town, and was lucky enough to find a space for the car on Whitestrand Quay.

There was no reply at the flat and she walked back to The Wardroom, went in and ordered coffee. The cafe was busy and the veranda tables, to her disappointment, were occupied. She sat down, wondering if she might be competent as a waitress, considering other jobs, not noticing the young man on the veranda who wore a baseball cap and Ray-Bans against the sun which dazzled on the water. He glanced round, saw her, and turned quickly away, but she didn't see him and presently Jemima arrived and hurried her off to the flat.

“YOU'RE LOOKING
good.” Jemima stared at her critically. “Honestly. No flannel. There was a kind of
stretched
look about you which has gone. Are you really OK?”

“Really OK,” said Louise. “Well. Nearly really OK. I have occasional panic attacks but I'm over all that awfulness. Sorry I frightened you.”

“You were pretty scary,” admitted Jemima. “We were very worried about you.”

“You've all been so good to me.” Louise shook her head. “I can't believe how kind everyone's been. Your mother was fantastic. She seemed to understand how I was feeling.”

“I'm not terribly surprised about that. Frummie's lived quite a Bohemian life and she's hung out with some unusual people. Not that I'm saying that you're peculiar or anything … Oh, shit! I'm going to really put my foot in it, aren't I?”

Louise chuckled, “Don't worry, Frummie said that she saw a lot of nervous breakdowns after the war. She recognised some of the signs. Don't look so embarrassed. I can hack being potty. And talking of looking good, you're looking pretty fantastic yourself. Any particular reason?” She watched Jemima blush, her fair skin washed with scarlet, and her eyebrows shot up. “Goodness! What have I said?”

“Nothing,” said Jemima hastily. “Honestly. Look. What about a glass of something? I'm not quite organised with lunch yet but it won't take long.”

“Never mind about lunch,” said Louise, intrigued. “So who is he?”

“Who?” asked Jemima unconvincingly.

“Oh, come on!” Louise sat down on the sofa beside Magnificat. “Don't give me the wide-eyed bit! Is it that chap you were waiting for when I came to supper that evening? When was it? Goodness, was that really last May!”

“It's unbelievable, isn't it?” Jemima seized on the distraction. “Nearly four months ago.”

“I can count too,” said Louise, amused. “But you can't fool me. Is it him?”

“No,” said Jemima. “Anyway, he was married…”

“And you said you were strictly mistress material,” mused Louise, teasingly. “Don't tell me you've changed your mind?”

“I don't know,” mumbled Jemima. “It's not that simple.”

Louise burst out laughing. “When was it ever?” she asked.

“Sorry. I really don't want to pry. Well, I do—but I shan't. It's none of my business. And I'd love a glass of wine.”

“It's not that I don't want to talk about it,” said Jemima rapidly, hating to seem so stuffy. “It's just a bit premature and I have this crazy feeling that if I talk about it before anything's really settled it'll go horribly wrong. I've never been like this before. It's … well, it's—”

“Wonderful and terrifying and fantastic and scary. When you're with him you never want him to leave ever again and when he's away from you you're so frightened at the thought of such a commitment you can't believe you'd have the courage to go through with it. But you still wait for the phone to ring, hate it when it's anyone else, and then find yourself being all cool and brittle when it's him and cursing yourself when he hangs up and lie awake all night thinking of all the things you wish you'd said instead. Is that it?”

Jemima was staring at her. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That's pretty much how it is.”

“It's not new,” Louise sighed, “but it gets us every time.” She gasped as MagnifiCat landed on her lap, purring loudly. “Good grief! He weighs a ton,” she said. “What have you been feeding him on? Whalemeat?”

Jemima laughed. “He's such a tart,” she said, relieved to be offered a change of direction. “At least he is when it comes to the ladies. Let's have a glass of something and talk about winter lets. I'm not sure I can help you much, you know. My properties are all in a fairly small radius. And they're not too cheap. It's becoming a bit trendy to spend Christmas round here, especially now that the Royal Castle at Dartmouth is second to Trafalgar Square in popularity for New Year's Eve. So owners can get a pretty good screw for their cottages during the fortnight over Christmas and the New Year, which means that the people who want to let for the whole six months are increasing their rents to make up for that fortnight.”

Louise took her glass, looking crestfallen. “Oh,” she said, rather dismally. “I thought you could get really cheap cottages between October and March.”

“Oh, you can,” said Jemima quickly. “There's lots of little cottages about which wouldn't attract this sort of market. The trouble is that my firm specialises in pretty up-market stuff.” She leafed through her folder, hesitated, glancing over the details of one particular sheet. “It's a pity you're not into decorating but, anyway, it's only vacant until Christmas.”

“What is it?” asked Louise hopefully. “I'm pretty good with a paint brush, if that's what you mean. I did a whole cottage once when we—when I couldn't get anything else. And I made a very good job of it, too.”

“It's a small cottage in East Prawle.” Jemima was reading the details more closely. “The cottage was taken on some years ago before Home From Home went up market. It's owned by a woman; a civil servant who lives in London. She uses it for three weeks in the summer but we let it out for her for the rest of the year. She's retiring at Christmas but she's asking us to get it redecorated for her. She's rejected one estimate as being too high. Perfiaps you could live rent-free in return for doing it up.” She looked at Louise questioningly. “Would that be any help?”

“Rent free?” Louise was aware of a trickle of excitement. “Sounds OK.”

“It's not very big. In fact, it's a cosy little place, just a bit shabby, that's all. I could come over and give you a hand.”

They stared at each other. “It would give me a breathing space,” said Louise. “Just until I know where I'm going. Maybe I could find a part-time job…”

There's the Pig's Nose at Prawle,” suggested Jemima. “They might need someone. But could you manage financially if you can't find anything quickly? Not that I'm trying to pry or anything.”

“I probably could.” Louise was thinking of Martin's offer of three months' rent in advance. Maybe he'd be prepared to convert that to a loan for her subsistence until she found a job … “I'm sure I could,” she said firmly.

“Well,” Jemima was watching her uncertainly, “if you're sure. It's a bit remote over there, you know, although the cottage is actually end of a terrace on the edge of the village and there's a farm quite near. You wouldn't feel lonely or… anything?”

“You mean would I be nervous after all the hype about these attacks? Probably.” She shrugged. “But I've got to do it sometime.”

“But you don't have to be stuck out in the country,” argued Jemima, feeling a certain sense of responsibility. “You could get a place in Kingsbridge or Totnes.”