A Summer in the Country (33 page)

She set down her cup, delighted with him as usual, a now-familiar sense of fellowship spreading pleasantly within her.

“Oh, so do I. I loathe being alone. Hate it, simply. It's been heaven having Louise with me. I'm going to miss her terribly.”

“But you have a friend coming?”

Her eyes slid sideways, considering him. “Yes,” she said. “Dear old Margot. We were at school together. I'm sure you'll like her.”

He setded himself comfortably, moving the low table a little so that he could stretch out his legs. “Is that relevant?”

Frummie chuckled. “It will be to her. Margot likes to be liked. I've told her a thousand times that it's a weakness but she can't help herself.”

“Not one you suffer from?”

“Certainly not!” she answered indignantly. “Being disliked or even hated can add spice to a relationship. These days everyone needs to be loved. Children require to be praised and lauded for simply existing and adults have to be awarded prizes for being merely adequate. Standards must be lowered lest anyone should fail and excellence is diluted down and shared out amongst footballers, those who acquire wealth through bully-boy tactics or talentless musicians. These are our icons in a society of wishy-washy political correctness. I cannot abide it.”

“I believe you,” he said. “And do you dislike Maigot? Or hate her? Or do you merely tolerate her rather than be alone?”

She was taken aback by his directness. “I'm actually very fond of Margot,” she said defensively. “Well… most of the time.” She began to laugh. “You're impossible,” she said. ‘Truth to tell, Margot is my insurance against a long wet lonely autumn. If I'd known that Louise would be here I wouldn't have asked her.”

“But Louise won't be here.”

“No.” Frummie drank some coffee. “Part of me knows that it's time she made the break but part of me won't accept it. I think it's because I dread being alone again but I'm pretending that I think it's because she's not ready to manage on her own.” She stared at him crossly. “So there you are,” she said irritably, as if he had wrung the confession from her.

“It seems a sensible plan,” he said reflectively. “This short break to test herself. Don't you think so? And you'll have Margot… and the rest of us.”

“As you say.” She shrugged—but felt in some way soothed and relieved by her admission.

“I'm thinking of inviting a friend to stay,” he offered.

It was as if he were seeking a reaction—approval, perhaps?—yet it seemed out of character and Frummie looked at him warily, coolly.

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” He sipped his coffee. “An old school-friend. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?”

“Shall we like him?” Frummie's lips turned down in her characteristic smile. “Or is that irrelevant?”

Alexander laughed. “Not to Gregory. He loves everyone and likes to feel it's reciprocated. He and Margot should get along splendidly.”

“Well.” Frummie was intrigued but determined not to betray herself too far. “And when is he coming?”

“Quite soon. Early in October.”

“Margot and I must give a little party for him. Brigid will help. I'll get Jemima over and I'm sure Louise will come back for it.”

“It sounds just up Gregory's street. Five women to two men, he'll like that.”

“And what about you?” she asked lightly. “Will you like it too?”

He turned to look at her smilingly, so that she felt slightly confused and rather foolish.

“Oh, yes,” he said gently. “I shall like it too.”

When shall I see you again? Jemima did not ask the question. For too many years it had been against the rules and, even now, despite a really fantastic weekend, she could not bring herself to frame the words aloud. She was not secure enough to risk a rebuff; this new love was too precious to lose as a result of a hasty or misjudged assumption. The impossible had happened: she was no longer content to be alone nor considered herself to be by nature a mistress. Now she wanted him with her on a permanent basis; longed to hear him make some kind of commitment. There were moments, very serious moments, among the longer periods of fun and light-heartedness, when he talked about the future,
their
future, and she felt convinced that his intentions were in line with her own. Nevertheless, she was quite unable to broach it openly. Because of the nature of their meeting, her role, it seemed, had been defined. She was destined to be companionable, cheerful, happy. She knew now all of Annabel's characteristics which had annoyed or distressed him and she was too afraid to allow herself to stray into their territory. No. She must remain bright-faced and sweet-tempered, unfazed by inefficiency, laid-back and undemanding; quirky, cool, independent. These were the things about her he loved, the traits which captivated him.

“It will come,” she told herself. “It's early days. Don't be greedy. It's a big step for him, just don't rush it.”

It was hard, though, really hard to dissemble; to tease and joke and play it cool when she wanted to hold him; to sink into comfortable, relaxed security with him. To say “When shall I see you again?” easily, naturally, as though she had the right.

He rolled on to his back and opened his eyes. “Do I have to go?”

She bit back her instinctive response: an overwhelming desire to cry: “No! Stay with me. Don't ever leave me.”

“I'm afraid you do.” She made herself smile at his groan, to pretend toughness. “It was your idea to stay over and make an early start.”

“Slave-driver,” he grumbled. “Admit, though, that it was clever of me to arrange a meeting in Bristol first thing Monday morning.”

“Pretty good,” she said judicially. “Exeter would have been better.”

He gave a crack of laughter, pulling her down on top of him, and she responded willingly but with a brief, backward glance of regret for that past sensation of upward-swooping joy which had revelled in her separateness; which had held her free of sadness and desire. She was careful, however, to be the first to break away, to subdue her quickly rising passion.

“I need some coffee,” she said. “And so do you. Thank God you don't eat breakfast.”

He lay watching her, arms folded behind his head. “Annabel could never come to terms with that,” he said. “She believes that no one can function properly without a good solid breakfast inside them.”

She was shocked by the depth of rage which shook her; holding back with difficulty the urge to turn and scream at him; quelling the need to punish him for his insensitivity. Why should Annabel be so readily in his thoughts after such a heart-shaking night of love? No commendation for remembering his habits and foibles: no gratitude for not fussing. Only a reference to bloody Annabel! She kept her back carefully turned towards him as she belted her wrapper and slipped on her espadrilles. Forcing down her rage, she reasoned with herself that she could expect no praise for something which he believed to be her natural behaviour. She had, after all, taken pains to show him that she did not fuss.

“It depends what she means by ‘function properly,'” she said lightly. “But perhaps our priorities are different. I've known lots of people who ‘function'“—she deliberately stressed the word, giving it a sexy overtone—-“extraordinarily well indeed with very little inside them.”

He gave another shout of laughter, enjoying the occasional flash of bitchiness, flattered by these latent signs of jealousy, and went away to take a shower. She went into the kitchen, still angry, feeling oddly degraded. In attempting to compete with Annabel, to outdo and undermine her, she'd made herself sound like some promiscuous airhead. Confused and miserable she made the coffee and wandered into the sitting room. MagnifiCat raised his round, flat face and she dropped on her knees beside him, laying her cheek on his warm, soft flank.

“I'm a fool,” she told him. “I'm just no good at this. God, I love him!”

Presently she stood up and went out on to the balcony. The harbour was wreathed in curling mist, the opposite shore invisible, the sounds of the sea-birds echoing mournfully, evocatively, in the early morning silence. He was behind her, putting his arms about her, burying his mouth in her hair, and she folded her own hands over his, returning the pressure.

“Magic,” he murmured. “You, this place. The whole scene. I can't stay away from you. You've bewitched me, I hope you realise that.”

Relief, gratitude, love, welled inside her in an unstoppable tide of generosity and she turned in his arms, slipping her own around his neck. Impossible to remain cool or to give some quirky answer. The kiss was deep, long, satisfying.

“Me, too,” she said at last, inadequately.

They clung together until MagnifiCat came winding round their legs, butting and pressing his head into their ankles, so that Jemima began to laugh and they drew reluctantly apart.

“The coffee will be cold,” she said. “And you'll be late.” He sighed. “You're a hard woman,” he said as he followed her inside, “but it's not long till Friday.”

The words repeated themselves sweetly inside her head, or she said them out loud to herself, long after he'd gone, making it impossible to go back to bed or sleep. She could only sit on the sofa, MagnifiCat beside her, watching the cold white mist diffusing into a glowing, golden, cloudy brightness just as her own private joy was warming the remains of her fear and anger into a deeper love and a more confident hope.

L
OUISE WAS
relieved to be making the trip to East Prawle alone. This would be her first official day as tenant and she needed the time to be quiet, to have the chance to think things through, to decide exactly how she was feeling. She was feeling tired, that much was certain. Ever since Jemima had suggested the cottage she'd bounced between excitement and terror; determination and lack of confidence. It didn't help that she was well aware that they were all watching her, anxious lest she should not be strong enough yet to be alone, ready to encourage her to draw back. Knowing instinctively that she must take this step, she hadn't dared to show her true feelings, not even to Frummie: especially not to Frummie. For the first time since her breakdown in Brigid's kitchen it was necessary to keep a guard on her emotions. Frummie didn't want her to go. This was very touching—and she didn't want to go, not really—yet part of her knew that if she didn't make the break now she might never have the courage. She could imagine staying on for ever, finding a job, working from Foxhole with Frummie looking after her. To begin with it would be just until she found her feet and afterwards it would be impossible to leave without hurting Frummie's feelings. Of course, it was probable that Frummie would be unable to sublet, that Humphrey and Brigid might not be too happy with her continuing to be a paying guest, but she could imagine that the situation might drift on indefinitely. Margot's arrival, along with the. offer of the cottage, had given her an opportunity she simply had to take.

She'd tried to keep Frummie involved, showing her over the cottage, listening to her advice, promising that she'd admit it if she found this new independence all too much, but she was glad to be alone now, to be driving out of Kings-bridge, the little car piled with her belongings, ready to make a new start. Turning right over Frogmore Bridge, climbing the hill, glancing with delight at the estuary winding between quiet, autumnal fields, she was washed through with an unexpected wave of freedom. She felt light, rinsed of anxiety, buoyant. Gradually she allowed herself to give way to excitement, happy anticipation: planning how she would setde in, trying to imagine this new, rather solitary, life. The little cottage was charming, if tiny. Yet it was its tininess which appealed to her: there was a sense of safety in such a small comfortable area; security in its cosiness. It was the last cottage of a higgledy-piggledy terrace which was charming in its nonconformity. The minute porch led directly into the one big living room, with the kitchen, a narrow slip of a galley, screened off by a divider containing cupboards and shelves and a breakfast bar. The kitchen door opened into a long narrow conservatory with a door to a small walled yard. Upstairs was one good-sized bedroom, the bathroom and a boxroom.

She thought: At least it won't take too long to decorate it.

The owner had already sent colour charts and Louise's first thought was to begin with the boxroom. It was Brigid who had suggested that, instead, she should start downstairs with the living area whilst the weather was still fine enough to leave doors and windows open. This made sense—but it was certainly going to be a muddle, trying to live amongst ladders and paint pots with the furniture piled together and covered with dust sheets. Yet even the thought of such confusion in a small space had no power to depress her today.

The high banks and tall hedges were full of colour—yellow and red berries of the white bryony; the dog roses' scarlet hips—whilst on the hillside a farmer was drilling winter wheat, a cloud of seagulls circling in his wake.

She turned right at Cousins Cross, passing through narrow lanes, until she drove at last into the village. Her sense of excitement increased: it was fun to be moving into her little house, to be looking across the green to the cliff path and the sea; smiling to herself at the sign of the Pig's Nose, with the Piglet Stores and Grunter's Cafe. She parked carefully outside the cottage, as close as she could get to the stone wall which bordered the few square feet of the front garden and, climbing out, paused to look at the tangled mass of chrysanthemum and montbretia which grew beside the few steps which led from the gate to the front door. Toadflax grew on the wall, with stonecrop and aubretia, and she stood in the sun, her hands on the warm dry stone, her confidence growing. She took the front door key from her pocket and went inside. The living room was dim, coming into it from the bright sunshine outside, and she stood for a moment, just inside the door, looking about her. The shabby, chintzy cottage furniture was set around the small Victorian grate, the bookcases on either side of the chimney-piece held a few tattered paperbacks, and an old portable television stood in the corner on a scarred and much-used tea-trolley. Silence filled the room; silence—and the scent of freesias. On the gate-leg table under the window a small pottery jar was filled with them.

Louise stood quite still, her arms locked beneath her breast. Freesias: white and gold in her wedding bouquet: purple and blue for her first wedding anniversary: multicoloured when Hermione was born.

“Trust you,” he'd murmured, his lips against her hair as she'd thanked him with a hug, “to love a flower which is so difficult to find. What's wrong with a nice bunch of chrysanthemums?”

“It's a test,” she'd said, hugging him more tightly. “Just to see how much you care.”

“Well, if you don't know now you never will,” he'd answered, kissing her. “Who d'you think I am? Lancelot in search of the Grail? You wait! It'll be lilies and carnations, next time, from the garage. They keep them in nice Cellophane packages in buckets outside.”

He'd arranged to have some freesias delivered for her birthday only a week after Hermione had died. They had arrived with a message he'd written a month before, not knowing that when she received them she'd be racked with pain and half mad with grief.
Happy Birthday O Best Beloved
_^f
s Mama. May there be many, many more and may we spend them together.
He loved Kipling's
Just So Stories and
read them to Hermione, who'd listened entranced. He'd had no idea, when he'd given his message to the florist, that he would never read to her again.

She thought: And I let him go, afterwards, without a kind word or a hug, consigning him to oblivion along with the rest of my life. With Hermione.

Crossing to the table she picked up the postcard which lay beside the flowers. It was a coastal scene of the cliffs just below East Prawle. Jemima had scribbled right across the back.

Welcome,
she'd written.
Make yourself at home. See you soon.

It was sheer coincidence that she'd chosen freesias. Louise propped the card on the narrow mantelshelf and went back outside to unload the car. It was important that the cottage should be made homely; that the chill, impersonal “holiday-let” atmosphere should be warmed into a friendly cosiness. She took her supplies through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, and prepared to make the cottage her own. Her books from two cardboard boxes very nearly filled the shelves on either side of the painted fireplace. One of the leaves of the gate-leg table was put up and a wooden chair set beside it. On the table she put her paint box, a notebook and some pencils; her pashmina shawl was draped over the back of one of the armchairs; two pretty ladies, Doulton figurines, were set upon the mantelshelf beside the postcard; an elderly teddy bear, his fur worn and rubbed from love, was propped in the corner of the sofa. As she unpacked some pieces of china she was reminded of her arrival at Foxhole more than four months before; how she had set about making the cottage her own, accompanied by those echoes from the past This time she had rather more belongings with which to create the desired result—but the echoes were still with her.

Louise paused amid the boxes. The echoes were there but the fear had gone: she no longer had to deny them, no longer needed to be continually clenched in a spasm of rejection. Now she could hear the voices with sadness, remembering, with a gentle grief, all that she had lost, accepting the tragedy as her own and learning to live with it. She sat at the table, holding her mug of coffee, breathing the scent of the freesias. Michaelmas daisies, purple and dark red, leaned at the window and montbretia flamed beneath the wall. A passer-by, glancing in, raised a cheerful hand, and Louise waved back, encouraged by this friendly gesture, already feeling a sense of belonging.