A Summer in the Country (35 page)

She thought: The timing wasn't right. Not while he was upset about the weekend. It's got to be the right moment. And it might be just what we need to push us over that last bridge.

She grimaced a little, suspecting that she might be a little overconfident about that; wondering if she were, after all, whistling in the dark. A little surge of misery and fear stabbed in her gut and, on instinct, she switched on her phone and dialled a number. Brigid's voice was as cool and clear as always.

“Hi,” said Jemima. “It's me. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” Brigid sounded encouragingly friendly. “How's life in Salcombe?”

“Oh… Much as usual. I was wondering if we might have lunch again. It was rather fun last time, wasn't it?”

“It was great Why not? Where? Would you like to come over here?”

“Urn, probably not.”

Brigid's chuckle was sympathetic. “Too many people? I couldn't agree more. Effings again, then? It was really nice there and it's about halfway.”

“Great.” Jemima was relieved by the solution. “When can you make it?”

They fixed a date and hung up. Jemima continued to lie, stretched out but taut, watching the rain hissing gently on the windows. Might it be possible that she could tell Brigid all her secrets? Would it not merely be confirming the opinion she feared that Brigid had always held? Underline her sister's disapproval? Yet she was sure that recently there had been a lowering of the barriers; a new closeness. What a comfort it would be to share her feelings with her sister.

MagnifiCat came padding softly over the floor and she leaned to pull him into her arms. He lay contentedly, eyes closed, his round, flat face serene, and she settled again, relaxing in his warmth, drowsy, at last, with the rhythm of his purring.

Standing on the half-circle of beach, watching the rising tide, Louise could just see, out of the corner of her eye, the man under the trees. He was half hidden by the rocks at the edge of the cove, and he, too, was watching the small child at the water's edge. She danced lightly on her toes, skipping after the receding waves and jumping back quickly as they washed in again over the sun-warmed sand. Delight flowed in every line of her movement and her long, fair hair flew in a shining cloud about her face, an aureole of bright filaments. Her feet were bare, her dungarees rolled up to her knees, a fleecy jacket open over a T-shirt. She jumped, crowing with delight, splashing amongst the brightly curling foam at the waves' edge, a tiny water-nymph.

Louise glanced about; the small cove was empty.. The child seemed to be alone—apart from the man, watching from the trees—and an uneasiness settled on her heart: weighty, formless. A cloud edged across the sun, so that shadows crept along the beach, and a chill breeze sprang up from nowhere, ruffling the grey water which broke more roughly on the shore. A light mist, clinging and vaporous, drifted, hiding the houses on the opposite shore, hanging above the water. The tide was rising quickly, the waves breaking over the rocks at each point of the cove, yet still the child danced and leaped, unaware of the change in the weather. Perhaps her family was round the point, somewhere along the beach which stretched to the ferry steps. Soon she would be cut off: too small to wade in the strong current around the rocks or to negotiate the sharp rocks themselves.

Anxiety pumped inside her and she looked again towards the man beneath the trees. He had moved further round the point towards her, up into the cove amongst the rocks, his gaze still fixed on the tiny figure. She should go down to them, warn them, yet she was strangely unwilling to move. The mist was thicker now, more dense, and a wave, rougher than the others, caught the child off balance and knocked her to her knees. As she tried to rise another wave rushed in, swirling round her, tweaking over the bright head, so that she cried out.

Louise tried to shout, to run to help her, but fear seemed to immobilise her, and she saw that the man had turned and was watching her.

“Help her!” she shouted.
“Save
her,” but the words were lost amongst the crashing of the waves and she could see, quite clearly now, that the man was Rory and he was watching her with pity and despair.

She gave a great groaning shout, stretching out with her arms, and the crash and splintering of glass woke her from, her dream. She sat in a welter of crumpled sheet and rumpled blanket, her face in her hands, whilst the sunshine streamed over her bed and shone on the broken glass and spilled water. Presently she wiped her eyes on the edge of the sheet, still huddled, willing down the panic. The dream slowly receded and she was left with the familiar sensation of loss. Now that she was alone it made its presence felt more keenly and it was hard to look past it; to allow it to exist without the old habit of denial creeping back. She tried hard not to block it by singing, by busy, mind-numbing activity, as she had taught herself so successfully in the past. Now she made herself live with it, accepting it but trying to look beyond it.

Louise pushed the bedclothes away and stood up. The sun was shining—well, that was a bonus—and she paused at the window, staring out over the upland fields, still seeing Rory's face, so distant, yet so familiar—and Hermione, dancing at the water's edge. Oh, how she missed them! Was it really possible that this gnawing aching emptiness might ever be filled? Despair edged close. Look beyond it—but at what? She forced herself to consider the day ahead: more decorating and, if the fine weather held, a walk along the beach and up through the woods to Rickham Common and over Portle-mouth Down. These walks calmed her; the long views of rocky coasdine and limidess sea bringing a sense of proportion to her troubled heart. There was a quiet comfort to be had in the contemplation of infinity—the vast stretches of the moor had the same effect—and she was aware of a very slow, gentle healing taking place. Later, after her walk and a hot, relaxing bath, she must prepare something to eat, for Jemima was coming to supper. Yes, a good day: full of simple but positive activities.

Louise pulled back the bed covers and crouched to collect the pieces of broken glass. The small amount of water had already run away, disappearing into the cracks between the floorboards, but she fetched a cloth from the bathroom and wiped the floor carefully, looking for tiny splinters of glass. Presently, washed and dressed, she went downstairs, pulling back the curtains in the living room, going into the galley to admire her efforts. The small, lean-to conservatory was proving to be extremely useful, doubling as a dining room and sitting room, now that she had begun work on the living room. Here, the sun shone in from early morning until late in the afternoon, and she'd moved the gate-legged table, the small wooden chair and an old Lloyd loom into its narrow space, leaving just enough room to squeeze past into the yard outside. Here, she could forget the muddle and the dust sheets at least until it became dark. As she laid her breakfast, she wondered how she and Jemima would manage this evening. One more chair could be crammed in beside the table but where would they sit afterwards? The Foxhole contingent had arrived for lunch before the decorating had got underway and, thanks to Jemima, it had been a very jolly party. Louise had been seized by panic at the last moment, all her newfound independence deserting her, her confidence evaporating, as she envisaged preparing something special for the five of them.

“I'm hopeless at cooking,” she'd mourned, “especially in such cramped conditions. Whatever shall I do? Would they be hurt if I took them to the pub? Brigid's such a brilliant cook too. I know I'll just mess it all up.”

“You've just lost your nerve,” said Jemima, “and everything's a bit strange. Tell you what. I'll take you to Effings and you can get some of their home-made frozen meals. They are truly delicious and no one need know.”

They'd gone to Totnes together and studied the menu, trying to decide between Lady Booth's haddock gratin with prawns or a spicy lamb curry called Rogan Josh. Finally they'd decided on the Breton rabbit casserole with poached pears to follow. It had been a huge success. She'd tucked away in the freezer a two-portion pack of spinach and ricotta pancakes, as well as some sticky toffee puddings, as an emergency. Perhaps they'd do for this evening. Jemima was blissfully easy to have around: undemanding, good company, making light of difficulties. Brigid had unostentatiously left two bottles of rather good claret behind—“Just a little present to help you settle in,” she'd said later, when Louise had telephoned to thank her—and one of these would add a touch of class to the supper.

She heaved a sigh of relief as she poured some orange juice and put some bread in the toaster. Louise liked to be generous to her friends but, just at present, she was trying to manage on very little. Martin had agreed readily to subsidise her, in place of the rent, but she hated the thought, now, that she was living on him. No part-time jobs were available, at least not within an easy driving range, and the one waitressing job she'd considered meant that she'd have been out of pocket at the end of the day.

“It's the one snag with being so far away from any of the towns,” she'd said to Martin anxiously. “But I'm still looking. I suppose I'm eligible for social security …”

“For heaven's sake, sweetie, stop fussing. Just give yourself this three months. Try to relax into it and make yourself really better. We can hack it if you'll just stop worrying about it all the time. You're living on next to nothing as it is.”

“I don't need much,” she'd said. “I just don't feel right about it.”

“Look, I just know something is going to turn up. OK? Trust your Uncle Martin and enjoy yourself. Please?”

She'd given in, grateful as always for his kindness, but she still kept looking at the “Situations Vacant” columns, hoping to hear from Charles Price, praying for a miracle. She put the toast in the rack, pausing for a moment to enjoy the warmth which already radiated into this little glass room. The last cobwebby shreds of her dream were evaporating, like mist before the sun, yet the longing remained.

B
RIGID WAS
working upstairs at her big table when she heard Alexander's voice, raised from the hall below. She went out through the bedrooms and on to the stairs, bending to look, calling in reply. He'd obviously been standing near the front door but now he moved further into the hall, into her line of vision.

“I'm so sorry to disturb you,” he said, both hands raised in the now familiar gesture which seemed to be both apology and benediction. “I'm going shopping and merely wondered if I could save you a journey. Do you need anything?”

“I don't think so.” She descended the last few steps. “I shopped a few days ago. Oh, well, actually, I do need some dog biscuits. Well, Blot does. Shall I show you the box? That would be great, if you really don't mind.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I think so.” She smiled at him. “I've spoken to Humphrey.”

His eyebrows shot up.
“Have
you? Did he stick to the script?”

“Only partially.” She chuckled. “He wasn't particularly enthusiastic, I have to say, but the minute I backed off he became quite keen. So I continued to back off.”

Alexander grinned. “Have you'ever heard of Stephen Potter?” he asked.

She frowned, puzzled. “I don't think so.”

“Ah, well, never mind. It sounds as if your gamesmanship was first class.”

“Do you think so?” She looked at him anxiously. “I've been wondering ever since. I've sent the mortgage forms off to him but hoping that by the time he gets them he'll have given it some thought. His problem will be backing down, won't it? You're quite right in saying that
my
feeling guilty makes
him
feel martyred but it will be hard for him to admit that taking the school over is a good idea—and that it might even be fun. I wish he'd thought of it first.”

“I have every confidence in you,” said Alexander. “I've no doubt that Humphrey will, in time, believe that he
did
think of it first.”

“You
are
a cynic,” said Brigid firmly, “even though you always deny it.” She sighed. “Oh, I can't tell you just how much I'm praying that he'll be able to do it. It's not just to let me off the hook. I really believe he'd love it.”

“I can't quite see him retiring just yet,” agreed Alexander. “He's still a young man. Although I can well believe that you need some time together. I hope that will be possible.”

“Oh, I hope so too. I just wish I knew exactly how much he'd need to be there.” She shook her head. “There's still so much to think about; whether he and Jenny could work together and the logistics of it. Well, we'll simply have to wait and see. I've hinted that there's quite a lot of interest being shown so let's hope he doesn't take too long to make up his mind. And what about you? When's your friend arriving?”

'Tomorrow.” Alexander looked mischievous. “His arrival is causing quite a lot of excitement.”

“Isn't it just!” Brigid looked severe. “I hope you know what you're doing?”

“Oh, I think so. I'm too old to cope with two women at once any more. I need reinforcements.”

“You must bring—Gregory, is it?—to supper. I suppose everyone had better come. It'll be quite a party. Would you like that?”

“It sounds great fun. But I don't want to put you out. He's my guest not yours.”

“Oh, I don't think cooking some supper will be too difficult. It's Mummie and Margot who will be the problem.”

He watched her with a tender, smiling look. “You shouldn't let them embarrass you. Why should the way other people behave reflect on you?”

She'd spoken jokingly but she might have guessed that he would go directly to the point. “She
is
my mother,” she said rather bitterly. “I hate to see her… demeaning herself.”

“You're too harsh,” he said gently. “Frummie is still young inside. So is Margot. So are we all. It's a tragedy that the joy in our hearts no longer matches our wrinkled, saggy exteriors but that doesn't mean that we should extinguish the flame lest other people should be embarrassed by it. Why deprive them of their fun?”

“As long as you don't despise her,” she mumbled, flushing hotly. “I know I'm strait-laced and boring but I just wish she'd be more … responsible. Jemima's just like her. They don't seem to worry about anything. Or anybody.”

“I'm not sure that's quite true. People make mistakes and then it becomes impossible to put them right. Pride or guilt or resentment block the path to reconciliation and seem insurmountable. You're seeing a little of that with Humphrey, aren't you? Your own guilt or resentment triggers off a reaction and it rapidly gets out of hand. It happened between me and Humphrey and between you and your mother. Imagine how your mother feels, having let you down so terribly.”

“She could have put up a fight,” said Brigid angrily.

“Perhaps she did,” said Alexander, “but perhaps your father's pride resisted her too strongly. He loved you and was determined to keep you and protect you. Perhaps your mother discovered the strength of his determination and pride too late.”

She stared at him. “She never speaks of it.”

He shook his head. “It's had such a long time to become entrenched. Has it really harmed you? Did my decision to remarry really harm Humphrey?”

“I… don't know,” she said uncertainly. “It's awful to think that your parents don't love you.”

“But your father
did
love you. Far too much to give you up.”