A Summer in the Country (6 page)

Brigid turned away and stared at the material stretched out upon the table: curtains, yet to be made. Was it impossible to change? To step free from the limitations of genes and character? To be rid of resentment that surged from nowhere, disabling love? Each time she believed that she had conquered, imagined that her very real affection for her sister was, at last, stronger than her jealousy, some reminder—a bitter thought, some hastily spoken words—would undermine her efforts, as if some demonic serpent lay curled, latent within her, waiting to strike. She occasionally surprised a look on Jemima's face: a mixture of puzzlement, disappointment, sadness—and something else. It was a look of hopeful humility; it expressed a kind of longing but also acceptance. It was this that was really difficult to deal with; as if Jemima understood Brigid's dislike and took her sister's valuation to herself. Puddle-duck. It could so easily have been a happy, loving nickname. Yet, for Brigid, the word still held those connotations with which she'd invested it as an unhappy, angry schoolgirl. It stood for all the pain she'd suffered in fee rejection by her mother, and Jemima was the living symbol on which her anger had centred. Puddle-duck. She'd made so many overtures, poor Puddle-duck, so many loving gestures, tried to forge a real friendship with the older half-sister she'd been so pleased to find, yet in the last resort it had been impossible for Brigid to make that final, total acceptance.

She thought: What sort of person am I, for God's sake?

Jemima had been so much fun at lunch, warm and amusing, generously insisting that it was her treat, and Frummie had been so responsive, so affectionate, so—Brigid's hands clenched unconsciously—so
approving.
How rarely did her elder daughter bask in such motherly love! No,
her
portion was dealt out in sarcastic observations, malicious witticisms, cool irony. Brigid smoothed the fabric, turned on the radio, bent to stroke Blot, curled now on his mat by the window. Work could absorb, calm, satisfy. She lifted the heavy scissors and cut with accurate, skilful confidence.

It was much later, back in the kitchen for a cup of tea, that she noticed the red winking light on the answerphone. Thea's voice was apologetic: “So sorry, Brigid. What a twit I am! Bless you for having him. He's obviously been well looked after. Have you seen the little pressie on the dresser? Speak soon. Bring Louise over for tea? Yes? Lots of love.” The next voice contained a kind of hurried, brittle cheerfulness. “It's Jenny. Hope you're OK, Brigid. I wondered if I could pop over and see you? Would Tuesday be OK? Don't bother to phone back if it is. I'm all over the place at the moment. See you then. Late morning. Great. ‘Bye for now.” Brigid pressed the replay button and, as she listened for a second time, a new anxiety clutched at her gut. She glanced absently at the dresser and saw a package, neatly wrapped, and a card, but she was not thinking of Thea: Jenny's voice had set alarm bells ringing and her heart was filled with fear.

When shall I see you again? Jemima Spencer did not ask the question. She knew it was against the rules. Watching him dress, she wondered if she loved him or whether she knew exactly what the word meant. It was used so casually, so indiscriminately, although it contained such huge possibilities. He was important to her; she liked him enormously and he was a good lover. Yet she knew that she would be perfectly happy once he'd gone; content to be alone. She felt inhibited by any other presence in her flat, not quite at ease, and bad often stated that she was by nature a mistress.

Leaning on an elbow she admired his long straight legs mid supple, tanned back, watched his desirable, pleasure-giving body being swallowed up by his neat, concealing clothes.

“I might be down again on Tuesday.”

She rolled on to her back so that he might not see her face. “I've got someone coming over to supper on Tuesday.” He liked her to be casual; it fanned the flames of possessive-ness. “Can't put it off.”

“Who is it?” sharply.

She smiled, a private little smile. “No one you know.”

He stared down at her and she knew that he was torn with pursuing this conversation, yet cautious lest it opened him up to accusations:
“What's it got to do with you? You're going home to your wife. Why should I sit around waiting
…
? ”
and so on. He'd heard it all before, though not from Jemima. Still, it was wise not to push your luck… Eyes narrowed, his hands flicking his tie into a knot, his thoughts might have been scrolling over his face so clear were they to her.

“Not Tuesday, then?”

He stooped deliberately to kiss her, one last lingering caress, and she felt laughter bubbling up from deep inside. This often happened at moments when she should have been moved with desire or sadness; instead this sudden upward-swooping joy, a flash of delight at her separateness. He released her abruptly, irritated by his failure to persuade her, his face sulky.

“Not Tuesday.” She swung her legs out of bed, her toes feeling for her espadrilles. “Give me a buzz.”

“OK.” He could play it cool too. He hesitated. “Well, then.”

She led the way into the passage, shrugging into a cotton wrapper, deciding not to offer him coffee or a drink.

“Safe journey.” She kissed the tip of her forefinger and put it against his cheek. “See you soon.”

There was nothing to do but smile, accept it graciously, and leave.

Closing the door behind him, Jemima was chuckling to herself. She padded back along the passage and opened the door into the sitting room. It still gave her a thrill. Looking out across the harbour the room seemed to shimmer tremulously with a watery light; cool, bright reflections danced on the pale green walls. The smoothly pale, ash-wood floor gleamed between white rugs and an enormous sofa, striped cream and blue and green like a deckchair, was set at right angles to the glass doors which led on to the balcony.

“He's gone,” she said. “So now we can relax.”

There was no response from the huge, long-haired Persian cat who lay curled in a basket-weave chair. He slept peacefully, his round face serene. Jemima bent over him, smoothing his long fur, and he opened one eye before settling himself more comfortably.

“You are lazy, MagnifiCat,” she told him severely. “You are an idle animal. But then so am I. That's why we like each other, I suppose.”

She took an apple from the bowl on the low, glasstopped table and, opening the sliding doors, stepped on to the balcony. The evening was cool and the rising tidewater was stained crimson with the last sunset rays; small waves lapping round the ferry pier, rippling from beneath the bows of a small dinghy being rowed steadily out to one of the moored yachts. People were sitting outside with their drinks at the Ferryboat Inn and tiny, friendly lights twinkled from East Portlemouth across the harbour. Jemima took a deep breath of sheer joy and bit into her apple. She knew that Brigid disapproved of the rent she was paying, knew that it would have been more sensible to have used her small legacy to make a down payment on a small cottage or a flat, but she could never have afforded a mortgage on anything like this. Even to win her sister's approval she could not have resisted this flat.

“I know she despises me,” she said sadly to MagnifiCat, who had come out to investigate, “but I couldn't turn down a chance like this, even if I can only afford it for a few years. That's one of the differences between us, I suppose. I grasp the shadow instead of the substance and she is level-headed and responsible.”

MagnifiCat sat down and stared insolently at a seagull riding on the mast of a dinghy which was moored alongside the quay. The seagull stared back with cold yellow eyes and the cat's tail twitched.

“Don't even think about it,” advised Jemima. “I've told you before, we don't do seagulls. He'd have you for breakfast. Or supper.”

She flung her apple core in a high arc and, with a hoarse shriek, the seagull rose up from his perch, catching the core on the upward beat of his flight. Jemima watched, rubbing her bare arms. Her thick fair hair, loose and untidy, curled over her shoulders and down her back and she shivered slightly as she watched the brilliant crimson light adying into the black water.

'Time to eat,” she said—but she didn't move. The scene kept her leaning on the rail, captivated, reluctant to go back inside, even though she could continue to watch it from the comfort of her sofa. It was barely three months since she'd moved in; before that she'd rented a flat in Gloucester and worked for Home From Home, a company who arranged holidays in privately owned accommodation. She'd transferred to Devon not long after Frummie had moved to Foxhole and now had half a dozen properties in her charge. These were properties owned by people who lived abroad or who had no intention of becoming involved in the letting. Unlike Brigid, who dealt with everything from the booking to the cleaning, these owners rarely visited these cottages and Jemima had to make certain that they were kept in order, were cleaned and restocked, and that the holidaymakers who booked them were given access and kept happy. She had built up a very small team of part-time helpers who might be available to clean and deal with the changeover at the weekends but very often these people—who were self-employed or on social security—were not totally reliable and Jemima would find herself scurrying from cottage to cottage, changing sheets, dusting and cleaning, dashing back to give over the keys to the first arrivals.

“You should get proper cleaners,” Brigid had said, “not people who are on social security. You're encouraging a black market economy by paying people who won't declare it.”

“You make them sound like drug-crazed layabouts,” Jemima had answered. “These are good, respectable people who can barely make ends meet. It helps them out to earn an extra bit here and there.”

“It's cheating,” Brigid had answered inexorably. “You could get them into trouble if they're collecting benefit.”

“Not all of them are,” Jemima had protested. “It's just that their men aren't earning much—fishermen or small builders, that sort of thing. Why shouldn't they put a few extra pounds in their pockets?”

“If they needed it that much they'd be more reliable,” her sister had replied and Jemima had been left with the usual sense of ineffectiveness, of inadequacy, This was the problem: Brigid was so straight, so sure; there was no mess and muddle in her life; her own letting cottages and her small soft-furnishing business were organised efficiendy and successfully, as was her marriage. She'd been a good mother, dealing calmly with all the dramas of the boys' childhood and adolescence during Humphrey's long absences, and it was clear that he adored her.

Jemima stirred. She'd hoped that, now that she was living near Brigid for the first time in their lives, she'd at last achieve the loving relationship with her sister for which she'd always yearned. She'd missed her father terribly when her mother had left him and she'd always imagined that Brigid would be able to share those feelings. Instead she'd been met with a smooth, ungraspable barrier. Occasionally it would be tantalisingly lowered and she'd see the warmth and humour for which she longed but, just when she'd believed that they were moving closer, she'd found that the barrier had been reerected. She could understand why Brigid found her irritating, foolish, weak, but she still hoped that one day she might be loved for herself.

The telephone buzzed and Jemima hurried back through the window and picked up her mobile.

“I just thought I'd tell you,” he said, “that I shall be joining the A38 soon so it's my last chance to ask if you're still quite sure about Tuesday.”

She smiled, happy and secure in the distance between them, able to comfort him.

“Quite sure,” she said, teasingly, “unless, of course, you might be able to arrive a bit later. Stay the night, perhaps?” She rarely encouraged this but she was feeling a little sorrier for him now that she could remember those lovely straight legs but not the sulky expression. “I'm sure Louise won't stay late.”

“Louise?” His voice was alert, more cheerful.

“Why yes.” She pretended surprise. “She's staying with my sister. Who did you think it was?'

“How should I know?” he grumbled. He could allow jealousy at this distance, not fearing a scene on the telephone. “I
might
be able to stay …”

“Think about it,” she said lightly. “Must go. ‘Bye.”

Good humour and confidence restored, she bent to sweep MagnifiCat into her arms, burying her face in his fur.

“Supper,” she said. “You can share my sushi. What do you say to that?”

She put him down again, groaning at his weight, and he followed her on short stocky legs into the kitchen.

“I
T'S RATHER
nice here, Fred!” Margot Spelman stretched her sturdy legs out in the sunshine. “You were damned lucky, you know, to have a daughter with a bit of property.”

“You've got your granny flat.” Frummie set down the tea-tray. It was odd, now, to be called Fred; odd but nice. It made her feel young again, careless and happy—especially as poor old Margot was showing her age.

“Mmm.” Margot raised a ravaged face to the warmth. “But one feels so terribly
de trop.
Harry's a darling, of course, but Barbara …” She shuddered artistically. “Daughters-in-law are hell, Fred. You should give thanks, fasting, that you have daughters.”

“Rubbish.” Frummie sat down in the deckchair opposite. “The simple truth of it is, my dear Margot, that you are a cow to your daughters-in-law. Ginny had the sense to cart David away to furthest Cornwall but I'm amazed that Barbara lets you anywhere near her dear little granny flat. I bet she never gets a wink of sleep wondering what you'll be up to next.”

“And what about you?” Margot remained unruffled at such accusations. “I think Brigid's a saint to have you here after you went off and left her as a small child. To be honest, I'm surprised
anyone
would agree to have you living within ten miles of them but then I've known you for a very long time.”

Frummie grinned maliciously. “First day at boarding school, wasn't it? Thirteen years old—well, I wasn't quite thirteen, you're older than I am—and who was the one blubbing?”

“Oh, shut up and pour the tea. So how's Jemima?”

“Doing very well. Living in the most perfect flat in Salcombe. Right on the waterfront”

“Goodness.” Margot sat up, alert. “Don't tell me Richard left you some money.”

Frummie hoisted a disdainful shoulder. “He didn't leave
me
anything. But he left a tiny bit to Jem.”

“I have to say, Fred,” Margot accepted her tea with a nod of thanks, “that you were the most god-awful picker of men. Whatever did you see in them? Of course, Diarmid was rather gorgeous in a kind of untidy, absent sort of way. That tall, lean, fair look. Terrific legs. Brigid is just like him.”

“Diarmid was different” Frummie sipped dreamily, her sharp face softened by memories. “I'd never known anyone like him before. And I was young and impressionable.”

“Impressionable?” Margot raised her eyebrows. “You? Well, I suppose that's one way of describing it. And Richard?”

“Well, Richard was fun. And I was tired of competing with Bronze Age circles and Neolithic man. I went up to London one day and somehow just never came back.” Silence. “Oh, don't do that disapproving thing again,” said Frummie irritably. “I didn't just consciously walk away without a backward glance, you know. It was just too impossible to come back. And as the days passed it became more impossible. I wrote to Diarmid and told him I couldn't face it and he agreed that it hadn't been easy, and that I must do what was right for me, but that he was keeping Brigid. What could I do? I could hardly come down and kidnap her.”

'1 can see his point” Margot glanced at her old friend, not unsympathetically. “At least he could give her security. Richard wasn't what you might call the reliable type, was he?”

“You don't run off with reliable types, do you?”

“You
don't,” observed Margot Knntedly. “If I remember rightly, William—William
was
number three, wasn't he?— played in a jazz band?”

“Only occasionally,” replied Frummie with dignity. “He was a stockbroker:”

“Oh, honestly…“'

“He was very clever with money—”

“As long as it was other people's. The truth of it is you shouldn't have been let out alone, Fred. For one so cynical you were an absolute pushover when it came to con men.”

“Did you come all this way simply to be unpleasant?”

“No. I came all this way to see you. You haven't been too easy to track down lately and—”

“And now I'm rather conveniently placed between Salisbury and Cornwall,” finished Frummie sweetly. “A useful stopping place, wouldn't you say?”