A Summer in the Country (9 page)

So she'd tried to weave a friendship, based on their individual love and affection for her, appealing to their generosity, and, because they
did
love her, Jenny and Humphrey tried their best. They'd achieved a tolerant, bantering affection which could break down and descend very quickly into irritation so that Brigid was never relaxed when they were all three together. Thinking of these things, she wondered how she could have been crazy enough to agree to Jenny's plan in the first place.

As she made herself a sandwich, Brigid remembered that the proposal had come at a time when Humphrey was at his least sympathetic; he didn't like Bryn and had felt that Jenny was making a mistake in marrying him. His allegiance had always been to Peter during those early years and, with Jenny trying to build a new life, Brigid had been in one of her “solidarity with Jenny” phases which he resented. Occasionally their failure to get on had edged into a more general battle of wills, when personalities merged into the old gender war.

“Bloody men,” Jenny would say. “Who needs them?”

“If only women were more honest about what they want,” Humphrey would mutter. “Talk about devious! Men don't have a chance!”

It was at this time that Brigid had been told about Peter's long-standing involvement with a Wren and her loyalty to Jenny was at its height When Jenny had arrived, full of enthusiasm, happy, an exciting future before her, it had been impossible not to agree to what had seemed such a foolproof plan.

Eating her sandwich with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Brigid could guess just how hurt Humphrey would be—hurt and angry—and now he was coming home unexpectedly. How would she manage to behave normally? What might follow? The tiny, never-to-be-voiced doubt echoed warningly, disabling happiness, weakening confidence, making her shiver. Swallowing with difficulty, her gut knotting with anxiety, she shunted the rest of her lunch into Blot's bowl and watched him chomp it enthusiastically. She was tempted to take him off for a long walk—her usual practice in moments of stress or fear—but there was work to be done and she resisted his hopeful look and wagging tail. Putting her plate into the sink, passing through the two long rooms, she climbed the stairs to her workroom, Blot trailing disappointedly in her wake.

“I'm so pleased that it's a fine evening,” said Jemima contentedly. “I do so like to show off my view and it's not quite the same with rain streaming down the windows.”

“It's terrific.” Leaning on the balcony, Louise was unable to hide her envy. “I'd never go to bed at all if I were you. I'd sleep on the sofa.”

“I mean to.” Jemima looked almost guilty, as if she had been caught out in some misdemeanour, “but I can never quite resist my bed. The sofa's not nearly so comfortable and I need my sleep.”

“This would be the perfect place for an insomniac. It must be very pretty on summer nights when it's really dark, with all the riding lights on the boats and the windows lit up in those houses on the shore opposite.”

“That's East Portsmouth.” Jemima curled up in one of the wicker chairs. “I have a complex of cottages over there which I look after, a courtyard development, but it's a devil to get to it. Miles round by road, of course. I go over on the ferry and keep a moped at the little caf6. It's a great way for getting round the lanes. So how is the holiday going?”

“Great.” Louise continued to gaze out over the harbour, watching the reflections. “I'm doing a lot of walking and, fortunately, the weather's being very kind.”

“You're like Brigid. She loves walking. Perhaps that's why she stays so thin.” Jemima sighed enviously. “She's so elegant, isn't she? And so amactie. Cheekbones like razors and legs yards long. I wish I were tall.”

Louise sat down in the other chair and looked at her. “You're not very alike, are you? But you don't seem to do too badly.”

Jemima smiled reflectively. “I suppose we all want to be what we aren't, don't we? Brigid's so clear-cut. There's nothing messy about her. She's all clean lines and cool looks.”

“Your mother thinks she's too thin.”

“Who was it said ‘You can never be too rich or too thin'? Anyway, Frummie just likes to be difficult.”

“I had noticed.” MagnifiCat strolled out on to the balcony and Louise bent to stroke him. He arched his back as he wound about her ankles, purring approvingly. “There does seem to be a certain amount of… well, tension.”

“Watch out,” warned Jemima, as MagnifiCat prepared to launch himself upwards. “He weighs a ton. Sorry,” as MagnifiCat landed in Louise's lap and she gasped at his heaviness, “but he's simply a tart. Quite shameless when it comes to seeking attention.” She chuckled. “Perhaps I should be careful. Aren't owners supposed to grow to be like their pets?”

“He's extraordinarily beautiful,” said Louise lightly, stroking him. “You certainly have that in common.”

Jemima flushed brightiy, muttered something unintelligible and returned quickly to the subject of her family. “Frummie's not too well since her stroke, and it can't be very easy for Brigid sometimes. It's a very unfortunate situation. At the time, when she was left on her own, I couldn't afford much in the way of accommodation and Frummie wanted to get right out of London pretty quickly. It was all a bit tricky. The problem is that she's not too easy to live with and she does like space to herself, which is reasonable enough, but it was really good of Brigid and Humphrey to let her have one of their cottages and I wish she could be a tad more graceful about it. It's not easy, though, is it, being someone's pensioner?”

Louise buried her face in Magnificat's fur. “Blessed are the peacemakers ” she murmured, muffled.

“Sorry?” Jemima edged forward on her chair, picking up her mug.

“Nothing. I was being biblical. Magnificat's fault. Yes, I'd love some more coffee and then I ought to be going, I suppose.”

“You'll have to.” Jemima grinned mischievously. “I've got another visitor, after you.”

“Oh?” Louise looked at her, eyebrows raised, MagnifiCat forgotten. “Have you indeed?”

“I have. It's not often I get a sleepover, I can tell you. His wife doesn't like it.”

“Wife?”

Louise's tone was sharper, edgy, and it was Jemima's turn to raise her eyebrows. “I think they're on the verge of splitting up. He doesn't say much but I think he might leave her.”

“For you?”

“Oh, no.” Jemima shook her head. “No, he knows I'm purely mistress material. I don't do the live-in bit I tried it once but it was hell. It was so suffocating and we never seemed to be on the same wavelength at the same time. I just can't seem to relax with someone else around.” She paused. “You look rather shocked.”

“It's not that,” Louise said quickly. “It's none of my business. It's just you saying that about his wife. It sounded a bit heartless.”

Jemima continued to perch on the edge of her chair. “I suppose it is a bit” She sounded defensive. “I like him a lot and he's not particularly happy at home.” She shrugged. “If it wasn't me it would be someone else. I don't make demands or stir up trouble. like I said, I don't want to take her place. We just have fun together.”

Louise, her eyes fixed on Jemima's face, was seeing instead Martin's glossy expression of satisfaction, of excitement. She felt a sudden longing to confide; to share her suspicions. To begin with she'd wondered if it might be possible to open her heart to Brigid but it was clear that Brigid had a private worry of her own. She was preoccupied, distracted, and Louise hesitated to burden her. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling confused, even frightened, and when she opened them again she saw that Jemima was frowning anxiously.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Sorry,” said Louise at last. “Sorry, Jemima. It's just…” The words came at last and she seemed powerless to prevent them. “I think Martin is having an affair and it sounded so odd—hearing it from the other side, as it were.”

“Oh hell,” said Jemima softly. “I had no idea. Well, obviously. How would I? Look, this is probably quite different. Could you just be feeling a bit… well…?”

“Neurotic about it?” She remembered the man on the train—
“these suspicious wives
…” and grimaced. “Anything possible, I suppose.” She pulled herself together, smiling at Jemima, who sat miserably, her mug swinging from a finger. “You're right. I'm probably imagining things.” An uneasy pause. ‘Tell me,” she said slowly, “how do you make contact? Without his wife suspecting, I mean.”

“Oh, that's simple. We text each other messages on our mobiles.” Jemima still looked unhappy. “Honestly, Louise—”

“I know.” Louise touched her lightly on the knee. “I'm being stupid. But I think perhaps I ought to be on my way, after all.”

When she'd gone, Jemima stood on the balcony unaware, for once, of the prospect before her. Louise was right to go; the atmosphere had been spoiled, harmony jangled, intimacy destroyed. Her own pleasure at the thought of the night ahead was tinged with guilt, even shame. Supposing this was Louise's husband, about to arrive, how would she feel about him then? Would it still be simply a few hours of stolen fun? It was easy to ignore the unknown, faceless wife whilst she remained out of the frame, but supposing she were Louise; a woman she knew and liked? A dinghy pulled away from the slip, its outboard puttering, shivering the inky water in its wake into choppy wavelets. A door opened, spilling light out on to the street: a burst of laughter, then silence.

Two quick rings on the doorbell. Jemima hesitated, still holding on to the rail, and then went to open the door.

“I
DON'T
think that was in the book,” said Margot as Frummie rewound the video. “Not the stripping off and plunging into the lake bit.”

“Who's complaining?” asked Frummie. “If Jane Austen had thought of it I bet she'd have written it in. She just never thought of it, that's all.”

“I don't know about that,” argued Margot. “I'm rather against directors messing about with the text.”

“I'd no idea you were such an expert on television productions, dear,” said Frummie acidly. “Does it matter? Jane Austen's books are all about sex and money, the director's certainly picked that up. Anyway, if she'd seen Colin Firth I bet she'd have written the scene in specially for him.”

“I enjoyed it very much,” conceded Margot hastily, lest Frummie should get into a huff and withhold future viewing; even as a girl she'd been very tetchy if crossed. “I saw it on the television, of course, but I think I'll have to ask Harry to get me one of these video recorders. Is that it for this evening?”

“I think that's enough for one session.” Frummie was enjoying her position of power. “Time for a nightcap.”

Margot brightened. “Splendid idea.” She got up with a grimace of pain and pottered stiffly along beside the bookshelf where Frummie kept her video library.
“What
a selection you've got. I've never seen half these.”

“Pity you're not staying a little longer,” observed Frummie carelessly. She was surprised at how much she was enjoying having her old friend—not to mention her supply of whisky—with her. “We could work through them.”

Margot, bending sideways so as to read the titles, tried not to look too keen. “It would be rather fun, wouldn't it?” she murmured casually. “Oh, you've got /,
Claudius.
Now that was quite brilliant.”

“A week's viewing all on its own,” said Frummie absently, admiring her glass of amber liquid. “Well, it's up to you, of course…”

“I wonder if I might get away in the autumn for a few weeks?” Margot sounded doubtful.

Frummie's lip curled. “Don't bust a gut, dear,” she advised with some asperity. “I'm sure your social diary's positively bursting at the seams and I doubt Barbara could spare you.”

Maigot hobbled back to the sofa and sat down gratefully. She took her glass and sipped thoughtfully, her eyes roaming about the room. It would be cosy here in the autumn with the wood-burner alight, a video at the ready and a good supply of alcohol. If she thought she might be free of her mother-in-law for a few weeks, there was litde doubt that dear Barbara would be lavish with a few necessities to encourage the visit; anyway, darling Harry would see to that side of things.

“We could have some fun, couldn't we?” she asked suddenly. “I'd kick in with the housekeeping, of course, and Harry would be generous with the booze.”

“Dear old boy,” exclaimed Frummie, with unusual warmth. “Even as a child at prep school he had a ready grasp on the essentials of life. Do you remember his swapping his new geometry set for a term's supply of Mars bars? What acuity in so young a child! And starting up a still at Gordonstoun? What initiative! I remember him inviting me to lunch in his rooms at Oxford and we were still at it at five o'clock. What a time we had! No wonder he's done so well for himself.”

“He's delighted to be in the Cabinet,” agreed Margot complacently.

“He should be Prime Minister,” declared Frummie generously, reaching almost absent-mindedly for the decanter. “At the very least. That's what we lack these days: leaders with vision and the courage to implement their ideas. Another drop?”

“Just a dribble. Thanks. Perhaps we should look at our diaries, Fred?”

“Perhaps we should. In the morning. We'll get something planned. What fun. Here's to a little autumn jollity.”

They touched glasses, giggling a little.

“I'll drink to that,” said Margot.

I
T WAS
raining when Brigid set off to fetch Humphrey from the station at Totnes. Soft, drifting cloud rolled in from the west, obliterating the craggy tors, filling the valleys, hanging like smoke above the river. Moisture clung, gossamer-like, to the weighty swags of hawthorn blossom and shimmered in tiny droplets on the short turf. The road gleamed black, winding across the moor, vanishing into the mist as it climbed towards Combestone Tor. On the verges bedraggled sheep grazed indifferently and, in Hangman's Pit, several heavy-headed ponies stood, blinking thoughtfully, huddled together in chill, clammy contemplation.