Echoes of the Dance (22 page)

Lying in bed, staring wakefully into the shadowy spaces, Kate tried to remember if the bitter ending of her affair with Alex had still been raw enough to make her brother's idea even more appealing. Chris's suggestion had certainly come at the time when she'd been trying to come to terms with losing Alex, searching for ways to make a new beginning. Chris understood her dilemma: his own marriage had recently ended in divorce and he'd asked he if might come to stay with Kate for a week's holiday. They'd taken the twins for long walks over the moor, to the coast at Torcross to swim, to Dartmouth to look at the boats, to the cinema in Plymouth. The twins, who had grown up in fear of their father and seen Alex as a threat, had been so responsive to their uncle, so natural and easy with him, that Kate's own tension and anxiety had gently and quietly unravelled. Even now, she could recall the true happiness of that holiday, the blessed absence of stress or strain: uncomplicated and fun. His proposal that they should share a house, coming at the end of that idyllic week, had seemed the answer she'd been seeking. It would be a relief, after her unhappy marriage with Mark and the turbulent affair with Alex, to have a simple, undemanding relationship with her sons and her brother.

It had been the right decision, Kate told herself now. Through the following years, with the twins at Blundell's School and then at university, she and Chris had achieved stability for the boys and a refuge for themselves: a home where the four of them could grow and heal. It had worked for ten years – until Chris, having fallen in love with a delightful Japanese girl in America, had decided to get married again and settle with her in Florida. An unexpected legacy had enabled Kate to buy him out and, a few months later, she'd met David.

Kate stirred restlessly, pushing back the light quilt and sitting on the edge of the bed. These early morning hours were the worst: bringing with them heart-rending memories of the past and terrors of the future. The room was lit with the soft radiance of starlight and from the uncurtained window she could see the distant shoulder of the moor, hunched blackly against the brilliant night sky. No sleeping David, now, to curl up against for comfort: no familiar sound of dogs rustling and snoring in the kitchen below.

‘Can't sleep?' he'd ask drowsily. ‘Who is it this time? Giles, is it? He's a good fellow, old Giles. Takes his time and likes to know where he is before jumping into things but he's going to be OK, I promise you . . .'

Memories of his warmth and humour crowded at her shoulder and she allowed herself to open her mind to them just a little, peering back half-fearfully at those painful reminders of her loss.

David had come from another world, challenging her to step free from her self-imposed isolation and showing her how to begin to be fully alive again. She still believed that those ten years with the dogs for company, with the twins away at school and Chris's periods of leave infrequent, had been a time of welcome and necessary respite but, even before Chris had remarried, she'd begun to feel lonely. It was so strange that her first meeting with David had been by pure chance; that their connection should be through a mutual friend who had died tragically. Of course, it was precisely because of their sharing in this tragedy that they'd been able to skip swiftly over the usual rules of convention and talk honestly together about their own lives and that of the dead woman, Felicity Mainwaring.

Feeling the milk-warm night air flowing over her bare arms, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, Kate leaned at the open window remembering how David had talked about his affair with Felicity. He'd admitted that he'd misjudged her, underestimating how deeply she had loved him, and so had left her with such disastrous results. His grief and guilt had been very real and Kate had comforted him, painting in a wider background and describing their lives as naval wives together, so that he could see Felicity's tragedy in its proper perspective and as a series of events in which his own part was a small one. What had surprised her was exactly how much he had grasped from her word-picture of those past years regarding her own unhappy marriage. As she looked down into the silent, silver-washed garden, Kate recalled his second visit: six months later, on Christmas Day. The twins were away from home – Guy with his father in Canada and Giles with his girlfriend up-country – and she'd been alone for the first time at Christmas. How empty and quiet the house had seemed: how pointless the decorations and the tree. She'd been glad of Cass's invitation to lunch but the houseful of family and guests and the extravagant celebrations had merely underlined her own loneliness. It was strangely ironic to think that it was Felicity, with her characteristic bluntness, who'd once pointed out that she'd been a fool to give up Alex for the sake of the boys.

‘The twins will go away and leave you,' she'd said. ‘You'll be left alone. You should have thought of that.'

Turning away from the window, resisting the slide into self-pity, Kate remembered David's intuitive sympathy and ready understanding that Christmas Day. How easy it had been to talk to him: how quick he'd been to see through her layers of protective colouring to the essential truth – and how hard she'd fought against him in the following months. He'd forced her from her carefully built shell of fear and made her painfully alive again. Now, curled on her side with her face in her pillow, she regretted how strongly and how long she'd resisted him.

‘Love is not enough,' she'd told him fiercely. ‘It doesn't overcome all the obstacles and make up for everything. Twice I thought it would. It's taken me years to learn to live alone. To risk it – me – again is a luxury I simply can't afford.'

‘You're so certain it won't work? Don't you love me at all?' he'd asked her – but she'd avoided the second question.

‘I don't see how it can. You in London, me here. I hate cities. You'd be bored rigid in the country . . .'

Yet he'd persuaded her to confront her fear, to take the opportunity to create a new life with him and, now that he'd gone, it seemed that it was time to do it all over again.

One thing was clear: she must stop thinking about David and resist maudlin excursions to the past. Those paths led only to grieving and inaction, and she must make a real effort to look forward; to take some decisions about her future. In her mind's eye she saw the cottage, snug and homely with its familiar rooms and sheltered garden. Excitement rose within her, banishing grief, warming her. Surely this was the answer for which she'd been hoping? If she were brave enough to take this step then other decisions might automatically fall into place.

Stretched out again on her back she allowed her imagination and memory to lead her, room by room, through the small stone house. Presently she slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

When she wakened it was to a sense of anticipation rather than to the familiar gut-clamping panic of recent months. Sometimes she dreamed – vivid, happy dreams in which David was still alive – and afterwards, during those few drowsy moments of waking, continued to believe that her dream was the reality and his dying was simply a nightmare. Then, wide awake to the horror of the truth, it was as if it were all to do again: as if she were hearing the news for the first time. She would scramble out of bed, pulling on a dressing-gown and hurrying downstairs to make coffee, as if she were escaping from the dread shadows of grief and loss that followed at her heels. Oh, then, how she missed the dogs who would have once come wagging to greet her, stretching and yawning, staying for a caress before she opened the door to let them out, across the garden and into the paddock.

This morning, however, she rose up completely focused on what she intended to do: no room here for the passivity of grief. Instead of wandering downstairs in her dressing-gown to make her coffee, which she took out into the garden if the weather permitted, she showered and dressed as if she were girding herself for action. It was not yet half-past seven and she drank her coffee, pacing restlessly, one eye on the kitchen clock. At eight o'clock she pressed the appropriate buttons on her telephone and listened to it ringing in a converted barn high on the moor beneath Cox Tor. Michael Barrett-Thompson's small estate agency had long since amalgamated with a larger local company but Michael was still a partner and one of her oldest friends. It was his wife, Harriet, who answered the telephone.

‘Harriet, it's Kate. Sorry to bother you at this ghastly hour but I need a word with Michael. It's rather important or I wouldn't interrupt your breakfast.'

‘Hello, Kate. It's not at all a problem. Michael's always up early. Let me call him. Nothing wrong, I hope?'

‘No, no. Everything's fine. I just need a quick word of advice and it's not always easy to catch him at the office.'

‘Don't I know it. Hang on a moment, Kate.'

She waited impatiently, listening to the sounds of Harriet summoning Michael, and then at last he was there.

‘Good morning, Kate. Don't tell me you've made the big decision and you want us to put the house on the market?'

‘Oh, Michael, I think I do. The thing is, I was driving over to Horrabridge yesterday and I saw that Horseshoe Cottage is for sale. I couldn't believe it. I expect Harriet's quite forgotten, it was so long ago, but I used to live there.'

‘She's never mentioned it but then I probably didn't tell her about it coming on to the market. How strange. But . . . does this mean that you're interested in it?'

‘I think I might be. It's such an odd coincidence, isn't it? When I've been wondering what to do?'

‘Mmm. It's very small, you know. You might have forgotten that. Quite a change after your place.'

‘Yes, I can see that's a consideration, but the whole point is that this house is too big now that . . . now that I'm on my own. How much do they want for it, Michael?'

He told her and she gave a cry of disbelief. ‘
How
much?' She began to laugh. ‘Good grief! I paid four thousand pounds for it thirty years ago. I should have hung on to it, shouldn't I?'

‘You won't do badly with your own house,' he reminded her drily. ‘Do you want to have a look at it?'

‘Yes, I do. Is there much interest in it?'

‘Quite a lot. It's in a very good position and it's got all the character that people look for in an old property. It changed hands about eight years ago and it's been a holiday cottage ever since. I wish I'd known that you'd be interested in it. Shall I meet you there later on, say . . . ten thirty? It's empty so we can choose our own time but I have to go into the office first.'

‘Ten thirty will be fine. See you there. Thanks, Michael.'

All through breakfast and on the drive to the cottage she was remembering how she'd seen it for the first time: Mark had just begun the long six months of Perisher, the sub- mariners' Commanding Officers' Qualifying Course, and she and the six-year-old twins had been staying with her parents in St Just. Her father, having sold some land, had given each of his children a share of the proceeds, enough for Kate to use as a deposit on a small cottage. She'd driven up from St Just alone, leaving the twins with her mother, and had viewed several properties before she'd seen the cottage. Her first impression had been that she couldn't possibly be lucky enough to be the owner of such a delightful little house.

She'd arrived before the agent and, knowing that the cottage was empty, she'd parked beside the low wall and gone to have a closer look. Peering in at the windows, exploring the small, wild garden, she'd experienced a brief time of pure happiness: everything seemed possible. Mark would surely love it, he would be less irritable and sharp-tongued here. The twins could go to Meavy School and begin to feel more settled; they would make new friends and have a dog at last. Plans for their future as a family had buzzed as busily in her head as the bees buzzed amongst the flowers of the honeysuckle in the hedge.

Here, on the paved terrace behind the cottage, she'd stood looking towards Walkhampton Common and listening to the robin's song with a hopeful, joyful heart – and here, thirty years later, Michael found her.

She stared at him with wide, dreaming eyes and then laughed, embarrassed.

‘I was early,' she explained quickly, ‘and you said it was empty so I thought I'd take a look around.'

‘Why not? You must have passed it a hundred times so I won't ask you what you think of it. Or perhaps it hasn't changed at all?'

‘Not much.' She watched him unlocking the door, trying to contain her eagerness. ‘They've tarted up the log shed and the garage, and there's a new path, but it looks very much the same.'

‘It had a new roof about ten years ago and it's in quite good order. Come on in then, but remember it's been a holiday cottage for eight years and it's clear that the owners had very little money to spare for it.'

He stood aside and let her go through the tiny hall to the sitting-room, leaning against the door jamb and waiting for her reaction, keeping his feelings to himself. Kate paused, gazing about the heavily beamed room, almost shocked at its unexpected strangeness.

‘It's smaller than I remember. Of course, there's a lot of furniture packed in, isn't there? We didn't have much. And I'm used to such big rooms now.'