Echoes of the Dance (7 page)

She laughed softly. ‘I don't feel right,' she admitted. ‘I can't tell you how much I wish I'd had a puppy before David became ill. The trouble was that my dashes to London put an end to the dog-breeding side of life, though I always meant to have another bitch before Felix was too old, and then it was too late.' She sighed frustratedly. ‘To have taken on a puppy with David as ill as he was during that last year would have been crazy but I never thought I'd lose Felix so quickly too.'

Nat put an arm about her shoulders: she felt thin and frail and he felt an upsurge of concern and affection for her. She'd been such a support during those uncertain, anxious days when his mother, with distressing scenes, tearful pleading and emotional blackmail, had tried to destroy his growing confidence: his brave new world had been a rather cold and scary place. How often he'd sat with Kate at the kitchen table, mulling over his day's work whilst she went through her address book yet again.

‘Wait a minute,' she'd say, ‘have we tried the Mallinsons? I'm sure their garden needs a makeover. And don't forget that Thea Lampeter said that you must go out and have a look around at her place. She wants some new ideas as to what to do with the stretch of railway track. Let's make a list . . .'

Her enthusiasm and faith in his abilities had been as comforting as a beacon shining out on a dark night and, during the two years he'd stayed at Whitchurch, a unique relationship had sprung up between him and Kate. Friends said that Kate regarded Nat almost as another son but, for Kate, it was precisely because she was
not
his mother – and, for Nat, that he was
not
her child – that this friendship had developed.

‘So what about this dog Roly's found?' he asked now. ‘Might she be an answer? You have to begin somewhere; why not with this dog? It's a starting point, isn't it? If you have a dog then other requirements follow. It would give you a framework to work within. The trouble with your situation is you have no guidelines. That particular kind of freedom is rather overwhelming.'

‘That's what Daisy said.' Kate finished her tea.

‘Daisy?'

‘I think she's one of Mim's ex-pupils. She's staying in the stable flat for a little holiday. Poor Daisy has injured her back and she's been told to rest. She's great fun. In an odd way she reminds me of Janna.' There was a tiny silence and Kate glanced up at him. ‘Have you heard from her?'

He shook his head. ‘Not recently. You know Janna. The original free spirit. She was afraid of losing her benefit or something if she stayed on too long.'

Janna was another sore subject as far as Monica was concerned. She was convinced that no decent girl would ever settle down with Nat until he was much more financially viable; equivocal though she was about the flamboyant, new-age Janna, her absence was set to be another area of conflict that would make Monica's visit a difficult one.

‘What about you?' Kate suggested gently. ‘Perhaps Janna being away is an opportunity for you to be more open with Monica?'

‘Perhaps.' His bleak look filled her with a fellow-feeling of confusion and anxiety. ‘Why is life so damned complicated?'

‘David used to say that it is we who complicate our own lives because we are afraid for all sorts of reasons to be truthful.'

‘But surely some of those reasons are good ones? Not hurting people, for instance?'

Kate was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps we underestimate other people's capacity for dealing with the truth,' she ventured at last. ‘Perhaps, in trying to protect them, we are actually denying them some form of growth . . . Good grief!' she interrupted herself with a derisive laugh. ‘What do I know?'

‘You could be right, though.' He shrugged. ‘You could pretend that you're trying to protect someone while all the time you're really trying to protect yourself from the fall-out following the truth telling.'

‘Something like that.' She took his empty mug. ‘Do you want to stay on for some supper?'

‘No, I won't do that, thanks anyway. It's quiz night at the pub and I said I'd be there.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Plenty of time to get the paddock done, though. Thanks for the tea.'

She went into the house and, as he started up the mowing machine, he tried to remember who had said that humankind couldn't stand too much reality: his mother was certainly one person who couldn't. He'd spent so much of his time as a little boy trying to make up to her for what she saw as life's unfairness: in her view his father's instability and Mim's selfishness were the two biggest crosses she had to bear. She'd counted on Nat's loyalty and love to redress the balance and when, at last, he'd broken away from her emotional demands the ensuing scenes had been destructive and terrible.

He shook his head, instinctively denying the possibility of being open and truthful with her: the mere prospect of confronting his mother still made him sweat.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Early that same evening, after she'd rested for an hour on her bed, Daisy checked the limited supply of stores she'd brought with her from Bath and made the decision to ask Roly to supper. He'd looked after them all so well that she longed to make some small return for his kindness – and, anyway, she was even more certain now that he was in love with Kate and she felt a foolish longing to comfort him.

‘“Comfort me with apples for I am sick of love”,' she muttered, taking some rather nice pâté and a small cheese and onion quiche out of the fridge, and trying to remember whether she was quoting from Shakespeare or the Bible. Mim had always been very keen on teaching her students to study both of these great works – ‘Such beautiful, beautiful language, my darlings!' – and Daisy often became muddled.

‘Anyway,' she told herself rather defiantly, ‘I haven't got any apples. He'll have to be comforted with pâté and a Waitrose quiche.'

Daisy was already so fond of Roly that she longed for Kate to return his love; she could see Kate's dilemma, but had hardly been able to restrain herself from pointing out to them that, by getting together, all their problems would be solved. Luckily, as she'd grown older, she'd discovered that her somewhat childlike directness was often not the best solution for her friends' troubles and had learned to control her impulse to offer simple solutions to complicated difficulties. Meanwhile she would comfort Roly with supper.

It had been such a happy day. After a late lunch of cold roast ham, potatoes cooked in their jackets in the Esse and some of the local Davidstow cheddar, they'd all walked with Kate down to the ford to see her off. Daisy had sat on the broken wall of the old bridge with her legs dangling, watching the dogs playing in the transparent, peat-stained water below, whilst Kate and Roly talked privately for a moment. Sitting there in the hot sunshine she'd become unusually aware of the shapes and the spaces all about her: the rounded feathery trees and the humped, dense furze bushes; the stark rocky dome of the high down and the curve of the stony track; all outlined in a swooping scribble against the high roof of a cerulean sky painted with cloudy smudges and white streamers.

Daisy found that she was trying to find a physical movement to describe the glory of it . . . Suddenly, perched there on the bridge, she'd executed a
port de bras
, a swift graceful arm movement, and gasped as the pain rippled in her lower back. She'd waited for a moment, catching her breath. Carefully she'd turned round, edging her feet back onto the bridge and standing up gingerly. Kate had already climbed into her car and Roly was coming back towards the ford.

He'd glanced at her, frowned a little, and suggested that it was time for a rest. She'd nodded, grateful that he wasn't going to make a fuss, and they'd separated in the yard.

Now, feeling much better, she looked over the few delicacies with which she might tempt him and went quietly down the little stone staircase. In the yard she paused: music drifted from the house and a contralto voice was singing.

Daisy went on a few steps, listening intently, strangely attracted to the music. She looked in at the door. Roly was stretched full length on a long sofa beside the fire, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped loosely over Uncle Bernard who lay across his chest. She felt certain that he was not asleep but she moved very quietly towards him and sat down opposite, still enchanted by that voice and by the music that made her think of the sea. Bevis came to her, putting a tentative paw upon the cushion. She encouraged him up beside her, his heavy head in her lap, glad of his company whilst she strained to hear the words that filled the quiet room.

As she listened the song changed from a gentle slumber-song, that reminded her of the ebbing tide in a safe harbour, to a passionate and almost religious intensity; and now an evocative, lightly scored quadrille was giving way to a musical storm that was almost Wagnerian in its magnificence. Daisy simply gave herself up to it. Images filled her head: sea-birds lulled by gentle waves; tall grey walls of water, foam-topped, advancing on cold stony shores: the warm, limpid seas of the coral reef; a stormy, livid ocean crested with wild white horses.

When it ceased Daisy was almost breathless. Roly opened one eye and looked at her.

‘What was it?' she asked, forgetting everything but the music and the voice that had touched her so deeply.

He smiled and sat up, still clasping Uncle Bernard. ‘Elgar's
Sea Pictures
,' he answered. ‘The singer is Janet Baker. Wonderful stuff.'

‘Sea pictures,' she repeated dreamily. ‘You can just see them, can't you? The movement and the rhythm of the tides.'

‘They're about love too,' he told her. ‘You must read the sleeve. You might know some of the poems. Did you learn much poetry at the school?'

She chuckled. ‘I was thinking of that just now,' she admitted. ‘Mim was very keen for us to be able to quote great chunks of the stuff. She started us very young and we hated it. There were set pieces for auditions: children's parts from Shakespeare's plays and bits like that. Although the elocution and acting classes weren't really her concern, Madame always had a finger on the pulse.'

‘Madame?' he questioned her – and she laughed.

‘We all called her that when we were little,' she told him. ‘When we got older we had the privilege of calling her Mim. Then we knew we'd really arrived. Sometimes we called her Madame Mim and, just occasionally, we'd call her Mad Madame Mim after the witch in the Walt Disney cartoon film. But don't tell her that. Everyone loved her to bits.'

Roly put Uncle Bernard down on the floor. ‘I won't tell her,' he promised.

Daisy suddenly remembered her plan. ‘I wondered if you'd have supper with me,' she said. ‘You made that wonderful roast dinner last night and lunch again today, it's time I returned your hospitality. It's not what you'd call
haute cuisine
but do say yes.'

‘I should like to very much,' he said at once. ‘Thank you.'

‘Oh, good,' she said. ‘Give me half an hour and I'll be ready for you.' She hesitated. ‘I noticed that you didn't drink any wine last night or at lunch-time today and I wondered . . . ?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't drink alcohol,' he said pleasantly. ‘Water is just fine.'

She nodded, her curiosity aroused, but something in his face warned her off.

‘Fine,' she said. ‘Great. See you about eight o'clock, then.'

When she'd gone he lay down again. Uncle Bernard stood on his hind legs, paws on Roly's arm, and gave a short imperious bark. Roly lifted him up, settling him across his chest, whilst scenes with Mim, with Monica, with Kate, crowded in his mind. An involuntary smile touched his lips as he pictured the increasingly familiar expression of transparent curiosity that lit Daisy's face when she was longing to ask a question.

‘There is a directness about Daisy,' Mim had said, ‘that you'll find very refreshing.'

‘Mad Madame Mim.' He laughed aloud, quite certain that Mim knew her nickname only too well. ‘Madame Mim.' The name brought another, more distant, memory and he settled comfortably, trying to pin it down.

He is sitting at the big table, drawing a picture for his mother as a present ready to give her on her return from London. His father sits beside the fire, reading a journal that is to do with his work except that, just occasionally, his head nods forward suddenly so that Roly knows he is falling asleep. Claude, the Clumber spaniel, is stretched before the fire; his long lemon-coloured ear has fallen back, exposing the pink whorls inside. Very quietly, Roly climbs down from his chair and goes to kneel beside Claude; he puts his ear straight and strokes his warm, soft coat. Claude groans in his sleep and his tail thumps lazily. A log crumbles with a hissing sound and his father opens his eyes, tightening his grip on the journal that is slowly sliding to the floor.

Roly smiles at him, kneeling back on his heels, enjoying the heat on his back that comes from the fire.

‘Why does Mother have to go to London?' he asks. He makes his voice casual, as if he doesn't really mind; he is very fond of Aunt Mary – Father's elder sister, who comes to look after them when his mother is away – but he likes it better when Mother's at home.