Still Waters (17 page)

But she was, of course. Putting two and two together, Tess suspected that Lady Salter resented having Andy dumped on her and made him toe the line and keep out of her way whenever possible. One of the maids, who lived in the village, told Tess that old Lady Salter had told Andy, in her presence, that she thought him plain.

‘Odd, when you’ve a handsome father and a pretty mother,’ she had said. ‘You’ll never turn the girls’ heads. Hope you’re clever, young man; you’ll need to be.’

Andy was not particularly clever, and he wasn’t athletic, either, which was why his father, Sir Robert, had sent him to Lady Salter rather than to people with a family of boys. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of Andy, he simply knew that his younger son would rather spend time alone than find himself expected to join in. Swimming would not be judged an athletic achievement by the family, Andy told Tess, nor boating. His father had played rugger and cricket, with a sideswipe at badminton and squash. Spectacles were a danger in rugger and a nuisance in other sports, but Andy was blind as a bat without them, so he tended to keep off the games field whenever possible.

‘But you don’t swim in specs,’ Tess said, and Andy told her that when you had water in your eyes or were actually under the surface, specs didn’t matter.

‘I can see as well as you under water,’ he explained. ‘And when you’re churning your way along the surface you don’t need to see especially well. So it suits me, you see. And I can bike like anything with specs on.’

He could, but it had been a near thing. He had no natural sense of balance, Tess had concluded despairingly at one point, when Andy simply fell off left, right or over the handlebars, and could not keep Mr Thrower’s old machine rolling for more than six feet. But one day it came to him, a bolt from the blue, and he was soon expert, able to make the old bicycle do all sorts of tricks and beating Tess whenever they had a race.

So when Andy suggested, one morning at the end of August, three weeks after they had first met, that they should undertake a bicycle ride to the seaside, Tess was all for it.

‘I’d like to go to Palling. I went there, once, with the Throwers,’ she told him. ‘That was before Janet got so grown-up, of course. Is it far on a bike?’

‘Probably about ten miles; nothing, really,’ Andy assured her. ‘We’ll take a picnic – luncheon and tea – then we can be away all day. Can you square it with your stepmother?’

He knew, none better, that ‘squaring it’ with Tess’s father instead of her stepmother could mean trouble for his friend. Marianne always got her own back if Tess went to Peter instead of her with a request, by being particularly difficult for weeks and by refusing, on principle, any request which her stepdaughter might make.

But now, Tess saw no reason to tell Marianne where they were going. ‘I’ll just say we’re playing at the Hall,’ she said. ‘No need to mention Sea Palling.’

‘All right. But why shouldn’t we cycle to the seaside? We can both swim . . . oh, bring your bathers.’

‘And a bucket and spade, I suppose,’ Tess said, giggling. ‘Can one towel do for both of us, do you suppose? And are you sure you want to provide all the food? I expect Marianne would give me something if I said it was luncheon at yours, tea on the Broad, or in the hay meadow.’

‘No need; Jane likes spoiling me,’ Andy said loftily. ‘She takes all the best grub for me, and tells Auntie that it’s gone bad in the heat. But you can bring the drinks if you like. Mrs Delamere makes the best lemonade ever.’ He looked at her affectionately. ‘And whilst we bike along, you can tell me the story of your life: I’m sure it’s full of surprises.’

They set out as they had planned, before eight o’clock, and Andy rode, not Mr Thrower’s battered old bone-shaker, but a much superior machine which his aunt had borrowed for him when she realised it would, as she termed it, keep him out of mischief for hours together.

Tess had woken early, full of excitement over the proposed expedition, but a glance from her window confirmed that it was both chilly and overcast, a disappointment after such glorious weather. However, it would make the long cycle ride pleasanter if they weren’t baking under the sun, so she got up, went downstairs and cut herself bread and jam, them made a tray of tea and carried it upstairs to her parents’ room.

Peter was in the bathroom, she could hear the taps running, but Marianne was pleased by the tea and lay back on her pillows, sipping the hot, sweet liquid and asking Tess quite pleasantly what plans she had for the day ahead.

‘Oh, just a bike ride over to the Hall; Andy’s calling for me early,’ Tess said. ‘Lady Salter says we can have our lunch and tea there, today. Gibson – he’s the head gardener – thinks we might give him a hand to pick some plums, if they’re ripe enough.’

‘I wonder what sort they are?’ Marianne said thoughtfully. ‘If they’re Victorias you might perhaps bring some home, d’you think? I’d like to make plum conserve – your father loves it.’

‘I shouldn’t think they’ll be picking their Victorias quite yet; they’ll probably be Early Rivers,’ Tess observed, wondering just how she would get round this one. ‘But if it is the Vics, I’ll ask if I can bring some home.’

‘I wouldn’t mind some Early Rivers,’ Marianne said. ‘They’re more work, but on the whole I think they make better jam.’

‘There’s a plum tree in the orchard, right down by the back hedge,’ Tess said, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘You could pick some yourself . . . or Andy and I will do it tomorrow,’ she added hastily, seeing Marianne’s frown begin. Her stepmother did not look on fruit picking as a suitable occupation for one such as herself.

‘Oh. Well, perhaps that would be best. I don’t want Lady Salter to think we’re taking advantage of your friendship with Andy to try to wheedle some plums out of her! You’ll pick me ten pounds or so tomorrow, then?’

‘All right,’ Tess said recklessly. ‘If they’re ripe, that is. See you this evening, then.’ She wondered what she would have to do to acquire some Early Rivers plums to assuage Marianne’s sudden hunger for them, because getting some was now a necessity. Tell one lie, she thought sorrowfully as she ran down the stairs, and before you know it you’re up to your ears in a positive sea of the things. To the best of her knowledge the only plum tree in the orchard was a greengage, and that fruited sparsely every other year. The Throwers had some plum trees, though, and dear Mrs Thrower was still very much her friend. I’ll go down and dig their garden, or help harvest their blackcurrants, or – or
buy
the damned plums, but I’ll get hold of some somehow, Tess vowed as she went out the back door and began to wheel her bicycle down the garden path. Oh why didn’t I think of a better reason than picking plums for going over to the Hall all day?

And later, when she and Andy were cycling side by side along a pleasant country road, she told him about the plums and shared his astonishment as the lengths to which she had gone rather than admit that she was going to the seaside.

‘Why couldn’t you just say?’ Andy said when she’d finished explaining. ‘Why pretend?’

‘If I tell you, do you promise you won’t tease on about it, or say anything to anyone else?’ Tess said at last, having thought it over. ‘Because I’ve never told anyone what I’m now going to tell you, Andy. You wouldn’t let me down?’

‘Course not. Fire away.’

And thus encouraged, Tess told Andy about her dream, and her father’s reaction to it.

When the story was told Andy whistled under his breath, then turned to stare at her for a moment.

‘And you still don’t know what you see in the water? Not after dreaming it dozens of times?’

‘Hundreds of times, more like,’ Tess told him. ‘But each time it seems like the first time, if you understand me. It’s fresh, exciting . . . the beach is lovely, the sea smells so good, the sand feels cool and nice on my hot feet . . .’

‘Hmm. Aren’t you curious, though, Tess? I bet if you asked the boy, he’d tell you.’

‘How can he? It’s only a dream,’ Tess protested. ‘He’s only a dream, too, I suppose.’

Andy shook his head. ‘No, you don’t believe that,’ he said. ‘If you did, you wouldn’t have told me about it, for a start. And if you thought it was only a dream you wouldn’t mind telling your father you were off to the seaside. What do you really believe, Tess?’

Tess stared at him, then smiled and turned her eyes forward once more. ‘You’re right, of course. I don’t really think it’s just a dream, I think it’s something that happened to me when I was very small. I think it was something bad, because Daddy doesn’t want to talk about it, he wants me to forget it. I asked him once, when I was just a kid, and he said dreams were dreams and shouldn’t be taken seriously. But to my knowledge he’s never been to the seaside since we’ve lived in the Old House, and I can’t remember anything before that. I’ve been twice; once when my uncle from Norwich took me and the cousins to Yarmouth, and once when I went with the Throwers to Palling for a week. Other than that, we just don’t go down to the coast. Not even Marianne, not even Cherie, though Daddy says he’ll take us to Devonshire for a seaside holiday when Cherie’s a bit bigger.’

‘And the boy?’

‘I think he’s a real person,’ Tess said slowly. ‘And you’re right, of course. He would know what it’s all about. Whenever I meet a boy a few years older than me I take a long, hard look at him, because I’m sure I’d recognise him if we met. But no luck so far.’

‘Fascinating,’ Andy said slowly. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely fascinating. What does the boy look like, then?’

‘Ordinary,’ Tess said ruefully. ‘He’s got brown hair and eyes, and he wears a blue shirt and grey shorts. If I was three, I’d think he was about seven. I think he must have lived near us, or been staying near us, because when I turn to see him coming along the beach I’m not at all pleased. He bosses me about, you see, and tells me what to do and what not to do.’

‘A bit like me,’ Andy said, grinning. ‘I try to boss you about, but I don’t have a lot of luck, you’re far too strong-minded.’

‘You’re too young,’ Tess said at once. ‘And too nice as well, Andy. I really don’t think that boy was very nice, not to little kids, anyway. But he’s the clue, isn’t he? If I could find him I’d know what was in the water.’

‘If it was something nasty, perhaps you’re better off not knowing,’ Andy said cautiously. ‘Have you ever thought of that, Teasle?’

‘Of course I have . . . but I really feel I
must
know,’ Tess said. ‘I can’t help wondering where my mother was, what she was doing, to let me wander off by myself like that. If only Daddy would say a bit more . . . but he warned me when he and Marianne were about to be married that he wouldn’t want to talk about “before” once that happened. He said it wasn’t fair to Marianne – but I don’t think it’s fair to me never to tell me anything about my mother. It didn’t matter when it was just Dad and I, but now, what with Marianne and everything, I think about my mother a lot. And I’m sure I must have relatives from her side, people who knew her, would like to tell me about her, even if Dad won’t. Only I can’t ask because of what Dad said.’

‘But what would you ask these relatives if you met them? You know how your mother died, don’t you? And where she’s buried, and so on? Besides, she died soon after you were born, I remember you telling me that when we first met.’

‘I don’t know how she died, or where she’s buried, or anything,’ Tess protested. ‘Daddy said I was only a baby at the time, but sometimes I feel I knew her – at any rate I remember a lovely woman, a cuddly, warm person, who loved me. Sometimes, Andy, I think perhaps Dad may be holding something back. He wouldn’t tell me a fib, but that doesn’t mean he’s told me the whole truth.’

‘You don’t know where your own mother is buried?’ Andy said incredulously. ‘Isn’t she buried in the churchyard at Barton, then?’

‘No, she isn’t,’ Tess said shortly. For a long time she had simply assumed that her mother’s grave was the big one by St Michael’s gate with the hovering angel; she could still remember her shame and embarrassment when Janet Thrower had told her that this monument belonged to a gentleman who had died in 1840. ‘Sometimes I’ve wondered . . .’

‘What? You’ve wondered what?’

‘Well, whether she’s dead at all. I’ve wondered if she just left my father . . . only I don’t think he’d tell a huge fib over something as important as that, do you? And anyway, it’s the sort of thing that happens in books, not in real life.’

‘Hmm. It certainly is a mystery, and I like mysteries. Shall we solve it, Tess? The great Sherlock Anderson and his companion, Tess Watson, will Reveal All. How about it? There must be clues in your house – how about that photograph you showed me? There must be more pictures of her . . . incidentally, she’s most awfully like you – did you know?’

‘Like
me
?’ Tess turned to stare incredulously at her companion, their front wheels locked and the pair of them fell heavily on to the dust roadway. Andy swore, Tess followed suit, then they began to giggle as the humour of the situation struck them.

‘What a pair of fools . . . are you all right, though, Teasle?’ Andy said. He helped Tess to her feet, then began trying to untangle their bicycles, only to discover that his front wheel was out of alignment with the back one. ‘Oh damn, look at this!
And
I’ve skinned my knees.’

‘I’ve done my hands no good at all,’ Tess said sadly, squinting at her palms, which were deeply grazed. ‘And my knees are bloody . . . much worse than yours. Oh, and my elbow’s got a huge bruise . . . But my bicycle seems to be fairly undamaged.’

‘This one’s okay too,’ Andy agreed, having straightened the wheel. ‘Are you fit? Then let’s remount. Now! What were we talking about?’

‘Whether there were any other pictures of my mother, and there aren’t,’ Tess said with conviction. ‘I’ve looked, and there’s nothing. And asking Daddy questions is so hard, Andy, because it makes him sad, and I can tell by his eyes that it’s true. He says she was very beautiful, and everyone who knew her loved her. When I was little I heard him telling people that she’d died of a fever, but I don’t know what sort. And that’s about it, except that her name was Leonora. I wish I were called Leonora, it’s such a lovely, graceful sort of name.’