Summer on the River (11 page)

‘I knew you'd feel like that,' says Claude rather gloomily. He's wondering how he's going to cope with seeing Charlie now he has inside information. He feels uneasy, hoping he can carry it off, and he wonders how Evie has coped with it for the last two years.

‘I suppose it was silly of me,' she says. ‘But what could I do? Dartmouth will be packed and they'll be tired after the journey. I had to offer. I was half hoping Ben might phone and say they weren't coming. I half expected Ange to cry off. She'll have brought provisions. She always does.'

‘It's odd,' he says. ‘The prospect of seeing them. Now that I know about Charlie, I mean.'

‘I can imagine how you're feeling. I was the same. I've got slightly used to it now but it's unsettling knowing things about people that they don't know themselves. You keep wondering how they'd react if you told them. I'm sorry, Claude, it's unfair to involve you, but I just needed someone else to know.'

‘I still think it was wrong of TDF to leave you with it. It was his decision to make, not yours.'

Before she can answer there's a knock on the door, which opens, and Charlie shouts, ‘Hi. Are you there, Evie?' and comes into the big room where she and Claude are sitting at the table.

‘Charlie.' She gets up and goes to hug him, moved as always by his resemblance to her darling Tommy. She hates it that Claude is judging his old friend so harshly, though it's difficult to defend Tommy: it was his property, his son, his decision. However, she can remember his distress, his desire to make amends without causing too much destruction, her own readiness to relieve him of some of the stress without quite knowing how. Nevertheless, Claude's ready sympathy and understanding have eased her anxiety a little and she is grateful to him.

As she hugs Charlie she tries to imagine telling him the truth – that all he has should by rights belong to Ben – and she simply can't envisage having the courage. Instead she smiles up at him with genuine pleasure at seeing him and stands back to watch him embrace Claude.

‘It's great to be here,' he's saying. ‘And thanks, Evie, for letting us use the garage. I see you've managed to get a space outside, but it's a real problem during regatta, isn't it?'

‘Ben and I are coxing and boxing with the space,' she answers. ‘My old friend lets me use her driveway for one of the cars so if I have to go out Ben moves his car down here to keep the space. It's not ideal but it's only for a few days while you're here.'

Charlie strolls to the balcony and wanders out, staring down-river, hands in his jeans pockets. Claude watches him. It might be TDF standing there: long, lean legs, broad shoulders, dark head slightly bent. How wonderful it must be to be tall and elegant; to be able to attract women without even trying. He remembers how he used to envy TDF his grace, and Charlie and Ben have inherited those same qualities. They have no idea what it's like to be short and stocky and unremarkable, with gingery hair that curls like a tonsure around a prematurely bald head.

Charlie is turning back now, his face peaceful, and Claude wonders how he would react if he were to tell him the truth; imagines that calm expression changing to disbelief and shock.

‘I should get down more often,' Charlie says. ‘I forget how good it is here. It's a different world after London.'

‘Not at regatta,' says Evie. ‘The town is heaving and the noise is unbelievable. The funfair, pop music belting out from each stall …'

‘Not to mention the smell of beefburgers,' says Claude.

‘Even so,' says Charlie. ‘We're going down to Polzeath on Monday to meet up with the girls for a week but perhaps I'll come down on my own after the holidays and spend some time with old Benj. He's looking good.'

‘That's a brilliant idea,' says Evie. ‘He's managing very well but I'm sure it would do him good. Are they coming over for supper?'

‘Yes. He and Ange will be over soon. I just wanted to have a few minutes on my own with you.'

‘Checking us out,' asks Evie, amused, ‘before we put on our party faces?'

‘Something like that,' he answers. He sits down again at the table. ‘I'm still hoping that you're going to tell me that you're writing again, Evie. It's been much too long.'

She shakes her head. ‘I've told you. I've finished with all that.'

‘The Civil War, yes,' he says. ‘I can see that. But there are other things to write about.'

Claude listens to the familiar argument, agreeing with Charlie but saying nothing.

It isn't long before Evie says, ‘Enough, Charlie. I'm not writing another book. It's finished. Done with. Now, tell me about the girls. It's ages since I saw them.'

As she and Claude prepare the supper – Claude is very handy in the kitchen – Evie concentrates on the coming evening, on Ange's attitude to Ben and how it will affect them all.

And here they are: Ben and Ange coming in together. Ange greets them, an air-kiss near both cheeks, and Claude offers them a drink, talks about regatta, how they might wander round the town tomorrow and enjoy the fun.

‘I always forget,' Ange says, walking to the big windows, ‘how early you lose the sun here. It's quite gloomy, isn't it, even on such a bright evening?'

There is a tiny silence and Evie can't help but chuckle to herself: it's so Ange, this kind of remark. A little put-down, an implied criticism, that slightly wrong-foots people and fractures the jolly atmosphere.

Ben and Charlie are silent; they look embarrassed, Claude looks cross. Evie steps in. She smiles at Ben, gives him a tiny wink.

‘It is, Ange,' she says, ‘and, you know, it's something you really notice as you grow older. The sun and light become so important. I've been seriously considering letting out the boathouse or even selling it and moving across the road. It's so much higher, gets more sunshine, and I wouldn't have to climb up all those steps to the road each time I go out. Of course, that's if Ben thinks he could cope with me.'

Ben has turned aside to hide his grin but Ange is completely taken aback.

‘Well,' she says, after a moment, ‘if you want my opinion I've never heard anything so foolish.'

‘But why?' asks Evie, taking her glass from Claude. ‘I thought about it quite a lot last winter. Then, when spring arrived, I began to have second thoughts and then Ben needed a place to catch his breath so I rather put it on hold, but you're quite right. It
can
be rather gloomy here and, now I'm on my own again and getting old, I'm beginning to think about it seriously.'

This is indeed carrying the war into the enemy's camp and for once Ange is silenced. Evie feels she might explode with suppressed mirth and she can see that Claude feels the same.

‘But you love it here,' says Ange rather feebly. She glances at Charlie who looks away, still feeling uncomfortable by her earlier remark.

‘I do,' agrees Evie. ‘But maybe it's time for a change. Come and help me with the supper, Claude.'

And she turns away, still fizzing with a sense of triumph and amusement.

Mikey piles up the cartons from the Chinese takeaway and puts them in the bin. Dad's slumped in front of the telly, channel-hopping. He's in one of his moods this evening and Mikey's being careful, just like Mum taught him to be.

‘Daddy can't help his moods,' she used to tell him. ‘It's just the way he is. He loves you, don't ever forget that, but we just have to stay very calm and not let it upset us.'

It's hard, though, tiptoeing around him, especially now Mum's not here. Mikey puts the plates in the little dishwasher. He gets a bit frightened, sometimes, and a bit tired making sure that Dad doesn't lose it or have one of his real downers.

‘Life's shit,' he says when he's having a downer. His face goes all grim, like a light's gone out behind his eyes, and Mikey's heart always races with anxiety. ‘Really shit. I never had a proper chance. It was terrible, Mikey, having a mother in a wheelchair, in pain all the time. God, Mikey, you can't imagine how she suffered and she was so brave.'

He never knows what to say, so he just nods and tries to look sympathetic. Now he switches on the dishwasher, trying to concentrate on good things: being here in Dartmouth and meeting that woman, Evelyn Fortescue. He liked her; she was really cool. He hasn't told Dad about her. He doesn't quite know why but something tells him to keep quiet. Probably because she was Grampy's friend. Dad can be a bit funny about Grampy, like he's jealous of him; angry with him. It's Grandma he adored – and Mum.

Mikey struggles against a black wave of misery: he feels terribly alone. He wishes he could be back at school with some of his mates, or with his aunt Liz in Taunton, or perhaps see Evelyn Fortescue again. She was nice and normal.

‘Want some coffee?' he calls through the doorway.

Dad's still slumped there, spaced out, like he's not seeing what's on the screen. He looks round, seems to come to, nods.

‘Yeah. Thanks, Mikey.'

Mikey sighs, fills the kettle and switches it on. He must be strong for Mum. That terrible cancer had eaten her up and done for her so quickly.

‘Aunt Liz will look out for you,' she told him, gripping his hand, her face all ravaged. She looked a hundred. ‘Take care of Dad. Liz will be there.'

But Aunt Liz lives in Taunton and isn't there most of the time, and he must do the best he can. The trouble is, Dad is his own worst enemy. He can be such fun, but then somebody says something that he takes against and that's the end of it. He's seized by a terrible rage, he shouts and shakes, but when it's over he weeps with remorse and swears it won't happen again.

Mikey peeps in at him. Dad's having a little swig at the water bottle. He does it quite often and Mikey's frightened that there's something really wrong with Dad; that he might have throat cancer or something. Dad says it's to do with the medication he takes for his depression, his happy pills, which makes his throat dry. He wishes Dad would have another check-up with the doctor but he gets surly when it's mentioned.

Mikey cranes sideways so he can see the little slice of the church tower out of the window. He'll go on Sunday to see if they have a choir. Singing lifts him, carries him away from all his troubles. He loves school and the choir and his mates. He's really, really grateful that he's got a scholarship so that they won't have to worry about fees, even when his voice breaks and he gets older. Anyway, Mum took out some kind of insurance for school fees when he was just a baby. She said she did it because of Dad not being able to go to Winchester, though he passed the entrance exam, because Grampy couldn't afford the fees and that Dad never got over it; that it was the root of all his problems and that it was Grampy's fault, though Mikey can't quite see why. Not everyone can afford expensive school fees.

The kettle boils and he makes coffee in a mug, carries it through and puts it on the little table. Dad's asleep, head tipped sideways, snoring. He's still there when Mikey goes to bed.

Jason wakes suddenly, heart pounding, staring round him. His throat is rough and sore from snoring and his head aches. The television is switched off and there's no sign of Mikey. Jason groans, hauls himself upright, peers at his watch. Christ! It's a quarter to bloody three. Mikey must have gone to bed long since. Well, no harm done.

He gets up, goes into the kitchen and fills a glass with tap water, gulping it back. His throat is on fire and he fills the glass again and drinks the water down. He leans against the sink, his eyes closed, trying to stop the panic that churns his gut. He can hear Helena telling him to breathe and he tries to do it, hauling air in through his nose, willing down the fear.

‘Try to rationalize it,' she says to him. ‘What's the worst that can happen?'

He thinks about it, what it is that's nagging at the back of his mind, and then remembers: Evelyn bloody Drake sitting on a bench outside the pub with Mikey. He'd really had to control himself; restrain his wild desire to run forward and simply grab her and drag her away from his son.

He remembers now that he went into the pub to have a leak, and then a very quick shot of whisky at the bar on the way back – well, you can't just use the loo without buying a drink – and then he'd come out and there she was, cool as you like, sitting there talking to Mikey. He nearly lost it but something held him back. For one thing, the place was heaving with people and even he could see that it would be asking for trouble to slap her about a bit in front of a crowd. For another, there was Mikey. He needs to keep Mikey on side; needs to show him that it's she who is the root of all their troubles. Her affair with his father that caused darling Mama so much pain, her refusal to help in the slightest way with the school fees, even though by then she was rolling in it, all thanks to his father's own research and all the help he'd given her.

‘She owes you,' Mama said, way back then, staring at his father. Her face was so brittle, so white, it looked like it might shatter into pieces. ‘She owes us all. She nearly destroyed our marriage and without you she'd be nothing. You must write to her again but for God's sake make your point. Don't pussyfoot about this time. Jay's whole future is at stake here.'

He'd been just outside the door, watching and listening; he was good at that, making himself small, invisible, listening to the rows, the arguments.

‘It wasn't like that,' his father replied wearily. ‘You know it wasn't. My affair with Evie never threatened our marriage and she didn't steal my research. You're being utterly irrational.'

But she'd given him no peace. Jason smiles to himself. You had to admit that darling Mama never gave up: she was implacable. His father had written to Evelyn Drake again but the answer was still ‘no'. Even now he can remember the wrenching shock when Mama told him that he couldn't go to Winchester; that he must go to the local grammar school.