The Last Summer (41 page)

After dinner, the men adjourned to the smoking room for brandy and cigars, and we ladies removed ourselves to the drawing room for coffee. There, Nancy came and sat down next to me. She asked me about my childhood, and then quizzed me on Tom: if I’d seen much of him growing up at Deyning, and when I’d last seen him. I was vague about the old Deyning days,
and very specific on when I’d seen him last. ‘Oh, golly . . . not for almost a year. In fact, it was at Davina’s we last saw each other,’ I said, and then added, ‘But we hadn’t seen each other for many years before that.’

She told me of their wedding plans. It was to take place towards the end of the summer, at the church down the road, and afterwards a ‘small’ reception – here, at the house. ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘And any honeymoon plans?’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose so. Tom may be marrying me but he’s already married – to his work!’ she replied.

‘And so . . . will you live here?’ I asked.

‘Between here and the place in London,’ she said, and then added, ‘and as and when we have children, Tom wishes them to be brought up here, in the country.’

I remember thinking, so they’ve discussed it; they’ve made plans. They shall have a family and live here at Deyning. And I could suddenly picture it all, it was so easy. I saw them in years to come: Tom, surrounded by a large brood of dark-haired children, playing with them out on the lawn; up a ladder, decorating a Christmas tree; and Nancy, the matriarch, chatelaine of Deyning Park, Mrs Tom Cuthbert; reliable and efficient, organising their lives.

‘Do you have children, Clarissa?’ she asked.

‘No, sadly, I don’t,’ I replied, and for some reason I smiled as I said it.

A few minutes later I excused myself. It was after midnight, and the conversation had turned to babies and children, which I always found difficult. For years I’d practised smiling inanely as other women spoke of their children. I’d feigned empathy and interest, nodding attentively, and sympathising with them in their tribulations: oh, the ordeals of raising a family! I’d laughed at their funny stories of little Johnny’s antics, sat in silence as they’d discussed schools, and the neatly planned paths for their
offspring. But sometimes, sometimes it became too much. And as I climbed the stairs at Deyning that night I struggled to hold back my tears, for I could never join in those conversations. I was a mother, yet I was no one’s ‘Mummy’. And I knew, knew the moment I left the room, that Davina would take it upon herself to explain my sad predicament; explain to those straining ears how there were no babies – no children for the Boyds. Not now, and, perhaps, not ever. And in my head I could hear their momentary sighs of sadness.

No, no babies for Clarissa.

It must have been after one when Charlie came to bed. But I pretended to be asleep, and within seconds he was snoring. I lay there for almost an hour wondering what to do. I knew I had a choice: I could remain in my room, or I could go to Tom. But would he be there? And what if someone saw me, saw us? But it was late and everyone had had so much to drink . . . surely they’d all be asleep.

The room was dark but for a strip of light under the door. I reached for my robe, hanging on the back of the door, then opened it and stepped out on to the landing. I stood perfectly still for a moment, struck by a sense of déjà vu. The last time I’d done this was the night before Tom left for war, when my parents had been downstairs and I’d used the back stairway. I could feel my heart pounding, hear Charlie’s snoring beyond the closed door, or was it snoring from another room? And somewhere, giggling, and muffled voices. If I met anyone, I’d say I couldn’t sleep; that I was going to find a book in the library. I moved quickly down the carpeted staircase, across the marble hallway – tiptoeing on bare feet – and then on, along the polished wood floor to the ballroom. There was a lamp on, and a casement door stood open. I hurried through the door, across the flagstones and down the steps. It was a glorious clear, starry night, and I was seventeen again.

In the distance I could see the lanterns, still flickering around the outside of the tent, a glow inside. He’s there, I thought, he’s there. I ran along the path through the parterre and across the velvet pile of the lawn, and then, breathless, I pulled back the canvas. A lantern on the table still burned and the smoke of a cigarette lingered. He’d been and gone. Whilst I’d dithered, he’d been waiting for me and now he’d gone. My heart lurched. I stepped back out of the tent unsure of what to do, and then I looked up into the night sky, closed my eyes and made a wish:
make him come back to me, make him come back . . .

I felt a hand upon my shoulder – and there he was.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ I said, turning to him, almost in tears. ‘I thought you’d gone,’ I said again, wrapping my arms around him.

‘Never,’ he said, lifting my face up to his. ‘Never,’ he repeated, leading me back inside the tent.

It was light by the time I walked back through the garden towards the house. The air was warm and a cloudless sky stretched out high above me: a transparent wash of pink, pale blue and yellow. I stood on the terrace for a moment, looking back at the tent, and the bucolic vision beyond. Patches of mist hung over the sleepy hollows of the fields and the lake in the distance, and not a leaf stirred. I’m not sure I’d ever looked out upon that cherished landscape at such an early hour before. And it struck me how timeless and ethereal it was in its stillness.

Tom had made me return to the house first, and I tiptoed up the staircase and back to my room, closing the door behind me as quietly as I could. Charlie lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring. And as I climbed into my bed, I heard another door close, and wondered if it was Tom returning to his room. I longed to go back to him, to lie with him and wake up in his arms. Our night together had been so short, and ahead of us – another day of pretence.

I didn’t wake until almost midday, stirred by voices – including
Charlie’s – outside on the terrace beneath the open window. The pink and white floral curtains remained drawn across each of the four tall windows but a very particular light, a bright Sussex morning light, so familiar to my senses, flooded through them and into the room, and I stretched out like a cat, savouring its warmth and energy. And still echoing in my head – my name: a deep, desperate whispering in my ear; against my skin; on my neck, my shoulder. And I stretched out once more, smiling.

I decided to take my time getting ready. I ran a bath and lay in it until the water was almost cold, reliving the events of hours earlier: his words, his touch, his love. When I finally dressed and went downstairs – the book of Emily Brontë’s poems clutched in my hand – it was a somewhat depleted group sitting outside under the awning on the terrace. I’d missed breakfast but Nancy kindly organised some coffee for me. Tom was nowhere to be seen, and I chose not to ask where he was. Davina said, ‘We’ve all been looking at the Arab tent, Clarissa. Have you seen it? You must go and take a peek, darling . . . it’s quite magical. Apparently Tom’s only just had it put up – in time for this weekend, so we’re quite honoured. I think I might even sleep in it tonight!’

‘Oh, yes I shall, I’ll go and take a look later,’ I said.

‘Sleep well, dear?’ Charlie asked, as he sat down next to me.

‘Yes, perfect, thank you. And you?’

‘Now what do you think? I don’t even remember coming to bed! Though I must say, I’m quite astonished that my head doesn’t hurt more this morning. Champagne, wine
and
brandy – not a very clever mix . . . but you, you’ve slept almost twelve hours,’ and he looked at me, almost tenderly, and patted my hand.

‘Yes, I must have been more tired than I realised.’

‘It’s called beauty sleep, Charlie boy. Not that Clarissa needs it – or perhaps that’s her secret . . .’ Weiner said, from behind sunglasses.

He was sitting next to Davina, in polka dots, and I could tell
immediately they had a thing going. Their deckchairs were pushed up together and they spoke in whispers, punctuated by giggles. I looked around for Davina’s husband, Marcus, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was with Tom, I thought.

It was a perfect day, with a bright blue cloudless sky. I moved away from the table, where Charlie sat reading the newspaper, walked along the terrace and down the steps to a swing-chair set out upon the lawn. I sat back in it, gently rocking myself, and closed my eyes, listening to the conversations behind me. I could hear Nancy, who’d appeared back on the terrace, announcing that we were to have a picnic on the island in the middle of the lake. There were three rowing boats and if we organised ourselves into groups of no more than four we should, she said, be able to do it with each of the three boats making two trips. Those playing tennis would be back soon and we’d set off then, she said. That’s where he is, I thought: playing tennis.

A little while later, as people began to assemble, ready to set off to the lake, I heard his voice and looked up from my book. In tennis whites, and looking unbearably handsome, I listened as he told people to go on ahead, he’d catch up. He glanced across to me, turned as if to go inside the house, then turned back again and moved quickly across the terrace, and down the steps towards me.

‘Let them all go on ahead,’ he whispered, standing in front of me, shining with sweat, still breathless from his game.

‘But I can’t . . . what can I say?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, smiling at me. ‘Think of something.’

Then he ran back across the lawn, leapt up the steps and disappeared into the house.

‘Clarissa!’ Charlie shouted. ‘Do come along, darling, we’re off to the lake.’

I walked up to the terrace. ‘I need to put my book away – and fetch my hat . . . you go on,’ I said to Charlie.

‘I’ll get it for you, dear,’ he replied, taking the book from my hand. Minutes later, he was back with my hat. But as we moved along the terrace, a straggling parasol-laden group, I spotted Mrs Cuthbert, coming through the archway of the walled garden.

‘Oh, but there’s Mrs C. I must go and say hello to her,’ I said to Charlie. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’ And before he could say anything, I ran down the bank, my hat flying. ‘Mrs Cuthbert! Mrs Cuthbert! It’s me . . . Clarissa,’ I shouted, and I realised I sounded like a child again. She turned to me with a broad smile, put down her trug and stretched out her hands.

‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ I said, taking her hands in mine.

‘Miss Clarissa,’ she said, looking me up and down, smiling and nodding her head. ‘Tom only told me yesterday that you’d be here. How lovely . . . how lovely to see you again, dear. And my, he’s right, you’re more beautiful than ever.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that – a little older, like all of us,’ I said.

I wanted to put my arms around her, hug her, but it would have been inappropriate, so I purposefully kept hold of her hands as we spoke.

‘It’s wonderful that you’re still here . . . that Deyning’s now Tom’s. You must be so proud of him,’ I said.

‘Oh yes. Yes, very proud of him, but I was always proud of him, you know that,’ she said. ‘And he’s so happy that you came, that you came back.’

‘Yes, I’m pleased that I did. He’s done a wonderful job with the place. And it’s just perfect, perfect you can continue living here.’

‘Thirteen years now . . . and over five when the old Earl lived here too.’

‘Gosh, yes, I’d forgotten about that. But that was before Tom was born, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, before Tom came along. And it feels like a few lifetimes ago to me now, miss.’

‘I think I know that feeling,’ I said.

‘And so, you’re all off for a picnic, are you?’

‘We are indeed, and I’d better go and catch up. But I hope I might see you later,’ I added.

‘Well then, why don’t you come and have tea with me? You know I’m in Broughton’s cottage now, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Tom mentioned that you didn’t want to move into the main house.’

‘No. I like the old cottage, it suits me fine. And he had it all redone for me, you know? New roof, electricity, mains water, a new range . . . even a bathroom.’ She laughed, and went on, ‘And all redecorated as well. He wanted to buy me new furnishings too, but I told him there’s no need. I like my old things . . . I’m attached to them. Oh yes, it suits me fine. But come and see it, come and have a cup of tea and tell me all your news, and about your mother too. I’d like to hear how she is.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said, releasing her hands. ‘I’ll come when we get back from the lake.’ And then I turned, picked up my hat, and walked on up the pathway towards the stable yard.

I stood at the gate for a moment, watching them all in the distance: a meandering trail of pale linen and straw hats, following the coterie of servants carrying picnic paraphernalia: umbrellas, rugs and hampers. I contemplated going back inside the house, up to his room, but I wasn’t sure where Mrs Cuthbert had gone, or who else was still about at the house. So I opened the gate and walked on into the field, following the path the others had cut through the long grass. It felt indescribably good to be back there, looking out across that landscape, and I stopped, put my arms up into the air, and then wrapped them around myself with joy.

‘You’re a vision,’ he said, appearing by my side, ‘my perfect vision.’

‘Are you happy?’