The Last Summer (42 page)

‘Happily tormented,’ he replied, looking into the distance, frowning.

We began to walk, and I reached out, brushed his hand with my fingers. I could already see the three boats, slowly moving across the water towards the island.

‘Oh God, Clarissa . . . what are we going to do?’

‘Enjoy today . . . look forward to tomorrow.’

‘Hmm. It’s not enough, I’m afraid. I need more than that.’

‘But I don’t think there is more.’

‘Yes, there is: there’s you.’

‘I’m having tea with your mother later,’ I said, trying to lighten the conversation.

He turned to me. ‘Yes, so she said.’

‘Ah! Here they are!’ I heard Charlie say to Nancy, as we approached them.

‘Charlie, my man . . . you take Davina and Nancy in this one,’ Tom said, nodding over at a boat sitting in the sunshine at the end of the jetty. ‘I’ll wait here with Clarissa and Walter for the next one to come back.’ And he spoke with such authority that no one, least of all Charlie, would have dared suggest an alternative plan. Nancy shot him a glance, and either he didn’t notice or he chose to ignore it. A few minutes later, with Charlie at the oars, they were off. Davina’s wave and broad smile seemed teasing, but I really didn’t care any more. We stood side by side watching them move away across the water, then he grabbed my hand and led me up the steps, into the boathouse.

‘But they’ll see us, and Walter’s there . . . he’s right there.’

‘Clarissa, you more than anyone should know a loyal servant sees and hears nothing,’ he said, pressing me against the timber wall. ‘Let’s not go . . . let’s go back to the house.’

‘No, we can’t . . .’ I said, closing my eyes, moving my head as he kissed my neck. ‘We have to go . . .’

But I didn’t want to go to the island either, not with all of them. It was
our
place; meant only for us. And so we remained there, in the boathouse, for some time, kissing, holding on to each other, staring back into each other’s eyes, unable not to smile. And each long second postponed the agony of letting go, again.

When we finally emerged, Walter was sitting in a boat at the end of the jetty, waiting; the boy who’d helped carry things over to the island and had rowed the boat back – long since disappeared. And so, with his back to Walter and facing me, Tom rowed us across the water. Neither of us uttered a word, and I’m not sure what Walter thought. He’d seen us at the tent the previous evening, been standing guard presumably on Tom’s instruction; and now he’d sat and waited for us to come out of the boathouse. But he was elderly, and I imagine he’d seen it all before a thousand times.

Huddled together on that small island there was no escape, no opportunity to disappear and nowhere to disappear
to
, other than by boat. So, we sat about in deckchairs and on rugs, and ate and drank, and whiled away a couple of hours. A few, including Davina and Nancy, strolled off beyond the trees. Charlie fell asleep in his deckchair; and lying close to me, on a rug under the shade of a tree, Tom nodded off too. It was peaceful, heavenly really, if there’d only been Tom and me there. But I began to feel slightly claustrophobic, uncomfortable and hot; and I wanted to go back to the house and freshen up before I had tea with Mrs Cuthbert. So I quietly asked Walter to row me back across the lake.

I hadn’t intended on looking in on his room, I’d already seen it anyway, when he’d shown Charlie and me around the place the previous day. But the door was ajar and it was just too tempting. I walked in, and immediately noticed that his bed was unmade. Shabby, I thought; he needs to have a word with the servants. Then I remembered it was Sunday: most of the servants
would have had the day off. I walked over to one of the windows, facing due south, looking out over the terrace and gardens. This had once been Mama’s room, and I smiled at that thought: the thought of Tom Cuthbert inhabiting my mother’s former bedroom. Out of the window, to the left, was the walled garden, and I wondered if he’d seen me talking to his mother.

I moved away from the window, walked about the room, taking it all in once again and noticing the changes he’d made, and then I wandered through to his dressing room, once Mama’s. I opened the doors of his wardrobes, ran my fingers over the rows of shirts and suits on hangers, and then moved on, to his bathroom. His tennis shorts and shirt lay on the floor, his shaving brush and razor by the basin, a damp towel next to them. And I picked it up and held it to my face for a moment. Then I walked back into the bedroom and sat down upon the bed.

A pile of books lay on a bedside table next to a wireless:
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom
, by T.E. Lawrence;
Love Among the Artists
, by George Bernard Shaw;
Heart of Darkness
, by Joseph Conrad. The latter, at the top of the pile, had what I took to be a bookmark poking out from it, and for some reason I picked it up and opened it. A small, rather badly executed but nonetheless lovely water-colour lay on the page in front of me, and I heard myself gasp.
My painting . . . my painting; all these years he’s kept it with him . . .

The paper, once stiff, was now soft and worn like fabric. And it had quite obviously spent a good few years folded and flattened. Now heavily creased, frayed at the edges and torn in the middle, it could have been an antique; an ancient scrap of something perhaps once much larger. But as I sat holding it, looking at it, I remembered each stroke of my brush; and each thought that had accompanied each stroke: Tom.

I placed the paper carefully back inside the book, and the book back on top of the pile. And then I lay back, turned my head, and buried my face in white linen.

Mrs Cuthbert opened the door of her cottage looking quite different and altogether prettier than I’d ever seen her, without any apron, and in a navy-blue jersey dress and triple-strand pearl necklace. ‘Miss Clarissa,’ she said, smiling at me, ‘this is such a treat for me.’ I handed her the flowers I’d picked from the garden and entered the cottage, the place that had once been Broughton’s. It was exactly as I’d imagined, and not dissimilar from her previous cottage, but for the freshness of new fitted carpets and wall coverings. She showed me into her parlour, a cosy, immaculately tidy room, with chairs covered in a familiar floral chintz, and a large dark wood display cabinet filled with glass and china.

She’d already laid out the tea tray, and as she busied herself in the kitchen, boiling the kettle and filling the pot, I glanced about the room. There were two framed photographs sitting side by side upon the mantelshelf, next to a clock, a bible and a palm cross; both of Tom. One of him aged perhaps eleven or twelve, and the other, taken around the time when I’d first met him, in his uniform. I picked up the photograph of him in uniform and moved over to the window.

‘Ah, that’s how you’ll remember him, I expect,’ Mrs Cuthbert said, entering the room and putting down the teapot.

‘Yes, exactly like this. He was so handsome . . . still is.’

She came over to where I stood, looked at the photograph with me for a moment, then took it from me and placed it back upon the mantelshelf.

I sat down as she poured out our tea, and then off ered me some of her homemade Madeira cake, saying, ‘Now, I hope you’re not watching your figure, you certainly don’t need to and you always liked that particular one, as I recall. I baked it
specially
for you.’

We chatted about the old days and she brought me up to speed on the circumstances of those who’d once been a part of Deyning. She kept in touch with almost all of the old staff: told me where they were living, who’d married whom, and who’d had babies. Mr Broughton still hadn’t married, but had returned to his
roots
, she said, and I smiled. He was living somewhere in Devon, she thought, but not gardening.

‘Not gardening?’ I repeated.

‘No, teaching, I think. But you know he was from rather a well-to-do family, don’t you?’

I shook my head; I’d had no idea.

‘Oh yes,’ she said emphatically, ‘he was a very educated man . . . but a bit of a
black sheep
,’ she added. And I was tempted to tell her that, according to Edna, he’d been more of a
dark horse
. She went on, told me Edna was still in service, working as cook for the new owners of Monkswood, people who owned a London department store, she thought, but she couldn’t recall which one. But that place had all changed, she said, because the estate had been divided up after old Mr Hamilton died. And Mabel? Married, mother to
three boys
, and living in South London.

‘And you, no little ones yet?’ she asked, her head tilted to one side and smiling.

‘No, no little ones, I’m afraid.’

She said nothing, but I sensed she was waiting for me to say something more.
Yes, I had a child, your grandchild. But I gave her away one Christmas, many years ago.

‘One sometimes thinks life could be better, that the grass is perhaps greener somewhere, but I’m not altogether sure that it is, Mrs Cuthbert. And really, I consider myself to be lucky, very lucky, with or without children,’ I added, looking away and taking a sip of tea.

She asked after Mama, spoke sweetly of my father; said he was ‘a good man . . . one of the best’.

‘But you’ve known such grief,’ she said. ‘To lose two of your brothers . . . and so young,’ she shook her head, ‘so young.’

‘We all did,’ I said. ‘They were all too young to die.’ I glanced at the bible on her mantelshelf. ‘But God spared Tom.’

‘Yes, he did. He heard my prayers, and there’s never a day goes by that I don’t feel gratitude and thank Him for that.’

Yes, I thought, He kept His side of the bargain; He kept Tom safe.

‘And he’s done so terribly well, Mrs Cuthbert.’

‘He was always going to. He’s very bright, you know . . . like his father.’

‘Oh?’ I said, looking back at her, expectantly.

‘Yes, like his father . . .’ she repeated, glancing away. Then she turned to face me and added, ‘And now – at last – he’s to be
married
!’

‘Yes indeed, –’ I said, trying to smile. ‘It’s lovely news. You must be pleased, excited.’

‘Oh yes, I am. It’s not right for him to be on his own . . . not now, not after all these years. He needs to . . .’ she looked away and shook her head. ‘He needs to move on with his life . . . have a wife, a family . . . a proper home.’

‘Of course.’

She began fiddling with the brocade trim on the arm of her chair. ‘I want to see him settled. I won’t be here for ever . . . and I’d like to see him happy. We can’t always have what we want in life . . . no matter how much money we have. And money isn’t everything. It doesn’t buy happiness, as he’s discovered.’ She looked across at me.’ And I’m sure you’d like to see him settled and happy too . . .’

I heard a latch drop and he appeared, standing in the doorway, smiling.

‘Well, this is rather nice,’ he said.

He moved towards his mother, bent down and kissed her cheek. He towered over her, over us both, his head grazing the ceiling. And it was queer to think he’d once inhabited such a small space, for Mrs Cuthbert’s previous cottage had certainly been no bigger, and very possibly smaller. He picked up a slice of cake, pushed it into his mouth whole. ‘Mm, that’s good,’ he said, and sat down upon the arm of my chair. Then, in front of his mother – as she looked on, smiling at us – he lifted his hand and stroked my hair. I looked down at the floor, astonished, embarrassed; unsure what to do.

‘I’ll go and make a fresh pot,’ Mrs Cuthbert said, rising to her feet.

‘Why on earth did you do that?’ I whispered, as the door closed.

He smiled at me. ‘Do what?’

‘Touch me like that . . . in front of your mother?’

‘Why not? She knows. She knows everything . . . well, almost everything,’ he replied, standing up and pulling out his packet of cigarettes.

‘No, please, please don’t say that. She can’t – she mustn’t . . .’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, she’s not going to say anything, tell anyone. She’s known for years.’

‘Known
what
for years?’

He lit his cigarette and sat down on the floor by my feet. He felt so comfortable there, in that cottage, I could tell. He reached up, took hold of my hand.

‘You mustn’t fret. She’s my
mother
, not some stranger. She loves me . . . wants for me whatever I want, whatever makes me happy.’

I whispered, ‘She wants you
settled
and married, Tom.’

He squeezed my hand, turned to look up at me.

‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ I said.

‘Can’t what, Clarissa? Can’t allow me to touch you in front of her? Can’t bear me to love you in front of anyone? Is that it?’

‘No . . . no,’ I said, but I knew how it sounded; how he was making it sound. ‘You don’t understand, we’ve just been talking about—’

‘If she was Lady Cuthbert would that make it any easier for you?’

‘No! That’s not fair, Tom . . . that’s not the point at all, and you know it.’

‘Then prove it to me. Prove to me that you can at least allow me this sanctuary . . . that I can be myself with you here.’

When the door opened and his mother walked back into the room, we may as well have been making love; we
were
making love. I pulled my hand away swiftly. It was an automatic response, spontaneous, and without thought. I’d have done the same regardless of where I was, whoever I was with, but I knew and felt Tom’s reaction. His intake of breath, his sudden pulling away from me was all part of a chain reaction and no matter what I did or what I said, I couldn’t undo that.