The Sea Garden (12 page)

Together they hunt for her hearing aids, for her spectacles, and she puts her teeth in, glaring at him as if it is his fault that she's ninety-two and furious because she no longer functions properly. Johnnie merely smiles at her; just like his father he is sweet-tempered, amiable, patient. And, just like his father, he drives her mad.

He pours her tea for her because he knows that her hands shake, and this irritates her too, and he knows it but can't help himself.

‘Jess will be here later,' he says, quite unnecessarily because she has been counting the hours. ‘Isn't it fun that she's going to stay? She really loves the old place, doesn't she?'

Just like his father, platitude after platitude – ‘Five minutes on the bleeding obvious,' as Al had once put it, making her laugh – but, because Johnnie is pleased at the prospect of Jess's arrival, she feels a sudden warmth towards him and she smiles as she reaches for her teacup and nods a little thank-you.

He goes out, leaving her to the silence, the river and her tea. She picks up the cup with care, prepared for the trembling of her hand, advances it cautiously to her withered lips, sips the hot reviving liquid. There is a clatter as she puts it into its saucer but her thoughts are back with the child; coming into the house, exclaiming at the great jar of spindleberries on the hall table, delighting at the view, struck silent in the sea garden as she stares up at Circe and out across the balustrade to the great bridges and the sea.

‘Kate tried to explain it to me,' she said, ‘and then I had a kind of vision of it…'

‘Vision?' Rowena asked quickly, too quickly. Jess looked at her, partly surprised, partly embarrassed.

‘Tom told me about the wonderful parties you had here when he was young,' she said, ‘and, just for a moment, I could see it with little lights strung around and the girls in pretty dresses and the men in uniform.'

Now Rowena nods, remembering: yes, that's how it was. Warm summer evenings, with the moon just rising, and the pale, moth-like fluttering of the girls' dresses against the dark silhouettes of their companions, smart in evening clothes. And Alistair moving amongst their guests, debonair and amusing; the girls excited by his presence, their men flattered by his attention. He was too bright, too sharp, to be loved in the way Johnnie – and his father before him – was loved. No, Al's magnetism was like an electric current that could bring light, heat, power. It could sear and burn too, but it was irresistible.

He and Mike Penhaligon were a wicked pair.

‘We're going hunting, Mother,' he'd say, leaning casually to kiss her. ‘Don't wait up.' And she'd laugh, egging him on, glorying in his strength and beauty, and Mike, behind him, would laugh too. Once they'd gone, the room would seem a little duller, smaller, and Dickie would irritate her by making some remark about Al being too clever by half; too big for his boots. He was jealous of his elder son, of course; quiet, gentle Johnnie was much more to his liking.

Rowena pours more tea. The china spout of the teapot cracks sharply against the eggshell-thin cup so that tea spills in the saucer. She makes a face, reaches for a tissue and mops up. No harm done. She's back in the past, remembering Mike introducing Juliet; he was proud, besotted, his gaze hardly leaving the face of the delightful girl, who smiled with proper deference at the wife of an important senior officer. Juliet had smiled with the same sweetness that Jess smiled at her last Sunday, so that she'd gripped the girl's hand too tightly, trying to hide her shock.

As she finishes her tea she remembers how, more than forty years before, Alistair stood to one side, watching the introduction. For once his guard was down and she was taken aback by his expression; he looked angry, thwarted. Just so had he looked as a child when he'd been crossed, and she experienced a tiny thrill of fear. More than that, she was indignant that Mike had appropriated something that Al clearly wanted for himself. Generally it was the other way: Al was always first, best. Now, it seemed that Mike had won the prize and Al was furious. Next moment she wondered if she'd imagined it. Al was laughing, teasing Juliet, mocking Mike, but Rowena was watchful now. She saw how Al's eyes lingered on the girl and how the old easiness between him and Mike was gone. It seemed that Mike was the conqueror this time – until that evening of the Midsummer's Eve party in the sea garden.

Rowena replaces the delicate cup in its saucer and stands up. The small long-haired terrier, nestling amongst the flung-back bedclothes, raises her head and Rowena bends to stroke her with stiff, arthritic hands. ‘Good girl, Popps,' she murmurs. ‘Good girl.' She must crack on; get moving. Washing and dressing are arduous tasks that take time, and soon Jess will be here and she must be ready; watchful as she was forty years ago.

*   *   *

Downstairs, Johnnie drinks his coffee with Sophie in the kitchen.

‘Odd of Mother to take such a fancy to Jess,' he says. ‘I thought she might like to meet her but I was very surprised when she asked her to stay. I hope it won't make a lot of extra work for you.'

Sophie shrugs. ‘Much less work than when the girls come home with the children. She looks the sort who will muck in.'

‘I liked her,' he says, ‘didn't you? Rather engaging. Must be odd for her to be here where it all began. To be honest with you I never liked Mike Penhaligon all that much. He was a bit of a bully.' He snorts with amusement. ‘Ditto my dear elder brother, actually.'

Sophie grins at him. ‘I think I'd already guessed that. When people die young it's too easy to sanctify them, isn't it? Especially if they die in a terrible accident. The living haven't got a hope.'

He looks at her affectionately. ‘To be honest, I'd given up long before Al died. Mother was infatuated with him. There's no other word. Never mind. It's all over now.'

‘I hope so.' She puts the list to one side. ‘I shall dash into Bere Alston after breakfast, but if Jess arrives early the sail loft is all ready for her. I've made up the bed and given the whole place a good airing.'

‘I still feel badly that you had to abandon your independence in the sail loft and move into the house when Mother had that attack,' he says.

‘Don't be silly. It's much more sensible to be on hand when Rowena has her bad moments, as well as with Will here most weekends during term-time since Louisa went out to Geneva. Any way, it's a while now since I felt the urge to bring home some lusty young man from the sailing club. Go and get dressed, Johnnie. Rowena will be down for her breakfast and she'll want you to take Popps for a run.'

*   *   *

Jess drives carefully along the lanes, paying attention, watching for signposts. She feels excited, nervous and guilty all at once.

‘I don't know what came over me,' she said remorsefully to Kate after the lunch with the Trehearnes. ‘When Lady T asked me to stay it just seemed right, somehow.'

‘But that's what it's all about.' Kate was quite calm and laid-back about it. ‘That's what this trip was for, wasn't it? Exploring, finding out about the past and Juliet and Mike. Lady T and Johnnie will have lots of stories to tell. I'm delighted she responded so positively. You really made a hit.

Jess nodded eagerly, relieved by Kate's reaction. ‘She was amazed how much like Juliet I am. Just like Tom said. It's really weird, isn't it, that people remember her so clearly? No, but it's just that you've been so kind and I do really love it here in Chapel Street…'

‘I know you do. And you can come back whenever you want to. Actually, it's worked out really well, Jess. Ben and Julian can come over and stay with me for a few days before they start school, and Oliver will probably enjoy a break from full-on family life too, so it's perfect timing. Go and enjoy yourself.'

‘Thanks,' she said gratefully. ‘It's another piece of the story, isn't it? Mike being such a close friend of the Trehearne family. Everything kind of interlocks and connects so that there are no beginnings and endings. The story just rolls on.'

‘And you are a part of it,' said Kate.

So here she is, driving down to the Tamar, trying to remember Kate's directions – and, suddenly, she sees a glimpse of the shining river below her. With a quick glance in the rear-view mirror she swerves into the lane's edge and brakes, heart beating fast. Why should these little steep muddy lanes, that sinuous curve of water, the sheltering, gently rising hills, cause such a mix of emotions?

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she feels fearful: she remembers that strange sense of
déjà vu
she experienced in the sea garden and again, oddly, in the sail loft.

‘What a strange-looking place,' she said to Johnnie, staring at the long stone building with its low roof. ‘What is it?'

‘It's the old sail loft,' he told her. ‘My great-grandfather was a keen sailing man. Very competitive. He had his own sails specially made. My girls used it as playroom and then Sophie had it as her own private quarters when she first came to live with us. Come and have a look. The boathouse is underneath.'

And he took her into the great light-filled space with windows along each wall and a huge glass door at the far end, set within a balcony. The room seemed to shake around her, the river light quivering and dazzling her, and Johnnie held her arm as if fearing that she might stumble on one of the rugs cast down upon the pale shining wooden floor. A short stairway, at the opposite end to the balcony, leads upwards to the bedrooms on a curving mezzanine floor rather like a minstrels' gallery. The kitchen and bathroom are tucked away beneath it at the back.

She tried to make light of her reaction. ‘It's utterly amazing,' she said, rather breathlessly, laughing a little. ‘Wow! What a place to work.'

And that's when Lady T, following behind them, made her offer.

‘Well, why don't you come and stay with us for a few days, my dear? You could be here in the sail loft since you like it so much, and come over to the house for your meals and whenever you want company. We can get to know you better and you can explore the Tamar and perhaps find some inspiration for your work at the same time. We'd like that, wouldn't we, Johnnie?'

And he smiled at her, still holding her arm protectively. ‘It would be splendid,' he said.

Now, Jess lets out the clutch, and drives on. She knows that it is time to step right into the story and take her place among the players.

*   *   *

Johnnie, with Popps at his heels, lets himself out through the back door, walks along the path between the big walled kitchen garden and the outbuildings to the higher ground where the lawn is surrounded by shrubberies of azalea and hydrangea. The tide is still making and a light north-easterly breeze rustles in the reed-beds; perfect conditions for a sail. Scrubbed down and ready for the winter,
Alice
lies at her moorings out on the deep-water channel. Inherited from his grandfather, she is Johnnie's passion. He's spent years restoring her, working on her, and his greatest joy is taking friends sailing in her.

As he strolls across the sloping land, watching the sun glinting on the cottage windows across the river in Cargreen, he reflects that had Al lived he would have inherited the house when their father died. It would have been Al's boat out on the river, his children running along the corridors and sitting around the dining-room table; his dogs following that rabbit's trail over the hard dry earth beneath the tree-tall hydrangeas.

Instead, Al's bones lie fathoms deep somewhere off the Gribben Head. Johnnie wanders slowly, glancing back at the plain Georgian façade of the house, remembering the games he and Al once played here and down on the river: smugglers, pirates – the games were always water-based. The boathouse and the disused sail loft were perfect for these activities, along with the small sailing dinghy that Al was given on his ninth birthday. Johnnie learned quickly to follow where Al led, to be a good lieutenant: no sneaking or tattling. Al could do no wrong with their mother and he soon saw the wisdom of staying in his big brother's shadow.

Standing by the balustrade at the edge of the sea garden, his hand on the sun-warmed wood carving of the old ship's figurehead, Circe, he recalls the night of Al's death. The four of them crewed regularly for each other: Al and Mike; Johnnie and Fred. They'd been sailing out in the Western Approaches and, as night fell, were heading home, running before a strong south-westerly, which was gusting to gale force. Al and Mike had the midnight watch: he and Fred were in their bunks below. It was Mike who gave the alarm; Mike's voice echoing down the hatchway: ‘Man overboard!'

Johnnie remembers being woken by raised voices, the boat's sudden gybe, being nearly thrown from his bunk. He and Fred scrambled out together, confused and frightened, jostling up the companionway where Mike was struggling to release the life buoy.

‘Take the helm!' The words were snatched and flung away by the wind but they hurried to obey him. Mike had the life buoy in both hands then, and was lifting it, hefting it over the side, grabbing for the cockpit searchlight. ‘Put her about!' he yelled. As black choppy water slopped into the cockpit, Fred seized the helm and put it down, ducking as the boom swung over his head. Together they brought the boat under control while Mike swung the searchlight to and fro. They'd patrolled the area until dawn, waiting and watching, shouting in turn, but there was no sign of Al.

Later, Mike said that he'd just been going below to make coffee in the galley when the sudden squall hit the boat. It must have caught Al by surprise, he said, for he'd lost control, been struck on the head by the boom and knocked overboard as the boat gybed. His body has never been recovered.

Johnnie's hand automatically smoothes the carved, painted wood of Circe's gown, hearing again the raised voices followed by the boat's sudden lurch. The figurehead stands above him, staring downriver towards the sea, chin lifted, as if she is waiting for the tide to lift her upon its bosom and give her life again.