Voices in Summer (23 page)

'Oh, dear.'

'Anyway,' Mrs Abney continued in her normal tones, 'the doctor wouldn't let her go to Scotland, so she went to Cornwall instead.' She took another sip of tea and laid the cup down in the saucer. 'To get better.'

'Do you know where she is?'

'No, I don't know where. Mr Haverstock didn't give me her address. Just to some relation of his, in Cornwall.'

'There are dozens of Haverstocks in Devon and Cornwall. She could be anywhere.'

'Well, I'm sorry, but I don't know where she is . . . except ... a letter came yesterday evening. I think it came from Cornwall. Just wait and I'll get it.' She got to her feet and went over to her sideboard and opened a drawer. 'Your father's secretary drops by each morning and picks up all the mail, and deals with it in the office. But she hasn't come yet, and this is all I've got to give her.'

She handed the envelope to Gabriel. A plain brown envelope with her father's name and the address apparently printed on, as though it had been done with a rubber stamp. The postmark was Truro, Cornwall, and in the opposite corner someone had written, in felt pen, Urgent, and underlined it.

'What an extraordinary-looking letter.'

'It
might
be from Mrs Haverstock. The new Mrs Haverstock, that is,' she added tactfully.

‘I can't
open
it.' She looked at Mrs Abney. 'Can I?'

'Well, I don't know, dear. It's up to you. If you want to get hold of Mrs Haverstock and the address is in the letter, then I don't see why you shouldn't have a peep. Though I must say, it's a funny way to write the address. Must have taken hours.'

Gabriel laid down the envelope and then picked it up again.

She said, ‘I really
have
to know where she is, Mrs Abney. If I can't see my father, I have to see her.'

'Then open it,' said Mrs Abney. 'After all, "Urgent" doesn't mean private.'

Gabriel put her thumb beneath the flap and slit the envelope. She drew out a sheet of pale pink writing paper and unfolded it. Lined paper, headed by a stamp-size picture of a fairy. The lines of black, uneven print shouted at her like a bad-news headline.

YOur WiFe aT TreMEnhEeRe iS HaViNG AN AFfaIR wITh IvAN AShbY. ThOUgHt yOu shOUld KnoW A WEU-wisHEr.

Her heart was hammering. She felt the blood drain from her face.

'Any use?' asked Mrs Abney, craning her neck to peer.

Gabriel quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope before Mrs Abney should see.

'No. Yes. It's . . . not from her. Just a note from somebody else. But she's at a place called Tremenheere.'

'There you are! Now you know.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Are you all right? You've gone deathly pale.'

'Yes, I am all right, but I'm tired.' She pushed the horrible envelope into the pocket of her jeans. ‘I haven't slept for hours. I think, if you don't mind, I'll go and lie down.'

'You do that. Your bed's not made up, but it's been aired. You can get in under the blankets. Have a bit of shut-eye.'

'Yes. You are kind, Mrs Abney. I'm sorry I suddenly burst in on you, surprised you.'

'It's nice to have you here again. Nice to have a bit of company with everyone away. Your dad'll be pleased when he knows you're back.'

Gabriel went upstairs and into the sitting room. Picked up the telephone and dialled a number. A man answered, 'Directory enquiries.'

‘I want a number in Cornwall, please. The name is Haverstock. I'm afraid I don't know the initial. And the address is Tremenheere.'

'Hold on a mo.'

She held on. He was a cheerful man, singing at his work. 'Oh, when e'er the darkest cloud is in the sky, You mustn't sigh. And you mustn't cry. . . .'

The sitting room was much as she remembered it. The same curtains, the same covers on the chairs. The cushions that her mother had chosen. Some new ornaments, another picture or two . . .

'Tremenheere. Here we are. Penvarloe two three eight.' Gabriel, ready with a pencil, wrote it down. 'And it's Mister . . .?'

'No, not Mister. Admiral. Admiral G. J. Haverstock.'

She said, 'Penvarloe,' and then, sounding helpless, 'Oh, dear.'

'What's wrong now?'

'I've got to get there by train. I wonder which would be the nearest railway station.'

‘I can tell you that.' And he did so.

'How do you know?'

'The wife and I were down there for our summer holidays last year.'

'How amazing.'

'Amazing all right,' said the cheerful voice. 'Rained the whole bloody time.'

She went out of the room, picked up her things, and trailed upstairs. On the first landing, she dropped the kit bag and went into her father's dressing room. It smelled, as it had always smelled, of Bay Rum. She opened the wardrobe and touched his clothes, lifting the sleeve of a tweed jacket and holding it against her cheek. She saw his salmon rod, in its canvas case, neatly stowed in a corner; his open desk, stuffed with his ordered confusion of papers and cheque stubs and some accounts, waiting to be paid. On the chest of drawers stood a photograph of herself, taken years ago, and a terrible drawing she had once done for him. As well there was a photograph of . . . Laura? Not a studio portrait but an enlarged snap, informal and laughing. She had a lot of dark hair and dark eyes and a lovely smile. She looked so happy.

Your wife at Tremenheere is having an affair with Ivan Ashby.

Gabriel went out through the door and closed it behind her. Dragging the kit bag again, she started up the last flight.
Your room will always be there,
he had promised her.
Waiting for you.
She opened the door and went in. Her bed, her books, her bears, her dollhouse. The Beatrix Potter frieze around the walls, the blue-and-white-striped curtains.

The kit bag fell upon the floor with a soft thud. She kicked off her shoes and pulled back the covers and got into the bed. The blankets felt soft and warm, more comforting than any sheet. She stared at the ceiling, too tired to sleep.

Your wife at Tremenheere . . .

Too tired even to cry. She closed her eyes.

Later, she got up and had a hot bath and put on some other clothes. Another pair of jeans, another tee shirt, hauled, un-ironed, from the kit bag, but at least clean. She picked up her shoulder bag and let herself out of the house and walked around the corner to the local bank that her parents had always used. She asked to see the manager, identified herself, and was allowed to cash a cheque. With money to spend, she realized that she was ravenously hungry. She found a delicatessen and bought fresh bread, butter, a carton of milk, some pâté, and half a pound of tomatoes. When she got back to Abigail Crescent, she unloaded all this onto the kitchen table, and there assembled and consumed the impromptu meal. It was now nearly three thirty. She went through to the sitting room and rang Paddington Station and booked herself a sleeper on the night train. After that there wasn't anything to do except wait.

The station was at the end of the line. For the last mile or so of the journey, the railway ran alongside the sea, and when Gabriel opened the door of the train and stepped down onto the platform, it was to be met by the strong, salty smell of seaweed and fish, while overhead a lot of gulls, screaming into the fresh morning breeze, were flying about.

The platform clock stood at half past seven. She walked down the platform and out into the station yard. Beyond this was a harbour, filled with fishing boats and small pleasure craft. There was a taxi rank, with two or three cars lined up, so she went to the first and asked the man to take her to Tremenheere.

'Got any luggage, 'ave you?'

'Only this.'

He opened the door, and she got in and he slung the red kit bag in after her.

‘Is it very far?' she asked him, as he started up the road behind the station and then turned back in the direction from which the train had come.

'No, only a mile or two. Going to stay with the Admiral?'

'Do you know him?'

'No, I don't know 'im. Know of 'im. Lovely 'ouse 'e's got.'

'I hope it's not too early for them. I'm not expected.'

'Bound to be someone around.'

Already, they had left the town behind them, turned up a winding lane, climbing a hill. There were little fields and farms and a lot of wild rhododendrons. Then a village. 'This 'ere's Penvarloe,' and then gates, and a short driveway, and a big and very beautiful stone Elizabethan house was revealed.

They stopped by the front door, which stood, irrefutably shut, locked against them. At the side of it was a wrought-iron bellpull, but the thought of actually pulling it and waking a houseful of sleeping people was more than Gabriel could face.

'Just drop me here, and I'll wait.'

'Let's go round the back and see if there's anyone there.'

The taxi moved on cautiously, under an archway and into a courtyard at the back of the house. Still, there was no sign of life. Gabriel got out and heaved her kit bag after her.

'Don't worry,' she told the driver. 'I'll be all right now. How much do I owe you?'

He told her, and she paid him and thanked him. He backed cautiously out of the courtyard, through the archway, and she heard him drive away. As she stood there trying to decide what to do next, the quiet was shattered by the sound of a window opening, and a man's voice said, 'Are you looking for somebody?'

Not the big house, but the small house opposite, on the far side of the square. It had pink pelargoniums in tubs on either side of its door, and from the upper window a man leaned, his forearms resting on the stone ledge. He might have been totally naked, but Gabriel could only see his top half, so she couldn't be sure.

She said, 'Yes.'

'Who?'

'Mrs Haverstock.'

'You have a choice. We have two Mrs Haverstocks here. Which would you like?' 'Mrs Alec Haverstock.'

'Hold on a moment,' said the naked man, 'and I'll come down and let you in.'

Gabriel carried the kit bag across the courtyard and waited. She did not have to wait for long. A moment later, the door of the little house opened – he obviously never locked it – and he reappeared, barelegged and barefooted, but with the rest of him decently wrapped in a blue towel robe, the sash of which he was in the process of knotting around his waist. He was unshaven and his fair hair stood on end.

He said,'Hello.'

'I'm afraid I woke you up.'

'Yes, you did, or at least the taxi did. You're looking for Laura. She won't be up yet; none of them ever appear until about nine o'clock.'

Gabriel looked at her watch. 'Oh, dear.!

He picked up her kit bag and stood aside, holding the door open. 'Come on in.'

'But, aren't you . . .?'

'Come on, it's all right. I can't go back to bed, even if I wanted to. I've got to get to work. . .'

Gabriel went through the door, and he closed it behind them. She saw the big room, which appeared to serve all functions; the pleasant clutter of scrubbed pine and blue-and-white china; saucepans neatly ranged over a small electric cooker; a black stove with armchairs drawn up to its comfort. There was a table in the middle of the room, on which stood a brown jug filled with roses. From the ceiling, suspended by a thread, hung a pink-and-red paper bird.

She said, 'What a nice room.'

‘I like it.' She turned to face him. 'Does Laura know you're coming?'

'No.'

'Who are you?'

'Gabriel Haverstock.' He stared. 'Alec's my father.'

'But you're in America.'

'No, I'm not. I'm here. It's my father who's in America now. He flew to New York on Wednesday evening. Our planes must have crossed in the middle of the night.'

'He didn't know you were coming, either?'

'No.'

'How did you get here?'

'On the night train from Paddington.'

'Well . . .' He seemed to be lost for words. 'This is a turn-up for the books. Are you going to stay?'

‘I don't know. That depends on whether anybody asks me.'

'You don't sound very sure.'

‘I’m not.'

'Do you know Gerald?'

'My father used to talk about him, but I've never met him.'

'So you won't have met Eve?'

'No, I haven't met either of them. And I haven't met Laura.'

He laughed, scratching the back of his head, the very picture of a man in perplexity. 'What a jolly time everybody's going to have, meeting each other. Well, we'll just have to wait until they all stir their stumps. Would you like some breakfast?'

'Are you going to have some?'

'Of course I am. You don't imagine I go to work on an empty stomach.'

He went over to the little cooker, switched it on, opened the fridge, took out a packet of bacon. Gabriel pulled a chair away from the table and sat and watched him. He looked, she thought, marvellously dishevelled, like an advertisement for Eau Savage.

She said, 'Where do you work?'

‘I have part shares in a small furniture factory, up on the moor at a place called Carnellow.'

'Have you lived here long?'

'Only a year.' He plugged in the electric kettle, put bread in the toaster. ‘I rent this place from Gerald. It used to be a coach house, but he converted it.' He found a tin and started spooning coffee into an enamel jug. 'You've been in Virginia, haven't you?'

'Yes. But not for a bit. For the last six months I've been in the Virgin Islands, living on a yacht.'

He turned to grin at her over his shoulder. 'Have you? How fantastic. The lotus eater's dream. Is that where you've come from?'

'Yes. Saint Thomas to Saint Croix, Saint Croix to San Juan, San Juan to Miami, Miami to Kennedy, Kennedy to London . . .'

'London to Tremenheere.'

'Right.'

The crisp smell of bacon filled the room mingled with the aroma of coffee. From a cupboard he took plates, cups, saucers; from a drawer, knives and forks. He dumped all these on the table. 'Be a good girl and lay the table, would you?' He went back to the cooker. 'One egg or two?'

'Two,' said Gabriel, who, once again, was feeling famished. She set out the china and the cutlery.

'What else do we need?' he asked.