Indian Summer Page 10

  Mungo thought about it; she saw him entering into the whole spirit of it, preparing – as it were – to direct the scene. He’d be mentally casting the characters, setting the stage, writing the dialogue.

  ‘You were in love,’ he said. ‘And, even more importantly, you really liked each other. You were separated, never mind why and how, but the moment that he is free he thinks of you and asks to see you. You tell me that nobody has measured up to him. The trouble is that you feel resentful because he was the one who left and now he is the one who has decided to return. He’s calling the shots.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘That’s exactly it. I feel humiliated. He put me aside for Madeleine and now that she’s died he’s decided to pick me up again.’

  ‘But it wasn’t like that, was it? You said he became involved with her because you refused to commit to him, that he asked you to marry him but you didn’t want to be tied down. He was miserable and took comfort with this girl who adored him. Who shall blame him for that? Perhaps she got pregnant on purpose and poor Jake felt he must do the right thing.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Mungo,’ she said irritably. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘Not mine,’ he answered surprisingly. ‘I’ll admit that I had every intention of persuading you against this. I don’t want to share you, sweetie. But this letter has made me feel differently. I think I’d rather like your Jake.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you would,’ she said drily. ‘He’s definitely your type! But that’s the point, isn’t it? It would change so much, including us.’

  ‘But there might be advantages, too. Try to be positive.’

  ‘I seem to have lost my nerve,’ she said. ‘It’s come as a shock and I’m afraid of upsetting the status quo, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start telling me you’re too old and rubbish like that,’ he said impatiently. ‘How many people would love to have a second chance at life?’

  Now, Kit rests her chin on her knees and gazes across the creek. A cormorant stands on a buoy, its wings extended, immobile in the sun; on the shingly beach waders wait for the tide to fall.

  Archie regards her through half-open eyes. With her knees drawn up like that, staring over the water, she reminds him of many past days with her on the river. He wonders what she really regrets: he doesn’t quite believe that it’s simply a dog. Surely it can’t be the Awful Michael. He hadn’t cared much for the fellow but nor did he approve of Mungo’s brutal decision to put the boot in.

  He said as much when Camilla told him that Mungo was planning to confront Kit.

  ‘But you can’t stand him,’ she cried. ‘She won’t be happy with him.’

  ‘I suppose we can’t know that,’ he answered uncomfortably. ‘It’s such a private thing, isn’t it? Just because we don’t like him …’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she said. ‘You know Kit far too well to believe that she’d be happy with a prosy, pompous old bore.’

  ‘I can be a prosy, pompous old bore,’ he muttered, hoping that she might contradict him.

  ‘Of course you can,’ came her devastating answer, ‘but you’re not like it all the time. Michael is. Kit’s much too good for him.’

  He quite agreed with that. The prospect of losing Kit’s company on walks with the dogs or days out on the river was a big price to pay for the company of the Awful Michael. During the eighteen months of her relationship with him Archie really missed his times with Kit, though even now he can’t quite define the nature of his friendship with her. Perhaps, because she was first and foremost Mungo’s friend, it was as if he’d acquired a younger sister. Her social ease and naturalness made him feel as if he’d known her for ever. She fitted in.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Camilla said, ‘it’s because she’s a member of a large family. She just gets along with everybody. Or perhaps it’s because she has learned how to deal with her clients and instinctively responds to different people in the ways that are right for them. Whatever it is, she’s a great asset.’

  He is pleased that Kit has Camilla’s seal of approval. These days out are precious to him. He is able to be silent – as they are at the moment – to let his thoughts wander, to enjoy the beauty of the river and the day; or to have an exchange of ideas that are always slightly unusual, and there is no stress. He doesn’t feel responsible for Kit, yet there is the pleasure of her company, of simply knowing she is there.

  A motor boat putters by, The Wave bobs and rocks in its wash, and the spell is broken. Archie opens his eyes and sits up.

  ‘Tide’s on the turn,’ he says. ‘Just time for coffee and then we’ll have to head for home.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  MAGS CLEARS THE plates and begins to load the dishwasher. ‘Leave it,’ Philip says. ‘I’ll do it in a minute.’

  He’ll rearrange it anyway; she can’t get in half the amount that he can. She turns, frowning, and he watches her: little pebble eyes, mouth like a bar code. What’s Billy been saying now? What maggot has she got into her tiny head?

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ he asks. ‘Before you go off? Don’t want to be late for your group.’

  He can see that she’s torn. She’s settling in now, getting her feet right under the table – but she mustn’t be late for the Coven. She hesitates, fiddling about by the sink, and he gets up ready to make some tea and then chivvy her out of the kitchen, out of the house.

  ‘He gets these turns,’ she says, watching him fill the kettle. ‘Repeats himself.’

  ‘Understandable,’ says Philip easily. ‘We all do that.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Nor do you, sometimes. Nor do I.’

  He dunks a tea bag into a mug, can’t be bothered to make a proper brew, and then stares out of the window in dismay. Mungo is coming into the yard, striding up to the back door, which is standing wide open. He hammers on the door and shouts at the same time.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Mags is already halfway out into the scullery and Philip can hear her expressions of delight. He curses just below his breath, makes her tea.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ says Mags, beaming in the doorway. ‘Isn’t this nice? Sir Mungo come to see how Billy’s doing.’

  Mungo winks at Philip behind Mags’ head and he can’t help but grin back at him.

  ‘How are you, Philip?’ he asks. ‘Mags says Billy’s doing well.’

  ‘Well enough,’ he answers.

  He feels hampered by Mags’ mopping and mowing beside him; anxious about what she might say. He puts her mug on the table and nudges her towards it.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Sir Mungo?’ she asks. ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’

  Philip can see that if she has to choose between Sir Mungo and the Coven there will be no contest. Mungo looks at him and raises his eyebrows. It’s clear that he can sense Philip’s irritation and has a pretty good idea of what is causing it.

  ‘No, no,’ Mungo says. ‘Thanks but I’ve just had lunch with Camilla. And with Emma, our new neighbour. Have you met her?’

  ‘Not to speak to yet,’ says Philip, whilst Mags sips her tea and smiles ingratiatingly. ‘Just to wave to, passing in the car.’

  It’s funny but with Mags there he can’t be natural like he usually is with Mungo. It’s crazy; Mungo has known Mags all his life, knows what she’s like, but Philip feels awkward, uncomfortable, and he’s relieved when Mungo pulls out a chair and sits down just like he always does.

  ‘Shall I pop in and see Billy?’ he asks. ‘I think he rather enjoyed our little chat last time. Is he up to it?’

  Mags is on her feet in a flash. ‘I’ll go and check him,’ she says.

  She wants to see if he’s dribbling or if he’s fallen asleep with his mouth open, snoring. Mustn’t let Sir Mungo see him like that. Philip watches her go out and then looks at Mungo and shrugs.

  ‘Driving us round the bend,’ he says, ‘but what can we do?’

  ‘You never got on,’ says Mungo sympathetically. ‘Even as children. She wa
s always a pain in the neck, wasn’t she, but I suppose she’s allowing you to have Billy at home? That makes it worth it, doesn’t it? Be grateful she lives in Newton Abbot and not in the village any more.’

  ‘She’s a troublemaker. Always was. Likes to sniff out secrets.’

  ‘Secrets?’

  ‘Private things. Things she’s not supposed to see or hear. Always been the same. Well, you know that. Remember when we were kids? She liked to poke and pry and then drop you in it accidentally on purpose.’

  Mungo stares at him. ‘And even if she were to … imagine she knew a secret, what then?’

  ‘Who knows?’ asks Philip softly, listening for the opening of the door, watching Mungo’s face.

  ‘There now,’ says Mags, bustling in. ‘He’s all ready for visitors.’

  Mungo gets up and Mags holds the door open. Philip steps in front of her as she makes to follow him.

  ‘Best drink up your tea and then get on your way,’ he says pleasantly, ‘or the girls’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  Her face is blank with frustration and disappointment but he waits, unmoving. They can hear Mungo’s voice as he talks to Billy, and Billy’s wheezing laugh. Mags turns away, swallows her tea standing at the table and then picks up her bag. He follows her to the door, herding her like a sheepdog lest she strays back towards the parlour. She goes out into the yard, climbs into her car and drives out of the gate and away down the lane.

  He continues to stand leaning against the door jamb, gazing out across the yard towards the orchard. No Joanie hanging out the washing, no children playing in the old barn. The stables are empty; no stock to worry about now that the grass keep is let to his son; just a few chickens pecking in the yard and one of Smudgy’s descendants washing herself in the sunshine. And now Billy is leaving him, retreating into a shadowy land where he can’t follow. For the first time in his life Philip feels truly alone. His sons and their children live further down the valley but this is not the companionship he suddenly craves. Just at this moment he doesn’t want to be grandfather or father, an elder of the tribe. He has an inexplicable need to be with those people who knew him as a boy, as a young man, who shared his youth. There are very few left now, but Mungo is one of them. He remembers Mungo as the imaginative child, as the spirited teenager, and later, as the actor who brought glamour and excitement into his life: Mungo brought the smell of greasepaint, the magic of theatre – and Izzy.

  The sunlit yard is superimposed with images: Izzy, laughing up at him, holding his hand; singing and dancing in Mungo’s kitchen. He sees Ralph’s amused, contemptuous smile and hears his voice: ‘Keep away from her, Gabriel Oak. She’s out of your league.’ He remembers the weight of Ralph’s body in his arms, the jar of the spade slicing into the freezing, heavy mud, and Billy’s voice in his ear: ‘Put ’un in deep, boy. Foxes’ll get ’un else.’

  Billy and Mungo: the companions of his youth. He turns away from the images and the voices, and goes back inside to find them.

  Emma reads the text message that’s just pinged in, clips her mobile shut and slips it into her pocket. She feels unsettled, anxious. The excitement of the last few weeks has dissipated and Marcus’ message – ‘Did you ask Camilla?’ – just makes her more stressed. Her morning with Naomi, followed by the lunch with Camilla and Mungo, has confused her. The disturbing sight of the fragile twisted spoon, with the faded and rubbed image of a pirate on its plastic handle, hovers on the edges of her thoughts. It is as if she and Marcus were caught up in a kind of special secret world, a delightful conspiracy, which looks rather tawdry now that it has been exposed. It’s been fun, rather dangerous; a payback against the loneliness and fear she endures whilst Rob is out in Af with his band of brothers. If she’s honest she gets just a tad fed up sometimes with the camaraderie bit, the sense of ‘we happy few’, the inability to reconnect with boring, humdrum family life on their return.

  ‘We like fighting,’ Marcus said to her, at a party back in the spring. ‘It’s what we do. It’s what we’re trained for. And it’s a soldiers’ playground out there, Ems, make no mistake.’

  ‘But Rob’s a doctor,’ she protested. ‘He’s trying to save lives.’

  ‘Ah, but he likes a bit of excitement, too, or he wouldn’t have transferred from the navy, would he? He was just as proud to get his green lid as the rest of us.’

  Emma tried to remember the very good reasons Rob gave for deciding to take the All Arms Combat Course – and his euphoria when he passed and was awarded the green beret – but she was too conscious of Marcus’ grey gaze, the smile on his rather thin lips, to think clearly. It was like being caught in a very strong beam of light: concentrated, dazzling.

  ‘And what’s all this Rob tells me about moving into the country?’ he was asking.

  She shrugged. ‘I just feel I’m a bit stifled by military life. A friend of my mum’s is letting a cottage up on the moor behind Ashburton. I thought it would be fun.’

  His smile, intense, knowing, was rather heart-bumping. She felt as though he could see into her mind and understood the complicated muddle she was in: frustration with Rob, disappointment at those leaves that promised so much and delivered so little, resentment at managing two small children and all the hassles of daily life alone for months at a time with very little gratitude or recognition of the difficulties.

  ‘I’m going to Norway for a few weeks,’ Marcus said, ‘but we must get together when I return. Look, here’s my card.’ He slipped it to her quickly just as Rob came back with their drinks. ‘Hi, mate,’ he said easily. ‘Just saying we should get together some time. Ems tells me you’re moving.’

  She put the card into her bag, and with that complicit action it was as if she entered the next stage of the game.

  Now, she wonders at what point during that conversation their usual, slightly flirtatious, jokey friendship toppled over into this new dimension. Of course, everyone knew that Tasha and Marcus were having a trial separation but he’d been on his own for nearly a year. So why now? There was an email address on the card, as well as a mobile telephone number, and when she sent the round-robin email to their friends to give them the new address she added Marcus on it. The email included her mobile number: perfectly reasonable.

  Marcus responded, openly and casually, and she left it for Rob to see, along with all the other emails wishing them happiness in their new home. Then she had a text from Marcus – something amusing, brief – and she’d known that this was a crossroads: that to answer the text would in some undefined way commit her to more than the easy-going friendship that existed between the three of them. She dithered. Dora was just three months old and very demanding; Rob, home on R and R, was tired, depressed, short-tempered; Joe couldn’t understand why Daddy didn’t want to play endless games or go for walks or kick a football. Of course she sympathized; of course she tried to give Rob the attention and love he needed. But she was tired, too; worn down with the new baby and a lively four-year-old. This amusing text was like a little sip of champagne; a reminder that there was life after babies, routines, shopping, and a grumpy husband. One afternoon, after Rob had shouted at Joe, snapped at her for trying to mediate, slammed out of the house to go for a solitary walk, she replied to the text.

  As she sits on the bench in the garden behind the cottage watching Joe playing, she knows that she’s taken a huge risk with Marcus. It was easy to pretend that it was just some light-hearted fun, a harmless flirtation on both sides, but since the meeting on Haytor she’s realized that she’s getting out of her depth and that Marcus might not keep to the rules. He’s not giving her any leeway, no room for manoeuvre. When she retreats, he attacks: when she hesitates, he crowds her. He’s like a pile-driver and she’s beginning to feel just a little frightened of him. All the while Marcus was watching her, talking to her, his hand was clenching and crushing Joe’s spoon. He wasn’t even aware of it; he simply left it there on the table, an outward manifestation of whatever turmoil was going on inside
his head. She took the spoon out of her bag when they got home and thrust it deep into the rubbish bin so that Joe wouldn’t see it. Then, quite suddenly, some instinct made her retrieve it, scrabbling for it, washing it and wiping it on a tissue and then hiding it in her bag. The twisted spoon is a symbol of her fear.

  This small garden, designed to withstand the ravages of holiday-makers, is peaceful. It is paved, no grass to be churned up or mowed, and dog roses and honeysuckle grow in the hedges that bound this sunny space. Camilla has planted sunflowers against the cottage wall and they stand tall and straight with sticky green leaves, their upturned faces following the sun. There is a barbecue in one corner near the French doors into the sitting-room, a heavy wooden table with an umbrella, and six green plastic chairs.

  Joe has brought out his train set and is laying it down carefully, kneeling amongst his Thomas, the Tank Engines and track. He looks up and beams at her, and her heart thumps with love and fear. Being with Camilla and Archie and Mungo has somehow put her life back into perspective. Their values, their sense of place and home and family, have reminded her of what she has to lose. Naomi’s reaction was the thin end of the wedge but her slightly sanctimonious approach robbed it of some of its impact. Camilla and Mungo, unconscious of her relationship with Marcus, were much more effective in their simple straightforward attitude to her, and to Joe and Dora. There was an unspoken assumption that these children would come first and that her commitment to her marriage was taken for granted. They were both very sympathetic about the difficulties of service life, they approved and admired the fact that she’d taken it on and was coping with it, and their cheerful friendliness gave her new courage and strength.

  Emma watches Joe hooking his engines and trucks together, talking to himself, and she sees what she has to lose. Her own world has swung back into focus and she realizes how very precious it is to her. She mustn’t risk it for this chimera of excitement and fun; for some brief sexual gratification. Yet how to extricate herself? Her mobile rings and she takes it out and looks at the caller’s name: Marcus. She leaves it to ring but her gut curdles with fear. The image of Joe’s little spoon, crushed out of shape, rises in her mind. She must be honest with Marcus; explain that it’s gone far enough and she wants out. After all, what can he do? Her mind answers the question promptly: he can show Rob the texts. This time she feels quite sick and her thoughts double and dart, to and fro, seeking a resolution.