Indian Summer Page 12

  Joe hesitates, as if he might protest, but then speeds away along the lane, glancing back to see if Emma and Dora are catching up. Emma waves to Kit, calls a farewell, and begins to hurry after him. Kit follows more slowly with Mopsa. She is beginning to believe that Mungo has a point: Emma is in some kind of trouble.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says to Mungo, finding him sitting at the table finishing his gin and tonic, telling him about the encounter. ‘I see exactly what you mean about her feeling guilty. She was embarrassed when Joe said they’d been with Marcus at the café, and again when her mobile rang. I’m sure it was him. She looked utterly miserable. I still don’t see what we can do about it, though. It’s up to Emma to tell him to back off – assuming that she wants to.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him, sweetie,’ says Mungo with a kind of gloomy relish. ‘He doesn’t look like a man who takes no for an answer. He’s a real tough.’

  ‘You clearly studied him closely,’ says Kit, grinning at him. ‘But even so, it’s got to be her call.’

  ‘I hear what you say and I know it’s right but I still feel worried about her. Maybe it’s crazy but there was a lot of emotion going on when I saw them together.’

  ‘Then the important thing is that she knows she’s got people around her who are looking out for her,’ says Kit. ‘I wonder why she moved here.’

  ‘She said at lunch that she was simply tired of the military goldfish-bowl life and that it would be good for them all to be in the country. Camilla and Emma’s mum are friends, and she heard that the cottage was up for letting and decided to give it a go. Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Kit, ‘and if she’d just begun to have a bit of a flirtation with this Marcus she probably thought it might be better conducted off the base, so the cottage was an added attraction.’

  ‘And now she’s changed her mind and is feeling vulnerable?’

  Kit nods. ‘The children make good chaperones, of course, but she’s probably wishing she’d stayed put. Joe said Marcus is “Daddy’s friend” so he’s probably another commando.’

  ‘He certainly looked tough enough. In which case let’s hope he gets recalled to duty.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Kit.

  Mungo stands up and goes inside to check on the supper, and she reaches out to touch the petals of the sweet peas: delicate pink and mauve and white. Bridesmaids’ colours. She is seized with a sudden fit of depression, a sense of inadequacy, and when Mungo calls that supper is ready she gets up with relief to go to join him.

  James sits on the doorstep of the cottage, looking out into the lane, missing Sally. It’s been a productive day; driving around has refreshed his ideas, got a few new threads up and running. Tomorrow he will go back to Totnes. Sitting in the sun watching the market traders and the local people is both relaxing and stimulating, and he can see his own characters moving amongst them; coming out of a shop, sitting in a café, hovering at one of the stalls. He’s beginning to get a plan of the town in his mind, which will be necessary when he starts to write. He’ll remember what it was like to be there, to walk in the narrow streets, look up at the castle, have a pint in the Bay Horse. It will give him confidence knowing that he’s been there, doing what they will be doing, seeing what they see: the sound of the gulls from the river, the smells of incense and fresh flowers. The trouble is, he knows by experience that it’s this part of the creative process that he really loves: sitting in bars with his laptop open, jotting down ideas; walking around new places; watching people and inventing little scenarios for them. It’s rather depressing that, when the time comes to sit down and actually write the story, his enthusiasm wanes. It’s not nearly so much fun sitting in their tiny spare bedroom on his own, trying to hammer the story into shape, trying to fit it in around all the administration that has to be done for school. Of course, when he’s made it as a novelist he’ll actually be able to spend the time writing in bars or cafés. Other writers do it. It’s rather fun talking to the barman or the girl behind the counter and telling them he’s a writer. They’re always so impressed, even though nobody’s heard of him yet. He longs for acclaim: to touch people’s lives; to make a difference. It’s great to have this cottage, of course, and the time and space to work in it, but if he’s honest, it’s being out and about that he’s really enjoying. Now, walking around Totnes, driving in the lanes, sitting in wine bars, he sees the book as a real possibility. He doesn’t want to think about the long slog ahead; just at the moment he’s excited by the fun of it all and he would like to have Sally here now to talk about the story, flesh out one or two ideas, try out a bit of the plot on her.

  He goes inside and sits down to write to her.

  It’s going well, Sal. Feeling confident. I saw the two old boys from the farm this afternoon, Philip and Billy. Brothers, both widowed. Lovely blokes with that wonderful Devon drawl and a real twinkle in the eyes. Not the sharpest knives in the drawer but easy to be with. Billy’s had a stroke but he’s on the mend. I had a cup of tea with them in their orchard. So peaceful and full of good vibes. Their family has lived here for ever and you get that amazing sense of continuity. It’s like you’ve really stepped out of time and that nothing bad could ever happen here. You felt that when we were here before, didn’t you? The Land that Time Forgot and all that stuff. Personally, I think I need a bit more going on. Real life. You know what I mean. It’s great with these long summer days, but what happens when it gets dark at four o’clock and there’s nothing to do until bedtime except watch telly and get drunk? Still, they’re used to it, I suppose.

  Went back to Totnes this morning. Chap offered me his parking ticket with a couple of hours left on it but you know me when I get absorbed in the book. I never know how long I’ll be wandering about or sitting in some café with my laptop so I refused. Odd-looking man, actually. Weird eyes. Very cold and grey, but tough-looking. A bit like one of those no-mates fitness freaks you get at the gym. Clearly a loner that spends his spare time in his room playing video games or working out. As you well know, Sal, I love people-watching, sizing them up and wondering how to fit them into the books, and I do rather pride myself on my judgement. Perhaps I’ll put my loner in the book. I had my lunch in a wine bar called Rumour. Perfect for illicit meetings! Lots of corners where my lovers can sit and be hidden away.

  Still trying to decide how the husband kills the lover. Deliberate stabbing, hit-and-run – don’t really like that one – or an accident. And then there’s the question of the body! I must admit that I’m really enjoying sitting in cafés or pubs, watching people and letting the ideas come and go. It’s kind of exciting and I just wish that this could be my full-time job. Beats teaching any time, I can tell you. I get really twitchy about losing my laptop or someone pinching it and I’ve decided to let this happen to my lover character. Probably the husband pinches it, having seen some emails on his wife’s, or maybe her mobile phone or something. I need to work this out but I’m quite excited by it at the moment.

  Shall have a stroll to try and unwind before I go to bed. It was good to have a chat this morning and I’m glad you’re OK and not too stressed out. Just wait till I’ve won the Booker and you never have to work again. Night-night. J xx

  He pings off the email, leans back in his chair and stretches mightily and decides to wander out into the twilight. As he approaches the farm he can see the headlights of a car flickering towards him, still some distance away. He decides to wait in the farm gateway. The lane is narrow and he’s not that visible in this deep twilight. The car comes cautiously round the curve, slowing at the sight of James waiting by the gate. The driver’s window is down and James looks in at him, a hand raised in acknowledgement – and is jolted by surprise. The driver is the man he saw in the car park in Totnes who offered him his ticket; the man with those weird, light-coloured eyes. He and James stare at each other just for a second before the car accelerates away.

  Must be a local, thinks James. It’s a bit late, though, for driving ro
und these lanes. Perhaps he is a bit of a nutter; a loner.

  He shrugs and turns back. But for some reason he hurries along the lane, peering ahead to see if the car is parked up anywhere and, when he gets inside the cottage, he makes certain that all the doors are locked and the ground-floor windows fastened securely.

  Marcus drives back towards Ashburton, strangely affected by the sight of the nerdy guy he’d seen earlier in Totnes. What the hell is he doing walking in a lane miles from anywhere at this time of the evening? He’s surprised at how it’s unsettled him. And then it occurs to him that it must be Emma’s neighbour. The man who arrived last week: who comes and goes and is a bit elusive. Odd that he should have turned up just now.

  Once he’s well beyond the cottages – he daren’t stop now to see what Emma’s doing, why she isn’t answering her phone – Marcus pulls in at the verge and switches off the engine. It’s silly to get rattled, but he feels the least bit edgy. Was it nerdy guy who was watching him that night from the shadows of the garden? And had he just arrived in the car park in Totnes by coincidence or had he been waiting for Marcus to come back to his car? Just when he was thinking how easy it was to follow someone, too. Perhaps he was in Rumour, watching Marcus watching Emma …

  He gives a shout of derisive laughter – complete rubbish – but he still feels edgy. He’s got a lot to lose: if he’s seen to be stalking a fellow officer’s wife, his promotion, for a start. He’d lost Brownie points when Tasha insisted on this trial separation, he knows that. And then there’s the Mountain Leader course. He really wants to go to California, to work with the US Marines. He most certainly wants to be a part of that … Marcus shakes his head, deriding his ludicrous notion that nerdy guy might be following him. Suddenly he frowns. Could Tasha have found out about Emma? Might she have mentioned it to one of their friends, who tipped off a senior officer so that they’ve decided to keep tabs on him?

  ‘Get a grip, mate,’ Marcus tells himself as he starts up the engine and pulls away – but as he drives back to his B and B in Ashburton he feels kind of twitchy; can’t get nerdy guy out of his head. ‘Losing touch with reality’, Tasha calls it. Wants him to see the MO; go to counselling. He snorts with contempt; like he’s going to admit that he’s … what? Paranoid? Not bloody likely. Anyway, he’s fine. He just gets frustrated when things go wrong and Emma won’t answer his texts. He can see why she doesn’t want him turning up at the cottage – too many nosy parkers around – but it stresses him when he can’t contact her; when he’s not in control.

  But she’s promised next time she’ll see him alone; without the kids. That’s when he’ll really get his chance. It’ll be fine.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JAKE HESITATES IN the doorway of Salago, keeping back in the shadows, his eyes fixed in amazement on Kit, who sits at a little table at the edge of the pavement outside The Brioche. When he drew a blank in London Jake’s instinct brought him to the West Country; to The Keep, where the Chadwicks have lived for centuries. He booked a room at the Royal Seven Stars Hotel in Totnes.

  Way back, Kit always drove him from London to The Keep in that crazy little car she called Eppyjay because the number plate was EPJ: a Morris Minor convertible. She always preferred to drive than to go by train and he was surprised that, after all these years, he remembered the journey so clearly, though he was more cautious once he turned off into the lanes around Staverton and headed towards The Keep.

  Finding nobody at home he decided to go back to Totnes; to explore the town the Chadwicks loved so much and which he’d visited with Kit all those years ago. He drove slowly in the narrow lane, his window down, observing the cows crowded together in the shade of a huge oak tree, tails swishing at the tormenting flies; a family of swallows balancing on an overhead wire; a tangle of creamy-pink dog roses in the hedge. The lane was rutted with dry pink earth, ditches choked with bleached feathery grasses and tall purple loosestrife, the air was hot and shimmering blue. The scents drifting through his window were rich and sweet, and evocative of summers long past.

  Jake let the engine dawdle. He had only to close his eyes to see them all, that great extended Chadwick family – and Kit, his love, his friend, his soul mate. Yet they’d lost each other. Had they been too laid-back, enjoying their relationship whilst wondering if there might be something more, something better, further on? Perhaps they’d both believed, deep down, that they would finish up together but they’d pushed their luck too far. He’d been afraid to drop the mask of light-heartedness that hid his very real love for her lest it should frighten her off and Kit – despite his regular proposals of marriage – had been unwilling to commit until it was too late.

  And now, coming upon her unexpectedly, he stands in the shadows watching her as she laughs and talks with her companion. She is showing him something she has bought from one of the stalls in the market across the street: a scarf, which she throws around her neck with a flourish whilst he smiles his approval. Jake recognizes him: Sir Mungo Kerslake, actor and director, sixties theatre and film icon. It is such a shock to see her there, as if his thoughts and memories have given her life, brought her into being. A shock, too, that though many years have passed she is still so like the Kit of his heart. Perhaps it is because he has been looking for her, hoping to see her, that he sees through the changes that time has made, but it is still a shock to find her so quickly, so easily; sitting with the pretty scarf thrown around her neck, clasping the mug of coffee, smiling at Sir Mungo. There is an ease between them, a casual give and take that indicates a comfortable friendship. Jake’s instinct and experience tells him that they are not lovers, but this scene has taken him by surprise. He wonders if she is staying with Sir Mungo rather than at The Keep, and he realizes that he knows very little about her private life. They exchange birthday cards each year, which sometimes contain small news items, but nothing has indicated that she has ever been deeply involved with another man.

  Suddenly he feels nervous. The impulse that drove him to write to her, and that has buoyed up his spirits for so long, shrivels in his gut. He should have waited for a response to his letter instead of acting on his instinct that it was foolish to waste time; to come to find her. As Jake hesitates, Mungo gets to his feet and strides off down the street. Kit picks up her cup and leans back in her chair, relaxed, watching the market traders. Hoisting up his flagging confidence, pulling on a mask of light-heartedness he is far from feeling, Jake moves out of the shadows and into the sunlight at the edge of the pavement beside her table. She glances up at him idly, the mug halfway to her lips, and freezes into immobility as she stares at him.

  ‘Jake?’

  He sees the word form, rather than hears it, and he smiles at her and slips into the chair that Mungo vacated. She puts the mug down, still staring at him – in horror? In disbelief? He can’t quite decide, but knows he must seize the moment before his courage utterly deserts him.

  ‘I love the scarf,’ he says. ‘And I recognized Sir Mungo Kerslake. What exalted company you keep.’

  It’s as if this casual approach disarms her because she relaxes back into her seat and picks up the cup again and begins to laugh.

  ‘I simply don’t believe this,’ she says. ‘It’s crazy. Impossible. I was hiding from you, for God’s sake.’

  And now he laughs too, though his heart is pumping violently and she will never guess at the depths of his relief.

  ‘I couldn’t find you in London so I came down to see if you might be at The Keep. May I join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Pull up another chair for Mungo and go in and order some coffee. They’ll bring it out for you.’

  He gets up, hesitates. ‘You won’t disappear while I’m gone, will you?’

  She stares at him, and for the moment they are both quite serious. ‘Of course I won’t,’ she says. ‘I promise. Go and order the coffee, Jake, while I recover from the shock.’

  He pulls another chair across from a nearby table and goes into the café, looking ba
ck at her, before joining the little queue at the counter.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mungo drops a bag on to the third chair and sits down. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I have,’ she says. ‘You won’t believe this. Jake’s here. In there,’ she jerks her head sideways, ‘ordering coffee.’

  ‘No!’ Mungo turns to peer into the interior of the café. ‘Don’t tell me he just walked up and said “Hi”?’

  ‘You don’t have to look so pleased about it,’ she says, irritated by his insouciance. ‘You look positively gleeful. I was supposed to be in hiding, remember?’

  ‘But it was never going to last, was it, sweetie? You’ve had time to think, we’ve talked it all over, but you were always going to want to see him.’ He leans forward. ‘Did you recognize him at once? What does he look like?’

  ‘You are impossible, Mungo,’ she exclaims. ‘This is not a movie set. This is my life.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ He settles back. ‘But you have to admit that it’s rather fun. Now come on. First reactions.’

  She shakes her head, begins to laugh. ‘I give up. Perhaps it is a movie set. I can’t believe this is happening. He was just standing there … Here he comes. Oh God …’

  Mungo stands up as a tall man in jeans and an open-neck shirt comes out of the café. He looks like an academic; iron-grey hair, dark brown eyes – rather George Clooney-ish.

  ‘Very nice, sweetie,’ Mungo murmurs appreciatively to Kit, before holding out a hand to the newcomer.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he says. ‘Kit tells me that you’re Jake. I’m Mungo Kerslake.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ says Jake. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, Sir Mungo.’

  ‘Oh, don’t do that,’ says Mungo, pretending embarrassment but really rather pleased. ‘Kit’s in shock at you suddenly appearing like the Demon King in the pantomime, but I’m not going to be tactful and disappear in a puff of smoke. I’m much too interested.’