Indian Summer Page 13

  He moves his shopping from the chair and Jake sits down, glancing at Kit, who rolls her eyes and shakes her head as if disassociating herself from the proceedings. But Mungo can see that Jake is quite pleased to have a third party at this reunion. It takes the pressure off and lends an air of celebration.

  ‘It’s tremendous luck,’ Jake is saying, with another cautious glance at Kit, ‘to meet right here, so unexpectedly. I went to Kit’s flat in London first but then decided to try her family.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve been to The Keep,’ says Mungo approvingly. ‘Good detective work but, you see, she’s staying with me. You’d never have found us, tucked away in our valley, so you’re right. It’s a great stroke of luck that we should all be here today. It must be fate.’

  ‘Mungo,’ mutters Kit. ‘Shut up.’

  Jake laughs. ‘No, no. Don’t stop him. It’s good to see the great impresario at work. I suspect he’s taking notes.’

  ‘To the creative mind nothing is ever wasted,’ says Mungo with satisfaction. ‘Ah, here’s your coffee, Jake.’ He waits whilst cups are cleared and then beams upon them both. ‘Now then, where shall we have lunch? My place?’ He raises an eyebrow at Kit, who gives a barely discernible nod. ‘Or do you have other plans, Jake?’

  ‘No.’ Jake looks startled. ‘That would be extraordinarily kind. Are you quite sure? I must admit I had no plans.’

  ‘That’s settled then. You have a car?’

  ‘It’s in the car park of the Seven Stars Hotel. I’m staying there for a few days.’

  ‘Then we can pick you up as we come past and you can follow us out.’

  ‘I can’t believe my luck,’ says Jake, smiling at Kit.

  ‘He’s even a good cook,’ says Kit drily. ‘Which, as you will probably remember, I am not.’

  ‘Oh, I remember all sorts of things,’ he answers, smiling a little secret smile.

  Disconcerted, Kit bites her lip and Mungo beams delightedly upon them. His Machiavellian tendencies have come to the fore again and he’s decided to encourage this second-time-around love affair. If Kit doesn’t want this gorgeous man she must be crazy; meanwhile it will be fun watching things develop.

  ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing?’ asks Kit later, as she drives her bright yellow drop-head Volkswagen Beetle through The Plains towards the hotel. ‘I don’t remember this being in the script.’

  ‘We hadn’t got as far as the script, sweetie,’ says Mungo. ‘We were just considering the options. I like your Jake. Look, there he is, hovering in the gateway there. I’ll wave to him. That’s it. Onward. Keep him in sight.’

  Confused, nervous, Kit drives on, glancing from time to time in her rear-view mirror to make certain that Jake is behind them. She’s unprepared for this feeling of joy that has engulfed her at the sight of him – and at the odd sensation that they have met again after a few short weeks instead of twenty years. It’s crazy to feel like this. And Mungo, sitting beside her, humming happily, isn’t encouraging her to behave sensibly.

  ‘We’ll have a ménage à trois at the smithy,’ he’d said, as they’d walked back through the market to the car park while Jake headed off to the hotel. ‘You and Jake can move into the barn. What fun!’

  ‘You are impossible,’ she cried. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’

  ‘Oh, I am, sweetie,’ he said. ‘Not many people get a second chance, you know. You should grab it with both hands.’

  ‘And who would you like a second chance with?’ she asked sharply. But he simply shook his head.

  Now she can see him peering in the wing mirror, keeping an eye on Jake’s car, and she laughs.

  ‘I think you’ve fallen for him yourself,’ she says.

  ‘It wouldn’t take much,’ he agrees. ‘He doesn’t sound very French, does he? I imagined someone more Gallic.’

  ‘His mother was English and he was brought up in England. He went to Ampleforth and the LSE. His family are bankers. Actually, one of the things I was imagining was that he’d have become much more foreign, a stranger, which would have made it so much easier, of course. But he’s just the same. Older, of course, but still utterly Jake. Gosh, it was a shock to see him standing there.’

  Actually, she’s relieved that Mungo is here. She can’t imagine how she would have handled that scene outside the café without him. Mungo has managed to turn it into something rather fun, something quite natural, whilst giving her a breathing space. At the same time, he makes her feel nervous. She can feel the vibes coming off him; she can see the excitement of it sparkling in his eyes at the prospect of this new production.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she says, ‘don’t invite him to stay at the smithy. Not yet, Mungo. Promise me.’

  ‘It seems a pity,’ he answers, rather reluctantly. ‘It would be such fun. Though you might be right. Mustn’t rush things.’

  ‘If you do, I shall go straight back to London,’ she warns him, ‘and I shall never speak to you again.’

  ‘Indicate early,’ he advises, ignoring this, ‘so he knows you’re turning right. Give him plenty of warning.’

  Feeling irritated, excited and anxious all at once, she drives across the bridge and turns towards Ashburton.

  ‘He’s still with us,’ says Mungo. ‘Good. I give him full marks for coming to find you. I do so approve of that. I like a man who knows what he wants. Let’s face it, left to you, you’d have just sat and talked about it. He’s got up and put himself out on a limb. And he really has, you know. It must have cost quite a bit of courage to confront you like that after all these years. Don’t underestimate it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ replies Kit rather crossly. She’s torn between being irritated at his criticism of her cowardice and flattered by Jake’s determination. ‘But I still have to feel right about it, don’t I? It’s not just to do with how brave Jake is.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ says Mungo, rather contritely. ‘I just don’t want you to miss out on something good. Better a sin of commission than a sin of omission.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘Well, think of a situation where it isn’t true. Aren’t most of your regrets for things you didn’t do rather than for things you did?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Mungo. I can’t concentrate on that now,’ she says, her eyes darting to the mirror to check that Jake is still there and then signalling left. ‘I’m in an advanced state of shock, can’t you see? Stop nagging at me and tell me how to play the next scene.’

  Following them, Jake is also in shock. He has an odd desire to burst out laughing with the sheer relief and joy of it all. To see Kit sitting there, so much like herself, her greeting and then Mungo’s arrival have all combined to make him feel almost euphoric. It is eight months since Madeleine died. He misses her gentle presence but it was never a marriage of real fusion. Her hero-worship for him quickly morphed into strong maternal care for her four daughters, and then for their children. She was most herself when she was pregnant, with her little brood around her, and then as a devoted grandmother. They were happy enough but they never shared the fun, the closeness, the passion, he’d known with Kit. It was as if an essential part of him had withered. Yet in London, in the West Country, that once vital essence began to stir again. Driving back from The Keep, the memories returned, fresh and vivid, and when he saw her at the little table he felt reconnected with that Jake of the past; the Jake who loved Kit.

  He was faithful to Madeleine in his fashion; he loves his children, and their children, and nothing can change that. Surely now, though, there might be a chance for him to be complete, to be whole again, without disloyalty and damage.

  He follows the little yellow Beetle – how typical of Kit to have a yellow Beetle – as if his life depends on it. Weaving through the town of Ashburton, diving down narrow lanes, he feels as though he is plunged into adventure. Mungo has added an extra dimension, given them the opportunity to renew connections within a secure framework, and Jake is very grateful for it. He knows, though, t
hat he must go carefully. Kit’s reluctance to commit might still be a real problem. He hardly dares believe that it is her love for him that has prevented her from making any other lasting attachment.

  Yet at the end, she offered to go with him to Paris, to marry him. He remembers his pain, the disbelief.

  ‘Twelve bloody years,’ he said to her, ‘and you’re three months too late.’

  He closed down on the pain; put it away. He was able to compartmentalize his life so that those years in London became a part of his past that he rarely visited. Remembering, he wonders how he and Kit managed to survive so long back then as lovers without any proper conclusion to the relationship. Of course, Kit had been sharing a flat with Cynthia – nicknamed Sin – since student days and neither of them seemed to have any inclination to disturb the status quo: Sin working as an archivist at the British Museum; Kit at the art gallery in Kensington Church Street. Kit often spent nights at his flat and Sin was never short of boyfriends. The three of them were content to keep a measure of independence, have fun, share outings; he and Sin were regular guests at The Keep. To an outsider it must have looked as if they were having the best of all worlds, and then Kit met Mark. He was giving her advice about starting her own business and she was clearly attracted to him.

  Now, Jake wonders why that was the breaking point: the last straw. Immersed in his own anger and jealousy, back in Paris for his grandmother’s funeral, he allowed himself to be comforted by Madeleine who’d loved him since she was a child. She knew Kit, had met her, knew Jake loved her. Later, Madeleine told him: ‘I saw my chance and took it’ and occasionally he wonders if she hoped that a child might be the outcome. He is still capable of a twinge of guilt when he thinks about it – he was so much more experienced and he should have known better – but it comforts him that she had so much joy from her children and grandchildren, that they shared many happy family moments. But now he is alone and free to follow his heart – and his heart has brought him back to England and to Kit.

  The yellow Beetle passes a cottage, indicates left and slows down. Mungo is clambering out and coming towards him, showing him where to park. He has arrived.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CAMILLA SITS AT the table on the veranda surrounded by the paraphernalia of a morning spent writing a letter, choosing a present from a catalogue, searching for a recipe. The ornamental vine that grows over the roof casts delicate patterns across the flagstones and the table; its crimson and gold leaves tremble in a sudden warm movement of air and its shadow flickers in response. A sparrowhawk hurtles round the side of the house, a feathered missile, lethal as a bullet. It stalls, drops like a weight and jinks over the hedge, hoping to light upon some unsuspecting prey on the other side.

  Camilla waits for the scuffle, the flutter of feathers, distracted from writing a birthday card to one of her grandchildren. She misses them; wishes they were with her helping her to cook, to garden, to draw and paint. She is so proud of them, her heart so full of love, yet she is firm with them and likes to teach them skills and encourage them to learn. She’s not very happy with the way they are becoming addicted to iPads and mobile phones; they are beginning to grow away from the happy domestic tasks she creates for them and she feels sad and frustrated.

  It’s been fun to have little Joe playing on the tractor and helping her make cakes. He enjoyed it, too, and now Emma has phoned to ask if Camilla could look after both the children, just for a couple of hours tomorrow, so that she can visit a friend. Morning might be better, Emma said, because Dora has a sleep mid-morning, which means she shouldn’t be too much trouble. Camilla never thinks children are too much trouble; it is simply a question of organization. She agreed at once, says she will give them lunch so that Emma has plenty of time with her friend, and is already thinking carefully about this unexpected treat with all the attention to detail of a field marshal planning a campaign.

  The sparrowhawk has been denied its kill and is back again, watching its opportunity. It alights briefly on the branches of the vine: beautiful and deadly, iron talons gripping, silken wings folded. Camilla watches it, holding her breath, not moving. Quite suddenly it soars upward, tilts sideways and speeds away out of sight. Camilla picks up her pen again. She wants to enclose a photograph with the birthday card; a memory of the earlier summer holiday. Photographs are so important, evoking happy moments caught for ever by that press of a button; the flash of a bulb. She has photographs of her children, and their children, in almost every room: formal in frames, carefully chosen for montages, pinned haphazard on notice boards. There is a selection now before her on the table and she sifts them, studying them, remembering this occasion and that.

  How precious they are, these children. She thinks of them with tenderness, feeling again the weight of a baby in her arms; the warmth of a child sprawled against her, thumb in mouth, as she reads a story; the strangling hug of strong little arms. She sees the beam of a smile, the droop of a mouth, the beauty of childish limbs dancing, playing.

  For some reason there are tears in her eyes and her heart aches. She wants to hold life in her control, keep the children safe from harm. Camilla shakes her head at her foolishness, selects a photograph, and begins to write in the card.

  Archie, back from his walk, calls out from the kitchen, comes on to the veranda leaving the dogs gratefully lapping at their water bowls. He sees Camilla’s expression, notes the birthday card and the photographs, and guesses that she’s having one of her maternal moments.

  ‘How about coffee?’ he suggests. Eating and drinking is a cheerful occupation and he offers it as a kind of comfort. ‘And some of those biscuits you made? Shall I put the kettle on?’

  She nods, smiling at him, and he goes back inside feeling slightly relieved: the dangerous moment might be past by the time he’s made the coffee if he’s lucky. Poor old Camilla has been a bit down since the holidays, missing the children, upset that neither of their boys or their wives seem interested in keeping the house once he and Camilla have gone. Of course, he understands how they feel – neither couple could be expected to give up their jobs to live here and it would be ludicrously extravagant trying to keep the place on as a bolt-hole – nevertheless it’s a very sad prospect and Camilla is taking it badly.

  For himself, the on-going nightmare of living on a shoestring whilst he tries to hold the estate together is getting too much. With the proceeds from the sale of his share of the partnership he was able to refurbish one cottage to a standard where it could be let out again but the second cottage down by the farm needs a complete overhaul, the farm is run down and, even here, the house needs replumbing, new window frames, and the roof is looking fragile.

  Archie grimaces to himself as he waits for the kettle to boil. He tells himself that he would be glad to sell, move on, enjoy a bit more sailing. At present he is gardener, navvy, odd-job man, and he’d be very pleased to let it all go. Of course it’s sad; of course he’d miss the old place. But he’s tired of years of ducking and diving, making ends meet, organizing holiday lets for the cottages and placating tenants.

  ‘And what would happen to Philip and Billy if we sold?’ demands Camilla when they have these fruitless and fractious conversations. ‘They wouldn’t be covered by their agricultural tenancy now they’ve stopped farming properly, would they? They’d hate it if they were turned out.’

  And that’s the trouble. He knows they’d hate any kind of change. They’ll put up with damp, rotting window frames, old-fashioned plumbing, rather than move – and he doesn’t blame them. This valley has been their lives; their livelihood. Archie reaches for the cafetiere. Sometimes he thinks he’d be very happy in a small, sunny, modern flat on The Plains in Totnes, with his boat nearby on a mooring …

  ‘And,’ Camilla reminds him at regular intervals, ‘I will never live in a place where the children can’t come to stay with us. Never, Archie.’

  Yes, well, that’s it. Finish. End of, as his grandsons say.

  Mungo has offered to con
tribute. After all, he says, his nephews will inherit everything he has, so why not let him help to restore some of the property? It’s all the same in the end. But Archie feels it’s rather unfair to allow Mungo to shell out on the estate that their father so ruthlessly withheld from his younger son.

  ‘You might need your money later on,’ Archie said. ‘You can’t tell. What would you do, Mungo, if Camilla and I sold it all up and moved?’

  Mungo was clearly shocked at the prospect; much more upset than Archie would have imagined. After all, Mungo spent half the year at his flat in London.

  ‘Is that likely?’ he asked. ‘Is it really that bad? Surely Camilla would chew off her own arm rather than leave? I can’t imagine being here without you just up the lane. Look, I wish you’d let me help you.’

  Archie loads up the tray, thinks about the estimates for repairs, renewals, replacements, lying on his desk, and he closes his eyes briefly in despair. Today he feels old and tired and ill.

  The dogs nudge at his knees, tongues dripping, eyes bright, and he looks down at them and his heart eases a little.

  ‘You want your biccies,’ he murmurs. ‘Good boys, then. Good fellows.’

  He rummages in a cupboard and gives Bozzy and Sam their treats and strokes their smooth coats while they wag their tails appreciatively and crunch up their biscuits.

  Archie sighs. He wouldn’t be able to keep the dogs in that nice small sunny flat by the river in Totnes. Picking up the tray, he carries the coffee out to Camilla.

  Later, Mungo walks with Mopsa in the lane. He has decided that it would be tactful now to leave Kit and Jake alone. They are relaxed, they’ve had a good lunch, they need to have a moment to themselves. He feels confident that he has directed the scene to a perfect moment; a delightful conclusion for their first meeting.

  He walks slowly, hands in his jeans pockets, his thoughts drifting from Kit and Jake back to his conversation with Billy yesterday afternoon in the parlour at the farm. Well, it was hardly a conversation but it was still faintly disturbing. The old fellow had been in a cheerful mood, his wheezy chuckle escaping in breathy bursts from his distorted lips. They talked of old times, of how he would soon be up and about, of how he could still manage a little walk in the orchard.