The Sea Garden Page 13

  ‘Oh good. I’ve been dithering about whether to stay or go but I think we’re all getting on each other’s nerves and this seems an ideal opportunity. Cass and Tom won’t mind you coming here, will they?’

  He laughs. ‘I think they’ll be delighted. The timing is perfect. Thanks, Kate.’

  ‘The bedroom Jess used is all made up. I’ll leave you some rations – milk and stuff – but you’ll want to get some food in.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Have you heard from Jess?’

  ‘Yes. She sounded a bit odd when we spoke but Lady T has had an angina attack so Jess is probably upset. They want her to stay on, though, and she seems keen. But look, Ollie, I’ve given her your mobile number. Do you mind? It’s just that I feel I’m rather abandoning her, though it’s no great distance from St Meriadoc if there’s a problem.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. And I’m sure she’s quite safe with the Trehearnes.’

  ‘I know. But I was the one who invited her down and she doesn’t know any of us particularly well. If she has a wobble I’d like her to feel she can come back to Chapel Street, and she sounded pleased to have your number. Apparently she’s asked if you can be invited to the reunion supper or whatever it is. I said you’d probably be delighted to go.’

  ‘OK. Tell her I’ll be around if she needs me. I’ll collect some things from the Rectory and be over.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Ollie. Look, I’m just leaving now so I shan’t see you. Could you tell Cass? It’s all a bit sudden but I really need a breathing space.’

  ‘We all do. Send over Jess’s mobile number, would you? Thanks. Stay in touch.’

  He puts his mobile back in his pocket. Cloud shadows drift across the bleached grassy slopes where sheep graze, moving slowly; the calm waters of the reservoir glitter below him. A buzzard rises, circling out of the trees, borne upwards on invisible currents, each flap of its wings taking it higher. Two crows come out of nowhere to hassle it, dive-bombing it; a pair of aerial fighters driving it out of the valley towards the stony summit of the tor.

  Oliver turns the car and drives down the lane to the Rectory.

  * * *

  Tom and Cass are still sitting at the kitchen table with the remains of lunch between them.

  ‘It’s just not the same without a dog,’ Oliver says as he comes in. ‘It feels weird.’

  ‘We don’t need a dog,’ Tom says at once, just as Oliver knows he will. ‘If you need a dog, get one yourself.’

  ‘I don’t need a dog,’ protests Oliver. ‘I’m too peripatetic. It’s the Rectory that needs one. It’s too big without one. You’d like one, wouldn’t you, Ma?’

  Cass cannot quite hide her relief at his return. It seems, just now, that whenever she and Tom are alone they argue about Gemma, so Oliver’s teasing is a welcome distraction.

  ‘Listen,’ Oliver says, sitting down, reaching for the cheese and cutting a slice. ‘We’ve had this idea. Kate and I. She’s shooting down to St Meriadoc for a few days so I’m going over to Chapel Street.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Tom immediately, irritably. ‘Why do you need to go to Chapel Street simply because Kate’s going to Cornwall?’

  Oliver beams at him kindly. ‘Don’t you want me to go? Will you miss me?’

  Cass, who has also helped herself to a sliver of cheese, nearly chokes.

  ‘The thing is,’ Oliver is saying, since Tom remains furiously silent, ‘Kate thinks Jess should have somewhere to go if things get difficult down on the Tamar. I expect you’ve heard that Lady T isn’t well?’

  ‘Yes,’ snaps Tom, not wishing Oliver to think that he’s ahead in the information stakes. ‘They’ve cancelled the reunion thrash. But I still don’t see why you need to be at Chapel Street. If Jess has a problem, though I can’t imagine why she should, she can come here. Her grandparents were our friends, not yours.’

  ‘Well, that’s true, but the point is that Jess and I are friends, you see. That’s what matters. It’s the age thing, isn’t it?’

  Tom thinks of the beautiful, desirable Juliet and of Jess as if they are one woman and feels a stab of jealousy.

  ‘Good grief, you must be nearly twenty years older than she is!’ he cries.

  Oliver shakes his head sympathetically. ‘But at least not old enough to be her grandfather,’ he points out gently.

  Cass gets up from the table, stifling laughter, hoping Tom isn’t going lose his temper.

  ‘Well, it sounds like a good plan to me,’ she says briskly. ‘It could well be that Sophie will have her hands full with Lady T, and Jess might feel she’s in the way. After all, she hardly knows them. And to be honest, sweet girl though she is, I wouldn’t want to cope with her just now. Kate’s key is in the dresser drawer, Oliver. Do you need to take any food or will you shop on the way into Tavistock?’

  Tom pushes his chair back with an expressive snort, which indicates that Oliver is old enough to attend to his own catering. Oliver hesitates, scenting a new tease, but Cass looks at him, eyes narrowed warningly, and he grins at her.

  ‘Kate’s leaving the essentials and I expect I’ll pop round to the pub for supper. I’ll go and pack.’

  She smiles back at him. With Oliver she is really at ease: he understands but never judges. He teases but is never cruel; he makes her laugh and reminds her of her dear old dad, that old soldier for whom he was named.

  Cass turns to look at Tom, who is packing the dishwasher; he is still frowning. She would like to alleviate his anxieties about Gemma, to explain that she understands how he is grieving afresh for Charlotte, but it’s never quite that simple. She’s learned that, though they both suffer equally, they are not necessarily best placed to help each other. They both share the blame and, when the pain of loss is very bad and they are over-emotional, then it is a quick and slippery slope that descends from the comforting of each other to the tempting, self-easing apportioning of the responsibility.

  ‘If only you hadn’t…’

  ‘It’s a pity that you…’

  The least breath of criticism can turn a moment of loving comfort into a blazing quarrel.

  Meanwhile, Oliver has defused the recent argument over Gemma and this is an opportunity for reconciliation.

  ‘Rather nice,’ Cass says cheerfully, ‘to have some time on our own, don’t you think? Wasn’t that what you were saying yesterday?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Tom says grumpily – and she smothers a sudden desire to laugh and instead makes a little face at his back.

  ‘Good, then,’ she says lightly. ‘So everyone’s happy.’

  * * *

  The cottage is warm and welcoming. Oliver closes the front door behind him, drops his overnight bag in the hall and goes into the living-room. He looks around, aware of a sense of familiarity. There is none of the homely clutter that comes with years of living, but neither is there the impersonality of the holiday cottage.

  ‘It’s tricky,’ Kate told him. ‘Most of my really precious stuff went to St Meriadoc when I moved down but the cottage is so much smaller that I couldn’t fit everything in. I had to get rid of all the really big pieces when I sold the house in Whitchurch but there were a few things I hung on to and put into store. Luckily most of it fits in here, which is really good. After all, I may not spend much time here but it needs to look like home, too.’

  Well, it does look like home; the sort of home Kate has made through forty years of naval quarters, hirings and cottages, and one that Oliver recognizes. The table probably started life in a French farmhouse, and none of the wooden chairs or cushions quite match. He couldn’t begin to recount all the occasions that he and his siblings, and Guy and Giles, have sat around that table on those faded cushions; gingham and flowered and chintz. Flossie’s spare basket is under the window, and he can remember the bentwood rocking chair from his earliest childhood. The paintings on the wall are of the Newlyn School of Art, and a couple of Paddy Langworthy’s, and a mix of paperback novels, autobiographies and children’s books jostle togeth
er on the bookshelves with a pile of CDs.

  At the end of the table, against the wall, two or three rolls of unframed photographs are piled together. Curiously he takes one and rolls it flat across the table. Mount House School 1976.

  Before my time, thinks Oliver – but the scene is a familiar one. Mr Wortham, with his golden retriever, Winston, beside him, sits in the middle of the front row of little boys. Oliver recognizes Matron, and here are the twins, Guy and Giles, standing together. It is almost impossible to tell them apart, dark-haired and serious in their navy-blue, high-necked jerseys and grey corduroy shorts, staring rather self-consciously at the camera.

  Oliver lets the photograph roll up, takes another one and spreads it flat. Blundell’s School 1981. It is Petergate House’s photograph, and here is Mr Denner sitting in the front row and he, Oliver, is sitting beside him, beaming happily.

  He bends closer, looking at that much younger Oliver in his new tweed jacket and long grey flannel trousers. How grown-up he’d felt. Giles and Guy stand at each end of the middle row, and now he can see the difference between them: Giles smiles, easy and relaxed with the boy next to him, as if they are sharing a joke. Guy stands slightly apart, staring uncompromisingly at the photographer as if he is weighing him up.

  Oliver remembers Mr Denner, how he’d say: ‘Good! Good! Good!’ all in one breath and how they used to mimic him behind his back, but affectionately because Mr Denner was very popular. And, quite suddenly, here is another memory: a painful memory mixed with the smell of old books and leather. He is with the twins in their study whilst his mother explains that Charlotte has been thrown from her pony and killed because she wasn’t wearing her hard hat. Hugging him tightly she tells him that it’s best if he doesn’t come to the funeral; that it will be better for him to remain at school and that the twins will be there if he needs them.

  Now, staring at those young, unformed faces, Oliver remembers the shock, the disbelief, and how, afterwards, it was Giles who put his arms around him and held him when at last he began to cry.

  The photograph springs back into its roll just as the doorbell peals. He puts the photograph with the others, giving himself a moment to recover, and then goes out into the hall and opens the door. On the doorstep, with that same uncompromising look, stands Guy Webster. They stare at each other disbelievingly and then speak together.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  * * *

  Guy follows Oliver into the hall, closing the front door behind him. He drops his grip beside the overnight case, glances around.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ he asks.

  Instead of answering, Oliver opens a door off the hall and politely waits for Guy to pass into the room. Guy hesitates for a moment. Irritation, never far from the surface, is mounting. It’s as if Oliver is the host here; he has taken charge of the situation. Guy walks past him into the living room. He’s never liked Oliver. Though he is several years younger, Oliver has always had an innate confidence, an ability to be in the right place at the right time and always with the right people: scads of A levels, the First from Cambridge, Unk taking him on as a partner and leaving him his very lucrative business. And now he’s had the nerve to pay the school fees for his, Guy’s, children. He looks at his brother-in-law with barely concealed dislike, thinks about the overnight case in the hall.

  ‘Is my mother here?’ he asks again.

  ‘No, she isn’t.’ Oliver makes a gesture that could be interpreted as a mixture of sympathy and apology. ‘She’s gone down to St Meriadoc for a few days. Did anyone know you were coming home?’

  ‘No,’ answers Guy shortly. He looks around the room with a speculative expression; taking it in, summing it up. ‘I spent last night with a friend in London and hired a car. So what are you doing here?’

  Oliver is clearly amused at the direct question. Guy is expecting conflict, accusations, and is prepared, aggressive. Oliver hesitates, then rather than take a conventional approach to the prodigal son – or, in this case, brother-in-law – he decides simply to wrong-foot him.

  ‘Dear old Guy,’ he says lightly. ‘How good to see you after all this time, completely unchanged. I was just looking at some photographs of you.’

  ‘Photographs?’ Just as Oliver hopes, Guy is thrown completely off his stride. ‘What photographs?’

  ‘These.’ Oliver bends over the table and unrolls the Mount House photograph. ‘See? You and Giles at the end of the row here.’

  As Guy stares at the rows of little boys he is unexpectedly filled with a number of memories and sensations that confuse him: easy companionship, physical freedom, security. He was very happy at prep school.

  ‘Could be your twins, couldn’t it?’ murmurs Oliver. ‘A kind of continuum.’

  Before Guy can answer, Oliver unrolls another photograph: Blundell’s. He and Giles stand at opposite ends of the row and now the memories are different. The responsibility of exams and the adult world were beginning to press in: life was real and life was earnest. He lets the photograph roll up and looks at Oliver.

  ‘I was remembering Charlotte,’ Oliver says, as if he is answering a question. ‘That was the year she died. Ma told me in your study, d’you remember? How long ago it seems.’

  Guy is silent. He is struggling with indignation. By showing him the photographs, recalling the tragic scene at Blundell’s, Oliver has got under his guard and it is more difficult now to say the bitter words that have been running in his head ever since Gemma told him that Oliver has offered to pay the school fees for the twins. Once again he has the upper hand and Guy rages silently.

  ‘Kate asked me to stay for a few days,’ Oliver says. ‘She’s told you about Jess winning David’s Award…? Yes, well, it seems Jess might need to come back, so Kate thought someone should be here in case. Why didn’t you tell her you were coming? Does Gemma know?’

  ‘Nobody knows. This whole thing has got completely out of hand.’ Guy feels frustrated. That last row with his father, the silent house, empty and oddly lonely without the twins and Gemma, the sudden need to see them and to get everything sorted out, has driven him to this mad journey. It never occurred to him that his mother would be away – but then he wasn’t thinking particularly clearly. He planned to confront Gemma, to take her by surprise …

  Oliver is watching him with a compassionate look that makes him even more angry. He mutters some imprecations below his breath and Oliver bursts out laughing.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I can go back to the Rectory if you’d rather be alone. It’s not a problem. But why don’t we walk down to the pub and have a pint first? Then you can come back and phone Kate and I’ll disappear. It hasn’t been a particularly happy scene at the Rectory, you know. My parents don’t actually approve of Gemma walking out on you and tension is running high. Gemma’s spending a few days with a friend and I grabbed the opportunity to get out too. I’m very glad to see you, to tell you the truth. You can tell us what’s really going on.’

  Guy snorts. ‘What the hell makes you think I know?’

  Oliver shrugs. ‘OK. So let’s have a pint anyway. Can’t hurt, can it?’

  * * *

  ‘… And that’s where it stands,’ Guy says later; quite a bit later.

  They’ve had a few pints and some supper at the pub, and now they are back in the cottage and Guy is holding a glass of rather good malt whisky that Oliver has provided.

  Guy is no longer angry but, during the course of the evening, has mellowed, even been amusing, but now he’s becoming morose. Oliver, filling his own glass, remembers this pattern from a few previous occasions when he and Guy have spent time together. His brother-in-law has always needed a little lubrication to enable him to relax. It’s been a good move to take him to the pub, to watch him unwind and to discover how things really are between him and Gemma.

  He’s even been able to persuade Guy that putting the twins into school needn’t be the end of the world. It’s required all his persuasive powers to assuage Guy�
�s pride about the school fees but very gradually Guy’s animosity has become less apparent and he’s been quite open about his own situation.

  ‘I want them back,’ he says now, sitting in the rocking chair, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. ‘This isn’t a subject for negotiation. We’ve got a home, I’ve got a job, and if Gemma doesn’t like being away from her family and friends she should have damn well thought of that before she made it impossible for us to stay here.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Oliver. ‘I can see that she isn’t in a very strong position to start calling the shots but from the little she’s told me it sounds as if you haven’t been all that happy yourself.’

  Watching the curl of Guy’s lip, the drooping of his eyelids, he wonders if he’s made a tactical error: Guy dislikes any show of disloyalty.

  ‘Gemma hasn’t said much at all, you know,’ Oliver adds mildly. ‘She admits she doesn’t get on well with your father but that’s hardly news, is it? Let’s be honest, very few people get on well with your father, do they?’

  He can see Guy fighting with that strong sense of loyalty, his dislike of gossip, and suddenly Oliver feels a real sense of sympathy for him.

  ‘Gemma has told me, not my parents, that she feels that you’re becoming like him. Less communicative and more touchy. It’s worrying her.’ Oliver nearly says ‘frightens her’ but knows that will be too emotive for Guy; he will respond less sympathetically if he believes that Gemma has been dramatic. ‘She said that she doesn’t think you’re particularly happy either; she certainly isn’t, and she believes that it’s beginning to affect the twins.’

  ‘So we throw it all up and just come back here and begin again? Where? How? With what? And why the hell should I? I’ve done all that once, remember.’

  The anger is returning and Oliver remains silent, thinking.

  ‘Is she wrong?’ he asks at last. ‘Are you happy, Guy?’

  Guy nurses his whisky, staring into the glass. ‘It’s OK,’ he mumbles at last. ‘It’s a beautiful country but I admit the work is a bit frustrating. Dad isn’t retiring any time soon, as we thought he would, and he’s not all that open to new ideas, though he’s considering my plans for sailing cruises, like I told you. That would be really good. He was furious when Gemma buggered off, of course, and annoyed that I’ve taken time off to come over to see her. It really hasn’t helped. I’d just got him into the right mood for agreeing that my idea is a good one and now there’s all this damned fuss.’