Indian Summer Page 14

  ‘I like my walk in the orchard,’ Billy said. He winked at Mungo. ‘Remember? First he walked all over her and then she walked all over him.’

  And he began his disgraceful old chuckle again, leaning forward in his chair until he was breathless, and Mungo stood up and bent over him anxiously. Philip came in then, looking preoccupied, as if he’d been on some distant mental journey, and hurried forward when he saw his brother gasping for air.

  ‘Daft old bugger,’ he said. ‘What’s he been saying? Come on, Billy. Stop it now or you’ll choke to death.’

  They eased the old man upright and Philip pushed his wheelchair out of the parlour with Star running at his side.

  ‘We’ll walk you home,’ he said to Mungo. ‘Give him some air. What was he saying?’

  Mungo shrugged. ‘We were talking about old times. Nothing much.’

  ‘Ah. Old times,’ said Philip thoughtfully. He glanced sideways at Mungo; an odd, almost hopeful look. ‘Perhaps it’s best to forget old times.’

  Mungo turns along the track beside the stream. How is it possible to forget old times? Clearly Kit and Jake haven’t. It’s as if their shared past has been deep frozen all these years and has now resurfaced, bursting out of the cold, sealed ground; fresh and green and full of possibilities. Their memories are not withered and decayed but are blossoming with renewed hope; they see in each other those young people that shared so much, that talked and danced and laughed and made love.

  Perhaps, thinks Mungo, that’s why the friends of our youth are so dear to us. To each other we aren’t grey and old and dull. We remember times when we took chances, acted courageously, rescued each other and gave each other support. These things remain. In their company we are the people we’ve always been: viable and strong.

  The stream ripples over round brown river stones, trickles down miniature waterfalls, flows under the crumbling bank where the water rat has its home. In the shadows beneath the willows the heron waits: motionless, watchful. As Mopsa comes in view it rises with a few elegant flaps of its great wings and heads upstream to more solitary fishing grounds. As boys they fished the stream for trout. Philip and Archie, silent, patient, were best at it. He and Billy would get bored; slip away to find the kingfisher’s nest or to watch the dipper bobbing on its stone and then plunging into the rushing water to collect beakfuls of grubs for its young. Later, Archie tried to teach Izzy the art of fly-fishing, wading out mid-stream with her, showing her how to back-cast beneath the canopy of trees. Slipping on the stony bed, laughing, clumsy with the rod, poor Izzy did her best but even Archie’s patience began to wear thin.

  Mungo remembers how he and Camilla watched from the bank, Camilla large with her second child, whilst small Henry dozed in his pushchair.

  ‘He’s loving every minute of it,’ said Camilla, her eyes on the pair in the river.

  Mungo glanced at her, hearing an odd kind of bleakness in her voice, and hastened to reassure her.

  ‘It’s just some silly fun. She’d drive him mad after a while, you know that, Millie. He’s getting a bit fed up now, actually, isn’t he?’

  ‘She’s so sexy.’ Camilla put her hands to her bump. ‘And she’s so damned thin. Archie fancies her, I can see that. She plays up to him.’

  ‘That’s just how she is. Izzy doesn’t mean to make trouble. She’s like this with everyone. She just loves people to be happy, to make them laugh. Then she can feel safe.’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘She doesn’t have your kind of security, Millie. Izzy needs constant reassurance that she’s worth anything.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start on all that stuff about her losing her parents and being brought up by some old aunt or cousin and how brave she is. Archie tells me often enough.’

  ‘Izzy’s just novelty value. Archie adores you,’ Mungo said firmly. ‘You’re having a prenatal wobble, Millie. This isn’t like you.’

  She smiled, slipping her hand within his arm, holding it tightly.

  ‘I may not be an actor,’ she said, ‘but I’m allowed to have a dramatic moment occasionally. You have no idea what it’s like to be very fat and unwieldy and dull, and have to watch your husband being chatted up by a girl like Izzy Trent.’

  ‘But I do know what it’s like to be jealous,’ he said, squeezing her hand with his arm, ‘and it’s hell. Let’s leave them to it and go back and have some tea. Archie will soon get bored, I promise you, and Izzy won’t enjoy it so much without an audience.’

  Now, as Mungo turns to go home, he remembers that later, back at the smithy, he asked Izzy if she fancied Archie. She gazed at him in amazement.

  ‘Fancy him?’ She shook her head. ‘I love him, though. He’s so kind, isn’t he? You feel safe with him.’

  How important it was to her: to be safe. Her self-esteem was so low that she imagined any act of kindness or attention was so undeserved, so valuable, that it needed rewarding, acknowledgement. Nothing could be taken lightly or easily. She so longed to be loved that she was prey to any man who wanted to get her into bed, mistaking any show of affection for a declaration of love. It was almost a relief when she fell in love with Ralph and they became lovers. At least, then, Mungo only had to worry about one man – though he wished it could have been anyone else rather than Ralph. In an odd way, Ralph kept her safe – but only for a few years.

  ‘The baby’s come too early, Mungo,’ she said, phoning him on that cold March morning from her flat in London. ‘He’s hardly a baby at all. He’s so small I can hold him in the palm of my hand. I’m all alone with him here. Can you come?’

  By the time he arrived she’d wrapped the tiny form in soft wool and put him into her grandmother’s pretty mahogany tea-caddy with a few keepsakes: one of Ralph’s silk handkerchiefs, a miniature teddy bear she’d had from childhood and a scattering of sweet-scented potpourri.

  ‘I couldn’t just throw him away, darling, could I? I want him to have a proper burial place. Take him and find somewhere you and I can remember him. Somewhere nobody else knows. Promise?’

  Now, Mungo pauses beside the old Herm. He crouches down to push aside the dreadlocks of faded grasses and yellow vetch that frame the ancient stone face. His finger traces the rim of beard, the faintly smiling lips, and he is filled with a terrible sadness.

  There is a toot of a horn, the roar of an engine, and young Andy, Philip’s grandson, raises his hand from the quad bike. Mungo stands up and moves to one side, waving back as Andy sweeps past. Mopsa is well ahead now and Mungo hurries to catch her up. Perhaps Philip is right and it’s best to forget the past. But at the turn in the lane Mungo glances back at the old Herm, standing at the crossroads, still guarding the secrets of a thousand years.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THERE IS SILENCE in the kitchen after Mungo and Mopsa depart: an awkward silence during which neither Jake nor Kit can think of anything to say.

  ‘Well, that was excellent,’ says Jake eventually. ‘You were right. Mungo is a very good cook.’

  Kit agrees brightly: too brightly. She feels embarrassed and constrained, yet while Mungo and Mopsa were with them everything was so easy; such fun.

  It’s crazy, she thinks. I don’t know what to say to him now. I just sound banal and he knows exactly how I’m feeling and he doesn’t know what to say either. Blast Mungo. Why did he have to go?

  ‘It’s odd to see Mungo here in this cottage,’ Jake is saying. ‘From what you read about him you imagine him happiest among the fleshpots, not in a tiny rural hamlet.’

  Kit knows that Jake is trying to slice his way through the barrier that has suddenly grown up between them with casual conversation but it hurts her that she and Jake of all people need to use this device. She wants to recapture the ease, the old familiarity of friendship, which was so quickly resumed earlier. The pain and resentments of the past dissipated in the face of Mungo’s humour, his delight in the situation and his generous hospitality. His approving presence gave them the freedom to accept each other; to feel young again: con
versation, like Mungo’s wine, flowing freely, jokes being made, the old affection springing up so naturally.

  ‘Mungo tends to send himself up in public,’ she answers, ‘and, of course, the media love it. They respect him, though, and leave his private life alone.’

  ‘No scandals?’

  Kit shakes her head. ‘None. Well, there was a time in the sixties when the nation thought that he and Isobel Trent were the great romantic couple of all time but Mungo and Izzy managed to keep everyone guessing until it died a natural death. Mungo’s very clever.’

  ‘He must be,’ says Jake, smiling a little. ‘Now that I’ve met him I’d say that he is what my maternal grandmother would have called “other”. Back then the media could have had a field day.’

  ‘Versatile,’ says Kit primly. ‘That’s how Mungo describes himself.’

  Jake laughs out loud. ‘Love it,’ he says. ‘So then, Kit. What happens next?’

  She stares at him in alarm. This switch throws her off balance and she doesn’t know how to answer him. She just wants to go on sitting in Mungo’s kitchen without having to think about what happens next, and she curses herself for her inadequacy. Why should it be that she, who has spent her working life confidently deciding what her clients should sit on, eat from, cook with, look at on their walls, should be so inept at making decisions about her own life?

  ‘Do we think we can move on?’ he’s asking. He leans forward, his hands clasped on Mungo’s beautiful old French farmhouse table. ‘It seems specious to say “carry on where we left off” because it’s too long ago and too much has happened, but now, here, it almost feels as if we could. Do you want to try, Kit?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says quickly, her own hands clutched together on her knees, out of sight beneath the table. ‘Yes, I do.’

  He sits back with a great sigh of relief. They look at each other and the old, familiar ease begins to creep between them again.

  ‘But not here?’ he suggests, amused. ‘You know that Mungo has invited me to stay in the barn?’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t have,’ she says crossly. ‘I told him he wasn’t to do that. It’s completely out of order.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Jake, grinning. ‘I think he sees himself as a dear old nanny looking after two wayward toddlers.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Kit sceptically. ‘I think he just wants to keep you nearby in case I turn you down. I adore Mungo but I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’

  They both laugh, completely at one again.

  ‘I’m very grateful to him,’ admits Jake. ‘This has just been a perfect way to reconnect.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Kit, ‘I just don’t want us to be regarded as Mungo’s next production. Seriously, though, he’s a fantastic friend and I can’t bear to hurt his feelings either. I can’t just walk out on him now that you’ve turned up. What are your plans?’

  ‘I shall go back to the hotel,’ says Jake. ‘I booked three nights to give me a chance to find you if you were around but I’ve no immediate commitments. Come and have dinner with me this evening?’

  She hesitates, nods. ‘And Mungo? Or just me?’

  He thinks about it. ‘Invite him,’ he says at last. ‘I think his answer will be very revealing as to how we play the next few days.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ says Mungo indignantly, when she poses the question later, when Jake has gone. ‘Being a gooseberry isn’t my line at all, sweetie. Lunch was quite different, and I’m glad it got you both off to a good start, but I’m not good at being an extra. Leading man or nothing, that’s me. You can invite him here, of course, whenever you like.’

  Kit feels huge relief but guilt, too. She knows she’s trying to have her cake and eat it: she wants to have Jake nearby, to have time to test her feelings about him, whilst keeping Mungo’s support. She goes and puts her arms around him.

  ‘You are such a mate, Mungo,’ she says.

  He gives her a hug, pats her shoulder blade. ‘Silly moo. I suppose this means you’ll be going back to London?’

  She can hear the disappointment in his voice and hastens to reassure him.

  ‘Oh, not just yet. I think we can have quite a lot of fun here before we take the next step. I think Jake will enjoy seeing the old familiar places and I want you to get to know him.’

  ‘That’s good then.’ Mungo brightens at the prospect. ‘I have to say he’s gorgeous. I’m rather sorry that he didn’t take me up on my offer of the barn.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ says Kit firmly. ‘I need space. You said you wouldn’t ask him. You promised.’

  ‘Couldn’t resist,’ he sighs. ‘My baser instincts got the better of me. But I agree you need your own space. You must do whatever is best for you, sweetie.’

  ‘I’ll stay for a few more days, if that’s OK,’ she says. ‘I’d really like that.’

  Now that Mungo has stepped back Kit feels quite happy to remain here with him. She’s not ready to be on her own with Jake in London; she’d rather take things slowly surrounded by old friends on neutral territory.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ he says contentedly. ‘So what will you wear this evening? I hope you’ve brought something pretty with you. You can’t go to dinner with an old flame in those tatty jeans.’

  Jake drives carefully, repeating Mungo’s directions under his breath. ‘Turn right at the end of the lane. First left, then follow the directions for Ashburton …’

  He wonders if Mungo will come to dinner, and hopes not, but he’s glad that Kit has decided to stay on. He knows that she’s not ready for the next step; that back in London on her own patch, she might get an attack of the wobbles and be unwilling to take the risk to change her well-ordered life.

  A small boy on a scooter whizzes around the bend in the lane and Jake turns the wheel quickly to avoid him. A pretty girl, pushing a buggy, hurries to his side, waves apologetically at Jake, who waves back miming ‘no harm done’ and glances in the rear mirror at her. She has a kind of gamine, Audrey Hepburn look; very attractive.

  Kit used to call him ‘Jake the Rake’ when they were young because of his predilection for pretty girls. She didn’t seem to mind. It was as if the chemistry between them was much stronger and more important than simple physical attraction. Anyway, she liked to play the field, too, and it was she who resisted his proposals of marriage. He wonders how she would get on with his daughters and their families; whether she would connect with them. He hopes that in time they might be relieved to see him with a companion, someone of his own, and he has no intention of becoming a well-loved but slightly inconvenient parcel to be passed around at Christmas and on his birthday. ‘We had him last year, it’s your turn this year.’ He loves his girls and his grandchildren but he is a pragmatist. They are busy: they have their own hectic lives. He wants his own life, his own agenda, and someone with whom to live it, and he is certain now that he wants that someone to be Kit. She is a huge piece in the puzzle that is Jake; an important piece that was lost for a while, leaving a jagged space; an emptiness. As soon as he saw her sitting with Mungo at the café table it was as if something happened in his heart: he was made whole again.

  Earlier, while they were together with Mungo, he believed that she felt the same. Now, as Jake drives back to Totnes, anxiety begins to nibble like a rat at the edge of his confidence. Is it possible that she might still be unable to commit to him? What can he do to show her how good life could be if they were to share it? He must make the most of this evening. Perhaps he should take her somewhere a little more intimate than the hotel full of families on holiday. He wonders if he should check out the local hostelries and then decides that he’ll play it by ear. They’ll do it together as they always used to; peering through restaurant windows, sitting at the bar having a drink in a bistro, checking out the specials’ board. Kit might have a favourite place she’ll want to share with him.

  The prospect fills him with delight. He drives through Ashburton and heads back towards Totnes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN<
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  PHILIP WHEELS OUT the rubbish bin ready for collection next morning – recycling and garden waste this week – and stands it by the gate. A small boy is approaching at speed on a scooter and a young woman is following behind him, pushing a buggy. Philip guesses that this is the family who are living at the cottage and he waits to meet them; to say ‘hello’. The scooter swerves, bumps up over the rutted verge, tips sideways: the child stumbles, loses his foothold, lands on his knees in the lane.

  Philip hastens towards him as he begins to howl, lifts him upright, looks at the scratched knees.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he says reassuringly. ‘No blood. You’ll live.’ He brushes some gravel from the thin brown legs and smiles at the young woman as she arrives with a rush. ‘He’s OK. Fright more than anything else, I reckon.’

  She nods gratefully, bending down to look at the damage.

  ‘That’s just a graze, Joe,’ she says comfortingly. ‘You’ve had much worse than that.’

  She gives him a hug, picks up the scooter, and Philip watches them, considering whether he should make a neighbourly gesture and invite them in.

  ‘You must be from the cottage,’ he says. ‘I’m Philip Judd. Nice to meet you. I’ve been meaning to come down and introduce myself but my brother hasn’t been well and things are a bit busy, if you see what I mean.’

  He holds out a hand to her and she takes it, smiling at him.

  ‘I’m Emma,’ she says, ‘and this is Joe. And this is Dora. We’re loving it here. Everyone’s so friendly.’

  ‘It hurts,’ whines Joe, looking at Philip for sympathy, stretching a leg to show them the grazes. Philip bends to pick a dock leaf from the ditch and holds it against Joe’s knee.