The Sea Garden Page 14

  ‘Gemma hasn’t said anything about this.’

  Guy looks very slightly embarrassed. ‘I decided on a need-to-know basis,’ he mutters. ‘Didn’t want anyone to get excited until Dad finally agreed to it.’

  Oliver is silent. Guy looks a little discomfited at his own high-handedness.

  ‘Shall you tell her when you see her?’ asks Oliver.

  Guy shrugs, drinks some more whisky. ‘I don’t know. This has probably set it back again. Dad’s not keen on new projects and all this has made him angry. I think he suspects I might change my mind and move back here.’

  Another, longer silence.

  ‘And might you?’ asks Oliver at last. ‘After all, couldn’t you start your sailing cruises or whatever over here?’

  Guy gives a contemptuous snort. ‘Can you see my father funding it over here? It’s like pulling teeth to get him to agree to anything that might expand his own business.’ He swallows the last of the whisky and stands up. ‘I’m going to bed. Stay if you like. Anyway, you can’t drive now.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Oliver remains where he is; an idea slowly forming. ‘Any plans for tomorrow?’

  Guy hesitates at the door, frowning. ‘Not now. Not if Gemma is staying with Debbie. I need to think about it. Why?’

  Oliver gives a little shrug. ‘Jess is down on the Tamar with the Trehearnes. She’s invited me over and I wondered if you and I might go together. Kate knows them very well. Do you remember the Trehearnes?’

  Guy pulls his mouth down, considering, shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Jess would love to meet you. She’s very fond of Kate and there are all sorts of connections with the past, apart from her winning David’s Award. We could take her out to lunch or something.’

  Guy shrugs. ‘Whatever. I haven’t got any really smart clothes with me.’

  Oliver smiles. ‘Oh, I don’t think that will matter. Well, we’ll discuss it in the morning. Sleep well.’

  ‘Thanks for the whisky.’

  He goes out and Oliver is left alone.

  * * *

  Upstairs, in Kate’s bedroom, Guy drops his grip onto a small chair and goes to draw the thick curtains across the darkness. The material is silky soft, warm, and he fingers it, bunching it, turning to look around the room. He recognizes the furniture from the house in Whitchurch. The brass bed with its patchwork quilt used to be in the spare room, the Lloyd Loom chair with its embroidered cushion has come from his own bedroom; once, many years ago, his toys used to sit in it. The elegant white dressing table and the little stool were in his mother’s room, and he stoops to look at the photographs: David, with his eyes screwed up against the sunshine; Ben and Julian with Gemma, clowning; he and Giles, aged about eight, grinning cheerfully. Small, informal photographs in rather battered frames; evocative and unsettling.

  The evening, beginning with those other photographs, has softened him, weakened him. Over the last few weeks he’s worked himself up for battle, using those hours of the long-haul flight to feed his resentment and anger, preparing himself for the fight ahead. He’d planned how he’d arrive, taking everyone by surprise; his mother would be anxious, worried about Gemma and the twins, but on his side. He’d decided that he’d see Gemma here at the cottage, on his own territory, catching her off guard.

  Instead he’s been confronted by Oliver, by memories and sensations, persuaded to talk things through so that now he feels tired, his self-righteous rage dismantled, and suddenly he longs for Gemma, to fall onto that bed with her and forget everything in the familiar warmth of her embrace.

  As he unpacks his grip his thoughts slip back to those days before he was married, to his little cottage in Nethercombe Court in South Brent. Although he’d known Gemma all her life, the ten years between them prevented any really close relationship as children. Then they met up by chance just after he’d bought the cottage in the courtyard development and was running his brokerage from Dartmouth, and she was at Hungerford training to be a Norland nanny. Back then he was emotionally involved with his neighbour, the beautiful Nell, and Gemma was going out with a young naval officer, yet their friendship flourished, based on the familiarity of a shared past, ease of companionship and old childhood jokes. During her holidays she came driving over to see him in Cass’s little car and he took her out sailing and they went for long walks with his golden retriever, Bertie. Yet, because of the beautiful, elusive, newly widowed Nell, he persisted in treating Gemma almost as a younger sister; it was when she finally believed that their relationship would never be anything more than friendship that Gemma made her move.

  Now, Guy sits on the edge of the bed and allows himself to picture the courtyard of attractively converted barns and cottages at Nethercombe on one particular December evening twelve years ago.

  It was a pleasant scene at dusk; lights twinkling from the windows and smoke rising gently into the frosty air. He was returning from a stroll along the beech walk with Bertie when he saw Gemma hurrying across the bottom of the drive. It looked as if she had been to his cottage and, finding it empty, was going away. His feeling of disappointment that he should miss her was unbelievably sharp and he let out a loud shout, which made Bertie jump. Gemma either didn’t hear or ignored the call and hurried to where her car was parked. He raced down the last few yards, his feet slipping and sliding on the gravel, whilst Bertie skittered from side to side, ears flattened, trying to keep out of his way. As he came level with the entrance to the courtyard’s arched entrance Gemma’s little car was just backing out of the space allocated to his visitors and he ran towards her, waving his arms. Still she didn’t seem to see him but pulled away and vanished down the drive and out into the lane.

  He stood perfectly still, a prey to several different emotions. He was confused by his disappointment and the other quite unreasonable feeling of rejection and hurt, as if she had deliberately ignored him and had been trying to avoid him. Why on earth should she come into the courtyard if she didn’t wish to see him? He wondered if she’d put a note through his door and dashed over to his cottage, feeling in his pocket for his key. There was a note lying on the mat; a folded piece of paper. He snatched it up.

  Dear Guy,

  Just to say that I shan’t be over this holiday. I suspect that I’m a bit of a nuisance to you and you’ve been very sweet about it but I won’t bother you any more. We’ll still be friends, won’t we? It’s been fun.

  Love, Gemma

  He was back out of the door in a flash, stuffing the note into his pocket, encouraging Bertie into the back of the car, leaping in, turning and racing down the drive with spurts of gravel flying from beneath the wheels. He knew just which way she would go and he turned the car onto the Ivybridge road and headed for Cornwood. As he drove across the moor, his brain reeled as it grappled with his thoughts. It was as though a curtain had been ripped away in his mind and he saw what an unutterable idiot he’d been. He realized that his determined adulation for Nell had blinded him to the glaringly obvious truth. He thought of the pleasure he felt when he saw Gemma, the comfort and confidence she gave him, the ease and happiness he experienced in her company. It was Gemma, the real flesh-and-blood girl with her teasing, loving ways, that he loved; not the dream that he’d built round the ethereal Nell and which he’d persisted in keeping fixed before his eyes. Oh, yes! Nell was beautiful, vulnerable, alone. And that had woken his chivalrous tendencies and made him believe that he was in love with her. He’d been like a sixteen-year-old, infatuated by a film star; there was no reality in it. He knew, now, why he’d been unable to imagine Nell in the role of mistress and wife. As he drove, he put Gemma into the role with no difficulty at all. His heart started to pound furiously and he hit the steering wheel several times with his clenched fist.

  ‘Fool!’ He cursed himself aloud, and Bertie cowered in the back, scrabbling to keep his balance as the car fled round corners and up hills.

  He was out beyond Wotter before he saw her tail lights, and he drew
close up behind the little hatchback and flashed his headlights at her. Still she drove on without slackening her speed, and finally, in desperation, he overtook her on the long stretch before Cadover Bridge. He glimpsed her startled face as he flashed past, his two offside wheels bumping over the rough moorland verge, and then he pulled in front of her car and gradually slowed down until she was obliged to stop. He was out of the car and opening her door before she had even grasped that it was him and she gave a cry of relief as he hauled her out of the car.

  ‘Guy! I didn’t realize it was you. I wondered whatever was going on!’

  ‘Why did you go away?’ he demanded, holding her shoulders and giving her a little shake. ‘Didn’t you hear me shouting to you?’

  ‘I left you a note,’ she said evasively, looking up at him rather shyly. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘I put it through the door.’

  ‘I saw it,’ said Guy contemptuously. ‘Never saw such rubbish in my life.’

  ‘Was it rubbish?’ she asked, and he bent suddenly and kissed her. He felt dizzy and weak, and he clutched her to him, her face crushed into his shoulder.

  ‘Absolute bloody rubbish,’ he mumbled against her hair. ‘But it was my fault. I’ve been a monumental fool.’ He swallowed hard, pushed away his instinctive urge for self-preservation and caution, and spoke the simple truth. ‘I love you.’

  She strained away from him, peering at him in the fast-fading light.

  ‘Oh, Guy. Really and truly? I love you, too. I have for ages. Years.’

  He laughed and held her close.

  ‘Since you were in your pram? I’m delighted to hear it.’ And he bent and kissed her again.

  Presently she realized that she was shivering.

  ‘What shall we do?’ she asked, her eyes enormous with love. ‘We’re halfway between the courtyard and the Rectory. D’you want to come back with me?’

  ‘No,’ said Guy at once. He had no desire to face the Wivenhoes en masse whilst he was feeling so unlike himself. He needed to get used to these feelings and to be alone with Gemma. ‘Could you bear to come back with me now? I’ll drive you home later and we’ll pick up the car on the way.’

  ‘Or,’ said Gemma, with her familiar provocative smile, ‘I could stay the night with you. I’m sure Ma and Pa would understand. Us all being such old friends.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said Guy, his old puritanical instincts coming to the fore. ‘It would be all over Nethercombe in minutes. We’ll wait.’

  ‘Heavens!’ said Gemma in mock dismay. ‘I’m not sure I can. How long do you suggest?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I’m going down to pick up a boat from Fowey just after Christmas. Like to come along?’

  ‘Love to,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t order me about too much!’

  Now, remembering the happiness and the fun of those first weeks, and that wonderful journey from Fowey to Dartmouth, frustration and whisky curdle in Guy’s gut and he rips open the zip of his grip, grabs his sponge bag and goes out to the bathroom.

  Downstairs the light is still on and he can hear Oliver’s voice, very faint; silence, then a burst of laughter. For one furious moment Guy wonders if he’s talking to Gemma, warning her, and then remembers that Oliver promised he wouldn’t tell her or Cass and Tom. Despite his dislike for his brother-in-law, Guy knows he can trust him. He goes into the bathroom, shuts the door and turns the shower on.

  * * *

  Oliver switches off his mobile. What luck that Jess was still up and ready to have a chat. She sounded rather muted, slightly preoccupied, but that’s fairly normal, given that her host has been taken ill.

  ‘I’d love to meet Guy,’ she said. ‘Come and have coffee with me in the sail loft and we’ll take it from there. But I know Johnnie and Sophie will want to see you, too. And Guy. He’s the sailor-twin, isn’t he? Johnnie can show him his boats. About eleven, then. Great.’

  Oliver sits for a moment, debating whether this is a good plan. At least it will be a distraction for Guy; give him time to cool his temper and remember how much he loves the West Country. And at some point he’ll visit his sons at school – another happy reminder of his own childhood – but, meanwhile, a visit to neutral territory, to acquaintances ready to be friends, with a shared passion for sailing, should assist the process.

  Pleased with the evening’s work, Oliver gets up and turns off the lamp. He doesn’t admit to himself his own pleasure at the prospect of seeing Jess again.

  TAMAR

  She is waiting for them at the end of the drive, a small figure wearing denim dungarees over a high-necked jersey, her long red-brown hair tied back. She waves enthusiastically to Oliver, who waves back, then gives a sideways glance at Guy, who is summing her up with his usual uncompromising stare.

  ‘No need to frighten her to death,’ suggests Oliver. ‘You could even try smiling.’

  ‘Shut up,’ mutters Guy, and gets out of the car. He has already decided that he is going to use his not inconsiderable charm and, before Oliver can introduce them, he’s holding out his hand, saying, ‘You must be Jess. I’m Guy Webster, David Porteous’ stepson. Congratulations on winning his Award,’ and Jess is looking very slightly shy and smiling back at him.

  She says something about Kate and how kind she’s been inviting her to Chapel Street, but Guy has caught sight of the sail loft and the river.

  ‘Pretty good here, though,’ he says. ‘Better than the town, I should think.’

  His gaze is taking in the boats at anchor out in the deep-water channel and he instinctively moves towards them, with Jess still at his side, talking to her as he strides across the grass. She turns to look back at Oliver, gives a little apologetic shrug as she hurries to keep up.

  ‘That was quick work,’ murmurs a voice from behind him, and Oliver swings round to see a fair-haired woman surveying him with amusement. ‘It wasn’t even much of a chat-up line, either. Does he always cut you out like that?’

  Oliver is aware of a very odd sensation; as if everything – the world, time, sound – has briefly stopped and now jolts on again but in an entirely different way. Nothing will ever be quite the same again. He shrugs, pretending resignation.

  ‘Story of my life,’ he says. ‘Are you Sophie?’

  She nods. ‘And you’re Oliver. Jess has told me about you, and Johnnie thinks we must have met in the distant past. And that must be Guy. Where d’you think he’s taking her?’

  ‘It’ll be the boats,’ says Oliver. ‘My brother-in-law is a single-minded fellow. I apologize for him. I don’t think he can have seen you there. I didn’t either.’

  ‘That’s OK. I can sympathize with that. I’m a sailor myself, and it’s spectacular here, isn’t it? Come in and have some coffee while he gets it out of his system.’

  ‘Thanks. Jess said something about having coffee in the sail loft. I don’t want to muscle in…’

  ‘When Jess told us you were coming Johnnie said to be sure to bring you in,’ Sophie says firmly. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you again. He says it’s years since he saw you.’

  Oliver follows her into the house just as Johnnie appears from another room across the hall. He stretches out a hand in greeting.

  ‘Oliver,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other but I’d know you anywhere as Cass’s son.’

  As they all go into the kitchen a bad-tempered little terrier comes stiff-legged from its basket by the Aga, growling at Oliver, and Johnnie says, ‘Oh, shut up, Popps,’ and scoops the little dog into his arms. Sophie grins at Oliver and he grins back at her and suddenly he is happier than he has ever been in his life.

  He watches her as she makes coffee, liking the line of her jaw and her muscular shapeliness; her skin is still faintly tanned by summer winds and the sun, and her mouth is wide and curling. She smiles now as Jess and Guy come into the kitchen and Popps starts barking. Oliver stands up to make introductions and Guy says, ‘That’s a beautiful classic yacht you
’ve got out on the river, sir. Jess says you restored her yourself,’ whilst Jess soothes Popps, and again Oliver’s eyes meet Sophie’s and it’s as if they are magically set apart from the talking, laughing group.

  He sits down at the table again and looks at Jess, trying to bring her into focus. Johnnie and Guy are deep in conversation about boats and sailing, Sophie is pouring coffee into white china mugs.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks Jess, and now that he is concentrating on her he sees that her eyes are shadowed, thoughtful.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’m fine,’ but she looks away from him, biting her lip, and her hands, partially hidden beneath the table, twist and turn as if she is washing them.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He keeps his voice low.

  She shakes her head but still looks uncertain. ‘I’d like to show you something,’ she says. ‘Just you. When we go over to the sail loft.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘When we’ve had coffee?’ and she nods, smiles quickly at Sophie, who is passing coffee to her, and turns to listen to Johnnie, who is now talking about sailing in the Fastnet.

  ‘I’ll just go and check on Rowena,’ says Sophie.

  When she’s gone Oliver relaxes in his seat, taking deep breaths as if he has been running very fast. Slowly the room swings into focus: the terrier back in its basket; Guy’s animated expression as he listens to Johnnie; the jar of spindleberries on the table. He is content to be held in this moment, this little space of time, before she returns and something quite new begins.

  * * *

  ‘What a place,’ murmurs Guy. He stands in the sea garden, staring up at Circe, gazing downriver towards the two great bridges. ‘It’s crazy. I spent the first twenty years of my life around Tavistock and I never knew this was here. Well, the Tamar, of course. Pentillie Castle. Cotehele. Morwellam. But I’ve never sailed here. For some reason I did all my sailing out of Dartmouth.’