The Sea Garden Read online

  ‘That’s what parents do,’ says Oliver robustly. ‘They put their children first. Your duty is to your boys and that means getting it right with Guy. And talking of parents, has he spoken to Kate?’

  ‘He talked to her last night. She’s coming up from St Meriadoc on Monday morning and I shall push off into the town to give them some time on their own.’

  He looks at her, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s very … tactful of you.’

  Gemma shrugs. ‘Kate’s been very good to me. I’m not sure I’d want me as a daughter-in-law. Anyway, after lunch on Monday I shall drive back to London with Guy, see him off on Tuesday morning and then catch the train down. Will you pick me up from Plymouth?’

  ‘Of course.’ Oliver is watching Guy and Johnnie. ‘Well, it seems that your tactics have worked. I have to say Guy’s looking very positive. Even jolly.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Gemma bites her lips. ‘Oh God, Ol, I couldn’t bear it if anything went wrong now.’

  * * *

  ‘They are terribly alike, aren’t they?’ says Jess from her place beside the picnic hamper where Sophie is pouring coffee from a Thermos into an assortment of small mugs.

  ‘Yes, they are.’ Sophie resists looking across to where Gemma and Oliver are standing together.

  ‘Really attractive,’ says Jess with a sigh. ‘They’re lucky to be so tall and elegant.’

  Sophie hands her a mug. ‘Sure you’re not in love with him?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Jess at once, taking the coffee. ‘No, that’s all over. It was infatuation. I’m utterly in love with Will. When he scored that try I thought I might die of pride.’

  ‘He’s a sweetie,’ admits Sophie. ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we invite them all to lunch tomorrow? What d’you think?’

  ‘Oh!’ Jess sips her coffee, her eyes bright. ‘What a great idea. What else would they be doing, I wonder?’

  ‘Well, Gemma says the boys want to spend time with Guy, of course, though she doesn’t particularly want to go to her parents’ place…’

  ‘The trouble with Sundays out,’ says Jess, ‘is that it’s difficult to know what to do all day if it’s too far to get home. Will doesn’t know how lucky he is just to be able to come out to you. We used to have to spend the day in a hotel or at a cinema, or going for a walk if the weather wasn’t too awful. I suppose they’ll take the twins to Chapel Street after church and then probably yomp out over the moor or something.’

  ‘I was thinking that they could have the morning just being together and then come down a bit later for lunch. Sort of kill two birds with one stone. Time together as a family and then some entertainment with us.’

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ says Jess. ‘Ask Gemma and see what she thinks. Will would be thrilled. He can show off his boat and the sail loft, and then they can all come back together after tea.’

  ‘I suppose,’ says Sophie, allowing her eyes to drift to where Oliver stands, ‘it might be nice to invite Oliver as well.’

  She is still not used to this odd sensation of joyousness when he is near – or how colourless life is when he is absent. These are unfamiliar sensations, they operate at the extremes of her emotions, and privately she is revelling in them.

  ‘Of course he must come,’ says Jess firmly, and then blushes. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘That sounded a bit pushy. After all, I’m only a guest myself.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ says Sophie happily. ‘You’re definitely one of the family now. You belong here. Don’t you feel it?’

  A little pause.

  ‘Yes,’ says Jess. ‘Actually, I think I do.’

  TAMAR

  Rowena dozes, slipping in and out of sleep. Sometimes, when she wakens, her thoughts are sharp and clear. Now is such a time. Her room is full of light; watery reflections slide and slip over the cream-washed walls and she can hear the harsh cries of the gulls out on the river. She thinks of Jess, of her shocked expression when she saw the photograph, the sharp intake of breath and her question: ‘Who’s that?’ as she pointed to Al. Rowena feels deep satisfaction: her suspicions – her hopes – have all been founded on the truth. Those carefully hoarded memories, those pieces of the puzzle, have been pieced together to make a whole picture at last.

  Once again she sees Al dancing with Juliet at the Christmas Ball on HMS Drake, a slow smooch in the shadows at the edge of the floor. He’s holding her much too tightly; the silky chiffon skirt of Juliet’s long, pale ball gown floating and clinging to his dark uniform. Mike at the bar, getting the drinks in, turning to watch them and his rather foolish, half-drunken expression hardening into watchfulness.

  She hears Juliet’s voice, strained and desperate, whispering just outside the morning-room windows one warm spring evening. ‘I should never have married him, I know that now. I thought I was in love with him. I really did. How was I to know? What shall we do?’ and the low, murmuring response: ‘We must be very careful.’

  She remembers Juliet as a house guest, staying for a week whilst Mike was at sea, slipping away to the sail loft, along the river bank and, after a while, the shadowy figure of Al following her.

  And, most important, the Midsummer’s Eve party in the sea garden; reflections jittering and dancing on the smooth black surface of the water; shadowy figures dancing or leaning against the balustrade beneath Circe’s imposing figure. The tall lavender hedges, pale, cloudy shapes; their scent still lingering on the warm air.

  The whispering behind the summerhouse: the first voice urgent, demanding; the other frightened. Juliet’s dress in disarray, her hair loosened. Al’s face buried against her throat but her face twisted away from his, her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Listen,’ she is saying, still in that desperate whisper. ‘Please just listen to me. I’m pregnant, Al. Just for God’s sake, listen…’

  Then, the last small link in the long chain that links Rowena to the past, to Al. The letter from her friend in Australia.

  ‘… no more children. It seems that Mike’s been firing blanks…’

  It must have been hard for Mike, watching Juliet’s son growing to look more and more like Al. No wonder they quarrelled and the boy left Australia as soon as he was old enough and came to England to join the army.

  Rowena stirs restlessly, chafing against her physical weakness. She is allowed up for short periods to sit in her chair by the window, and soon she’ll insist on going downstairs. Johnnie fusses, of course – he’s always been a fusspot, like his father – but before very much longer she will be strong enough to bend his will to hers.

  Jess has been up to see her, of course, but usually Sophie or Johnnie has been hovering about somewhere and Rowena has been unable to speak openly with the girl. She must see Jess alone and this time there must be no more confusion or half-truths. She could tell at once that Jess had recognized Al; that she’d seen the likeness between him and her own father. Rowena feels the sharp familiar claw of pain rake at her heart. How tragic that they should have both died so young; how cruel that she should never have seen Al’s son.

  Al’s son. With a deep sigh of satisfaction she relaxes again into her pillows. He’d had a son – and now there is his granddaughter, Jess, who, in her turn, might have more sons. A feather of anxiety brushes Rowena’s drowsiness, lightly ruffling her sense of wellbeing, and she frowns. Some kind of allowance must be made for Jess. If Al’s son had lived then this house and everything in it would be his, not Johnnie’s.

  Rowena struggles to grapple with this thought but suddenly she is too tired, too weak to pursue it. Later she will think of it again and decide how restitution might be made.

  * * *

  When she wakens it is late afternoon and the room is full of shadows. From the sea garden she can hear the shouts and laughter of the boys and her mouth curves into a smile at the thought of them playing there. She must get up, go down and join them. She raises her head, which feels weighty, too heavy for her neck to support, and she lies back again with a little gasp. Frow
ning now, she strives to recall something she was thinking of earlier; something that must be put right before it is too late.

  Slowly, slowly, she struggles up, willing herself into a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. How tired she is. She sits for a while on the edge of the bed, marshalling her strength. She’s been ill; she remembers now. Memories flit about her head like bats in the shadows, and all the while she can hear the children laughing.

  Painfully, she stands upright and shuffles across the room to the tall sash window. She stands clutching at the curtain, staring down. The boys are there, she can see them playing whilst Circe stands guard above the three of them: Al, Johnnie and young Fred. She can see Johnnie’s blond head but the other two are in the shadows. She lifts a hand and taps on the window. The effort is so feeble that they cannot hear her – and, anyway, they are too far away.

  As she subsides into her chair she decides that she must have been very ill. Yet still she strains forward, hoping to see the boys playing, climbing the balustrade to look up at Circe, but the sea garden is empty. She sinks back again and closes her eyes.

  When the bedroom door opens she turns to see Dickie coming towards her. Someone is behind him and he is saying, ‘We were wondering how you are, Mother. The boys are having their tea before they go back to school and Jess has brought you yours.’

  Rowena frowns; she feels frightened, confused. Why does Dickie call her ‘Mother’ and who is Jess? The girl is looking at her anxiously, putting down the tray, coming closer. And now, suddenly, Rowena’s mind is clear again and she sees that it is Juliet and she recalls that Juliet has had a child, Al’s child.

  Her whole body is shaken with joy – but there is anxiety, too. She remembers that this has to be made clear; that there must be no mistake. Urgently she reaches out and seizes Juliet’s wrist, pulling her down so that the girl has to kneel beside her.

  ‘It is Al’s child, isn’t it? His son,’ Rowena says, and she is so happy that her heart seems to explode in her breast and her eyes are full of tears because the girl is nodding, and she too is crying. She puts her forehead down on their joined hands so that Rowena can feel the wetness of her tears.

  And Dickie is there, bending over them anxiously, and Rowena wants to tell him about Al’s son but suddenly she cannot speak, cannot breathe, but still she clasps the girl’s wrist until her strength fails and darkness comes.

  * * *

  It is Gemma and Guy who take Will back to school with the twins after tea.

  ‘Great-granny is ill again,’ Sophie tells Will. ‘We must call Dr Alan. Can you be a good boy and go with Julian and Ben? Grando and I ought to be here. Do you mind just this once?’

  And, of course, Will agrees at once, wanting to look grown up in front of these new friends. He is perfectly happy to go back to school with them but sorry not to see Jess, who seems to have vanished.

  ‘You’ll see her next time,’ Sophie assures him. ‘I expect she’s with Great-granny. Now, what do you need to take? Did you bring anything home with you?’

  And there is the usual flurry of collecting belongings, and farewells, and the car goes off up the drive and the house is quiet again.

  Sophie and Oliver sit together, with Popps in her basket, while Johnnie is talking to their doctor on the telephone. Oliver holds her hands whilst she weeps, and then Johnnie comes in and says: ‘Alan’s on his way, thank God. It’s too late, I’m afraid, but he wants to come and see her. I would have hated just to call out an ambulance.’

  Sophie wipes her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘Poor little Jess. What a wretched thing to happen.’

  Johnnie is visibly shaken. ‘It was very quick,’ he says. ‘We must be grateful for that. It was that thing about mistaking Jess for Juliet again. Mother suddenly seemed quite worked up about it and grabbed Jess’s wrist and started talking about Al. Poor Jess is in shock.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Sophie stands up. ‘I was getting Will off before he realized anything was really wrong and she said she wanted to be on her own for a moment. Could she have gone back to the sail loft? I don’t think she should be alone.’

  ‘I’ll go and find her,’ says Oliver. ‘You need to be around for the doctor. I’ll see to Jess.’

  ‘And we were all having such a wonderful time,’ says Sophie woefully. ‘Oh, poor Rowena, up there all on her own.’

  ‘She wasn’t all on her own when it happened,’ says Johnnie comfortingly. ‘And she seemed so happy. I think she’d gone right back in time and she believed that Jess was Juliet and that Al was alive too. It’s Jess I’m really sorry for. What a thing to happen. I just hope she doesn’t feel in any way responsible.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for her.’ Oliver gives Sophie a quick hug and goes out.

  Sophie and Johnnie look at one another. His face is so sad that Sophie wants to weep again, but she doesn’t. She’s been here before, with Dickie and with Meg, and she knows that Johnnie’s warm, generous, loving heart will be wrung again and he will grieve as deeply for his mother as he did for his father and his wife.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for Rowena before Alan comes?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head, tears suddenly overflowing, and turns away so that she won’t see them.

  ‘Then I’ll make some fresh tea,’ she says. ‘We never drink ours when it’s getting Will back to school time.’ And as she passes him to reach the kettle she touches him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Bit tough on Gemma and Guy,’ he mutters, blowing his nose. ‘Rushing them all off like that. Terrible timing.’

  ‘Rowena liked to make her presence felt,’ says Sophie with a lightness she doesn’t feel. ‘I think she’d be rather pleased to know that her departure had caused a rumpus.’

  He smiles, nods as if accepting her effort at raising his spirits, and she makes tea and they sit in silence waiting for the doctor.

  * * *

  Oliver approaches the sail loft. The door is open and he knocks, calls out, ‘Jess?’ and walks inside. The big room is in shadow but he sees her silhouette on the balcony outlined against the dying light. He goes out and stands beside her. She stares across the river towards Cargreen, her arms wrapped around herself, her hands hidden. Below, on the soft pale mud, a flock of seagulls forage, strutting and squawking, and suddenly they take off, wheeling in one great cloud of beating wings, heading downriver towards the sea.

  ‘It was awful,’ Jess says suddenly. Her voice trembles. ‘Terrible.’

  She continues to stare across the river, and he leans with folded arms on the balustrade, not looking at her.

  ‘Of course I hardly knew her,’ says Jess rapidly, ‘but even so. It was so quick.’ She bites her lips and he feels her arm tense beside his own, as if she is clenching her fist. ‘I just wish she hadn’t muddled me up with Juliet. I think it killed her.’

  ‘Perhaps it did,’ he answers calmly. ‘Something was going to. She was very ill. Johnnie said he thought she was happy, thinking that Al had come back to her with Juliet. She was ninety-two, Jess, with a very advanced heart condition and a few other things as well. It’s not your fault.’

  Jess takes a deep breath, nods. ‘I know, but there was other stuff.’

  He continues to lean beside her, looking down into the sedges. ‘It’s to do with the photograph, isn’t it?’

  She hesitates, nods briefly, clenches her hands again.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  She shakes her head this time. ‘No, not yet. It’s not just about me, you see. I have to do something first.’

  ‘OK, but don’t be silly about it, will you? You’ve had a very big shock. Come back to the house with me now and have something to drink and eat, and get warm.’

  ‘OK. But don’t say anything, will you? About the photograph?’

  ‘I promise. Look, Kate will be back in Chapel Street tomorrow and Guy is going after lunch. If you wanted to go back for a few days I know she’d be very happy to have
you there.’

  She hesitates; thinks about it. ‘It might be a good idea while they get everything sorted out here. I don’t want to be in the way.’ She turns and looks at him. ‘Thanks, Oliver.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he says, and she follows him out and closes the door behind her.

  TAVISTOCK

  Hardly has Kate waved Gemma and Guy off to London in the hired car than Cass drives up and parks outside the cottage in Chapel Street.

  ‘Tom is driving me mad and I simply couldn’t stand it another minute,’ she says, following Kate into the living-room. ‘But I didn’t want to butt in on you and Guy. Oliver said that he and Gemma were going straight after lunch.’

  She bends to make a fuss of Flossie, knowing she shouldn’t have come quite so soon; she should have given Kate time to get over seeing Guy. At the same time she hates this stand-off between herself and Kate while Gemma and Guy get themselves sorted out.

  ‘I think it’ll work,’ Oliver told her, when he phoned yesterday, ‘as long as nobody interferes.’

  Meanwhile she feels jittery and unable to relax, and Gemma won’t be back until tomorrow.

  ‘They went about ten minutes ago,’ Kate says. She too feels uncomfortable. It seems wrong, after fifty years of friendship, to be at odds with Cass. Yet she’s still overemotional, having spent this short time alone with Guy after nearly a year’s separation, and she very slightly resents this unexpected visit, which is jarring her out of her mood.

  ‘We haven’t seen Guy,’ says Cass – and she begins to laugh. ‘I think that Gemma was terrified that Tom would go off half-cock and ruin everything, so first she hid in a hotel near Dartmouth and then here. Oh God, Kate, I so utterly hate this.’

  She sits down at the table, pushing back her hair, which has faded into an ashy creaminess, smiling ruefully at Kate – and the ghosts are back again. Kate sees a much younger Cass; sitting just as she is now at that old table. This is how it’s been in married quarters and naval hirings, cottages, the house in Whitchurch: Cass with a baby on her lap, toddlers playing round her feet, smiling over one or other of her misdemeanours. She remembers how they laughed at silly things together, raged at the unreasonableness of the navy – and how Cass wept after Charlotte died, filled with guilt, grief and the agony of loss.