The Summer House Page 19

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s try to get as much food in your mouth as we do over your face and the tray, shall we?’

  Rosie turned the spoon over carefully, examining the ducks on the plastic handle. ‘Guk,’ she enunciated with conviction.

  ‘Duck,’ agreed Im. ‘Now, try some of this lovely lunch. Look, the puppy wants some. Better eat it all before he gets it.’

  Rosie leaned out of her highchair to see the puppy, who was sitting, gazing up hopefully.

  ‘Gog-gog,’ she cried.

  ‘Yes, dog-dog. Puppy. We simply must give him a name. What will it be? I’ll know it soon, I’m sure of it. Come on, Rosie. Eat up your lunch. Tomorrow we shall be having lunch with Lottie and Milo and Venetia, and I want them to see how clever you are.’

  After lunch Lottie took a broom and some cloths in a bucket of hot soapy water and strolled through the garden to the little octagonal wooden chalet to give it its annual spring-clean. The windows were streaked and dirty and, inside, spiders’ webs were strung across the panes and in the dark, high corners of the pointed roof. The two wrought-iron chairs and small round table were lightly filmed with dust, and a faint odour of damp rose from the faded, threadbare rug.

  Lottie opened the door wide and dragged the rug out on to the grass. Here in the shelter of the beech trees it was hot, and she shook the rug and left it to air in the sunshine. The chairs and table were too heavy, too unwieldy to move, so she wrung out a cloth in the clean soapy water and wiped them over carefully. She struggled with the windows, which were swollen with damp and difficult to open, but she managed them at last, fixing their catches, watching the spiders hastening, long-legged, to safety. She liked to make certain they were all out of the way before she took the broom and began to destroy their webs with the usual pangs of guilt.

  ‘It’s someone’s home,’ she’d protest when Milo scoffed at her reluctance. ‘And spiders catch flies, don’t forget.’

  Now, she wiped all around the panes, shaking the duster out of the windows before changing it for a wet one. Soon the windows were gleaming, the floor swept, and she paused in the doorway, listening to the clamour of birdsong and watching the swallows that returned each spring to nest in the barns down by the Summer House. Matt had asked her to open the veranda doors for a few hours each day, to check the house over whilst he was away, and she was both touched and amused by his care for it. They’d gone together to Pulhams Mill at Brompton Regis to talk to Ian about making some furniture, some special pieces, and Matt was very excited at the result. It was clear that he knew exactly what he wanted and was prepared to wait for it.

  It was hot, the thick, heady scent of the lilac drifting in the air; she grew aware of the presence of bygone occupants of the garden, and she wondered what Matt had discovered in those portfolios: as yet she hadn’t seen them. She knew that he was waiting, and she had no intention of pressing him.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Venetia said, sitting in the sun in the garden room, her left foot in plaster resting on a stool, her right arm in its sling. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that I should be so hungry all the time? After all, I’m taking very little exercise.’

  ‘It’s boredom,’ Milo told her. ‘Mealtimes give an important structure to the day when you’re convalescing. It’s only half past three, so you’ll have to wait a bit until teatime. Can’t have you getting fat.’

  She stretched her thin hand to him and he took it, noticing the transparent skin, the blue veins and the brown, blotchy freckling. Quite suddenly he realized how dull the world would be without Venetia; without her courage and gaiety and her eye-wateringly barbed comments. His hand tightened over hers, and he touched her fingers very briefly to his lips. They sat in silence for a moment, both pretending nothing particular had happened, each silently acknowledging the need and love they shared.

  ‘Think of all the Brownie points you’re clocking up on your afterlife insurance for taking me in,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Jesus will definitely want you for a sunbeam. But I say my prayers too, you know. To begin with, I thank God that you’re such a good cook, darling. Lottie’s an absolute sweetie but she does rather live in a world of her own, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She’s not practical,’ he admitted. He couldn’t quite think of how to describe his feelings for Lottie. She’d saved him from loneliness and occasionally from despair, and he couldn’t quite imagine life without her, either. Yet how different these two women were; and how lucky he’d been to have their loyalty and affection.

  ‘She’s got something else, though,’ Venetia was saying. ‘Something special. We need Lottie.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gratefully. ‘We need Lottie. Look, here she comes. We could have an early cup of tea, I suppose. She’ll need it after pushing all that dust about. Isn’t it nearly time for your painkillers? I’ll get you some water.’ He got up and went away.

  Venetia leaned forward to wave to Lottie, who raised the broom in a kind of salute, and then sat back in her chair trying to ignore the dull ache in her wrist and the sharper pain in her ankle. It was rather sweet of Milo to have remembered her tablets; perhaps she’d been fidgeting. God, she was lucky to be here and not to be sitting alone at home, hoping that somebody would drop in to entertain her for an hour. Milo was perfectly happy to allow her friends to come visiting: in fact he was rather enjoying it. They’d arrive, bringing flowers or chocolates, and, depending on what time of day it was, Milo and Lottie would make coffee or tea or produce the drinks tray. Then there would be a bit of a party, which she’d thoroughly enjoy.

  Milo had found the wheelchair his mother had used and persuaded her to try it, though at first she’d protested against being wheeled about like a baby – or worse, like an invalid.

  ‘Oh, Milo,’ she’d said sadly when they’d had a trial run in the garden, ‘it reminds me of darling Bunny. He was so brave and cheerful but I’d never quite understood before how ghastly the helplessness must have been for him of all people. He was so vital, wasn’t he? So physical. It must have been terrible for him. And yet he was so … peaceful.’

  Milo had parked the wheelchair next to the garden seat and he’d sat down beside her. He’d remained silent for a while.

  ‘Bunny realized that one word was crucial to his mental survival,’ he’d said at last. ‘“Acceptance”. He gradually trained himself to be able to live in the present moment and to take something positive from it. I don’t mean in a shallow, manic kind of “live now, pay later” sense but in that he accepted what was now, however dire it was, and lived it fully to the best of his ability.’ He’d frowned then. ‘We saw it, didn’t we? Not just a stoic, determined, brave front that he presented to the world but something much deeper that went to the essence of what was happening to him. True acceptance. And out of that battle with frustration and self-pity grew an amazing spiritual serenity. Being with him was a joy.’

  After that, she’d allowed him to push her down the drive, through the village and up the lane – Pud running alongside – and, though she still hated the sense of helplessness and dependency, he turned these outings into such fun that she’d begun to look forward to them. They’d stop to look at the fearsome, beautiful birds of prey chained to their perches outside West Lynch Farm, or pause to watch the pretty bantams scurrying and running around the farm gate beside the chapel. Then, after the long march through the narrow, winding lane, they’d get to the post office at Allerford and Milo would push the wheelchair into the tea-garden, and June or Steve would bring out coffee and stop for a little chat. It was fun and, after all, she’d never have made it all that way on her crutches.

  Venetia sighed contentedly. She was very happy here at the High House, though she’d had to lay down a few ground rules: The Archers, for instance, and Emmerdale; and the dear old Daily Mail for the gossip. The nurse would be in later to make sure all was well; meanwhile she was lucky, very lucky, to have such good friends who were prepared to take care of her.

  Pud came wagging in and she s
moothed his silky coat very gently with her good hand. He sat beside her chair and she could feel the warmth of him against her leg.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘you’re going to have a very special guest to lunch. Did you know that? Im is bringing the puppy and you’ll have to teach him how to behave in company.’

  But Pud seemed unmoved by the prospect: he wagged his tail once or twice and then curled into a ball and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Nick and Imogen met at The Hunter’s Inn late on the Tuesday morning of the Bank Holiday week.

  ‘Alice and the girls are staying in Rock until the weekend,’ he’d told her, ‘but I have to get back to London. Look, I could just dash straight up the A39 and meet you somewhere along the way. Just for an hour or so. Please, Im …’

  So she’d suggested The Hunter’s Inn and he’d jumped at it. He’d go on to Bossington and spend the night at the High House, he told her, leaving early next morning to travel on to London. She’d been relieved that he hadn’t suggested a less public meeting place and tried to persuade herself that this was simply a casual lunch with a very old friend. Nevertheless, she didn’t mention it to Jules.

  During the drive across the moor she felt nervous and on edge. There were ponies grazing up on the down, sturdy little Exmoor ponies, some of whom were clearly in foal, and she was seized by a longing to be riding over the hills, solitary and free, with the wind in her face and the sun on her back. It was more than a year, much more, since she’d been out on a horse: Rosie had changed all that. Soon, she promised herself, soon she’d go riding again. She slowed the engine, putting down the car window, so as to see the ponies more clearly, and heard the skylark’s clear, passionate, bubbling song.

  Nick was waiting for her in the lane outside the National Trust shop and she parked her car behind his, climbed out and gave him a quick hug. If he’d been disappointed to see Rosie and the puppy, he gave no sign of it: there was no reproach in his greeting and Im was grateful. Their meeting was much more natural with Rosie clamouring for a drink and the puppy dashing around, excited by the new surroundings.

  ‘Milo found a name for him when we went over for lunch,’ Im told Nick as she attached the lead to the puppy’s collar. She hoisted Rosie on to her hip and they walked together along the lane and into the garden. ‘He kept calling him the artful dodger, so we’ve settled on The Dodger and it’s absolutely right for him. Let’s sit outside, shall we? It’s really hot. It was wonderful coming over the moor and hearing the skylarks.’

  They settled at one of the wooden tables and Nick went to find a highchair for Rosie, and to order a pint for himself and cider for Im. She sat in the sun, watching him disappear into the shadowy doorway of the inn, and wondered what on earth she was doing. A year ago she wouldn’t have given it a thought; she’d have told Jules she was having lunch with Nick and there wouldn’t have been this sense of disloyalty. Yet nothing had really changed, she reminded herself; nothing had happened. So why this sense of unease?

  She sat with her elbows on the table, watching Rosie crawling over the grass, whilst the puppy, tethered by his lead, watched too, whining a little. She could hear the harsh screams of the wild peacocks amongst the trees up on the slopes of the steep coombe, and the voice of the river, placidly murmuring and chuckling on its way through the valley and down to the sea. When Nick came out, holding the glasses, a menu tucked beneath his arm, she felt a rush of warm affection for him: he was so dear, so familiar. He looked relaxed and happy, and she saw, suddenly, how attractive Milo must have been at Nick’s age and why Venetia had fallen in love with him. Then she noticed that a much older couple at a nearby table were watching them with benign approval; smiling and nodding at Rosie and The Dodger, and assuming that this was a happy little family having a day out together.

  She thought: They believe that Nick is Rosie’s father.

  Her pleasure was gone and she looked away from their smiling intrusion, hot with shame and embarrassment. Nick looked at her curiously as he set down his pint and put her glass of cider next to her.

  ‘Cider with Rosie,’ he commented. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She moved slightly so that he was blocking the view of the friendly couple. ‘Is there a highchair?’

  ‘It’s on its way. Come on, Rosie-Posie.’ He picked her up and she showed him a stone that she’d found; he bent his head to examine it and admire it. ‘But don’t eat it,’ he warned. ‘Look, here’s your chair coming. Say “thank you” and you shall have some lunch.’

  He was so unconscious of anyone else, so easy and natural, that Im felt ashamed. She dug in her bag and found Rosie’s drinking mug and put it on the tray. The Dodger began to whine again and pull at his lead, and Im took out his small leather bone from its plastic bag and gave it to him. At once he began to worry it, to pick it up and toss it and then roll upon it ecstatically, with his paws in the air; and once again she saw the beaming expressions of the older couple, the ‘Oh, isn’t he sweet?’ glances that begged for some kind of response, and she almost hated them for intruding into her own private moment.

  She picked up the menu, holding it at an angle so that she couldn’t see them. Nick sat down opposite; when he touched her hand she jumped as though she had been burned.

  ‘What are you going to have? I don’t want much. I shall have to cook for Jules this evening.’ She spoke rapidly, not looking at him, still holding the menu as a shield.

  ‘It’s OK, Im.’ His voice was reassuring and rather sad. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not asking for anything except your company. I’m not such a fool as to think that there was anything more to the last couple of months than just a kind of partisan solidarity mixed with a flicker of past passions. I admit that I’d like to go back and start from where we left off ten years ago but I know it’s not possible. And I know you and Jules are back on track, and I’m glad for you. I promise I don’t want to do anything that would risk our friendship. It’s just so good to see you, that’s all. Old friends stuff and no pressures, just like before. OK? Look at me. OK, Im?’ She nodded wordlessly, biting her lips, and he smiled at her. ‘Listen, we’ll take Rosie and The Dodger down to the sea after lunch. Has The Dodger seen the sea yet? What about it, Rosie? Shall we go down to the sea after lunch?’

  Im took a deep breath; she could feel her muscles relaxing. She was even able to smile at the couple and to see them as kindly people, probably with grandchildren of their own. She sipped some cider and looked again at Nick. His expression was so understanding and so loving that she took his hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to mislead you, Nick. It’s been so good to have you around just lately, but I want us to go on being friends.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said at once. ‘Oh God, so do I. It’s OK, Im. No harm has been done.’

  She was so relieved, so grateful for his intuitive understanding, that the rest of the day was joyful; especially the walk down to the beach and the cream tea at the Inn after the long climb back with Rosie and The Dodger, both exhausted, sharing the buggy.

  It wasn’t until much later on the way home, when she stopped to text to Jules that she would be late, that she realized that she’d left her mobile at home.

  Jules hadn’t seen the mobile lying on the table until it began to ring. He was already anxious because there was no sign of Im, and because she hadn’t said that she was going out or that she might be late. He was surprised: she was always so conscious of Rosie’s tea-time and bedtime, and liked to keep to the routine – and it was certainly unlike her to forget her mobile; it was like a third hand. Now, suddenly, he wondered if it might be Im trying to get in touch with him and, in his anxiety, he picked up the phone just too late. Frustrated, he put it down again; after all, why should Im phone her own mobile? Wouldn’t she use the land line or his mobile? Though perhaps she wouldn’t remember his mobile number?

  These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind; he was too anxious now to be thinking that
clearly. Already he could imagine some kind of road accident, or Rosie taken ill …

  He picked up the mobile again and saw that there was a voicemail message. He pressed the button and listened.

  ‘Hi, sweetie. Just to say that today was so good. Thanks so much for coming all that way. And, look, we know we love each other, Im. That will never change, and I still wish we’d followed our hearts ten years ago, but I know it’s too late. Thanks for the last few weeks, you saved my life, and thanks for today. Wasn’t it fun? I shall be at the High House in about ten minutes and I’ll let you know when I’m back in London. Love you lots.’

  It was Nick’s voice. Still holding the phone, Jules stared unseeingly at it, conjuring up a vision of Nick and Im together: but where? And was Rosie with them? Fear, jealousy, anger strove together in his heart and the words replayed themselves in his head: We know we love each other. I wish we’d followed our hearts ten years ago. What had happened between Im and Nick ten years ago? He suddenly remembered how much Nick had been around recently when Im and he had been at loggerheads over the Summer House, and Nick had been having money problems: Thanks for the last few weeks, you saved my life.

  And where had she been today, and why hadn’t she told him that she was meeting Nick? Common sense told him that if Rosie and The Dodger were with her then no real harm could be done, and hadn’t Nick said, I know it’s too late? So it was already over. Even so, a hot mix of anger and jealousy combined to beat down cool reason and, when Im’s car pulled into the yard, Jules’ sense of relief that they were safe was quickly replaced by a self-righteous determination to discover the truth.

  Im, hurrying in with Rosie in her arms and The Dodger galloping at her heels, was brought up against an invisible wall of rejection. In her happiness, springing from the combination of Nick’s acceptance of their true relationship and a truly magical day, she assumed that this was just Jules’ reaction to his anxiety for their safety. So she simply leaned to kiss him, holding Rosie to one side, apologizing for her lateness and then saying: ‘Have you got a kiss for Daddy, Rosie?’ and depositing her suddenly in his arms.