A Summer in the Country Page 2

  CHAPTER 2

  Leaving Louise to unpack, Brigid put the car away and stood for a moment in the warm May sunshine watching the swallows. They nested each year in the open-fronted barn and she welcomed them with delight, despite the mess they made of the floor beneath the beams. As a child she’d been fascinated by the babies which cheeped and jostled in their nests and, later, sat in bewildered huddled rows along the beams, returning to this place of safety after terrifying trial flights. How quickly their confidence grew, along with their competence, until the nests and the barn were finally abandoned and she would see them grouping and gathering ready for their migratory flight. Then, one morning, the sky would be empty, the swallows gone—until next spring. As she stood in the cobbled yard, Brigid knew that this reaffirmation, nature’s quiet progressive cycle, had become vitally important in her small childhood world. Her mother’s sudden departure had smashed the safe, assured order of her existence and nothing could be quite the same afterwards. She’d loved her father, with whom she’d explored the moor, visiting hut circles, cairns, settlements, disused mines, but her witty, vivid mother had been a source of entertainment, of excitement. There had been a tension in her company, a breathlessness, a desire to please, to perform well, feelings which had not been evoked in her father’s paper-piled, book-strewn study.

  “I don’t care,” she’d said defiantly to well-meaning school-friends. “I’d rather be with Daddy,” but she’d begun to avoid the interest her situation aroused, the spurious comfort of the shocked, yet curious, parents. Divorce was not so common then, and she’d felt isolated, odd. She’d cultivated a self-protective skin of indifference, a cool, brittle assurance which, as she grew, developed its own kind of glamour and impressed her peers. Her mother had sent presents, unusual and carefully chosen gifts, which the young Brigid would unwrap privately, sitting on her bed; holding them, smelling them, trying to draw some essence which was her mother from their shapes. She’d stare at the writing in the cards and on envelopes, imagining her mother holding the pen, touching the card, licking a stamp, closing the flap: When she’d heard, at the age of twelve, that her mother had had a baby, another daughter, it was as though the shock annihilated all feeling. Numb, silent, she’d listened whilst her father talked.

  “She’s called Jemima,” he’d said at last, wearily. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m to blame for this. I should never have brought her here in the first place. It was crazy. I was a novelty, I think, a challenge …”

  She’d watched him whilst he’d tried to puzzle his way through and then had gone to make them both some tea.

  “Jemima.” She’d tried the name aloud in the silence of the big, square, stone-flagged kitchen. “Puddle-duck. Jemima Puddle-duck. A fat stupid duck with big flat feet and small eyes.”

  She’d begun to laugh, forcing herself on to greater flights of imagination, ridiculing, gasping with scornful delight, numbness thawing. Sensation had returned, stinging, warming into a burning, hot hatred. When, later again, she’d heard that her mother had left her second husband she’d asked only one question.

  “Did she take Jemima with her?”

  The answer was “yes ” So Puddle-duck, the despised, fat-bodied, ridiculous duck of a child, with unhealthily white skin, tiny eyes and big flat feet, had, after all, been too precious to be left behind. Brigid had absolutely needed to be able to hate and despise them both and, when she read The Pursuit of Love, she found a new name for her mother: the Bolter.

  “It’s from Bolter and Puddle-duck,” she’d say dismissively, tossing a Christmas card to one side, but, later, privately, she’d stare hungrily at the enclosed photograph: the small fair-haired child, rosy-skinned, wide-eyed, tiny feet with curling toes, and the woman who held her lightly on her knee, with her mouth down-turned in that strange, self-mocking smile and cool, amused stare. Placing the photo face down, Brigid would gaze at herself in the looking-glass. It was her father’s face: bony, autocratic, interesting—but not pretty. Yet no one who saw Brigid smile quite forgot the experience; such warmth and promise blossoming so unexpectedly took the observer by surprise and lodged in the memory, but Brigid had not smiled at her reflection. She’d only stared searchingly, analytically, and turned away with misery plucking at her throat.

  Humphrey had removed some of the hurt, restored a measure of self-worth. He’d fallen in love with her with a satisfying promptness, adored her unconditionally, eased the pain. Their two boys had brought her a deep, heart-shaking joy and they’d become very precious companions, a solace during the long, empty months whilst Humphrey was at sea. He and her father had dealt splendidly together and, when the older man died, he’d left her everything he possessed, including Foxhole.

  “Nothing for me?” her mother had asked, with that down-turned smile. She’d arrived uninvited for the funeral, immaculate in black at the back of the church in Holne, Jemima beside her, and Brigid had been obliged to invite them both back to Foxhole with the other mourners. “Nothing at all?”

  She’d looked about her, as if amused at the gathering, but the fourteen-year-old Jemima had smiled at her half-sister.

  “Hello,” she’d said. “We’re sisters. Isn’t it funny? I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  “Have you?” Grieving for her father, shocked by the unexpected appearance of her mother, dealing with her father’s friends, Brigid had had no energy for more than this lame response. Jemima’s thick fair hair had spilled from beneath her black beret, her cheeks pink, periwinkle-blue eyes wide and bright. She’d been a little on the plump side but this was no ugly duckling.

  Brigid had choked on a nauseous churning. “I’ve always called you Tuddle-duck’.”

  The brief spiteful flash had brought no answering ugliness. Jemima’s laughter had been unforced, a delightful sound in that sombre room, a ready chuckle which brought involuntary smiles to sad faces.

  “Have you? Oh, how funny. Well, Frummie always says I waddle about…”

  “Frummie?” sharply.

  “Yes. Well, you see Daddy called her Freda and I called her Mummie and it ended up as Frummie.”

  Brigid had stared at her mother, who had just returned, empty-handed, from the table piled with sandwiches and snacks. Frummie? This essentially adult woman? Could it be remotely possible?

  “I was just telling Brigid that everyone calls you Frummie now.” Jemima had wanted her family to be happy together. “She didn’t know,”

  Their mother had been unmoved by her elder daughter’s level, speculative, deliberately ironic gaze. “Not everyone, darling,” she’d said. “Brigid won’t. She’s strait-laced like her papa. Not into nicknames; much too silly.”

  “Yes, she is.” Jemima had been determined that her newly met sister should be included. “She’s always called me Puddle-duck. She said so.”

  “Has she indeed?”

  At this amused query, which indicated her mother’s uncannily perceptive but instant grasp of the real truth behind the nickname, colour had washed over Brigid’s face, flooding into her hairline. Her mother had laughed cruelly.

  “And what do you think of my ugly duckling, Brigid darling?”

  She’d turned away, enjoying the joke, in search of a drink. Jemima had shrugged, puzzled, smiling anxiously, and Brigid, looking at her, had felt the first stirrings of the painfully confusing emotions which would henceforward inform her relationship with her half-sister.

  Now, twenty-two years later, standing in the sunshine she knew that very little had changed. Dissatisfied, frustrated, she crossed the yard and went into the house.

  LOUISE DROPPED her suitcase at the foot of the stairs and looked about her with satisfaction. Odd, how returning here was like a homecoming. Since Frummie’s arrival, Louise was obliged to book the larger cottage, which had certain advantages. Brigid had sensibly avoided the “holiday cottage” layout when she’d designed the conversions of her barns and she’d kept one big living-kitchen room as the centre of the dwelling. Since holidays we
re generally family affairs it was intelligent to have this comfortable, bright, roomy area where the group could eat, relax, make plans. There was a small sitting room containing a wood-burning stove and the ubiquitous television—“No one can live without it these days,” Brigid had said, “not even on holiday“—and a tiny utility room with a shower unit at one end. Upstairs were two bedrooms and the bathroom: the largest bedroom had a double bed in it, a hanging cupboard built into the thickness of the wall, and a chest of drawers. The other room contained two bunk beds and another hanging cupboard so that the cottage could sleep six. Louise always shut the door on the bunk beds—this was not a family holiday—and settled contentedly to solitude.

  This afternoon, however, uneasiness nibbled at her pleasure. Clamping her mind shut against it, she went through the familiar rites which she performed at the start of each visit to Foxhole. Her instinct was to make the cottage her own, to stamp her personality upon it so that it was, for this brief period, “home.” Filling the kettle and switching it on, she left it to boil whilst she unpacked a small bag. A few books and a pair of binoculars on the window seat, a pashmina shawl draped over the armchair by the window, her favourite mug beside the kettle, a pretty notebook, some pencils and a small paintbox at one end of the square pine table; these few personal possessions quenched die impersonal, waiting atmosphere and gave the room life. She opened the window, which looked out on to the moor, and breathed deeply. Peace lapped at the windowsill: the distant murmur of the river, the joyful song of a lark ascending … The image of the woman and her child, waving, laughing, appeared for a moment, superimposed upon the moorland scene, and Louise turned away abruptly.

  Seizing the heavy suitcase she lugged it upstairs, carrying it into the biggest bedroom and laying it upon the bed. She snapped open the locks and began to take out clothes, a sponge bag, slippers. Soon the bedroom looked as alive as the kitchen with all the paraphernalia of daily life and, pushing the empty suitcase inside the cupboard, hanging her dressing gown behind the door, she went out again on to the small landing. This time, however, she did not shut the other door automatically but paused, head bent, as if listening to murmured fragments of conversation in the room beyond… “Will Daddy like my new bed, Mummy?” … “Of course he will, but you mustn’t keep getting out of it and coming downstairs” … “Only babies have cots, don’t they?” … “Yes, but big girls stay in their beds until the morning.” … “Even if they can’t sleep?” … “Big girls try very hard to go to sleep.” … “Perhaps I could sleep if we had one more story” … “Very well, then. But only one more…”

  Louise stirred, her face bleak, and, closing the bedroom door firmly, she went downstairs to make some tea.

  “HULLOOO THERE? May I come in?” Frummie’s musical hail was accompanied by a sharp rapping on the front door, left open to the hall, and Brigid sighed. Her mother, by these exaggerated obeisances to their privacy, made her feel guilty yet she knew that she couldn’t have borne a casual “my home is your home” approach. Frummie managed to imply that this need was some kind of weakness, that other less neurotic people would be perfectly happy to have their family strolling in and out at will. At these moments the implication that Jemima would be quite different, generous and welcoming, inflamed Brigid’s sense of inadequacy and on one occasion she’d snapped at Frummie, asking why, in that case, she didn’t make her home with Jemima. “Darling Brigid,” Frummie had murmured. “Don’t be so… constipated. You’re so touchy these days.”

  She’d fumbled with the sugar bowl, spilling some from the spoon, and Brigid, looking at the withered, liver-spotted hands, the averted face, had been stabbed with compassion and remorse.

  “Come in,” she called now—and bent to greet the black spaniel who preceded Frummie into the kitchen. He’d been sick earlier and she’d refused to let him go with her to Totnes lest he might repeat the performance all over Louise’s luggage. “Hello, you,” she murmured, bending to stroke the excited animal. “Have you been behaving yourself?”

  “I thought I heard the car.” Frummie stood in the doorway, watching the reunion. “He’s been fine. Whining a bit but no further problem.”

  “It’s only because of poor Oscar. He’s got himself worked up. Thank goodness Thea and George will be home tomorrow. I had no idea Blot would be so jealous. I’m having some tea, Mummie. Would you like some?”

  “Don’t bother for me, I’ve just had one.” Frummie perched at the table. A thin woman with the bones of a bird, she looked frail, breakable, until the gleam in her eyes warned of the indomitable spirit burning within its fragile cage. “So Louise’s arrived. How is she?”

  “Oh, just as she usually is.” Pouring the tea, Brigid wondered if that were an accurate answer. Louise had not been quite as she usually was although she couldn’t have said why. “She’ll be over to supper later on.”

  “I was wondering…” Frummie shifted a little on her chair. “Would it stretch to three?”

  “Three?” Brigid glanced at her quickly. “Why…? I thought Jemima was taking you out to supper.”

  “Something’s cropped up,” said Frummie, shrugging, pretending indifference. “Some old friend down in Salcombe on holiday. Going back tomorrow or something. Rather inconvenient. I haven’t got much in, actually. I was going to shop tomorrow.”

  “An old friend?” Brigid was frankly sceptical. “Bit sudden, isn’t it? I bet it’s male.”

  “Probably. Does it matter? Of course I don’t want to be a nuisance. If you’ve got some spare eggs I can make myself an omelette.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” Brigid sounded cross, caught as usual between guilt and self-preservation. She enjoyed supper with Louise; there was an ease, a metaphorical kicking off of shoes which would be impossible with Frummie present, and she’d been looking forward to it enormously. She wanted to talk about her new grandson, Josh, and show the latest photographs, marvelling at his beauty and making up for the fact that because the little family lived in Geneva she was denied a closer contact. She knew that doing this under the cynical eye of her mother wouldn’t be the same at all but there was nothing for it but to give in as graciously as she could. “There’s plenty for three. It’s just a bit casual of Jemima.”

  “Nonsense. She’s young, that’s all. She has her own life to lead.”

  Brigid thought: So do I but you don’t worry too much about that.

  “Well then.” Having achieved the object of her visit, Frummie prepared to leave. “I’ll be over at about eight, shall I? So sweet of you, darling.”

  She trailed out stopping to pat Blot, who wagged along behind her as far as the front door and then returned to sniff around the kitchen, pausing hopefully at the back door.

  “Yes, he’s out there,” said Brigid. “Having some peace and quiet. Oh, hell. Come on then. We might as well all go for a walk and get rid of our frustrations together.”

  She put down her mug and opened the back door into a lean-to conservatory. A large Newfoundland, who had been lying asleep, roused up and struggled anxiously to his feet as Blot came hurtling out.

  “Leave,” said Brigid, struggling into gumboots, taking down a coat. “I said, ’Leave. ‘ Come on, Oscar. He’ll be less of a problem once we get going. Promise.”

  She opened the outer door, waited for Oscar to manoeuvre his great bulk out into the sunshine, and strode away towards the river with the dogs close upon her heels.

  CHAPTER 3

  Later, carrying the promised bottle, Louise crossed the yard. The long low house with its ancient thatch had a fairy-tale quality, and the white doves, murmuring cosily from their dovecot, enhanced this charming image. Outside the long lean-to, which ran the length of the kitchen, a large black dog lay stretched in deep sleep. This must be the visitor to whom Blot had taken exception. There was no sign of the spaniel, and Louise tapped on the silvered wood of the oaken door and went inside. In the small hall, she paused. The kitchen, on the right, was at the southeast end of the building and
it was here that they would have supper. However, Louise couldn’t resist a glance through the rooms which led one from the other in true longhouse fashion. These rooms looking east, to the moor, and west, into the courtyard, had slate floors and rough, granite, whitewashed walls; both had wood-buming stoves, back-to-back, sharing a chimney. The further room was the sitting room. Here a wooden staircase led to the upper floor and a door led to the children’s quarters in the single-storey bam which formed one side of the courtyard. Nowadays, die big playroom with two bedrooms and a bathroom were kept for the two boys and their own young families, whilst the other half of the bam was used as a garage, but in the early days Brigid and Humphrey had been grateful for the extra space.

  “Longhouses are very romantic-looking,” Brigid had said when Louise had first come to stay, “but there isn’t much privacy. The bedrooms lead from one into another and it was a nightmare with two small children going to the loo several times a night”

  As she looked at the evening sunshine slanting on white uneven walls, at thick, warm rugs, and at the tall jars holding dried flowers—burning blue cornflowers, sulphurous rudbeckia, scarlet poppies—Louise was seized with a spasm of covetousness. She knew all about the damp, the bone-chilling cold, the inconvenience, yet she was suddenly consumed with envy. Another image overlaid Brigid’s living room: an image of a small stone cottage and the memory of the warmth of an arm lying along her shoulders, a quick flexible voice in her ear. “No married quarters to be had. This will do, won’t it? I’ve taken it for six months…”