The Sea Garden Read online

  Kate glanced at Johnnie as he drove out of the car park and saw that he was smiling too, and she was filled with an irrational and overwhelming affection for these two; for Johnnie and Fred.

  * * *

  The train rattles off the bridge and Kate sits back reluctantly in her seat. The man sitting opposite is watching her rather anxiously. He raises his newspaper a little higher, screening himself, and Kate is left to her memories: the ghosts of her youth and that first party at the Trehearnes’ house on the Tamar.

  * * *

  As the forty-foot yawl Alice sails through the busy waters towards the two bridges Sophie, sitting in the cockpit, glances up to watch the train rumbling off the bridge. Two children are standing at a carriage window, waving, and quickly, instinctively, Sophie waves back. Johnnie Trehearne, standing at the helm, smiles.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ he asks idly.

  She laughs. ‘Don’t you remember doing that when you were little? Waving at trains and lorry drivers and passing cars? It was always such a thrill if anyone waved back.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he says agreeably.

  They’re heading upriver under power, avoiding a little group of racing Laser dinghies and a couple of Sunday sailors who take their boats out only at the weekend or at holiday time. Johnnie feels the sense of contentment that he always has out on the river or at sea. That moment when the anchor is hauled up, the mooring is dropped, or as the distance widens between boat and quayside, is when he is happiest. Perhaps, having spent his young years in the shadow of his older brother – glamorous, brilliant Al – it was his own way, back then, of experiencing independence and pride in his abilities. As a child, being alone in the dinghy – skimming over the water, testing his skills against the wind and the tide – expanded his self-esteem and confidence in a way that was never possible if Al was near.

  Today, as they motor up with the tide, Sophie’s presence adds to his contentment. She is housekeeper, gardener, chief cook and bottle-washer, companion and ally. A close friend of his younger daughter, Sophie has been with them since both girls left university, and now, twenty years on, she is as dear to him as any other member of his family.

  ‘One of Johnnie’s lame ducks’: this is how his mother referred to her in those early years, when he insisted that Sophie must be paid a salary for all the work she did. Yet Johnnie knows how much they owe to Sophie who has seen them through deaths and births and daily joys and traumas, with her own off-beat common sense and philanthropic cheerfulness. She came to them to recover from an abortion and a broken relationship, and simply stayed on. It’s a bonus that she loves sailing and is a very competent sailor. After his darling Meg died, and when his girls and their families moved abroad – Louisa to Geneva, Sarah to Germany – he would have been very lonely without Sophie.

  Johnnie wonders if even Sophie knows just how much he misses his girls and their children. He knows he’s lucky that they return at regular intervals to invade the house, sail his boats, and have parties in the sea garden. And here again, he knows that part of their readiness to travel from Geneva and Germany is due to the fact that Sophie is here to plan and organize, and make things comfortable and easy for them. They often bring friends and their children, and they continue to celebrate birthdays and Christmases together here on the Tamar. His throat constricts a little as he thinks of his sweet, loving Meg; how much she has missed, and how happy her pretty, clever daughters and their boisterous, fun-loving children would have made her.

  The tide is sweeping in, carrying them up the wide reaches of the river where the gulls abandon their feeding grounds and the tawny rustling marshes are threaded and crisscrossed with blue rivulets as the water pours into deep muddy channels.

  Sophie glances at her watch. ‘We’ll be in good time for lunch,’ she says. ‘Rowena will be pleased.’ And a quick humorous glance goes between them, acknowledging the tyranny of the older generation.

  Johnnie’s mother – Rowena, Lady T, the granny-monster, depending on who speaks – continues to live with him. Frail, dominant, ungrateful, she is still a presence to be reckoned with, but he loves her – as far as she allows any show of emotion – much as he has always done.

  The house, with its spare elegant lines, can be seen clearly now, set amongst lawns and shrubberies that slope to the sea garden and the river. The sea garden, created by one of Johnnie’s ancestors, is built on the foundations of a quay. Its grassy spaces curl out into the river, bounded by lavender hedges and, on the seaward edge, by a stone balustrade. Guarding it, gazing downriver towards the sea, stands the imposing figurehead of Circe, taken from an old sailing ship.

  Between Circe and The Spaniards, the pub on the western bank of the Tamar in Cargreen, stretches an imaginary line. This is the finishing line for many a race during childhood days: Al and Mike in the Heron, he and Fred in The Sieve. Johnnie suddenly remembers that particularly glorious day when, for the first and last time, he and Fred crossed the line ahead of the Heron, and briefly he is a boy again, laughing with Fred as they paddle The Sieve into the boathouse.

  * * *

  In the end it was Al who gave The Sieve its name. Fred discovered the boat – an old National 12 lying neglected behind a shed in Cargreen – while he was helping in the garden to earn extra pocket money. Its owner had gone to war in 1942, never to return, and his widow was only too pleased to allow Fred to take the boat away for nothing. He consulted with Johnnie, who asked his father for permission to put the National 12 in their boathouse so that he and Fred could rebuild it.

  It was clear that his father was delighted with their initiative. He drove them round the head of the river to Cargreen, loaded the boat onto his trailer, brought it back and installed it in the boathouse.

  It took more than a year to restore her. The boys earned money where they could, saved their pennies, bought the timber and other things they needed, and spent all their spare time working on her. They loved their boat and as they worked on her they tried out names for her: nothing seemed quite right.

  ‘Avocet?’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘Queen of the Tamar?’

  ‘Pretentious.’

  ‘Al’s Doom?’

  ‘You must be kidding.’

  One afternoon at tea-time, after a few hours’ work in the boathouse, Johnnie and Fred wandered up to the sea garden. Al was there with Mike, and Johnnie called out: ‘She’ll be ready to launch tomorrow. We’ll be taking you on any time now.’

  His father strolled to meet them, carrying his teacup, smiling at the two younger boys.

  ‘Good work,’ he said approvingly. ‘We’ll do the job properly and Mother shall break a bottle of champagne against the bow in the approved manner.’

  Johnnie beamed at him, thrilled at the prospect of an official launch to honour the hard work he and Fred had put in. He knew that his father did not quite approve of the way that Al commandeered the Heron so that nobody else got a look-in, but this fellow feeling was unspoken between them, not to be acknowledged. Yet Johnnie was comforted by their complicity.

  ‘And after the launch we’ll do sea trials,’ said Fred, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Just to check her out.’

  ‘Don’t forget to have the coastguard on standby.’ Al’s voice was amused, not quite jeering. He lounged on the grass near his mother, confident of her approval, and she smiled at his remark. Mike leaned against the balustrade, grinning. ‘A couple of Jumblies,’ Al continued more contemptuously, encouraged by his mother’s partisanship, ‘going to sea in a sieve.’

  And the name stuck.

  ‘We beat the old Sieve again today, Mother.’

  ‘How many times now has The Sieve capsized, Freddy? Shouldn’t it be in The Guinness Book of Records?’

  So Al and Mike teased and mocked the two younger boys and continue to win their races. This was usually because they were more focused, more determined – they were competitive even with each other – whilst Johnnie and Fred were content simply to enj
oy themselves.

  And then, on that particularly magic afternoon, The Sieve beat the Heron; sailing inboard around the windward buoy, and on to cross that invisible line stretched between Circe and The Spaniards, ahead of Mike and Al. Johnnie cheered and saluted Circe as they skimmed past the sea garden, heading for the boathouse. They dropped the sails and paddled her in through the big doorway, joyfully reliving every moment of the race, comparing notes.

  They were too busy at first, furling the mainsail, to notice the grim faces of Al and Mike as they paddled the Heron into the boathouse behind them. Not for these two the gracefulness in defeat expected – even demanded – of Johnnie and Fred. Al snarled at Mike, who snapped back; they blamed each other, and so bitter were their recriminations that the pleasure of success was almost done away with; almost but not quite. Johnnie and Fred remained quietly exultant, tasting the first sweets of triumph, and it was then that Johnnie realized the friendship between Al and Mike was not of the same depth as the bond that existed between him and Fred. Perhaps it was then he ceased to envy his older brother.

  * * *

  And now, remembering, Johnnie sees the foreshadowing of the dangerous quality of that deep rivalry between Al and Mike, usually masked by their apparently close-knit friendship. Here the seeds were sown that flowered so disastrously years later, when Mike won the beautiful Juliet, whom Al desired. Johnnie remembers the four of them – he and Fred, Al and Mike – sailing home from another race; the raised voices, the sudden gybe of the boat and then Mike’s frantic voice: ‘Man overboard!’ and he and Fred scrambling from their bunks below. They searched all night but Al’s body was never found.

  As he slows the engine and circles the buoy, Johnnie salutes Circe as he always does, and Sophie goes forward to pick up the mooring. They are home.

  TAVISTOCK

  Autumn

  ‘I’ve been seeing ghosts,’ Kate says, twirling the claret in her glass and setting it down on the table. ‘Up on the moor. Down in the town. D’you know what I mean?’ She glances at him. ‘No, of course you don’t. You’re too young.’

  Oliver sits with his long legs stretched out beneath the kitchen table, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other cradling his own glass. ‘The ghosts of Christmases past?’ he suggests. ‘Or perhaps the ghosts of Christmases yet to come?’

  She shakes her head quickly, makes a face. ‘Definitely not this Christmas yet to come. You know Cass has invited me?’

  ‘You’ll accept, won’t you? You mustn’t let this talk about divorce get you down. You’re acting as if you’re responsible. Guy and Gemma are grown-up people.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Oliver,’ she says impatiently. ‘You know it isn’t that simple. Cass and I have been very close friends for most of our lives, since we were children. Guy is my son and Gemma’s her daughter. How can either of us pretend to be unaffected if they divorce? In her heart Cass blames Guy…’

  The retriever, lying beside the Aga, raises her head, watching them, then comes to settle at their feet beneath the table. Warm early autumn sunshine floods in suddenly through the tall windows and washes across the table: it glints on Kate’s mobile, two empty coffee mugs and the bottle of Château Brisson.

  ‘And in your heart,’ Oliver says into the silence, ‘you blame Gemma.’

  ‘No,’ Kate says quickly. ‘Well, yes. Sort of. Oh hell.’

  ‘I know my little sister very well,’ he reminds her. ‘I know why Guy insisted that they should move to Canada, leaving Gemma’s tiresome ex-lover behind her.’

  She looks at him affectionately; Oliver has always been her favourite of Cass’s children. Behind him she sees a succession of Olivers: the engaging, manipulative toddler with his mop of blond hair; the mischievous, quick-witted schoolboy home for the holidays, teasing his younger brother and sister; the tall, elegant Cambridge graduate, an expert at winding up his father.

  ‘And there are upsides so far as Ma is concerned,’ he adds softly, unaware of these ghosts at his elbow. ‘She misses Gemma and the twins. She hasn’t much liked them being so far away. Now Gemma is coming home and bringing the twins with her.’

  ‘But … divorce. And what about Guy?’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Oliver shrugs. ‘Just between you and me, Kate, I’m not sure Ma is too bothered about Guy.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ she says indignantly. ‘He’s my son. I want him to be happy.’

  He looks at her shrewdly. ‘And is he happy? I’ve known Guy all my life and he doesn’t strike me as someone who “does” happy. Brief spells of jollity here and there; the odd moment of exaltation, most probably when he’s had a drink or two, but do you truly believe Guy is someone who can be ordinarily bog-standard, day-to-day happy?’

  She stares at him; his observation echoes a private fear hidden deep in her heart. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She nods reluctantly, sadly. ‘But that doesn’t stop me wanting it for him.’

  His look is compassionate, but before he can speak the kitchen door opens and Cass and Tom surge in, laden with bags and parcels, speaking in unison, startling the sleeping dog at Kate’s feet.

  Kate leaps up to hug Cass and receive Tom’s kiss. And even here the ghosts are present. A youthful tough submarine captain lurks at Tom’s shoulder, brown eyes twinkling, one closing in an appreciative wink behind Cass’s back. Cass’s ghost is slender and sexy, tying up her long blond hair as she leans to whisper a naughty remark in Kate’s ear. Oliver doesn’t see the ghosts. He is moving his glass out of the reach of the toppling shopping bags, reassuring the dog, smiling lazily at his parents.

  ‘What kept you?’ he asks brightly, beaming at his father. ‘Have you been enjoying a morning of retail therapy, Pa? Did you remember to buy a newspaper?’

  ‘Just don’t get him started,’ warns Cass. ‘Pour us a drink. Sorry to be so late, lovey.’ She gives Kate another quick hug. ‘You know what Fridays are like. Tavistock was heaving. Lunch won’t take a minute.’

  ‘Shopping,’ says Tom, dragging out a chair and sitting down. ‘I hate shopping.’ He eyes the nearly half-empty bottle of wine. ‘I was keeping that for supper.’

  ‘Kate’s been enjoying it.’ Oliver’s voice is gently reproachful, chiding his father for being un-hostly. He leans forward, takes the bottle and tops up Kate’s glass. ‘Haven’t you, Kate?’

  As usual, when Oliver baits Tom, Kate wants to burst out laughing. Tom’s expression is a mixture of frustration, fury and apology as he protests that he’s very glad that she’s enjoying it; of course he is.

  ‘And anyway,’ says Oliver, ‘I bet you’ve got plenty more of it. What’s for lunch, Ma?’

  Kate gets to her feet. ‘D’you want some help, Cass? Or would you rather Oliver and I take Flossie for a walk while you get organized?’

  ‘Well, I would,’ says Cass gratefully, ‘if that’s OK. It’s been a bit hectic and I want to put this lot away. I’m running rather late…’

  ‘And I was early,’ says Kate. ‘Come on, Ollie.’

  He rises gracefully; reaches for a glass from the dresser and puts the glass with the bottle in front of his father.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he says kindly. ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’

  * * *

  ‘Why do you do it?’ asks Kate, as they pass through the hall and pause on the Rectory steps to pull on jackets. ‘Why do you like to wind Tom up?’

  Oliver shrugs. ‘Because I can. He responds so beautifully. Always has.’

  This is true. From childhood Oliver has had the knack of outwitting his father and – to Tom’s immense irritation – Oliver has never yet suffered a comeuppance. The First from Cambridge, the success of the business he and old Uncle Eustace ran together making media products and, when old Unk died leaving Oliver the bulk of his shares, the clever way Oliver sold the business just at the right moment and made a very great deal more money: all these have contributed to Tom’s jealousy of his elder son.

  Ka
te chuckles. ‘Poor Tom. It must be very difficult for him to watch you going from strength to strength with apparently very little effort on your part. Come on, let’s walk up to the moor.’

  The Old Rectory, across the lane from the small granite church, stands at the edge of the village only a short distance from the high moorland road, but the climb is a steep one. A few sheep scatter before them into tall thickets of gorse, but Flossie ignores them: she’s been trained well.

  ‘I wish Ma still had a dog,’ says Oliver. ‘Did she tell you that they’re planning to sell the Rectory and move into Tavistock?’

  ‘What?’ Kate stands still, staring at him. ‘Are you serious? Cass loves the Rectory. And if Gemma and the twins are coming home…’

  She turns away and stares out across towards Burrator. Sheepstor is a distant scribble of grey lines above the reservoir and dying bracken is rusting on the hills.

  ‘Gemma will need somewhere to go if she comes back from Canada,’ Oliver agrees. ‘But Pa says that if she is going to leave Guy then she must learn to manage on her own. He says that the Rectory is costing a fortune to run and he can’t afford it any more. He wants to buy a small house in Tavistock where they can walk to the shops. And to the pub.’

  ‘And what does Cass say?’

  ‘Ah. Well, Ma prevaricates and says, “Oh, but how will the children fit into a small house in Tavistock when they come for the holidays?” and then Pa says that he isn’t running a hotel and they can stay near by in a B & B or a self-catering cottage, and Ma says that that wouldn’t be the same at all.’

  Kate smiles reluctantly: she can imagine those conversations. Tom will grow more irritable, he will shout, and Cass will continue calmly to state her case – and they will remain at the Rectory.

  ‘The trouble is,’ she says, almost talking to herself, ‘I haven’t a leg to stand on, really. I left Mark for probably much the same reasons that Gemma now wants to leave Guy. That is what Cass says to me. She remembers how it was for me and she says, probably quite rightly, that if I couldn’t hack it with Mark why should Gemma be expected to with Guy. And I don’t have an answer.’