The Summer House Page 2

  Very quickly she’d been aware of the discordant vibrations between Milo and Sara.

  ‘Why are you going to marry him?’ she’d asked, confused by the outward and visible demonstrations of affection and the silent tensions that quivered in the air around them. Sara had stared at her with an angry contempt.

  ‘Suppose you mind your own business?’ she’d snapped smartly.

  Any sibling relationship seemed out of the question. Sara was determined to blame Lottie’s birth for the death of their mother six months later (‘She was never the same once you’d been born!’) and it didn’t help that Milo’s parents preferred the engaging little sister to the prickly, possessive and outspoken older one. Milo’s mother ‘adopted’ the ten-year-old Lottie; she was invited to stay at the High House during part of her school holidays and very soon was given her own room. Her elderly and distant father had been clearly relieved; Sara had been irritated and contemptuous. She called it ‘sucking up’ but this new joy in finding genuine love and a sense of family was too great for Lottie to abandon simply in order to appease the volatile Sara, who now lived with Milo in married quarters near Warminster.

  When their father died it seemed a natural transition for Lottie to make her home permanently at the High House. She loved it when Milo and Sara and baby Nicholas came to visit and, ashamed though she was to admit it, she loved it even more after the inevitable divorce had taken place and Milo came alone or with Nick. By the time Milo inherited the High House, Lottie was so much a part of it all that it seemed quite natural for them to continue to make their home together. Milo was a newly retired brigadier and Lottie was weekending from her publishing work in London, and it was then that Imogen and Matt became regular visitors, too.

  Now, walking in the garden with her hands full of snowdrops, Lottie thought about Matt. He was uncannily like his father; a glance from his narrow brown eyes, the way his thick black hair was pushed into peaks by his restless fingers, these things could translate her back thirty years to remind her of that odd blend of happiness and heartache that belonged only to Tom. How hard it had been when he died not to be able to mourn openly; to be expected, instead, to comfort and support Helen whilst never showing for a moment the real pain of her own loss. The children had grown to depend on her as Helen had slipped further into despair and denial and silence. Lottie had brought the two of them down to the High House as often as she could to give Helen a respite from their demands and to allow Matt and Imogen freedom to run and shout and play, and she was deeply grateful to Milo for the all-embracing affection he showed these two little newcomers. Even Nick had enjoyed their visits, whilst trying to remain alert to his mother’s warnings that these usurpers might steal his inheritance or worm their way into his father’s affections.

  Lottie turned back towards the house. She was worrying about Matt, still feeling that something cataclysmic was about to happen; yet she had no premonition of actual disaster, not that real dread she’d experienced when Tom had returned to Afghanistan. Matt had been a difficult child, prone to nightmares, terrified of being left alone. When his father died there had been an increase in his terrors, which took her own and Helen’s combined efforts to overcome. That’s when Helen had sold the house in Finchley and moved to the garden flat in Blackheath with Lottie as a lodger. It worked well for a while but even she had been unable to keep Helen balanced or protect her from the despair that tormented her. At least she’d been able to comfort Matt and settle him into his first school, and take care to ensure that Imogen was not infected by the overactive imagination that disturbed his sleep.

  As he’d got older he’d managed his private demons with a stoic bravery that tore at Lottie’s heart. One of his methods was to write little stories; these were generally about a child who was lost, or who had been abandoned, and was required to defend himself against a monster or an animal or a wicked magician. Behind the child stood an alter ego: a spirit child who protected the hero. These stories were odd and disturbing, and Matt’s teachers were alternately impressed and anxious; none of them was surprised when he began to collect prizes for his essays or, later, got a scholarship to Oxford. He’d managed a first and gone straight into a publishing house and then, a year or two later, he’d begun the long slow work on his novel of fantasy fiction that had won him such acclaim. It wasn’t really surprising, either, that he should be suffering from writer’s block after such a huge success and Lottie was puzzled that she should be feeling this level of anxiety for him now that he had achieved so much. Yet experience refused to allow her to shrug it off. Perhaps when she saw him and talked to him she would have a better idea of the cause of it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Driving round the Chiswick roundabout, heading west on the M4, Matt too was remembering those early stories and how his writing career had begun out of a need to come to terms with the death of his father and the odd, painful sense of incompleteness. Yet the inner restlessness and a terrible loneliness still pursued him.

  ‘That’s why we write,’ a fellow author had once said to him. ‘We create out of our emptiness; it’s because we lack something essential that we need to invent alternative worlds.’

  As he left Slough and Reading behind him, glad to be ahead of the rush-hour traffic, Matt wondered if this were true for all creative writers; he felt truly alive only when he was putting words down, arranging them and rearranging them. He needed the buzz of city life to get the ideas flowing; watching people hurrying by or sitting at café tables or in pubs. He’d never adapted to country life as Imogen had. Oh, he loved to go down to the High House but even as a child he’d never engaged in the riding and hunting and the passion for dogs that Im had so readily taken to herself. When she’d left school she’d worked with horses and it was so utterly fitting that she’d fallen in love with a veterinary surgeon and married him.

  Matt liked Jules. He was a straightforward, uncomplicated fellow and it was clear that he and Im were ideally suited; even the baby was a placid child. Yet the sight of his sister’s domestic happiness engendered no envy on his own part. He was fearful of such a commitment, aware that his demons might make life intolerable for someone else. Immediately he thought of Annabel. He’d sent her a text – a cowardly move – telling her that he would be away for a few days; he hadn’t wanted to hear the disappointment in her voice. After all, they weren’t at that stage yet where he was obliged to include her in his plans; the relationship was still on a fairly casual footing. He knew very well, however, that she would like it to be much more than that and that they were heading for some kind of showdown any time now.

  These few days away would give him a chance to think things through carefully, he told himself – and then snorted contemptuously at his speciousness. The point was that though Annabel was pretty and fun and – being a publicity assistant in a big publishing house – well enough aware of his own status to be rather flatteringly in awe of his success, yet he could feel none of the passion and longing that he believed should be part of falling in love.

  ‘You’re too detached,’ his mates told him. ‘Too analytical. You think too much. Have a few drinks, let yourself go and she’ll do the rest.’

  Perhaps they were right and he was expecting too much; perhaps he should go along with Annabel’s desires and maybe love would follow. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t … and what then?

  He pulled off at Leigh Delamere for a Costa coffee; the café was busy but he found a corner table and prepared to people-watch. There was a middle-aged couple talking earnestly to each other, their faces serious. A young woman checking her text messages glanced at him, half smiled, and looked away again. Beyond her a man was almost hidden by the newspaper he was reading. Matt could make a little history for each of them, but, before he could begin, the middle-aged woman extended her hands in a dramatic gesture of despair.

  ‘But what shall we do?’ he heard her say, and saw her companion sit back in his chair, biting his lip.

  Matt drank some coffee
whilst his mind invented various scenarios: perhaps they were lovers meeting clandestinely and she was growing tired of the secrecy, hoping to push him into some kind of resolution. He looked at them again. Neither of them was dressed smartly, nor did they seem to have made any special effort with their appearances: perhaps not lovers then. It might be that they had a grown-up child going through a difficult time, a divorce, say, and there would be grandchildren to worry about; or it might be that there was an elderly parent involved, needing special care. Immediately he thought about his own mother and the sadness that had blighted her whole life. It seemed impossible to believe that she was dead; and yet her life had been steeped in such hopelessness that she’d hardly ever really been alive. Sometimes he’d felt guilty that he was capable of joy and laughter whilst she was wrapped in such melancholy.

  ‘But why should we feel guilty?’ Im would demand. ‘I was much too young to remember Daddy properly and you were only four when he died. It’s not reasonable that we should spend our lives being miserable. The way that Lottie talks about him I know he’d want us to be enjoying every minute of them. If only Mum would stop using drink to dull the pain she’d be able to see that.’

  Matt knew that Im was right but he wasn’t capable of being tough when he was with his mother. His own loneliness gave him an insight into her misery and he’d often sat with her in long periods of silence, especially when she’d become ill.

  ‘Why?’ he’d asked Lottie when he was growing up. ‘Why doesn’t Mum talk any more? Really talk, I mean.’

  She’d shaken her head and he could see that she was puzzled too; that grief should take the form of enforced silence, as if his mother were frightened to speak lest she should say things she might regret. He’d been glad in the end to get away, to leave his mother to Lottie, though he felt guilty about that too. How he envied Im’s insouciance.

  ‘Lottie doesn’t have to stay,’ she’d say. ‘She has a choice. She says she’s quite happy with things as they are and she can always go down to Milo. Stop worrying, Matt.’

  The middle-aged couple were getting up to go. Matt finished his coffee and went out to the car. The drizzle had stopped. In the west the sky was still brilliant with golden light but soon it would be dark. For the rest of the journey he kept the radio on, distracting his thoughts, keeping his mind occupied.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when finally he turned off the A39 into Allerford and drove along the long narrow lane into Bossington. As he crossed the tiny Aller Brook and jolted over the cattle grid at the bottom of the drive he could see the lights shining from the windows of the High House on the hill above him.

  ‘That was Lottie phoning to say that Matt’s arrived,’ announced Imogen, appearing in the doorway of the sitting room. ‘I’m glad I phoned him now. I honestly didn’t think he’d just get in the car and come straight away, though. He’s brooding too much. It’ll do him good to have a change. Lottie says he looks great. Venetia’s staying for supper. Oh, I wish we were there too, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Julian. He finished stacking logs in the big open hearth, followed her across the narrow hall into the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink. ‘I’m tired and hungry and I want to watch Life on Mars. It’s not that I don’t love them all but tonight I can live without them. Thank God I’m not on duty tonight and I can have a drink. Do you want one, Im?’

  He held the wine bottle up and she nodded. He handed her a glass and filled one for himself. ‘Nothing new on the house front?’

  ‘Nothing we can really afford.’ She dished out pasta on to hot plates and put them on the wide pine counter that separated the galley-kitchen from the rest of the big, light room. ‘I can’t decide whether we ought to be panicking. I wish we could stay here but Piers says he’s got bookings from Easter. To be honest, I thought that there would be a bit more money from Mum’s estate. I had no idea how expensive all that nursing care was. It’s a bit of a shock, actually.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He carried the plates to the table. ‘There’s the cottage at Exford that would be OK if we’re really stuck. I know it isn’t exactly our dream house but Exmoor is where we really wanted to be, isn’t it? That’s the important thing. There have to be compromises sometimes. And there’s always the barn at Goat Hill. That’s very handy for Simonsbath; barely a ten-minute drive to the practice and you’d have the village shop in Challacombe, as well as the one at Exford. Billy Webster says we can rent it once his son’s house is ready to move in to, which is any minute by the look of it. Poor old Billy is fed up with holiday letting and he’d love a long-term let.’

  ‘I know that.’ She sat opposite. ‘I must go and have a look at it, if his son doesn’t mind. But I’d rather buy if we can.’

  ‘House prices are falling.’ Julian helped himself to pesto. ‘It might be sensible to wait a bit but I want to be as near the practice as possible. Being on call four nights a week is bad enough from here. I wouldn’t want to be any further away.’

  Imogen pushed her fair hair behind her ears and rested her chin in her hands. ‘It would be good to be nearer to Simonsbath.’ She grinned at him. ‘We are just so lucky. And it was sweet of Milo to let us store our odd bits of stuff at the High House. It takes the pressure off, doesn’t it?’

  Julian was overwhelmed by a huge wave of love for her: her energy and warmth made him feel anything was possible as long as she was there with him. She was watching him, smiling a little.

  ‘So what about the puppies?’

  He began to laugh. ‘Are you really serious? Look, we’re in a furnished let with a nine-month-old baby and we have no idea where we’ll be in a few weeks’ time …’

  ‘There are always good reasons for not doing things. I’ve spoken to Piers about it and he says—’

  ‘Spoken to Piers?’ he interrupted her. ‘Honestly, Im …’

  ‘Well, I had to, didn’t I? It’s his cottage. I’m not totally irresponsible, Jules. He told me that he lived here when he was a little boy, before they went to Michaelgarth, and then again when he was first married. He says there have always been dogs here and that one more puppy won’t make a difference. I just love Piers, he is utter heaven.’

  Julian rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘So that’s that then.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Will you ask the farmer if I can go and see the puppies?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You said you like them. You said that they were really pretty and sweet.’

  ‘I know I did. More fool me. Remember, we have no idea what the father is.’

  ‘That’s OK. A collie cross is ideal. Intelligent, no finicky stomachs or overbreeding. I can’t wait to see them. Rosie and I could go tomorrow. Matt might want to come.’

  ‘OK. I’ll phone them from the surgery in the morning and let you know.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Want some apple crumble?’ She got up and collected the plates. ‘Oh, and did I say? I love you, too.’

  He laughed. ‘Puppy love,’ he said, and she laughed as well.

  ‘Just a bit. A very tiny bit.’

  He caught her as she passed his chair. ‘It’ll be OK, won’t it, Im?’

  She looked down at him, puzzled. ‘How d’you mean? The puppy?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. Everything, really. Having a baby and a puppy and nowhere to live. Easter’s only a few weeks away, after all.’

  She put the plates down and put her arms round him, rocking him as if he were Rosie.

  ‘If it comes to it we can go to the High House; that’s why I’m not panicking. Milo and Lottie are OK about it. There’s enough room. No, I know you don’t want to, and neither do I. I love them but living there could be tricky, I know that. But it does mean that we shan’t be homeless. If it were just for a few weeks we’d manage, wouldn’t we? And then there’s the barn. Something will turn up. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.’

  Julian took a deep breath. As assistant to the owner in a very small but expanding veterinary practice his job was
a big one and really important for him. He needed to be able to concentrate on it: the demands, from both small-pet owners and farmers alike, were very exacting and the pressure was high – as was the suicide rate for vets. A friend of his, with whom he’d trained, had killed himself only a few months ago with a dose of Euthatal. However, with Im’s arms around him all Jules’ natural confidence and courage returned.

  He kissed her. ‘I know,’ he said casually. ‘What’s the time? I don’t want to miss Life on Mars but I’d like some crumble. Is there any custard?’

  She was right: something would turn up.

  Imogen stacked the dishwasher and made some coffee. In the sitting room Julian had lit the fire and was standing with the television remote in his hand, channel-hopping.

  ‘Aren’t you coming to watch?’ he asked, as she stood his mug of coffee on the small table at the end of the big, comfortable sofa.

  ‘Just going to check on Rosie.’

  She ran up the stairs and paused at the door of the smallest bedroom. In the light from the landing she could see that Rosie was peacefully asleep, utterly relaxed. Imogen stood silently, seized with the familiar mix of love and terror that the sight of her daughter evoked. She knew that the fragile vulnerability of this tiny person could be disguised by a steely determination to get her own way that could render her parents frustrated and exhausted, but generally she was a placid baby. Imogen hoped that the child would not be heir to the restlessness that drove her uncle Matt and gave him nightmares, or to Jules’ tendency to worry, but had inherited, along with the fair hair and blue eyes, her own cheerful disposition.