Indian Summer Page 20

  ‘I wish you’d stop using the word crime,’ she complains. ‘Hal would have a fit if he could see us.’

  ‘Dear old Hal,’ says Jake reminiscently. ‘So completely the naval officer. His reactions were always so utterly predictable. So how will he and Fliss react to my turning up?’

  ‘They’ll be thrilled,’ says Kit. ‘As long as I don’t start panicking around again. After all, it’s not as if we’d just met on the internet or something.’

  She begins to laugh, remembering one or two unsatisfactory encounters – and Hal’s outspoken reactions.

  ‘What?’ asks Jake.

  Kit shakes her head. ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea. We’ll drive to Venford Reservoir and throw the phone and the SIM card into the lake. And then I’ll buy you an ice cream. We shall pretend we’re holiday-makers.’

  He shudders. ‘No, no. I remember your British ice cream. Awful. And on such a hot day, too. It’ll melt and drip and be horribly glutinous.’

  ‘You sound like Mungo. OK. I’ll buy you a cup of tea at the dear little community café in Holne. Earl Grey and delicious home-made cakes. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds as if I’ve come home,’ he says.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AFTER EMMA AND the children have gone Camilla sits on the veranda, her feet up on another chair, her eyes closed. She is exhausted. It’s a while now since she had two small children in her care and she’d forgotten how tiring lifting and carrying a baby can be. Her back and legs ache and she is very glad to sit down. She can hear the thud of Archie’s sledgehammer down by the stream and feels sympathy for him. He’ll come back with all sorts of aches and pains, too, but part of him will know the satisfaction of having achieved something necessary.

  We need to remain viable, she thinks. We mustn’t just close down so that in the end we’re just staring at daytime television and living for the next meal. Better to be stretched than to be bored.

  Even so, she knows that the kind of strain Archie is under isn’t good for him. It’s one thing to be busy and quite another to be stressed. He’s always been an active, energetic man; ready to take on challenges. He inherited just after they were married and they entered with great enthusiasm into the work necessary to bring the house up to date.

  Camilla makes a little face, remembering how their arms and backs had ached from rubbing down, scraping, painting walls and ceilings. When Archie’s father was alive, Philip’s mother helped in the house, cleaned and cooked, and Billy and Philip looked after the grounds between them. They continued to assist the young married couple, though not to such a great extent, and even now Philip is always at hand to put in some work in the garden whilst Philip’s daughter-in-law, young Andy’s mother, comes to help Camilla in the house.

  They worked hard, back then; refreshing the house with clean bright paint, making new curtains, reshaping the garden. Each morning Archie would dash off to the law practice in Exeter and when he returned he would change into old clothes and cheerfully continue the work in hand.

  It seems to Camilla, looking back, that they were never idle for a moment. They took the dog – Archie’s father’s amiable if slow-witted golden Labrador – for long walks on the moor and Archie still found time to go sailing. In those days he had a little racing Merlin Rocket, which he kept on a trailer in Coronation Park by the Higher Ferry slip in Dartmouth. The children slowed them down for a while whilst they were toddlers: unable to walk too far and a liability on the boat. Pretty soon, though, they were managing longer and longer walks and she was able to let them go off sailing with Archie without living in terror of their falling overboard or being knocked unconscious by a swinging boom. Archie was quite tough with his boys, allowing them to take risks whilst watching at a sensible distance: what these days might be called loving neglect. He expected them to take part, reach beyond themselves, seize opportunities, so that they were able to experience freedom and challenge within the boundaries of his love for them.

  He was strict, yes, careful with expenditure, but so was she. Their biggest extravagance was entertaining. Both of them loved to have friends to dinner, to stay weekends; to invite the boys’ friends for exeats and during the holidays; taking them all up on the moor, to the beach, out sailing. How lucky they’ve been to live in this idyllic valley, between the moor and the sea, to bring up their children here, and now to watch their grandchildren enjoying the same privileges; and how hard it is to feel the constraints of age, the closing in of the bars, the threat to freedom. Archie fights against his stiffening muscles, his increasing deafness, the weakness of his body, but she can see that this is one battle he can’t win.

  Camilla turns her mind from the problem, listening to the sounds of high summer: the faint trickle of the stream; the sighing shift of the weighty canopy of shabby leaves. August is a silent month. Birds no longer sing their love songs, no longer protect territory with warning cries. Only the distant monotonous three notes of the collared dove, ‘coo-coo coo’, and the nearby drone of a bee amongst the tangle of sweet peas scrambling up a wigwam of willow in a big wooden pot at the end of the veranda.

  Camilla’s mind drifts to her garden – what to harvest, what to plant – and presently she dozes.

  Archie raises a hand to her as he climbs the lawn from the stream but even at this distance he can see that she is asleep. Her neck will ache when she wakes up. He pauses to look at her, thinking of Mungo’s proposition, knowing how it will hurt her to leave. Yet, if something were to happen to him, how could she manage here alone? Wouldn’t it be best to make the move whilst they’re both still young enough to cope with it?

  Archie thinks of the crammed attics, the bulging cupboards, and his heart fails him. Would they even survive a move? And would Camilla be able to deal with the huge task alone? Of course, the boys would help; the family would rally round. They are lucky to have the boys and their families within easy driving distance, Henry in London and Tim in Gloucestershire, not too far away in case of emergency. He’d hoped that one of them – Henry, perhaps – might have followed in his footsteps, continued the family tradition, but Henry studied medicine and Tim qualified as a vet. They still love to come back to the valley but they have their own lives, their wives have jobs, the children are settled in school. As the grandchildren grow older they, too, begin to have their own schedules: clubs, parties, friends. They enjoy a few days here but they are beginning to outgrow the simple country pleasures; they demand trips to Exeter, to Plymouth, to more sophisticated entertainment. He can understand that but it’s not so simple for Camilla. She misses them and gets hurt when the children grow bored with the activities that once enchanted them. At least he and Camilla are blessed with good friends who are having the same experiences with their own families. The crucial thing is to keep going; to have something to get up for; to be happily occupied.

  Archie skirts the veranda and goes quietly into the kitchen. The dogs, who are stretched out on the cold slates, barely move as he comes in. They, too, are exhausted after their busy morning with Joe and Dora. He washes his hands, pours a glass of water and swallows it down, thinking of Mungo’s proposal. It seems unfair that Mungo should sink his money into a property he doesn’t want and will never live in: it’s a crazy – if very generous – offer. And, in a worst-case scenario, if Mungo were to die, the farm would revert to the boys, who would simply sell it anyway. They’ve already suggested that a short-term solution is to apply for planning permission to build in the orchard. There is good access and it will raise some ready cash. On the face of it, the plan certainly solves the immediate financial problem. Archie shakes his head. He can’t think straight and he’s too tired to make proper sense of it all.

  Camilla comes in behind him, dazed and dishevelled.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come back. I was out for the count, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I could hear you snoring halfway up,’ he tells her. ‘I saw Mungo and invited him for drinks with Kit and a friend of hers that’s over from P
aris.’

  ‘A friend?’ Camilla looks interested. ‘What kind of friend? Male or female?’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask. Sorry. Does it matter?’

  Camilla purses her lips. ‘It might. What time?’

  ‘He didn’t know. They’ve gone off for the afternoon so we left it open. I’m going up to have a shower.’

  ‘We’ll have some tea when you come down. Joe and I made Smartie fairy cakes.’

  Archie goes along the passage to the hall, feeling the warmth of the house, its familiarity all around him. How could he ever bear to leave it?

  ‘Camilla and I made Smartie fairy cakes,’ says Joe, loading his treasures out of his knapsack on to the kitchen table. ‘Camilla put them in a tin for us to have at tea-time. And I did a drawing of the dogs and I planted some seeds in this flowerpot. I have to remember to water them.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Emma is impressed by all this industry. ‘And what about Madam Dora while you were doing all this?’

  ‘She cried quite a lot,’ says Joe with a certain amount of indifference. ‘But Camilla carried her about and sang to her. So she was OK.’

  Dora has fallen asleep on the walk home and lies peacefully in her buggy.

  ‘Let’s leave her there,’ suggests Emma, ‘and have a Smartie cake, shall we? They look very good.’

  Joe tries not to beam with pride. ‘If you like,’ he says nonchalantly. ‘They were really easy. Camilla asked if we did cooking but I said no. You’re always too busy so we buy our cakes.’

  Emma is washed with shame: Camilla would never be too busy to cook and she certainly would never buy a shop cake.

  ‘We could try,’ she offers, ‘if you enjoyed it.’

  ‘If you like,’ he says again. He is buoyed up by his morning’s achievements, still bursting with energy.

  Emma prepares tea with the sense of someone who has been on the brink of losing something very precious. She feels weak with relief and gratitude that she has not destroyed it. If only Rob were here to eat a Smartie cake and to be part of their little celebration.

  ‘We can have a Skype with Daddy later,’ she says. ‘It’s Skype night. You can tell him about your cooking and show him the picture of the dogs.’

  Joe does a little dance round the table, punching the air and shouting, ‘Skype night. Skype night,’ though very quietly so as not to waken Dora. He scrambles on to a chair and examines his picture of Bozzy and Sam and plans what he will say to Daddy.

  He feels happy, as if some danger has passed, though he doesn’t quite know what the danger might have been. And then, through the window, he sees Philip pushing old Billy in his wheelchair in the lane and he goes running out, flinging open the door, calling to them.

  ‘Come and have some tea,’ he shouts. ‘Mummy’s just making it. And I’ve made some Smartie cakes.’

  Behind him, Emma waves to Philip, beckoning them in.

  ‘The more the merrier,’ she says. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Star dances at Joe’s knees, jumping to attract attention. Philip bends to see if Billy is happy to join the party and they turn in from the lane.

  ‘Let’s go round the side to the patio,’ Emma suggests. ‘It’ll be easier for Billy in his chair where it’s all paved. I’ll bring the tea out. Take them round there, Joe.’

  Joe can see that she’s pleased that they are there to share this odd little celebration. Importantly he leads Philip, old Billy and Star round to the back of the cottage and drags up the green plastic chairs to the wooden table ready for the party. Emma comes out with the tray of plates and cakes and mugs of tea. She looks a question at Philip who shakes his head: Billy can’t manage a mug; he will dribble. Philip places one of the little cakes on a plate on Billy’s lap and he crumbles it with his good hand and puts the pieces carefully into his mouth.

  ‘I wish it was someone’s birthday,’ says Joe longingly. ‘Then we could sing and it would be a real party.’

  ‘Never mind,’ says Emma. ‘It’s lovely anyway. And the cakes are delicious.’

  ‘As it happens,’ says Philip, ‘it is someone’s birthday.’

  Joe stares at him. He and Billy look much too old to have birthdays. ‘Is it your birthday?’ he asks.

  Philip shakes his head. ‘It’s Star’s birthday.’

  ‘How old is she?’ asks Joe eagerly.

  ‘Twelve,’ answers Philip. ‘She’s twelve today.’

  Emma looks at him quizzically and he meets her eyes with a guileless blue stare that makes her want to burst out laughing.

  ‘Twelve,’ says Joe, looking at Star with respect. ‘Shall we sing to her?’

  ‘She’d like that,’ says Philip. ‘Loves a bit of a singsong, Star does.’

  So they sing to Star, who watches them with her ears pricked and her eyes darting between them all in the hope of falling crumbs.

  Marcus can hear the singing. He knocks at the door but there’s no answer and then he hears the voices: ‘Happy birthday to you’ followed by a little cheer. Silently he treads along the paving at the side of the cottage, edges up to the corner and looks at the group on the patio. He can hardly believe what he sees: Emma and the children, yes, but two old chaps are with her, one in a wheelchair and the other with that lean tough look of the countryman. It’s he who spots Marcus and who straightens up to stare at him. Emma notices his distraction and turns to look over her shoulder.

  Marcus smiles easily, though he is full of rage and frustration, but Emma’s reaction – fear and distress – is very clear, and not only to him. She turns back to the old fellow, says something quick and low to him, and now he is getting up as if he owns the place, as if he is the host, and is coming towards him.

  ‘Can we help you?’ he asks. ‘Is this a friend of yours, Emma?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, all foolish and helpless and embarrassed. ‘Yes. This is Captain Marcus Roper. He’s a friend of Rob’s. They work together.’

  Silly cow. Friend of Rob’s. He’ll show her.

  ‘I couldn’t phone,’ he says, stepping past the old man, smiling down at her. ‘When we were having coffee together this morning I lost my mobile. I wanted to check that you hadn’t picked it up by mistake.’

  He watches her blush. That’s dropped her right in it.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, I didn’t see it. Sorry.’

  The old man stands like a rock beside her, immovable, and it is Joe who offers him a cake.

  ‘I made them,’ he says proudly. ‘They’re Smartie cakes.’

  Marcus stares down at the small face, beaming up at him. He thinks of his own boys and suddenly he is confused; angry. He wants to take the cake, to squeeze it into crumbs and hurl it on the ground; to grab Emma and crush her in his arms; to do some violent, destructive act. The old boy moves in closer but as Marcus turns on him, ready to lash out, he receives a shock. Beyond the wall, half-screened by the branches of a cherry tree, nerdy guy is watching him. His expression seems to hold some kind of secret knowledge – a warning even – and at the sight of him Marcus is utterly disorientated, even frightened. Perhaps, after all, he is being watched. Perhaps nerdy guy is actually MI5 – and now promotion, California, his whole future could be on the line.

  All the fight suddenly drains away and he feels weak. His arm is taken, not gently, by the old man. His fingers bite into the bone and, though he smiles at Marcus, his eyes are as steely as his fingers.

  ‘Time you were going, boy,’ he says softly. ‘I’ll see you to your car.’

  He allows the old man to lead him round the side of the cottage, to the car, and swing open the door. To his shame Marcus is aware that he is trembling; he feels sick. He slides into the driver’s seat, picks up his bottle of water and drinks from it. The old man crouches by the open door watching him. His expression is gentle, the blue eyes, on a level with his own, almost kindly.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ he says. ‘You want to get back home now as soon as you can.’

  ‘Home?’ asks Marcus b
leakly. ‘Where the hell’s that?’

  The old man shakes his head. ‘Wherever it is, boy, it isn’t here. Get on with you now and don’t come back.’

  He slams the door and stands watching while Marcus starts the engine and drives away. He feels utterly defeated. Driving slowly, carefully, he reaches Ashburton. Just outside the town, opposite the Peartree Cross garage, he pulls into the side of the road and sits quite still. He wills himself to be calm, to think clearly, though he feels humiliated and very depressed. He knows now that there’s nowhere to go with Emma: twice he’s been outwitted. How can he go back? What would he say? She’s made it plain that she’s changed her mind. It’s over and he might as well face it. And as for nerdy guy … Marcus shakes his head. It seems utterly crazy that back there he actually thought nerdy guy might be MI5 but, in an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness, Marcus suddenly sees that this small, insignificant man has become a symbol. It is as if he is being followed and watched by his conscience: reminded of how life could be if he faced up to certain weaknesses, sought help and took proper control of himself again.

  He sits slumped at the wheel. So what now? Perhaps, after all, he will go home. He’ll be a day early but the boys will welcome him. They’ll be pleased to see him. They’ll clamber on him and hug him, not old enough to understand anything except that he’s Daddy, and they love him and he’s come home to see them. And maybe Tasha will be like her old self: sarcastic and bossy, yes, but with that old affectionate way of seeing him as he is, and understanding, and still loving him. Perhaps he can pull the relationship back into some kind of shape; agree to seek help and persuade her to give it another go.

  Marcus checks the mirror, pulls out and turns on to the A38; heading east towards Sidbury.

  As they drive down from the moor, back into signal range, Jake’s mobile pings and then pings again. Two messages.

  ‘Somebody loves you,’ says Kit, backing the car close to an unforgiving stone wall so that a nervous tourist can edge past.