A Summer in the Country Page 27

  “Hello,” she said, her voice small and frightened. “Hello, who is it? Oh, Humphrey.” She felt quite weak with relief, yet what could he do, so far away?

  “I’ve had your letter.” His voice couldn’t have been less comforting. “What the hell did you think you were doing, Brigid? My God! I still can’t believe that you could be so stupid. And for Jenny, of all people. How could you have even considered it? With her track record? And without even mentioning it to me. Have you any idea…?”

  His rage had a chilling effect upon her. Her hand was an icy claw, clutching the receiver, and she shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering as she listened to his relentless fury.

  “… so what do we do now? Have you any suggestions as to how we’re going to find twelve thousand pounds? Hello? Are you still there? And why is that bloody dog making that row?”

  “There’s someone out there.” His rage and her fear between them had reduced her nearly to tears.

  “What do you mean, ‘out there’? Out where?”

  He sounded impatient, irritated at this distraction, totally unsympathetic. She tried to pull herself together, unwilling for him to think that it was some ploy to defuse his wrath.

  “I heard someone out on the track in the dark so I came inside. There’s someone going round attacking and murdering women.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…”

  “Yes, I know it sounds melodramatic. But there have been three murders and a woman was attacked last week in Buck-fastleigh…”

  “In Buckfastleigh?” His voice was calmer, sharper.

  “She was saved by a couple of young men going home from the pub. The police have warned women not to go about alone. Mummie’s paranoid …”

  “And there’s someone there now?”

  “I was in the courtyard watching the moonrise. I heard a car on the road and then it stopped and I thought I heard someone walking down the track.” She felt exhausted. “And then Blot started.”

  “Get off the phone and get hold of the police. Are you locked in?”

  “Yes. Look, I’m really sorry about everything—”

  “Shut up and do as I say. And then phone Father and get him over with you. For God’s sake be intelligent and don’t go outside. And don’t let Blot out.”

  “Humphrey—”

  “Do it now. I’m hanging up.”

  The line went dead and at the same time there was a hammering on the front door. Brigid gave a cry of terror.

  “Brigid!” Alexander’s voice echoed through the thickness of the wood. “Are you there, Brigid?”

  She stumbled out of the kitchen into the hall. Blot was whining now, his tail wagging furiously, and she drew back the bolts, turning the heavy key with still-trembling hands. Alexander, Frummie and Louise all burst in together, crowding round her, slamming the door shut and locking it again.

  “I saw someone creeping about outside,” Frummie was explaining, “so I phoned Alexander and he came over and we contacted the police. And then we heard Blot barking…”

  Alexander’s arms were round her, almost carrying her back into the kitchen, pushing her down into a chair. Louise’s eyes were wide and frightened but Frummie seemed almost to be enjoying herself.

  “My poor darling,” she said, slipping an arm about her daughter’s shoulders, giving her a hug. “Don’t worry. We’re all together now. What do you think? A drink, perhaps? You look white as chalk.”

  ’Tea.” Alexander was smiling at her reassuringly. “Hot and sweet. And don’t tell me you don’t take sugar.”

  “I heard him,” said Brigid, her eyes enormous with fright, speaking directly to Alexander. “I heard him on the track.”

  “Where were you?” asked Frummie sharply.

  “In the courtyard,” said Brigid. “Watching the moon rise.”

  Frummie put down the kettle with a bang. “Can I believe this?” she asked of no one in particular. “After everything’s that’s happened, you sit all on your own, out in the dark—”

  “It wasn’t dark,” said Brigid defensively. “The moonlight was nearly as bright as day.”

  “Oh, really!” Frummie brought her hands together in a sharp clapping movement which set all her bracelets jangling.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Louise had taken charge of the tea-making, Frummie being temporarily distracted. “We’re all together and no one is hurt. TTie police will be here soon.”

  “There speaks someone who has only recently come to live in the country.” Frummie’s underlying anxiety was being discharged in immense sarcasm. ‘This isn’t London, my dear Louise. Of the two police cars available to cover this huge area, one of them will probably be in Okehampton and the other in Salcombe. It will be at least an hour—and only then if we’re really lucky—before we see a policeman.”

  “In which case,” said Alexander calmly, “we might as well make ourselves comfortable. Apart from anything else, I’m sure he’s long gone. Whoever it was.”

  “I’m sure he has.” Louise took up this encouraging cue. “We all made such a racket and there was good old Blot sounding like the Hound of the Baskervilles. He’s got quite an impressive bark for a small dog.”

  Brigid watched them as they made tea, found the milk, put out the mugs. Was it possible that Humphrey had telephoned, after all the agonising waiting and wondering, only to be distracted by this newer drama? It was an extraordinary anticlimax. What had he actually said? Her weary mind refused to be cajoled into providing answers; she could only remember his angry voice. She took her tea and drank obediently. The telephone rang and Frummie snatched up the receiver.

  “Hello. Who is it?… Who?… Oh, Humphrey. My dear boy, how are you? … Oh, did you? … Yes, yes, that’s right. Three murders and an attack… Don’t worry, we’re all here with her and the police are on their way … No, she’s quite all right. Well, she’s looking rather peaky and under the weather, if you want the truth“—“Mummie!” cried Brigid wretchedly, “please!”—“and much too thin but we can’t talk now in case the police need to contact us. Have we got a number for you?… Good. We’ll phone when the police have arrived. ‘Bye.”

  “You might have asked,” said Brigid crossly, “if he wanted to speak to Alexander. Or to me.”

  “We mustn’t block the lines,” said Frummie airily, “and he sent you his love. He can speak to his father any time.”

  “Did he?” Brigid looked at her quickly.

  “Did he what? Oh, send his love. Yes, well, he actually said, Tell her I love her.’ Rather sweet, I thought. I didn’t realise that he’d phoned earlier. He was terribly worried about us.”

  Brigid placed her mug carefully on the table and squeezed her hands between her knees.

  She thought: Oh, thank God, thank God. He said he loves me. It’ll be OK.

  She opened her eyes and saw Alexander watching her but, before he could speak, there was the sound of a car on the track and a blue light, flashing intermittently, filled the kitchen with its glare.

  IT WAS nearly midnight when Brigid telephoned Humphrey.

  “Everyone’s gone,” she said. “The police took statements and had a good look round but whoever it was had long since disappeared. Everyone’s gone back to bed.”

  “Have they left you on your own?” he asked, almost accusingly.

  “They all wanted to keep me company,” she said quickly, placatingly, “but I’m sure there won’t be any more trouble. He’d be crazy to come back after all the row we made. The police are going to maintain a bit of a presence, apparently. Which means a car going along the road once a day, I should think.”

  “Well, for God’s sake be careful.”

  “Oh, I shall be,” she assured him, warmed by his anxiety. “Alexander says he’ll move back in if necessary.”

  “Yes, well, I know you’d hate that.”

  Brigid opened her mouth to say that she’d liked having his father about—and closed it again. Intuitively she knew that this was not the moment to suggest th
at they might have misjudged Alexander.

  “Let’s see how it goes,” she said. “I imagine we’re OK now—and I’ve got Blot.”

  “Mmm.” He didn’t sound too impressed.

  There was a tiny silence, humming across the thousands of miles between them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, “that the timing was so awful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said drily. “From your point of view it must have seemed heaven-sent. I expect you’re probably too ratded now to want to do much more than go to bed.”

  She thought: I could say that I’m exhausted. That it’s been very scary and I’m still in shock. It would postpone having to explain and by the time we talk again the heat would have gone out of it I could do that.

  Instead she said quickly, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. About all of it. I completely misjudged it and I should have talked to you first.”

  “So you said in your letter.” His voice was cold but it was clear that his rage had passed. “The point now is: what do we do about it?”

  “I’ve thought about it over and over again,” she said miserably. “I suppose the only thing we can do is to add it to the mortgage.”

  “Great,” he said heavily. “Well, that’s my retirement plans out of the window.”

  “Oh, Humphrey, I’m so sorry—”

  “Oh,” he said irritably, “it’s not that I particularly object to working a bit longer. It’s just that it would have been nice to have a choice. I wanted the time to think about things. My gratuity would have dealt with most of the mortgage and the cottage would have kept us going. Now I shall have to look around. The Bank won’t object, I expect, but if they ask about my retiring from the Service next year you’ll need to tell them that I shall be getting a job, otherwise they might not be quite so happy about it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “The trouble is it’s not going to be easy, finding something down there. You’d better start looking out for bursars’ jobs, that kind of thing.”

  “You see, it all sounded so unlikely to go wrong. And, to be fair, if Bryn hadn’t decided to syphon off the moftey and disappear it wouldn’t have crashed. They were making a real success of it.”

  “So you said in your letter,” he repeated coolly. “But you might have guessed that anyone Jenny picked up with was likely to be suspect.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She couldn’t help herself. “You seem to have a lot of time for Peter. She picked up with him first and, if I remember rightly, it was he who started having an affair, not Jenny.”

  “OK. OK.” Irritability was back in his voice. “So you’ve supported your old school chum and now I’m going to have to pay for it. The question is: how?”

  Remorse took hold of her again. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry.” Her voice was ragged with weariness and worry. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “Yes, I know.” Irritability softened into a kind of impatient affection and she felt relief flood through her. “OK. Let’s stop the bitching and decide what to do. But not now. You sound bushed. Go to bed and we’ll talk again soon.”

  ’Tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m at sea for a few days. I’ll call as soon as we’re back in. And, Brigid? Take care of yourself, OK?”

  “Oh, Humphrey …”

  “Look, I love you. We’ll manage somehow. Get on to the Bank tomorrow. Now, go to bed and try to get some sleep but call the police if you hear or see anything the least bit unusual.”

  “Yes, I will.” She wanted to weep: remorse, gratitude, anxiety weakened her. “I love you too.”

  “Then take care of yourself and go to bed,” he said—and hung up.

  She sat down at the table, resting her head on her folded arms. The worst was over. There would be moments of reproach on his part and guilt on hers but the real worst was over… Her eyes closed and, for the first time in weeks, she relaxed, allowing her thoughts to spin into welcome, unanxious oblivion. In a few moments she was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 31

  Louise, driving from Foxhole to Salcombe, was thinking about Frummie; how she’d changed since the arrival of Alexander. There was a sharpness to her, a bright, shiny quickness, so that she seemed to dart to and fro like a little bird, alert, cocky. She hummed as she flitted about, breaking into song, preening in the smart new clothes which had suddenly appeared, pecking at her food, taking tiny sips of wine or water. She never alighted anywhere for very long but was up again, hopping off to some new task. The videos had lost their power of attraction, her attention too easily distracted, and only late in the evening would she sit, broody and quiet, clucking secretly to herself.

  As she drove down from the moor, through the back of Holne and turning right at Play Cross, it occurred to Louise that perhaps Frummie hadn’t changed at all. It was simply that, with the advent of Alexander, certain characteristics were showing themselves more clearly. Behind the cruel ravages of old age, she could see the younger Frummie: the Frummie who had sat in the jazz cellar, obsessed by love and driven by jealousy. It was as if she’d grown young again. Louise, touched by die metamorphosis, teased her a little whilst encouraging her.

  “You look great,” she’d say. “Where’s the party?” Frummie merely smiled her self-mocking smile and uttered some witty retort. She Vas aware of her foolish vanity but was, nevertheless, enjoying herself. Life had offered her an unexpected opportunity for fun and she was seizing it with both hands.

  “I wonder,” Louise had said naughtily, “how Margot will like Alexander?”

  Frummie’s inaccurately rouged lips had stopped smiling, the bright blue eyelids had dropped calculatingly. “I could put her off,” she’d said thoughtfully. “After all, it’s more important that you have a roof over your head than Margot has a holiday.”

  Louise had felt rather shocked at this reaction, wishing she hadn’t joked about it. “Poor Margot,” she’d said lightly. “She’ll have been really looking forward to it. You couldn’t disappoint her at this late date.”

  Frummie had made a face, shrugging a little, and Louise felt the first stirrings of anxiety. It was clear that she must remain positive and forward-thinking. Yet it was becoming impossible now to discuss her future with Frummie, who was busily thinking up new reasons why she should not yet implement her plans to find a job and move out. Even with Brigid she felt uneasy. Having promised Frummie that she’d talk to Brigid, she’d made a very real attempt to discover what was occupying her thoughts—but it had been surprisingly difficult to be natural with her. The old ease was absent and Louise saw quite quickly that Brigid had no intention of unburdening herself. It was evident too that Brigid was feeling deeply embarrassed by her mother’s behaviour. Here, Louise could sympathise. She knew that people were likely to react much more sensitively towards their own relatives and that Brigid had a horror that her mother might be looked upon as pathetic or ridiculous. Despite attempts to reassure her, Brigid had remained gloomy, preoccupied—and then, that evening, all these small confusions had resolved themselves in the greater drama. Their sanctuary had been invaded and they’d all drawn together to protect themselves.

  Now, a few days afterwards, everyone seemed more balanced and, although the smaller tensions had discharged into a larger anxiety, yet a calmer atmosphere prevailed. Brigid seemed to have overcome some private worry whilst Frummie was quite above herself now that her fears had been realised. The reality of the man on the track, the arrival of the police, die seriousness of the situation seemed to invest her with an importance which oddly neutralised her former terrors. Everyone was obliged to take her very seriously and she was making the most of it As for Alexander… Louise smiled to herself. Alexander seemed as unchanging as the eternal verities.

  “Frummie’s very fond of you,” he’d said, when she’d explained how hard it was to find the courage to leave; to break away on her own.

  “She’s been wonderful to me,” she’d answered
warmly. “like a mother. Much more so, in fact, than my own mother. I know I have to go but I love being here with her. I feel so safe.”

  “I expect that’s why you need to go,” he’d answered— and she’d frowned after him, puzzling at his odd remark.

  Once on the A38 she accelerated, looking forward to seeing Jemima.

  “I might be late back,” she’d said. ‘If there’s no reply go and have some coffee in The Wardroom and I’ll come and find you.”

  Louise drove carefully, concentrating automatically whilst part of her mind wrestled with the problem of work and accommodation. She tried to take Frummie’s advice; looking beyond panic and despair at some more positive future. At present, however, there was nothing to fix her gaze upon. Thea had telephoned Charles Price who, though he had expressed a great willingness to meet Louise, had warned that there were no vacancies for staff at Mount House’s pre-prep school. He’d suggested that Louise should visit The Ark and then they could have a talk.

  “After all,” Thea had said to her, “you never know when a vacancy might come up and then you’d be first in line.”

  She’d agreed, telling herself that an opening now would have been a miracle, trying not to feel too downcast, whilst looking forward to seeing the school and meeting Charles Price. Meanwhile, she must explore other avenues. It was hardly likely, after all, that there would be teaching vacancies so close to the beginning of term; she’d set her sights too high and must be prepared to content herself with something outside teaching. Her other enquiries to playgroups and schools had been fruitless but her name and telephone number had been filed. The important thing was to remain optimistic. There were other jobs, and maybe Jemima might be helpful in finding her a suitable winter let. The ones she’d seen advertised in the local paper were demanding frighteningly high rents.

  There was still a lot of holiday traffic and she was glad to leave the dual carriageway at Wrangaton, driving through the lanes again, noticing the turning of the year: milk-green hazelnuts ripening in the hedges; bleached grasses, tall and feathery, fading in the ditches; beech leaves, glossing and yellowing, kindling on the trees. Her heart was comforted by the beauty of the gently rounded hills and placid river valleys; the pale gleam of harvested fields and the scarlet flash of rich, red earth. She drove on the back roads from Kings-bridge, round Batson Creek—where a heron stood in humped, immobile contemplation—into the town, and was lucky enough to find a space for the car on Whitestrand Quay.