A Summer in the Country Read online

  There was no reply at the flat and she walked back to The Wardroom, went in and ordered coffee. The cafe was busy and the veranda tables, to her disappointment, were occupied. She sat down, wondering if she might be competent as a waitress, considering other jobs, not noticing the young man on the veranda who wore a baseball cap and Ray-Bans against the sun which dazzled on the water. He glanced round, saw her, and turned quickly away, but she didn’t see him and presently Jemima arrived and hurried her off to the flat.

  “YOU’RE LOOKING good.” Jemima stared at her critically. “Honestly. No flannel. There was a kind of stretched look about you which has gone. Are you really OK?”

  “Really OK,” said Louise. “Well. Nearly really OK. I have occasional panic attacks but I’m over all that awfulness. Sorry I frightened you.”

  “You were pretty scary,” admitted Jemima. “We were very worried about you.”

  “You’ve all been so good to me.” Louise shook her head. “I can’t believe how kind everyone’s been. Your mother was fantastic. She seemed to understand how I was feeling.”

  “I’m not terribly surprised about that. Frummie’s lived quite a Bohemian life and she’s hung out with some unusual people. Not that I’m saying that you’re peculiar or anything … Oh, shit! I’m going to really put my foot in it, aren’t I?”

  Louise chuckled, “Don’t worry, Frummie said that she saw a lot of nervous breakdowns after the war. She recognised some of the signs. Don’t look so embarrassed. I can hack being potty. And talking of looking good, you’re looking pretty fantastic yourself. Any particular reason?” She watched Jemima blush, her fair skin washed with scarlet, and her eyebrows shot up. “Goodness! What have I said?”

  “Nothing,” said Jemima hastily. “Honestly. Look. What about a glass of something? I’m not quite organised with lunch yet but it won’t take long.”

  “Never mind about lunch,” said Louise, intrigued. “So who is he?”

  “Who?” asked Jemima unconvincingly.

  “Oh, come on!” Louise sat down on the sofa beside Magnificat. “Don’t give me the wide-eyed bit! Is it that chap you were waiting for when I came to supper that evening? When was it? Goodness, was that really last May!”

  “It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?” Jemima seized on the distraction. “Nearly four months ago.”

  “I can count too,” said Louise, amused. “But you can’t fool me. Is it him?”

  “No,” said Jemima. “Anyway, he was married…”

  “And you said you were strictly mistress material,” mused Louise, teasingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?”

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Jemima. “It’s not that simple.”

  Louise burst out laughing. “When was it ever?” she asked.

  “Sorry. I really don’t want to pry. Well, I do—but I shan’t. It’s none of my business. And I’d love a glass of wine.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” said Jemima rapidly, hating to seem so stuffy. “It’s just a bit premature and I have this crazy feeling that if I talk about it before anything’s really settled it’ll go horribly wrong. I’ve never been like this before. It’s … well, it’s—”

  “Wonderful and terrifying and fantastic and scary. When you’re with him you never want him to leave ever again and when he’s away from you you’re so frightened at the thought of such a commitment you can’t believe you’d have the courage to go through with it. But you still wait for the phone to ring, hate it when it’s anyone else, and then find yourself being all cool and brittle when it’s him and cursing yourself when he hangs up and lie awake all night thinking of all the things you wish you’d said instead. Is that it?”

  Jemima was staring at her. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s pretty much how it is.”

  “It’s not new,” Louise sighed, “but it gets us every time.” She gasped as MagnifiCat landed on her lap, purring loudly. “Good grief! He weighs a ton,” she said. “What have you been feeding him on? Whalemeat?”

  Jemima laughed. “He’s such a tart,” she said, relieved to be offered a change of direction. “At least he is when it comes to the ladies. Let’s have a glass of something and talk about winter lets. I’m not sure I can help you much, you know. My properties are all in a fairly small radius. And they’re not too cheap. It’s becoming a bit trendy to spend Christmas round here, especially now that the Royal Castle at Dartmouth is second to Trafalgar Square in popularity for New Year’s Eve. So owners can get a pretty good screw for their cottages during the fortnight over Christmas and the New Year, which means that the people who want to let for the whole six months are increasing their rents to make up for that fortnight.”

  Louise took her glass, looking crestfallen. “Oh,” she said, rather dismally. “I thought you could get really cheap cottages between October and March.”

  “Oh, you can,” said Jemima quickly. “There’s lots of little cottages about which wouldn’t attract this sort of market. The trouble is that my firm specialises in pretty up-market stuff.” She leafed through her folder, hesitated, glancing over the details of one particular sheet. “It’s a pity you’re not into decorating but, anyway, it’s only vacant until Christmas.”

  “What is it?” asked Louise hopefully. “I’m pretty good with a paint brush, if that’s what you mean. I did a whole cottage once when we—when I couldn’t get anything else. And I made a very good job of it, too.”

  “It’s a small cottage in East Prawle.” Jemima was reading the details more closely. “The cottage was taken on some years ago before Home From Home went up market. It’s owned by a woman; a civil servant who lives in London. She uses it for three weeks in the summer but we let it out for her for the rest of the year. She’s retiring at Christmas but she’s asking us to get it redecorated for her. She’s rejected one estimate as being too high. Perfiaps you could live rent-free in return for doing it up.” She looked at Louise questioningly. “Would that be any help?”

  “Rent free?” Louise was aware of a trickle of excitement. “Sounds OK.”

  “It’s not very big. In fact, it’s a cosy little place, just a bit shabby, that’s all. I could come over and give you a hand.”

  They stared at each other. “It would give me a breathing space,” said Louise. “Just until I know where I’m going. Maybe I could find a part-time job…”

  There’s the Pig’s Nose at Prawle,” suggested Jemima. “They might need someone. But could you manage financially if you can’t find anything quickly? Not that I’m trying to pry or anything.”

  “I probably could.” Louise was thinking of Martin’s offer of three months’ rent in advance. Maybe he’d be prepared to convert that to a loan for her subsistence until she found a job … “I’m sure I could,” she said firmly.

  “Well,” Jemima was watching her uncertainly, “if you’re sure. It’s a bit remote over there, you know, although the cottage is actually end of a terrace on the edge of the village and there’s a farm quite near. You wouldn’t feel lonely or… anything?”

  “You mean would I be nervous after all the hype about these attacks? Probably.” She shrugged. “But I’ve got to do it sometime.”

  “But you don’t have to be stuck out in the country,” argued Jemima, feeling a certain sense of responsibility. “You could get a place in Kingsbridge or Totnes.”

  “I’m like Brigid,” said Louise. “I feel less nervous out in the country than I do in towns. It’s not as though Devon is full of murderers, and I expect he’ll be caught before too long. I’ll take a chance.”

  “OK.” Jemima was still hesitating. “And you feel… strong enough to be alone? You talked about panic attacks …”

  Louise held out her hands, palms upwards. “But what else can I do? Sooner or later I have to make the break. I can’t live with Frummie for ever. Anyway, Margot will be here in a fortnight. It would be the answer to a prayer, Jemima. I can’t afford much and I don’t want to be too committed in case a teachin
g job turns up. I have to be ready to lift and shift. I’ll go for it if you can convince the owner to let me do it.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Jemima shrugged. “She’s a tight-fisted old biddy and unwilling to pay the going rate. I bet she’ll jump at the chance. What she wants is a quid pro quo and I’m here to see she gets it.”

  Louise began to chuckle. “And if she’s not satisfied with the results?”

  “Tough!” Jemima was grinning. “It’ll be too late to worry about it. By the time she comes down you’ll have moved on. Anyway, I’ve got no patience with people who want something for nothing.”

  “Not quite nothing,” protested Louise. “Not if I get the cottage for three months.”

  “True. Anyway, you said you’d done up a cottage or something?”

  “Yes. A few years ago but, hey, who’s counting?” It was Louise’s turn to look for a distraction. “Any chance of seeing this cottage? I feel really excited about it.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Jemima got up and went into her study whilst Louise sat staring out at the harbour, stroking MagnifiCat. Excitement and panic strove together in her heart and her hands trembled a little.

  She thought: I can do this. I can do it.

  ’There are visitors in until Saturday week.” Jemima was back. “But I might be able to show you over the place. Some people are a bit funny about it but I’ll ask them. There’s no phone so you’ll have to wait until I can get over there and leave a message.”

  “Damn!” Louise looked disappointed and Jemima smiled sympathetically.

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “Once you’ve made a decision you want to get straight on with it. I’m the same. Sorry. There’s nothing I can do about this one.”

  Louise looked at her. “I’m afraid I might lose my nerve,” she admitted honestly. “It’s a big step for me and I don’t want time to chicken out.”

  Jemima sat down beside her. “Look,” she said. “I can’t get them out until Saturday week but suppose we were to drive over now and have a look at the cottage from the outside? If they’re around I’ll try and bluff us in. I’ve got to be back by two thirty, though. We could grab a sandwich at the Pig’s Nose and you could ask if they need a barmaid.”

  “It would be terrific,” said Louise gratefully. “Could we really do that?”

  “We certainly could. Leave your wine. You can finish it when we get back. Don’t forget your bag.”

  They went out together. The man in the baseball cap and Ray-Bans, wandering around the RNLI museum on the ground floor, saw them go past the door. He stood for a moment, indecisively, and then followed them out into the street.

  CHAPTER 32

  Towards the end of the following week the clear, bright weather changed slowly into an airless, sultry heat. Thunder grumbled and rolled in the distance and fat, warm raindrops splashed intermittently on the cobbles of the courtyard. There was a breathless apprehensiveness which gave rise to edginess; as if the moor and its inhabitants were waiting for something cataclysmic to happen.

  “A thunderstorm would clear the air,” Frummie said, coming over to borrow a book. “I feel so unsettled. That might be because Louise’s going, of course. I do wish she’d change her mind. I could have put Margot off.”

  “She can’t stay for ever,” Brigid answered gently, putting aside the letter she was writing to Julian and Emma, full of Christmas plans. “And poor Margot would have been dreadfully disappointed. Don’t you think this is rather a good move? Just three months to see how she gets on. Much better than a longer commitment.”

  “And she can come back for Christmas,” said Frummie. “I’ve told her that.”

  Brigid held her peace: no point in saying that, by then, Louise might have made other plans. She knew that her mother was going to miss Louise quite dreadfully but at least she’d have Margot to occupy her for a while, to help soften the blow.

  “What did you think of the cottage?” she asked. Louise had driven Frummie over to see it at the first opportunity. Jemima had met them there and they’d had a good look at what needed to be done.

  “It’s not bad.” Frummie was determined not to be too excited. “Very small. Thank goodness it’s not too isolated. They haven’t caught that man yet and I don’t like the idea of her being all alone.”

  “Jemima says that it’s on the end of the village and there’s a farm quite close. I’m sure someone would run over if she were nervous ”

  “She could get help quite quickly,” admitted Frummie grudgingly, “assuming someone’s around. She’s bought a mobile phone, thank goodness. Do you realise that she’s never lived alone before? Oh, well, she must make her own decisions. She’s inviting us over for lunch as soon as she’s setded.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing it.” Brigid had deliberately stayed in the background. It was important to Frummie that she still felt she had a vital role to play: this was her scene. “Is Alexander invited too?”

  “Oh, yes.” Frummie brightened a little. “And Jemima, of course. It should be rather fun. I’ve promised to help Louise move in. Not that there’s much to move, even with all the stuff she brought down from London. I might stay a night.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make her feel at home. And she knows we’re here, if she needs us.”

  “It’s a pity that it’s quite such a long drive. Oh, well. I’ll see you later.”

  Frummie went away and Brigid sat for a moment, feeling guilty. She knew that her mother felt that she should have offered the stable wing to Louise whilst Margot was visiting but she’d felt quite strongly that Louise needed this break. Frummie, naturally, believed that Brigid simply didn’t want Louise with her for a month and, although she hadn’t accused her of selfishness, Brigid felt that it was implied. The Old, familiar frustration setded on her, bringing depression. Unable to concentrate on her letter she stood up and went through to the lean-to, calling to Blot, and presently they were crossing the field below the house.

  The water tumbled noisily in the heavy, brooding silence, almost drowning the harsh croak of the raven as he flapped with measured wing-beats above the rocky, granite bed of the river, making his leisurely way upstream. Rowan trees leaned along the bank, their twisting, woody roots clinging, claw-like, to the rounded, pitted boulders; their ancient, lich-ened boughs bright with golden leaves and bunches of scarlet berries. Brigid paused to watch two wagtails, tails bobbing, scuttering over the rocks whilst, further along the bank, Blot scraped excitedly at a rabbit hole.

  As usual, this connection with nature soothed and calmed her troubled mind, restoring balance and harmony in her soul. She and Humphrey had now had several conversations and, although he was by no means reconciled to this problem which had shattered his plans for the future, he was coming to terms with it. The Bank had agreed to transfer the loan to the mortgage, and forms were being prepared, but the big question which remained was how he was going to pay fork.

  Brigid turned away from the wagtails’ dance and gave a gasp of fright as a tall figure moved from beneath the shadow of the thorn. Alexander raised his hands, as if conveying both an apology and a blessing, and prepared to move away but she called to him above the rushing of the Dart and he waited, smiling, as she came towards him.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said regretfully. “I had no intention of trespassing on your privacy.”

  “But you’re not,” she said—she who had so needed to be alone—smiling back at him. “I wanted some fresh air… except that it’s not very fresh, is it? It’s so oppressive.”

  “There is change in the air,” he said. “And not only in the weather.”

  They walked for a short distance in silence, stopping whilst Brigid found a stick to throw for Blot. He raced away through the fading bracken, across the short turf, and Brigid glanced up at Alexander, ready to share her amusement at the sight of Blot’s busy, excited figure; the wagging, stumpy tail and flying ears. His face was grave, his gaze fixed on a distan
t point, and her own smile died as she watched him.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked involuntarily—and cursed her inquisitive insensitivity, knowing how she, herself, hated such questions.

  “I was wondering,” he answered at once, “why it should be that a woman who has been married contentedly for thirty years should look so extraordinarily relieved when she hears that her husband has sent a message saying that he loves her. Relieved. Not gratified or touched but relieved.”

  Brigid was silent, remembering that evening when Humphrey had telephoned and the police car had come down the drive with its light flashing.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” she asked rather bitterly.

  “Not much,” he answered equably. “You asked.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, almost irritably. “I asked.” She hesitated. “It’s a bit complicated.”

  He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “You’re not obliged to tell me your secrets. I was merely replying to your question.”

  She stared back at him, wondering if she had the right to share her burden with him: wondering how Humphrey would feel about it.

  “It’s none of my business,” he said gently. “Don’t feel anxious about it.”

  “The thing is,” she took a deep breath, “that I’d like to talk about it. It would be a relief. Only, it’s not just about me.

  “I didn’t imagine that it was. If you want to tell me then I promise you it would be treated as a confidence.”

  “Yes,” she said gratefully, making up her mind. “Yes, please“—and, as they walked beside the river, she began to tell him about Jenny and the sailing school and her own act of deception. Their steps grew slower as her story unfolded and presently they stood quite still, she talking, he listening, whilst the water flowed beside them and Blot paddled in the shallows.