The Courtyard Read online

  It passed too quickly for Nell. All too soon September arrived and Jack went back to school, looking forward to the rugby season, firework night and all the excitement of Christmas at the end of the term. Perhaps, thought Nell, Christmas might be quite fun in a big city with all the shops and lights and decorations. She was planning to book tickets for the pantomine at the Hippodrome and hoped to go to the Festival of Christmas Carols and Music at the Cathedral. She was still wondering whether that might be rather too much for Jack, who was not particularly musical, when she heard John’s key in the lock and his usual shout of greeting. She went out to meet him in the hall and he hugged her.

  ‘We’ve had a wonderful day,’ he said as he followed her through to the kitchen. ‘We exchanged contracts on the house at Sneyd Park. And we’ve taken on two new properties. I said we’d meet Martin later for a drink. Poor old boy. It seemed a bit mean to leave him all on his own. It’ll be awfully flat for him after all the excitement. You don’t mind, do you darling? I’m starving. How soon can we eat?’

  Nell poured him a drink, reflecting on how much more confident he was now that things were going so well. It was good to see him so ebullient and happy and she smiled at him as she gave him his glass.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Let’s drink to it. You should have brought Martin back with you. He’s become quite partial to my fish pie.’

  ‘So have I!’ declared John enthusiastically, pulling her close with his free arm and nuzzling into her neck.

  His happiness and his relief that he was making a go of things was so overwhelming that it embraced even the fish pie. For the first time since those early days at Britannia Royal Naval College, when he had been so determined to succeed as well as Rupert had at Sandhurst, he felt in control of his life and his future. He looked at Nell and his heart overflowed with all sorts of mixed emotions – gratitude, love, amazement – as he beheld her beauty. His wish that Rupert could see him now was diluted with the instinctive wave of relief that he was dead and that the lifelong contest was over. He was ashamed of that relief, knowing that the contest had only ever been on his side, never on Rupert’s. Rupert had been far too confident, successful, loved, ever to have felt the need to compete with anyone. Everything had come so easily to him. Their mother had adored Rupert whilst worrying over John. How humiliating, how crushing that worrying had been, made even more obvious by her confidence in Rupert and her reliance on him when their father died. How relieved John had been to pass the Admiralty Board and escape from beneath that canopy of care that made him feel like a child and sapped his confidence. The Navy and Nell between them had provided the passport to manhood and he had seized it gratefully. The honours at Dartmouth had eluded him but at least he had a son – Rupert hadn’t married – and then, quite suddenly, it was all over and Rupert was dead. His widowed mother was devastated by grief and John, confused and ashamed that his overwhelming emotion was relief that Rupert would not now know that he had failed Perisher, attempted to comfort her. Surely now, with both Rupert and his father dead, he would at last come into his own. He would be head of the family and his mother could turn to him for guidance and comfort as she had turned to his father and later to Rupert.

  ‘Oh, John,’ she’d said, her eyelids swollen, her face sodden and shapeless with tears, ‘what shall we do without him?’ And she wept again. Presently she pulled herself together a little and patted his hand. ‘Never mind,’ she said, as one who was making the best of a bad job but intending to be brave about it, ‘I’ve still got you.’ But her eyes wandered to Rupert’s photograph and, unconsciously, she sighed and John was aware of his inadequacy and knew that his desire to be recognised on equal terms with his brother was to remain unfulfilled.

  Now, six years later, John dragged his thoughts away from the past, finished his drink abruptly and smiled at Nell.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said.

  GUSSIE WAS SURPRISED AND thrilled to receive an invitation to Nethercombe for Christmas. She couldn’t believe her luck. Now that the last of her friends had been installed in a residential home too far away to be visited, Gussie was beginning to feel the loneliness of old age creeping up on her. There were simply too many hours in the day in which to keep happily employed since she had retired from the university library. Her friendship with Nell was a blessing but she could hardly expect to spend Christmas with her and, even should Nell offer, she would have too much pride to accept the invitation. Nethercombe was different. Nethercombe was, in a way, her home and Henry her cousin. To Gussie the ties of blood were strong and contained obligations and she would not feel that she would be intruding at Nethercombe, grateful though she was at Henry’s thinking of her.

  His letter was typical of the sort of communication that she had received from him during the years: short, somewhat haphazard, tending to go off at tangents. He wrote as he thought and as he spoke and his letters always recalled him very vividly to her mind. At least it sounded as though he found married life satisfactory but Gussie was not convinced. Her first impressions were usually reliable and it was very early days. She was looking forward to being able to observe for herself exactly what sort of fist Gillian was making of her position as mistress of Nethercombe and wondered how she had reacted to Henry’s suggestion – not for a second did Gussie think that the idea had come from Gillian – that Gussie should spend Christmas with them. How dear it was of him to think of her. She sat down at once to reply to the letter promising herself that, when it was done, she would allow herself the luxury of a telephone call to Nell to tell her the good news.

  GILLIAN, WHO WAS PLANNING to fill Nethercombe with as many friends as she could for Christmas, was surprised though not particularly put out when Henry told her that Gussie had accepted his invitation. She raised her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Won’t she feel rather out of it?’ she asked. ‘I mean she’s a bit old, isn’t she? To fit in with our friends?’

  ‘Gussie’s a friend too,’ said Henry, who was wondering who all these friends might be. ‘I’m very fond of Gussie. Always remembered to have a present waiting for me when I went back to school. Good presents, too.’

  ‘Lovely for you.’ Gillian gave a mental shrug and rolled her eyes a little. Touching excursions to the past were not her forte but she had decided to be tolerant about Henry’s passion for anything ancient and decaying, even when it extended to his relatives.

  ‘Well, it was,’ said Henry, eyes turned inwards to dormitories, first nights back, the misery of being away from Nethercombe. ‘Those are the things that make all the difference. People remembering you.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Gillian spread marmalade with a lavish hand and crunched toast.

  Henry, brought back to the present by the crunching, smiled at his wife.

  ‘There was a green woodpecker on the bird table this morning,’ he said. ‘Wonderful birds. And a nuthatch. The cold weather brings them in.’

  Gillian swallowed her toast and poured some coffee. If it wasn’t antiquities or Gilbert and Sullivan, it was the Natural World. She sighed and stirred in sugar, wondering if she might persuade Lucy to meet her for lunch in Exeter. Life at Nethercombe wasn’t as exciting as she’d hoped. Henry had a small circle of friends, mostly other landowners, who weren’t her sort at all and, apart from occasional dinners with this little group, he never seemed to go anywhere or do anything. He worked hard on the estate, she was prepared to concede that, but he was perfectly content to spend the evenings reading or watching television or listening to music. Gillian was biding her time. She had great schemes for the redecoration of the house and then she planned to entertain on a grand scale: no point in having a house the size of Nethercombe if you didn’t use it. In the summer she would have parties round the pool that was built on a little natural plateau of ground below the house. Backed on three sides by towering rhododendron bushes and falling away to the meadow on the fourth it was an enchanting spot. It only needed a few things done to it to make it perfect for parti
es. So far, her suggestions had fallen on deaf ears but it was just a question of time. She was much too clever to try to rush him. Now, as he finished his eulogy on the family of long-tailed tits he’d seen up in the beech walk, she smiled at him and pushed back her chair.

  ‘I’ve got to dash up to Exeter,’ she told him. ‘Really boring. Poor old Lucy’s got some sort of drama going on and she’s asked me to meet her. Can’t let her down. So I shan’t be here for lunch.’

  ‘Right.’ Henry stood up too. ‘Poor Lucy. Give her my regards. Drive carefully.’

  She gave him a quick kiss and he watched her go, still dazzled with the speed with which she did everything, darting hither and thither, laughing at things which her friends said that were outside his comprehension, making him feel slow and stolid beside her. It didn’t worry him at all. Henry didn’t waste time on introspection or expend mental energy worrying about talents he didn’t have. All sorts were needed to make a balance and he could see no reason why he and Gillian shouldn’t be very happy. He felt that each of them was adjusting very well to the other’s way of life and that, given time, they would settle down comfortably together.

  Henry smiled to himself as he went to tell Mrs Ridley that Gillian wouldn’t be in to lunch. He was remembering Gussie’s letter: precise, informative, to the point. It was exactly like all the other letters he had received from her over the years and as such was comforting. She had been delighted by the invitation and he had been delighted by her acceptance of it. Christmas was a family time, underlining the sense of continuity and, now that he was married and the festivities would be properly observed, he felt that she would have as happy a time at Nethercombe as she would with her friends in Bristol. Henry had no idea of Gussie’s lonely existence or financial restraints and not for a moment would she have let him suspect that all was not very well with her. To him it was all quite simple. Gussie loved Nethercombe and now that he was no longer a bachelor living in a cosy, untidy old muddle, it would be very nice to invite her down more often. She loved to walk in the grounds and had as great a passion for the natural world as Henry himself.

  Henry hummed a line from Princess Ida as he went down the long passage that led to the kitchen.

  GILLIAN, HAVING NO SUCCESS in rousing her friend, descended on her mother’s flat in Southernhay and invited her out to lunch. Lydia, undeceived by this gesture of filial generosity, took it at its real value but accepted nonetheless. A free lunch is a free lunch.

  ‘Have you seen Elizabeth lately?’ she asked as she went to get ready for this treat.

  Gillian prowled restlessly, suspecting censure if her answer were to be in the negative.

  ‘I’ve telephoned once or twice but she’s always so busy,’ she said mendaciously, hoping to deflect criticism.

  ‘Oh, busy!’ sniffed Lydia, distracted as Gillian had hoped she would be. ‘She has absolutely no need to work. Her parents left her that lovely little house and a perfectly adequate income. Interior design! It’s her way of feeling superior.’

  ‘She’s good at it though.’ Gillian fanned the flames of jealousy and discontent a little higher. ‘She says she only works for New Money these days. Does their Georgian houses up for them and then goes round all the antique shops buying them a past. That’s what she calls it.’

  ‘I think it’s patronising,’ said Lydia, remembering anew her failure to charm the tall good-looking Richard away from Elizabeth at the wedding reception.

  ‘I can’t imagine why she never got married,’ mused Gillian, looking through her mother’s wardrobe to see if she’d bought anything new and if so whether it might be borrowable. ‘She’s really stunning. And that dishy Richard is obviously mad about her.’

  Lydia zipped up her skirt with a vicious whisk.

  ‘She always says that she’s never met a man for whom it would be worth the irritation of waiting to use the bathroom. More affectation. Anyway, she’s got two bathrooms.’

  Gillian grinned into the wardrobe.

  ‘Of course, she was wonderful about the wedding …’

  ‘She’s your godmother, after all.’ Lydia drew her stomach in and peered at herself sideways in the mirror. ‘And she can certainly afford it.’

  ‘Still. You’re quite right. I simply must get in touch with her …’

  ‘Oh well. She’s not going anywhere. You sent your bread and butter afterwards?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ Gillian, following her mother down the stairs, allowed a self-righteous note to creep into her voice. ‘I wrote while I was on honeymoon. Honestly, Mum!’

  ‘Sorry, darling. Let’s forget about Elizabeth, shall we? Where are we going?’

  ‘Coolings, I thought. And I want to have a look in Russell and Bromley.’

  Several hours later, back in her flat alone, Lydia sank down on the sofa with a cup of tea and wondered how Gillian had managed to inveigle the rather expensive pair of loafers out of her. From a tiny child her only daughter had been able to wind her round her little finger, wheedle things out of her, and when Angus had left them Lydia had been even more tempted to spoil her in her anxiety to keep the child’s affection. She felt rather guilty when she remembered how she hadn’t hesitated to pour out her resentments and hurts to Gillian, knowing that this had influenced her against her father.

  Lydia made a face. After all, Angus had another family now and didn’t need Gillian as she did. A mother and a daughter could be friends and she and Gillian were so close. Look how she came up to Exeter so often and took her out shopping with her and bought her lunches and cups of coffee! Of course, she did find herself occasionally talked into forking out on little treats – such as the shoes today – and, as Lydia sipped her tea and brooded on her gullibility, a saying she had heard lately slipped into her mind.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’

  Four

  GUSSIE CAME BACK FROM Nethercombe full of Henry’s plans for his courtyard development. When it came to Gillian, however, Nell was aware of a certain lack of enthusiasm on Gussie’s part that made itself apparent more in her reluctance to speak about her than in anything that she actually said. Nell was not aware how difficult Gussie found the return to her cramped flat and restrictive economies after the space of Nethercombe, nor how painful the decisions to accept or refuse Nell’s uncalculated generosity. Since Jack was away at school and Nell was not at all the sort of person to join clubs or societies, she found herself in none of the situations where acquaintances were struck up or friendships flourished. This didn’t particularly bother her for Nell had an inner life of reading and imagination to sustain her. Nevertheless, she enjoyed Gussie’s company and they had fallen into a habit of meeting most weeks for coffee or tea. Nell discovered early on that Gussie was not a dropper-in. She disliked being taken unawares, too, and Nell respected her feelings. She was like it herself although perhaps not quite to the same extent. They were both private people but Gussie had more to hide. She could no longer afford the small luxuries of life and if Nell had arrived unexpectedly to discover her wrapped in layers of clothing because she couldn’t afford to heat the flat, or to find that there was no biscuit with her coffee or piece of sponge with her tea, Gussie would have been humiliated.

  Nell did her best to protect Gussie’s pride. When she discovered that Gussie loved Shakespeare she bought tickets for the Old Vic and then told Gussie that John was working and that it was a pity to waste the ticket. There were limits of course and even she had no idea of the sacrifices Gussie made when, in an effort to repay Nell’s kindnesses, she took Nell out to lunch or bought tickets for the ballet or insisted on paying for tea when they went on little trips in Nell’s car. Gussie, shivering by her unlit fire and trying to ignore the pangs of hunger, wondered how long she could continue to afford the luxury of a telephone and planned to sell the last few valuable pieces that she had inherited from her mother.

  Nell, meanwhile, was watching John even more closely than she was observing Gussie. At some point, as 1989 dre
w on, she sensed that his ebullience was becoming more of a bluster, that he was attempting to convince himself as much as her. Of course, he said, nobody had expected that the housing boom could continue at such a pace: naturally it would level out but things were still good. However, Nell noticed that talk of buying their own home was no longer a regular topic of discussion and her old fears began to creep back.

  GILLIAN, TOO, WAS BEGINNING to realise that her dream of a refurbished Nethercombe was destined to remain unreality. Having obtained Planning Permission from the National Park for the conversion of his stables, Henry’s whole concentration and every spare penny were devoted to the project. She was also beginning to learn that Henry was by no means the simple, quiet pushover she had taken him to be. With anything relating to the estate he was immovable.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ she stormed at him, when her frustration at being baulked was too great. ‘If you never spend any money on the place it’ll fall down. What’s the point of building a whole lot of new cottages if you let this house crumble?’

  Henry smiled at her. He knew perfectly well that Gillian’s idea of spending money on Nethercombe meant new furnishings and hangings and had nothing to do with the structure of the building.

  ‘Been standing for over two hundred years,’ he said comfortably. ‘Shouldn’t think it’ll fall down yet.’

  Gillian ground her teeth and wondered whether to dilute his complacency with the contents of her wine glass.

  ‘It’s a wonder you’re not ashamed to invite your friends here,’ she said but her tone lacked confidence. All Henry’s friends seemed to live in similar conditions of decaying grandeur. ‘At least you ought to think about central heating. It’s so humiliating when you invite your friends to dinner and they’re afraid to take their coats off.’