The Sea Garden Page 3

  Oliver slips his arm in hers again and it is a comforting, companionable gesture.

  ‘Except,’ he says, ‘that Guy isn’t Mark.’

  She is almost overwhelmed with gratitude. This is why she loves Oliver: he is quick to see and understand and go straight to the heart of things.

  ‘No,’ she agrees quickly. ‘No, he isn’t, is he? Guy adores his children and he’s tried hard to understand Gemma’s need to flirt with every available male, and even when she had that affair he accepted that it was because he’d been away so much delivering and collecting boats, and she got so lonely.’

  ‘It was a pity that Guy insisted on them going out to Canada. I know it sounded good, to make a new start and all that, but I think it was too optimistic to hope that Gemma would settle in contentedly with two rather strong but silent men so far from her friends and family.’

  ‘Mark would have found Gemma difficult,’ agrees Kate. ‘She’s so like Cass, and he could never get on with your mother. He was frightened of her sexuality and he thought she was far too affected and silly. He simply couldn’t cope with her exuberance.’

  ‘But Guy can,’ he reminds her. ‘Guy rather likes Gemma’s exuberance, except when it involves other men.’

  She clutches his arm tightly. ‘Whatever shall I do? How can I help but be on Guy’s side? He’s my son. I love him. And his children love him. I hate to think of all the disruption and sadness. How will they ever see him if he is in Canada and they are here with Gemma?’

  They’ve crossed the narrow road that winds across the open moorland and pause to look down on the reservoir: a slice of gleaming water edged about with trees, deep in the valley.

  ‘I think,’ he says quietly, ‘that Gemma’s right to come back.’ Kate looks up at him quickly, anxiously, but he nods, still staring down into the valley. ‘Yes. Let her come home and then we’ll wait.’

  ‘You think she’ll miss Guy?’

  ‘I think that Guy will miss Gemma and the twins much more than he realizes he will, and I don’t think his relationship with Mark, or the job, will be enough compensation for his wife and children. If I know anything about Guy, he’s a one-woman man and he loves his boys. I think he’ll come after them.’

  Kate is seized with a longing to believe him. ‘But what about Gemma? Suppose she doesn’t love him any more?’

  ‘We’ll have to chance that one. It doesn’t sound like that to me but we’ll have to wait and see. But if she stays out there it will go beyond the point of no return.’

  They stand for a moment longer, then Kate glances at her watch and whistles to Flossie.

  ‘We should be getting back. So can I expect arguments about downsizing during lunch?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ says Oliver confidently. ‘I’ve decided to side with Pa. The shock of it will throw him completely off his stride and make him question his judgement.’

  Kate laughs. ‘In that case I’ll need another drink,’ she says.

  * * *

  ‘I simply cannot understand,’ Tom is saying, ‘why Kate doesn’t move back to Tavistock. She’s got a lovely cottage in Chapel Street but she goes on renting that little place miles from nowhere down in Cornwall. It’s crazy.’

  ‘St Meriadoc might be a bit remote,’ answers Cass, assembling the ingredients for lunch: ciabatta bread, couscous salad with apricots, ham, and a goat’s cheese flan, ‘but it’s got one important asset as far as Kate’s concerned. It’s got Bruno.’

  ‘Oh, I know that’s your theory.’ Tom is dismissive. ‘She doesn’t move in with him, though, does she? He stays in that weird house of his stuck out on the cliff and she stays in the little row of cottages down by the boatyard.’

  ‘Bruno’s a writer.’ Cass says impatiently. She is weary of these conversations which Tom returns to like a dog digging up an unsavoury old bone. ‘He spends hours closeted on his own but they also spend a great deal of time together. I think it’s a very good plan for them each to have their own space. And Kate’s used to that with her men. First Mark, always away at sea, and then David spending half his time painting in his studio in London while she stayed down here. She’s used to semi-detached relationships. They suit her.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘I’m damned if I’d want to live stuck out there if I had a smashing little house in Tavistock. The agents did a damned good deal for her with that cottage. I popped in to see them this morning while you were in Crebers and told them that we’re considering selling this place.’

  Briefly, Cass’s hands are stilled. She experiences several emotions: fear, anger, and a desire not to start a row just before Oliver and Kate return.

  ‘What did they say?’

  There is a little silence; Tom dribbles more wine into his glass.

  ‘Said it couldn’t be a worse time,’ he answers reluctantly.

  Cass heaves a silent breath of relief. ‘Hardly a surprise, is it? It would be crazy to try to sell this type of property at the moment.’

  ‘The point is, though,’ protests Tom, ‘whatever we bought would also be a lot cheaper. If it’s a buyers’ market we can cash in on it. Surely it works both ways?’

  This too is becoming a familiar argument and Cass is relieved to hear Oliver and Kate in the hall.

  ‘Please don’t go on at Kate about moving back,’ she says quickly. ‘She’s so pleased at the thought of Jess coming to stay and I want her to enjoy it. She doesn’t need our input at the moment.’

  * * *

  Determined to steer the conversation away from divorce or downsizing, Kate talks about Jess at lunch.

  ‘It was such a shock,’ she says, ‘to see how like Juliet she is. Of course, Jess is about the same age as Juliet was when I first met her. It took me way back. I lost touch after Mike and Juliet went out to Australia but Jess was so thrilled to think that I’d known them. What an amazing coincidence.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ says Tom. ‘Especially now you’ve told us she’s just like her grandmother. Juliet was a real looker. We all lusted after her. Sad about poor old Mike, though. I wonder if Juliet will come back home now he’s dead.’

  ‘Hardly likely,’ says Cass. ‘They must’ve been out there for forty years. Why should she come back? Especially if Jess’s father is dead, too. What a tragedy. Poor Jess.’

  ‘She told me that her father and Mike didn’t get on,’ says Kate. ‘That’s why her father came back to England as soon as he left school to join the army. I have to say she’s a quite brilliant artist and a really sweet girl.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ says Oliver.

  ‘We’ll have a thrash,’ says Tom. ‘Introduce her to old Johnnie and show her where it all happened back in the day. She can meet Lady T and Sophie.’

  ‘She used to terrify me,’ says Kate. ‘Lady T, I mean. After Mark and I divorced she’d cut me if she saw me in the town, but Johnnie was always the same.’

  ‘Johnnie’s an absolute darling,’ says Cass quickly, trying to pretend that Kate hasn’t used the ‘d’ word. Now Tom will get moody and distracted, thinking about Gemma and Guy, and Oliver will probably wind him up just for the fun of it.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kate is hurrying on, aware of the same danger, ‘I can’t wait to introduce you to Jess. It’ll be fun for her to meet some of her grandparents’ friends.’

  ‘So when is she arriving?’ asks Oliver. He is intrigued by Kate’s description of Jess and her rather bleak little history. ‘I think I’ll hang around so that she has some younger company. Oh, I know you were a bunch of swingers “back in the day” –’ he beams at his father – ‘but even so…’

  ‘Next week, I hope. She really likes the idea of spending some time down here so I’m getting Chapel Street ready for her. I’m hoping to be staying there myself from Tuesday, once the furniture turns up. Then I can leave you in peace.’

  ‘You can stay here for as long as you like,’ says Cass. ‘You know that.’

  Kate smiles at her, and between them is a lifetime of friendshi
p and love, shared terrors and silly jokes, and an underlying continuum of mutual support.

  Surely, Cass thinks, even Guy and Gemma’s divorce couldn’t alter this relationship – could it? And why, she asks herself crossly, did it have to be Mark? All those years ago Kate could have had her pick. She could have chosen Johnnie or Freddy; at the Trehearnes’ party, where everything started, Kate, Johnnie and Fred had been inseparable. Why had she chosen Mark?

  Cass gets up to make coffee. She fills the kettle, pushes it onto the hotplate and, as she waits for the kettle to boil, she can see in her mind’s eye the groups of people having tea in the sea garden, Kate arriving flanked by Johnnie and Fred, and she can feel Tom’s hand gripping her elbow as he leans close to whisper: ‘Kate’s scored.’

  * * *

  The first thing Cass noticed was that Kate looked very much at ease. Johnnie piloted her between the small groups of people, introducing her, whilst Fred wandered off in search of tea. Old Dickie Trehearne and his wife greeted Kate – Dickie with great warmth, Rowena with cool graciousness – and Fred returned carefully carrying a cup and saucer, which Kate took gratefully.

  Watching, Cass felt a little surge of warmth towards Dickie as he bent towards Kate, chatting easily, whilst Fred and Johnnie joined in. After a moment or two, Rowena’s glance strayed aside; with a brief polite smile towards Kate she drifted away. Cass saw that she joined the group that included Al and Mike and two very pretty girls, slipping a hand into the crook of Al’s elbow as though regaining possession of him. He smiled down at his mother, made a remark that made them all laugh, though the two girls seemed a little less assured in the presence of Rowena.

  Leaning against the balustrade whilst Tom exchanged civilities with an older couple, Cass continued to watch the scene. There was no doubt that Al was the most glamorous of the little group of young men: as he stood there, beside his mother, it was clear that he’d inherited his elegant, predatory good looks from her. Whereas Mike, stepping aside now to fetch Rowena a cup of tea, looked a typical Englishman of his class: fair, slightly sandy, curly hair – which would presently begin to thin on top – and a ruddy complexion that spoke of outdoor pursuits: the sporting man. As he gave Rowena her tea his expression was an odd mix of the charming deference and confident familiarity that goes with the knowledge of being a favourite: he was part of the family. Rowena took the cup and saucer, smiling into his eyes – he was no taller than she – and murmured something that resulted in another burst of laughter. The two girls looked even more uncomfortable, smiling sycophantically before they began to edge away.

  Now Fred and Johnnie, keeping Kate between them, were joining the group, and Cass watched Kate being introduced to Al, shaking her head slightly as if denying any knowledge of meeting him before, whilst Johnnie and Fred looked on, grinning delightedly. Kate shook hands with Mike, who was laughing, ruffling Fred’s hair as if he were a child, putting him in his place.

  Young Fred, little Freddy; that’s what they called him: long-legged, thick brown hair, hazel eyes that always seemed on the edge of a smile. He was littlest, least and last; nearly a year younger than Johnnie, who was two years younger than Al and Mike. Nevertheless, thought Cass, Freddy had something: a secret, exciting quality missing in the other three. There was a faintly bullying, patronizing air about both Al and Mike, whilst fair-haired Johnnie was sweet-tempered and lovable, but give Fred another year or two and he might surprise them all. Meanwhile he was laughing off Al’s bantering comments, ducking away from Mike’s – slightly rougher now – hair tousling, submitting amiably to his role as the youngest member of the group.

  Even at this distance Cass could see that Kate disliked the way that Al and Mike were openly bullying Fred now, with the tacit consent of Rowena who laughed at their antics, but it was Johnnie who took Kate by the arm and steered her away across the grass to where Cass was waiting.

  ‘Glad you came?’ murmured Cass, hugging her, and Kate said, ‘It’s fab,’ and Johnnie beamed delightedly. As Tom stepped forward to embrace Kate, Fred appeared at his elbow.

  ‘No poaching,’ he said. ‘We saw her first. No pulling rank,’ and they laughed with the simple uncomplicated joy of being young and beautiful and strong.

  * * *

  Now, Cass brings the coffee, puts the pot on the table.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she says to Kate, interrupting Tom, ‘to think that you might have married Johnnie?’

  There is a little silence as they stare at her in surprise, and she laughs and shakes her head. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I was just thinking back. Sorry. So what were you saying?’

  * * *

  As Kate drives towards Tavistock on Saturday morning she remembers Cass’s odd remark: ‘You might have married Johnnie.’

  It is true that she was drawn towards Johnnie but not in any kind of sexual way; there was no magnetism between them, no exciting chemistry. She’d felt the same kind of comfort in his presence that she experienced with her brother. There was an easiness between her and Johnnie, free of any tension, and she valued it. She understands Cass’s subtext, though: why did you have to marry the difficult, uncommunicative Mark when you could have had the sweet-tempered Johnnie? And perhaps the answer to that question is simple. To a girl of nineteen, a strong, silent, twenty-two-year-old man just made up to sublieutenant is always going to seem more exciting than a friendly boy of her own age just finishing his first year at naval college.

  How young we were, thinks Kate. How confident and sure in our judgements.

  As she passes over Plaster Down she sees a Volvo parked where she usually stops to walk Flossie. Two small boys of eight or nine are playing football with a man she guesses is their father since they all look so alike. A golden retriever bounds around them, getting in the way, trying to seize the ball, and the boys shout and the man attempts to distract the dog by flinging a broken branch for it to fetch.

  Kate slows the car, engine dawdling, watching whilst the ghosts crowd in again. She feels quite certain that the boys will be boarders at Mount House School, out on exeat, and the lean, tough young man will be a naval officer, also on leave and taking some time with his children. The dog comes back with the branch and he grabs it at each end, tugs it, turning in a circle in an attempt to take it from the dog: but the dog hangs on until it is carried right off its feet and is swung in circles still grimly holding onto the branch while the boys laugh and cheer.

  She drives on across the familiar moorland roads, unsettled by these strong emotions, wondering if she is right to be considering moving back to this place where she lived for thirty years: two marriages – one ending in divorce and the other with bereavement – bringing up Guy and Giles, working in the bookshop in Tavistock, breeding golden retrievers. Already, on this short journey, she has passed three very different houses in which she has lived: the colonial-style bungalow in Dousland, a delightful old cottage in Walkhampton and the Victorian house on the edge of the town in Whitechurch. Will the cottage in Chapel Street be the place where she decides finally to settle?

  She thinks of the narrow valley on the north coast, and the cottage at the end of the row, on the sea’s doorstep. The cottage might belong to Bruno but it’s full of her own things, and he is a short walk away in his strange stone house – The Lookout – halfway up the cliff, so that she never need feel lonely. She’s been very happy for these last few years – a magical time, as if real life has been put on hold – no responsibilities to speak of and a part of the small, close-knit community that lives at St Meriadoc. If she hadn’t been persuaded that she should buy back into the market she wouldn’t now be faced with this decision: should she continue to rent Bruno’s cottage or move back to Tavistock?

  Seized by a sense of panic, she does what she has done so many times before: she drives through Tavistock and into the car park of the Bedford Hotel. With Flossie on her lead, they go together up the front steps and into the bar.

  She looks around at the familiar surroundings, at the
people drinking coffee and reading newspapers, and there in the corner by the window is Johnnie Trehearne, already hailing her, getting to his feet. Kate sees with a sinking heart that his mother is sitting with her back to the window, crabbed and suspicious as she watches them hug. Johnnie forestalls any of the past prejudices with his natural warmth and friendliness.

  ‘You remember Kate, Mother,’ he says firmly – it is an instruction not a question – and Kate, hiding her instinctive reaction to behave like a junior naval wife, smiles at the imperious elderly lady, who inclines her head. The small terrier, almost concealed on her lap, gives a sharp warning bark, and Kate jumps back a little and tightens her hold on Flossie’s lead.

  ‘Shut up, Popps,’ says Johnnie affably to the terrier. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while, Kate. Can I get you some coffee?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, sitting down, pulling Flossie close to her chair. ‘This is really so odd. I’m staying with Cass and Tom and we were talking about you. Well, not just you but remembering times past.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ he says cheerfully, pausing to stroke Flossie as he goes to the bar.

  Kate turns to Lady T, trying to think of some topic of conversation that might melt thirty years of ice. She must be at least ninety but the old woman’s eyes are still bright and sharp, and Kate’s heart sinks: no chance that she will have forgotten the past.

  ‘I’ve bought a cottage in Chapel Street,’ she begins – nothing contentious about this, surely – ‘and I’m moving some furniture in next week. I’ve been living down on the north coast of Cornwall since my husband died.’

  ‘Died? I thought you were divorced.’

  Kate almost laughs: Lady T still doesn’t take prisoners. ‘My second husband,’ she explains. ‘David Porteous. He was an artist. An RA. The granddaughter of old friends has just won his Award. I think you know them too.’