A Summer in the Country Page 30

  She thought: At least it won’t take too long to decorate it.

  The owner had already sent colour charts and Louise’s first thought was to begin with the boxroom. It was Brigid who had suggested that, instead, she should start downstairs with the living area whilst the weather was still fine enough to leave doors and windows open. This made sense—but it was certainly going to be a muddle, trying to live amongst ladders and paint pots with the furniture piled together and covered with dust sheets. Yet even the thought of such confusion in a small space had no power to depress her today.

  The high banks and tall hedges were full of colour—yellow and red berries of the white bryony; the dog roses’ scarlet hips—whilst on the hillside a farmer was drilling winter wheat, a cloud of seagulls circling in his wake.

  She turned right at Cousins Cross, passing through narrow lanes, until she drove at last into the village. Her sense of excitement increased: it was fun to be moving into her little house, to be looking across the green to the cliff path and the sea; smiling to herself at the sign of the Pig’s Nose, with the Piglet Stores and Grunter’s Cafe. She parked carefully outside the cottage, as close as she could get to the stone wall which bordered the few square feet of the front garden and, climbing out, paused to look at the tangled mass of chrysanthemum and montbretia which grew beside the few steps which led from the gate to the front door. Toadflax grew on the wall, with stonecrop and aubretia, and she stood in the sun, her hands on the warm dry stone, her confidence growing. She took the front door key from her pocket and went inside. The living room was dim, coming into it from the bright sunshine outside, and she stood for a moment, just inside the door, looking about her. The shabby, chintzy cottage furniture was set around the small Victorian grate, the bookcases on either side of the chimney-piece held a few tattered paperbacks, and an old portable television stood in the corner on a scarred and much-used tea-trolley. Silence filled the room; silence—and the scent of freesias. On the gate-leg table under the window a small pottery jar was filled with them.

  Louise stood quite still, her arms locked beneath her breast. Freesias: white and gold in her wedding bouquet: purple and blue for her first wedding anniversary: multicoloured when Hermione was born.

  “Trust you,” he’d murmured, his lips against her hair as she’d thanked him with a hug, “to love a flower which is so difficult to find. What’s wrong with a nice bunch of chrysanthemums?”

  “It’s a test,” she’d said, hugging him more tightly. “Just to see how much you care.”

  “Well, if you don’t know now you never will,” he’d answered, kissing her. “Who d’you think I am? Lancelot in search of the Grail? You wait! It’ll be lilies and carnations, next time, from the garage. They keep them in nice Cellophane packages in buckets outside.”

  He’d arranged to have some freesias delivered for her birthday only a week after Hermione had died. They had arrived with a message he’d written a month before, not knowing that when she received them she’d be racked with pain and half mad with grief. Happy Birthday O Best Belovedfs Mama. May there be many, many more and may we spend them together. He loved Kipling’s Just So Stories and read them to Hermione, who’d listened entranced. He’d had no idea, when he’d given his message to the florist, that he would never read to her again.

  She thought: And I let him go, afterwards, without a kind word or a hug, consigning him to oblivion along with the rest of my life. With Hermione.

  Crossing to the table she picked up the postcard which lay beside the flowers. It was a coastal scene of the cliffs just below East Prawle. Jemima had scribbled right across the back.

  Welcome, she’d written. Make yourself at home. See you soon.

  It was sheer coincidence that she’d chosen freesias. Louise propped the card on the narrow mantelshelf and went back outside to unload the car. It was important that the cottage should be made homely; that the chill, impersonal “holiday-let” atmosphere should be warmed into a friendly cosiness. She took her supplies through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, and prepared to make the cottage her own. Her books from two cardboard boxes very nearly filled the shelves on either side of the painted fireplace. One of the leaves of the gate-leg table was put up and a wooden chair set beside it. On the table she put her paint box, a notebook and some pencils; her pashmina shawl was draped over the back of one of the armchairs; two pretty ladies, Doulton figurines, were set upon the mantelshelf beside the postcard; an elderly teddy bear, his fur worn and rubbed from love, was propped in the corner of the sofa. As she unpacked some pieces of china she was reminded of her arrival at Foxhole more than four months before; how she had set about making the cottage her own, accompanied by those echoes from the past This time she had rather more belongings with which to create the desired result—but the echoes were still with her.

  Louise paused amid the boxes. The echoes were there but the fear had gone: she no longer had to deny them, no longer needed to be continually clenched in a spasm of rejection. Now she could hear the voices with sadness, remembering, with a gentle grief, all that she had lost, accepting the tragedy as her own and learning to live with it. She sat at the table, holding her mug of coffee, breathing the scent of the freesias. Michaelmas daisies, purple and dark red, leaned at the window and montbretia flamed beneath the wall. A passer-by, glancing in, raised a cheerful hand, and Louise waved back, encouraged by this friendly gesture, already feeling a sense of belonging.

  She finished her coffee, her former confidence returning, and began to carry her suitcases up the narrow, twisting stairs.

  CHAPTER 34

  “I just thought I’d touch base,” said Humphrey. “See how you are.”

  “I’m fine,” said Brigid. “Absolutely fine. How’s it going?”

  “OK. No real problems. We’re having a few days at Cocoa Beach while they reload torpedoes at Cape Canaveral.”

  “That sounds nice.” She thought: Once I’d have pulled his leg, teased him and said that it’s OK for some. Now I’m afraid to. My guilt makes me treat him with kid gloves.

  “It’s pretty good,” he was saying. There was the faintest air of martyrdom, the slightest hint of “although how I’m expected to be able to enjoy myself now …” about it. “How’s life at Foxhole?”

  “We had an enormous thunderstorm which rumbled round the moor for nearly two days,” she said, “and then it all packed up and moved off somewhere else and we’re having lovely sunshine.”

  “Right,” he said. A pause. “Have you filled in the forms from the Bank?”

  “No,” she said. “Actually, I started to do it and then I had an idea.”

  “Mmm?” Very cool.

  “Yes.” She tried not to sound cajoling, as if she needed to persuade him into it. Enthusiasm was the keynote here. “Yes. I had this thought that it was silly to put the loan on to the mortgage without thinking a bit more about it And I wondered if we could simply take over the school and run it ourselves? Since you have to have a job,” don’t sound apologetic about it, she warned herself, “why not work in your own business? The debt becomes ours and we can have more flexibility with it.”

  “I thought that the debt was ours anyway,” he observed drily.

  “Well, of course you’re right.” She sought about for inspiration, trying to remember Alexander’s words. “But wouldn’t you rattier have some control? Be running your own show, rather than just putting it on the mortgage and then having to flog at something boring to pay it off? Remember that the school was doing tremendously well. It only began to fail because Bryn syphoned money off and didn’t pay the bills.”

  “I suppose that it’s utterly unimportant that I haven’t the least idea how to run a sailing school?” He sounded rather churlish.

  “You don’t know how to be a bursar,” she said bravely, “but you’re prepared to have a go at that. You said yourself that you didn’t want to work in an office all day.”

  “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean tha
t I want to run a sailing school.”

  “OK.” She had the intelligence to back off. “It was just a crazy thought. After all, it’s a hell of a haul down to Falmouth and there probably wouldn’t be much doing in the winter. It was just a mad moment. I’ll get the forms off, then.”

  “I don’t see how it could be done from Foxhole.” His voice was irritable. “It would be impossible on a daily basis.”

  “Oh, well, naturally you’d have to be down there a couple of days a week,” she said almost indifferently, as if, now, the idea were purely academic. “Of course, Iain does all the sailing and teaching… and Jenny runs the office.”

  “lean just see Jenny working with me!”

  “Quite. I hadn’t really thought it through at all. Although I suspect that once the school is bought she’ll leave. She’s only stayed to keep it as a working proposition. There’s been quite a bit of interest, apparently, and she’s confident that it’ll sell. Not that it’s our problem. Anyway, did I tell you that Julian and Emma are coming home for Christmas? Isn’t it fantastic?”

  “Fantastic,” he agreed flatly. He gave a kind of mirthless snort. “Could you really see me running a sailing school?”

  “What? Oh… Well, yes, actually. You’re very good at organisation and you used to adore taking the boys sailing when they were young. I could see it being quite an exciting project actually. And it’s such a prime spot. Still, I agree it was crazy. You don’t want anything too taxing …”

  “It’s not that,” he said crossly. “I’m not quite over the hill. It’s just a bit of a shock, coming out of the blue.”

  “Oh, I can believe that,” she said readily. “It took me a while to come to terms with it. It was such a wild idea.” She laughed. “Just for a minute it seemed rather fun. Quite a challenge.”

  “You haven’t mentioned it to anyone else, then?” suspiciously.

  “Mentioned it?”

  “Well, you know.” He sounded impatient. “Talked it over. Discussed it.”

  “Of course not.” She crossed her fingers automatically. “Why should I? It just occurred to me whilst I was filling in the forms. By the way, I’ll have to send them on to you. They need your signature and you can check them through.”

  “Right.” A pause. “I’d better shoot off. No more murderers hanging about?”

  “No. No more murderers. I think we frightened him away with all the noise.”

  “Well, take care. How’s Father?”

  “Fine. He’s fine. Very quiet. He and Mummie are getting along very well together.”

  “Good. That’ll keep him out of your hair a bit.”

  “He’s not a problem, honestly. Well, nice to hear from you. Enjoy the beach.”

  “Yes. Well, then…”

  “Lots of love. Take care.”

  She hung up quickly, knowing that he was finding it difficult to finish the conversation, and stood for a moment, wondering if she’d overplayed her hand. She was quite sure that his interest was aroused and hoped that he’d now have the time to think about this new idea very carefully. Relaxing a little, taking a deep breath, she took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured herself a drink. This feeling of tension between them was horrid, especially with him so far away; if only it could be resolved in a positive, forward-looking way it would be such a relief.

  “I’ll drink to that,” she muttered, with a sigh, and Blot, thinking that she was talking to him, struggled up from his basket and came wagging over, hoping for a cuddle.

  As LUCK would have it, when Margot came bumping down the drive, Alexander was just going out. He backed down to his gate, waiting for her to park, smiling in response to her wave of gratitude. He had no intention of stopping but, before he could set off again, she’d wound down her window.

  “Hello,” she called. “Sorry about that. You must be Alexander.”

  She was struggling with the door handle, climbing out, so that there was nothing for it but to switch off the engine, get out and introduce himself properly.

  “Margot,” she said, gripping his hand firmly, beaming up at him. “How very nice to meet you.” Alexander murmured something appropriately noncommittal but she was hurrying on. “I’ve come to stay for a few weeks. Fred and I are very old chums. We were at school together, you know. And we were Wrens together in the war, well, right at the end of the war when we were old enough to join up …”

  She did not hear Frummie’s light step on the path and she turned, startled, as Frummie laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ve got a month, dear,” she said drily. “He doesn’t have to hear all our secrets in the first five minutes.”

  “Oh, but the ones that are told in the first five minutes are the only ones worth hearing,” said Alexander. “After that, one loses the first flush of truth. Either the teller becomes cautious or he begins to add to—or detract from—the truth according to his own subconscious reactions to his confidant.” He smiled sweetly down at Margot. “Already it’s too late for us. Never mind.” He gave a little bow. “So good to meet you. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”

  He folded his length back into his small car and drove away up the track.

  Margot stared after him. “Well,” she said, on a long-drawn-out breath. “What a gorgeous creature! Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I thought you might overreact,” answered Frummie sourly, taking in the rich coppery auburn of her old friend’s hair, the rather short skirt, the brightly varnished nails. “You’re looking very smart.”

  “I do feel it’s a shame to let oneself go,” said Margot serenely. “So easy at our age.” Her glance lingered on Frummie’s enthusiastic use of blusher, the gold bangles clanking on the skinny wrist and the rather smart plaid trousers. “You’re looking pretty good yourself, Fred,” she observed thoughtfully. “Rather better than the last time I saw you.”

  Frummie’s lips curled down in her self-deprecating smile. “Touchi” she said. “OK. No bitching.”

  “That’s right, lovey,” said Margot comformably. “All’s fair in love and war, and at our age we might as well enjoy the battle. I hope you’ve got the ketde on, I’d kill for some coffee.”

  “More or less ready. Shall we bring the cases in?”

  “Coffee first,” said Margot, following her up the path and into the cottage. “You know, he is rather delicious.”

  “So you said.” Frummie began to make coffee. “He’s got a friend coming to stay.”

  Margot’s eyes brightened; her wizened lips puckered into a wicked smile. “Has he?” she murmured. “One each, then.”

  Their eyes met. Frummie lifted an eyebrow. “I wonder what yours will be like?”

  Margot chuckled. “Like that is it? You never know. He might be even nicer. Where is Alexander going after this?”

  Frummie frowned a little. “I don’t actually know.”

  It was Margot’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “Don’t know?

  And how long has he been here?” She snorted contemptuously. “You’re losing your touch.”

  “I never was quite as good at worming as you were. Quite shameless!”

  “Nonsense. It’s perfectly simple. I only ask because I want to know. No, no sugar. I’ve got my sweeteners in my bag. He’s quite like Humphrey, isn’t he? Only much thinner.”

  “There’s certainly a look of him. He’s a bit… disconcerting at times. Very direct. But it’s fine when you get used to it.”

  “And how does Brigid get on with him?”

  “Very well It seems so odd that there’s been this silence all these years. I can’t see why he and Humphrey don’t get on.”

  “Probably for much die same reasons that you and Brigid don’t.”

  “Yes,” said Frummie, after a moment. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair enough.”

  “I wonder where he’s going,” mused Margot, rootling for her sweeteners.

  “He did say something about going north, to the Borders,” admitted Frummie, “but I was
n’t certain if he were pulling my leg.”

  ’To the Borders?” Margot looked surprised. “Whatever can he be going there for?”

  Frummie shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Maybe he’s got a house there.”

  “Mmm. Could be rather nice, I suppose. Is that where this friend comes from?”

  “I really don’t know.” Frummie was beginning to sound impatient. “I promise you, Alexander’s not quite such an easy touch as you might first suppose. He fences very cleverly. Anyway, the friend will be here in a day or two. You’ll be able to ask him yourself.”

  “I shall,” declared Margot. “This is all very exciting. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me, Fred.”

  “Better than /, Claudius?” Frummie started to grin. Their eyes met and they began to chuckle.

  “Oh, much better,” said Margot. “Ever so much better. Wait till you see what Harry’s sent you. A very nice selection of wine from his wine club.”

  “I always approved of that boy,” said Frummie. “More coffee? Or shall we unpack the car?”

  “More coffee,” said Margot promptly, proffering her cup. “Well.” She breathed a deep, satisfied sigh. “It’s really good to be back.”

  JEMIMA OPENED her eyes, wakened from her doze by the insistent buzz, groped for her mobile and smiled when she saw the number.

  “Hi,” she said warmly. “How are you?”

  “I can’t get down after all,” he said crossly. “My colleague’s been taken ill and I’ve got to cover for him at a conference in Birmingham. I’m really peed off with it, I can tell you.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” Jemima simply couldn’t hide her disappointment. It was quite impossible to be quirky and cheerftd about it. She stared out bleakly at the grey, wet early evening gloom.

  “I know.” His voice was suddenly resigned, almost amused. “Shall I swear for you? I promise I’ve been doing just that all day. It’s not lan’s fault, poor sod, but I’m finding it hard to be sympathetic. I was hoping that I might be able to dash down for a few hours, but I can’t see my way at the moment. I’m just so sorry.”