A Summer in the Country Page 39

  “I like him too.” Brigid sat down at the table. “I think it’s just so wonderful that they’ve got back together again. It makes you feel that it hasn’t all been entirely wasted.”

  “It’s not easy, though.” Jemima joined her sister at the table. “They’re still trying to deal with all the emotional baggage and terrified that it’s going to blow up in their faces. He feels guilty because he wasn’t there when she needed him and she feels guilty because she walked away from him.”

  “I can understand that.” Brigid looked thoughtful, turning her glass round and round. “I can easily imagine that the only way to deal with such a horror is to switch off from it, can’t you? And it’s probably easier for couples who are separated a great deal, anyway. Louise was used to doing without him, to compartmentalising her life. You can’t live for weeks at a time as if he’s just popped out for a packet of ciggies. You have to get on with it. OK, he’s gone again. This is what I do when he’s not here. It’s a different life. You don’t forget about him, or stop thinking about him, but it has to be on a different level. I can see how she could switch off completely after such a mega shock.”

  Jemima was watching her curiously. “I have to say that I’ve never thought about it quite like that,” she said. “But I see your point, you’d go mad, just sitting waiting, feeling lonely.”

  “Exactly. It’s a delicate balance. Loving him, missing him, but making a life which doesn’t include him but will allow him back in when he comes home. But poor Louise went several steps further on. Martin must be the most amazing man. I think that he felt that Louise was as healed as she was ever going to be and he’d been attracted by a newer, more interesting problem. I can’t help wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t broken down when she did. I’m sure Martin had begun to move on.”

  “Might he have begun to step back from her deliberately, in order to hasten the crisis, as it were?”

  Brigid shrugged. “We shall never know. He was very embarrassed when he came here, although I have to say that Mummie didn’t exactly help the situation. She was very abrasive. But it was right, the way it worked. If Louise had gone back to him then she might never have struggled free.” She hesitated, feeling her way carefully. “And how is it with you?”

  Jemima didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “Bloody,” she said honestly. “I’m so miserable, I just can’t seem to raise my game.” She smiled, a tremulously brave smile. “But I’ll manage. The thought of moving is keeping me occupied. I was wondering.” She took a sip of wine. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to come and see a flat with me, would you? It’s described as a ‘studio,’ which means it’s seriously small, but it sounds quite fun. No views but a very small courtyard, sitting-out area. Just say if you’re busy …”

  “I’d love to see it,” said Brigid warmly. “What fun!”

  “Great! Thanks.” Jemima looked relieved. “I’ve got an appointment for three o’clock.”

  “We’ll get on with lunch then.” Brigid got up, paused. “But don’t forget, whatever happens, you’re booked for Christmas. Your great-nephew is looking forward to meeting you.”

  Jemima’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t wait,” she said, not looking at Brigid. “It’ll be … great.”

  “He’s growing so fast.” Brigid was fetching bowls, laying the table, pretending not to see. “I’ll show you the latest photographs in a minute. I promise you, Puddle-duck, this is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

  LOUISE LIFTED the small, cane-seated chair back into its place, manhandled the oak bookcase against the wall, and looked around the bedroom with a sense of enormous satisfaction. It was finished; the job completed. Of course, she couldn’t quite take all the credit to herself, Rory had helped, but it was a splendid achievement. Each room sparkled with a bright cleanliness and she felt quite sad at the prospect of leaving this small place which had sheltered her. Nevertheless, her gut twisted with anticipatory excitement as she thought about that other cottage in the Wye Valley.

  “You must come and see it,” Rory had said, with a lightness of tone which was not in the least misleading. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “It sounds … nice.”

  She’d known that they were both trying to imagine the scene. Would she be going as a guest or as a wife? It was easier, somehow, maintaining the distance here. This was always “the cottage” and the hotel was always “the hotel.” Neither ever quite usurped the other’s patch. “Come back and have tea at the cottage,” she’d say; never “Come back home with me.” “Shall we have dinner at the hotel?” he’d ask. Yet he talked about the cottage in the Wye Valley as “home.” “When I get back home.. “he’d say. “I’ve still got all your books, you know. At home…” They’d begun to talk about Hermione: tiny, fearful glances back in time. He was braver than she was: much braver. “Do you remember…?” he’d say—and her heart would shrivel with fear, shrinking instinctively from the pain. Yet gradually, as he had always been able to do, he led her back into the paths of peaceful, heavenly sanity, where she could walk quietly, allowing memories to unravel gently from the tiny ball of agony clenched deep inside her.

  Yet she knew that “home,” the cottage in the Wye Valley, was where she longed to be; where she belonged; the last step—if only she could bring herself to make it.

  Louise took a last glance round the room and went downstairs. Standing on the table was the Erica Oiler card from Frummie: two enormous, elderly, fur-clad ladies, tottering on tiny feet, parade arm-in-arm along a pavement. The caption: “Cruising for Boys.”

  Me and Margot, would you say, darling? she’d written in sprawling, generous letters. Except that Margot has a beastly cold. The poor dear is not looking her best. Streaming eyes, red nose, sneezing madly, blotchy cheeks, hair like hay, sleeves stuffed with tissues. So can you see it? Determined, however, to make the trip to London. Gregory’s managed to get tickets—like gold dust he tells us—for some exciting West End production, clever old thing, so we’re going up early. Not before time. The wretched Barbara is like some terrible school matron, prowling about checking that we’re not leaving the lights on too late or drinking whisky too early, which tends to bring out the worst in me. How is the handsome Rory? What a sensible girl you were to have found him! Don’t lose him again. Remember what I said and all the luck in the world.

  Louise chuckled as she reread it, imagining the wicked glint in the eye, the down-turned smile. The mere sight of the writing gave her courage. Humming softly under her breath she finished tidying the kitchen and went into the living room to light the fire.

  CHAPTER 44

  Surrounded by boxes, Jemima perched on the arm of the sofa idly looking through an old magazine. Why, she wondered, had she kept it? Once she’d started this process of packing she’d discovered that she had the tendencies of a magpie. Unlike Frummie, who preferred to travel light, Jemima realised that she’d hung on to any foolish bits and pieces which could be seen, in one way or another, as representative of her past. In the drawer of her desk she’d found cards from friends, letters, theatre programmes, menus, even a receipt from one of those meals eaten during those halcyon summer weeks. She’d smoothed it out, remembering the evening they’d dined at the Gara Rock Hotel not long after they’d first met; recalling how she’d insisted on paying. He’d accepted gracefully and she’d noted it, making the assumption that Annabel liked to keep her independence. It was still hateful to think of them together. Jemima put the magazine into the black plastic rubbish sack with a groan, and MagnifiCat leaped into the sofa beside her, rubbing his head against her, purring loudly. He disliked this upset, although he was very glad to have her to himself again, and took almost permanent refuge from the upheaval by remaining curled up in the basket chair by the window.

  “I wonder if you’re going to like the studio,” she murmured, pulling him into her arms where he lay contentedly, like some huge, furry baby. “No more balcony for you, but you might like the dear little court
yard. At least you’ll be quite safe in it but I’m not absolutely thrilled by the iron spiral staircase. No drinking too much or we’ll be breaking ankles.”

  She gave him a last hug and poured him out in one long sinuous movement on to the sofa and went back to her packing. As she started on another pile of books the telephone rang.

  “Hi,” she said, expecting Brigid. They’d begun to move some of the small portable boxes in the back of her old estate car, so that, finally, only a small removal van would be required. Brigid was practical, well-organised and knew how to make moving as painless as possible. “All those married quarters,” she’d said succinctly. On good days, Jemima had even managed to enjoy the building of her new nest. “Hello?”

  “How are you?” His voice was so familiar—yet so utterly unexpected.

  She sat down again with a bump on the arm of the sofa. “I’m… as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, Jemima.” It was a caressing, affectionate cry of regret. “Look, I’m phoning to say that I’m just so sorry—”

  “We’ve done that bit. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. Of course I do. This isn’t just some kind of conscience-soothing exercise. I feel a shit about the whole business, you know I do. I’m phoning to say … to ask if there’s any chance of you being able to forgive me?”

  She frowned, gripping the mobile, trying to see into his mind. “Oh, I don’t do forgiveness,” she said lightly. “So why should it matter?”

  A pause. “I think I’ve made the most god-awful mistake,” he said quiedy.

  She took a very deep breath, dropping her head back, eyes closed. “You think—”

  “I know it,” he said quickly. “It’s for sure this time.”

  MagnifiCat came purring back, winding himself round her, climbing across her lap, so that she overbalanced and fell backwards, right into the chair, her legs hanging over the arm. He lay across her breast, pinning her down.

  “Jemima?” He sounded alarmed. “Are you OK? I can hear an odd noise.”

  “It’s MagnifiCat,” she said. “He’s right beside me.”

  “Oh,” he said, with a little chuckle, as if the introduction of the name moved them very slightly back into intimacy. “That old poser. He never liked me much, did he?’

  “No,” she said slowly, remembering how MagnifiCat had crawled all over Rory, purring loudly with ecstasy. “He didn’t, did he?”

  ’The point is whether you did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Liked me much. Whether you still do? Enough to have me back, that is.”

  “Have you… left Annabel?”

  “We’re not together.”

  She thought carefully about this ambiguous remark. “I see. Might I ask who left whom?”

  “It was a mutual decision,” he said rather too quickly. “We realised that it was just not going to work again. The first break was the right one.”

  “I see.”

  Silence.

  “I want to come down,” he said urgently. “I know we can make it work. Honestly, I believe that Could we try? Find a place together? Begin again?”

  Jemima realised that she’d been holding her breath. She stared into Magnificat’s round, flat face; his eyes were fixed on hers. She breathed out slowly in a long, long sigh, happiness bubbling inside her. Odd that she’d forgotten what this particular happiness felt like: the lightness, the separateness, that upward swoop of joy. Now that it was back she’d be able to cope so much better with the loneliness and the pain.

  “Jemima?” His voice was sharp with fear. “Can we?”

  “No,” she said gently, sweetly. “No, I’m afraid we can’t. No,” as he burst into speech, “no, it’s not revenge or anything like that. It’s simply that I’m sure it wouldn’t work. All of a sudden I absolutely know it wouldn’t work. I’m sorry but I’m moving on. Thanks, though, and good luck.”

  She pressed the button and cut off his protests. It rang again almost immediately and this time she checked the number and then answered it.

  “Hi,” she said to Brigid. “Did you try just now?”

  “I did,” said her sister cheerfully, “but it was engaged. Nothing important, I hope?”

  “No,” said Jemima, smiling to herself. “Nothing important. So when will you be over?” She laughed aloud. “It’s funny,” she said, “but I shall be quite glad to leave now. Odd, isn’t it? Come when you’re ready. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  MagnifiCat padded over to the basket chair and leaped in gracefully. He turned round, tucking in his paws, wrapping himself about with his feathery, plumy tail. As he rested his head on his paws, eyes closed, he seemed to be smiling.

  Two WEEKS later Brigid stood at her working table, pinning heavy brocade material, listening to Book of the Week whilst Blot, a black shadow, lay curled nearby. Despite the radiator, powered by the Aga in die kitchen below, the room was cold. A northeasterly wind prowled lazily about the house, penetrating and bone-chilling, and Brigid paused, rubbing her icy hands together, aware of her cold feet and ankles.

  “Coffee,” she said. “Hot coffee. That’s what I need. Come on, Blot.”

  They went down together, his claws clattering on the wooden stairs, and into the sitting room. Now, towards the end of November, Brigid kept the two wood-burning stoves alight day and night, a glowing centre of heat, but, even so, as yet the granite walls and slate floors were cold to the touch. She paused in the hall to pick up the letters lying on the door mat and went into the kitchen, glancing through them, lifting the Aga lid and pushing the kettle on to the hotplate. Her mother’s writing, distinctive as always, caught her attention, and she put the other letters on the table and slit the envelope. Perhaps this would tell her that Frummie was coming home. She’d cleaily been enjoying herself but Brigid suspected that it would be difficult to extend the stay much longer. Although the night-storage heaters were left on a low heat in Frummie’s cottage, it would be necessary to light up the wood-burner and warm the place right through. She found that she was actually looking forward to having her mother home again and smiled to herself as she took out the sheets and glanced over them. Various phrases seemed to jump from the page and with the smile fading she reread them carefully, disbelievingly.

  … Please do try, darling Brigid, not to take this personally … it’s simply that Gregory and I get along so well… we have so much in common… such him. He has a tiny villa in Portugal where we shall spend Christmas. Oh, the lovely thought of hot sunshine. You know what a lizard I am… It’s not that I haven’t been grateful, terribly grateful, for the sanctuary you gave me but it’s so wonderful to be back in London and darling Gregory is so lonely… I can’t bear for you to feel in any way upset—after all, you and Humphrey have your own lives to lead and your own exciting new start I hope you’ll wish me luck with mine… I shall be in London with him from now on and the address is at the top of the page …We shall be back to see you of course…

  She had no idea how long she stood, holding the sheets, reading them over and over. When she looked up, her face white with shock, Alexander was standing in the doorway.

  “You didn’t hear me knock,” he said, “and I wondered if you were all right.”

  She stared at him. “It’s from Mummie,” she said blankly. “I can’t believe it. She’s bolted.”

  Her lips trembled and he feared that she might cry. “With Gregory?’

  “Yes.” She sounded angry. “Yes. With Gregory. I can’t believe it. We were getting on so well for the first time ever. And she’s just gone off and left me again.”

  He watched her compassionately but remained silent.

  “Silly, isn’t it?” she demanded with painful self-contempt. “Silly that I should care? Why should I have believed that she felt anything?” She stared about her, as if she didn’t quite know where she was. “I mean, can you believe it? Just in a letter like that. Not even a telephone call. Just a bloody letter. ‘Dear Brigid, ju
st to say that I’m bolting again. See you around and thanks for all the fish, your loving mother.’ Christ!” She began to laugh, a high, angry noise, and he went to her, taking the sheets of paper from her hand and pushing her down into a chair.

  “Shh,” he said, as if she were a restive animal. “Be quiet now. Don’t imagine things.”

  “Imagine things?” She stared up at him, hurt, but still angry. “Imagine things? I’m not imagining anything. It’s all there. Read it if you want to. Why not? It’s hardly a secret.”

  He turned away from her, not wishing to disclose the telephone call he’d had from Frummie earlier that morning. “Look after Brigid,” she’d said. “I can’t help it. Alexander, I can’t spend another winter on Dartmoor or I shall die of it. Just be around until she’s read the letter. Please.”

  “I’ll be there,” he’d said, unemotionally.

  “And don’t despise me,” she’d said, with an odd, pathetic bravado. “I’m not strong like you. Or like Brigid.”

  “My dear girl,” he’d said, “I’ve made far too many mistakes in my life to sit in judgement on anyone else.” A pause. “And how is Margot taking the news?”

  She’d given an unwilling snort of laughter. “Spitting nails,” she’d said, “but she’ll come round when she gets an invite out to Portugal.”

  Alexander had chuckled. “Give my regards to Gregory and tell him from me that he doesn’t deserve you.”

  She’d laughed. “I wish it had been you,” she’d said—and had hung up.

  Now, he made coffee whilst the clock ticked quietly but insistently and Blot lapped from his bowl of water: ordinary kitchen sounds.

  “So,” he said, putting the mugs on the table, sitting beside her, “tell me.”

  “She’s bolted with Gregory,” Brigid said, more quiedy. “He’s got a house in London and a villa in Portugal. Well, you know all that, don’t you?”

  “Yes ” he answered. “I know all that.”