The Summer House Page 4

  ‘What is it?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Nothing.’ She looked away. ‘I was thinking of lots of different things. Of where Im and Jules will go at Easter. And of Nick.’

  He looked relieved. ‘Yes, of course. It’s all a bit worrying, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s worrying?’ Milo came in behind him.

  Matt made a little face at Lottie and slipped tactfully away.

  ‘Sara just phoned,’ she said. ‘She says that Nick and Alice are having a few disagreements. She makes it sound rather serious.’

  His broad shoulders sagged and his bleak expression filled her with compassion. She wondered whether it was especially difficult for divorced people to comment on other people’s marital problems. What must Sara and Milo be feeling now; what memories must be surfacing?

  ‘Maybe it’s just a bad patch,’ she suggested diffidently. ‘All marriages have them.’

  ‘Are other people involved?’

  ‘Sara didn’t say. She doesn’t really know. Alice has gone off to her mother with the children for the half-term break and Nick isn’t invited. Sara was expecting him to lunch. I expect he’ll tell her more when he sees her.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  Lottie decided to distract him from his anxiety for Nick. ‘She said that she hoped you weren’t going to exercise your talent for philanthropy again and offer Im and Jules a home.’

  He laughed unwillingly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! The woman’s obsessed. Or perhaps she has second sight.’

  ‘I know. After our conversation about the Summer House I wondered about that too. I hung up on her.’

  ‘Good for you. Shall we have a drink? Lunch is nearly ready. Where did Matt disappear to?’

  ‘I think he thought he was being tactful. I’d just told him about Nick.’

  ‘Give him a shout.’ Milo disappeared into the kitchen. ‘We’ll try not to worry until we know the whole story.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After lunch, Milo settled in the garden room in the little upright wicker chair that these days he found more comfortable than upholstered armchairs or sofas. He loved this sunny room, with the geraniums ranged along the windowsills, and the chair cushions still covered with the pretty faded chintz that his mother had favoured. There was a low, round oak table – whose two shelves were generally piled with books – which could be wheeled close up to his chair and, on the bench along the wall, Lottie’s nests of knitting were heaped into big wicker baskets. She often worked two or three garments concurrently so that there was always a variety of textures and colour.

  The afternoon sunshine warmed Milo and he closed his eyes, taking a deep sighing breath, relaxing. He was surprised at how tense he was; after all, he wasn’t an introspective kind of fellow. He wasn’t one for dwelling on the future and depressing himself about what might lie ahead – a complete waste of energy in his opinion – but just at this moment he felt helpless. Since that wretched operation on his lung he’d been less resilient. The trouble was, he told himself, that he was worrying about all of them; all of those dearest to his heart.

  Dear old Im and Jules, for instance, not knowing where they’d go at Easter. He’d believed that the Summer House might be the answer to their problem but he could see Lottie’s point about Sara’s reaction and keeping it all for Nick. Though, to be honest, he couldn’t really imagine any of them wanting to live in the High House. Not that it was any of Sara’s business how much he sold the Summer House for – and anyway, the money would revert to his estate and Nick would get it all eventually and then, no doubt, he’d sell up. And then what about Lottie?

  Milo shifted uneasily: what would Lottie do if anything should happen to him? He knew she wouldn’t stay here without him but where would she go?

  ‘I’ve been one of the foolish virgins,’ she’d said to him once. ‘I’ve kept no oil in my lamp for the cold dark future.’

  She’d said it cheerfully enough, not asking for sympathy, but he knew very well that she’d been supporting Helen and the children in the flat at Blackheath. Tom had left enough for them to buy the flat but very little else and Lottie had contributed a great deal more than simply her rent.

  ‘I love them, you see,’ she’d told him when he’d murmured something about thinking of herself for once. ‘Helen simply couldn’t work, she’s completely unreliable, and I can’t abandon her or the children.’

  He’d muttered something else about her always having a home with him, and she’d got up suddenly from her chair and put her arms around him and hugged him. Little Lottie: funny little Lottie. Such an odd little girl she’d been with her dark mop of hair and those strange grey eyes fringed with sooty black lashes. Her hair had gone a silvery grey by the time she was thirty but she’d never bothered to dye it and he’d liked that; she’d looked so arresting, so different, and it had suited her somehow. Of course, Helen had left her some recompense in her will but all that home care, and finally the nursing home, had cost so much that, at the end, there wasn’t much left for any of them.

  Secretly, selfishly, he was glad. He’d been surprised at the depth of his relief when Lottie had agreed to make the High House her home when she’d taken early retirement last year. She might so easily have stayed in London amongst all her friends, but she had friends here, too, she’d said, and she’d rather be at the High House than anywhere else, though they both knew that the real reason was because he’d had to have the operation and she’d wanted to be there to look after him. Of course, Sara had kicked up; she’d seen the complications that might so easily arise and had told him exactly what she thought about it all.

  ‘You’ve never thought about anyone but yourself,’ she’d said. ‘Where will Lottie go when you die? Remember how much older than her you are. Much better that she sorts herself out now. You’ve always spoiled and protected her. It’s about time she lived in the real world.’

  He’d laughed out loud at that. For Sara, supported and provided for all her life, to criticize Lottie, who’d worked full time whilst trying to keep Helen sane and her children happy, was completely out of order, and he’d said so.

  ‘I shall make certain that she can stay here for as long as she wants to,’ he’d told her – and she’d positively screamed at him so that he’d simply hung up on her. Yet he’d loved her once.

  He was gripped with an unexpected and terrible sadness. She’d been so beautiful, so amusing, such fun – and she’d been so much in love with him. Or so it had seemed. He’d been naïve, of course; too young at twenty-two or -three to know much about love. It wasn’t too long before he’d realized that Sara’s affectionate behaviour in public was rather different from the sharp, critical way she behaved when they were alone. He’d remarked on it once and she’d slapped him down very firmly. By then they were married and he’d begun to understand that he was a one-way ticket out of a dull lonely life with an elderly, detached father and a tiresome small sister.

  Poor old love, he thought now. Poor old Sara.

  She’d divorced him for a wealthy stockbroker who’d cheated on her with a string of mistresses and finally left her with a tiny house in Sussex, a reasonably comfortable divorce settlement and a great deal of humiliation to live down amongst their friends. Poor Sara. She’d approached him, then; tried to sweet-talk him back to her.

  Milo shook his head: nothing doing. By then he’d fallen in love with Venetia and she with him. They’d fought it to begin with; tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Neither of them wanted to hurt old Bunny, after all: he was a good, if dull, husband and a loyal officer. Then Bunny had been very badly wounded in Northern Ireland, confined to a wheelchair, and Venetia had decided that she must stick with him.

  Of course, old Bunny had known the truth about their affair. He’d even hinted – only the slightest of hints – that he was glad of it, that Venetia needed a normal physical life and that he’d rather it was with someone he knew and trusted. And they’d always been very discreet. He’d felt guilty when
Lottie had said that about Matt being a bit shocked by his callousness to Venetia; but it didn’t do to become sentimental. It was far too late for him and Venetia to make a try at marriage. He’d been alone too long and she was a stiff-necked woman who wouldn’t want to change her ways; she was, after all, a good few years older than he was. No, no, by the time Bunny died it was already too late. Much better to leave well alone; to keep the sensation of romance alive by maintaining a little distance whilst, at the same time, watching out for her and making her feel part of the family whenever possible.

  But all the same, it was a waste. God, what a mess it all was; what an utter bloody mess. And now it seemed that Nick might be heading down that same road.

  Milo sagged a little in his chair: he felt old and tired and dispirited. His loved ones were all in trouble: poor Matt with agonizing writer’s block; darling Im and Jules and that sweet baby about to be made homeless; and now dear old Nick on the brink of divorce.

  He heard footsteps behind him, felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked up into Lottie’s eyes, those amazing eyes, and his spirits lifted slightly. She always seemed to know when his courage ebbed; her touch revitalized him.

  ‘Matt’s going off to see Imogen and Jules,’ she said. ‘He’s just phoned her and she’s invited him over to tea. I thought I’d take Pud for a walk up on Crawter. We might go on around Pool Bridge and over Wilmersham Common. Like to come?’

  She knew it was one of his favourite drives, and the walk would do him good.

  ‘Bless you, darling,’ he said gratefully. ‘I’d love it.’

  Driving out from Bossington, Matt was trying to contain his sense of guilt. He’d told Annabel that it was going to be a busy weekend and therefore not a good one for her first visit to Exmoor. To make himself feel better about it, he’d actually phoned her; made it sound as if it was going to be one long whirl of social engagements and family commitments, but agreed that she must come down one of these days. Meanwhile, he’d phone, he said, as soon as he was back in London. She’d been so understanding that it made him feel even worse, but he hadn’t wavered. There was simply too much on his mind to undertake the role of host and, anyway, it was the wrong time of year. Perhaps at Easter or in the spring: Annabel was a true urbanite and he suspected that only the most obviously pretty aspects of moor and the coastline would really appeal to her.

  He drove along Bossington Lane and into Porlock, which on this cold Sunday afternoon was almost deserted, and then out on to the Toll Road. He loved this steep lane winding through Allerpark Combe, with those huge trees clinging to its sides and the clatter of the water far below him. He slowed to watch a swirl of starlings settle like a ragged grey cloud on a gaunt, bare tree, and saw delicate, pretty snowdrops gleaming pale amongst a thick covering of crisp, crunchy beech leaves. He’d forgotten about Annabel now and was thinking about something Lottie had said to him just after lunch when they’d been clearing up together. He’d talked about all the travelling he’d done in the last two years, and how he’d still had no inspiration for the new book, although he’d been able to use the experiences for some travel articles and short stories. Not only that, he’d told her, it was as if the travelling had made his restlessness worse and his sense of incompleteness had grown stronger. She’d been stacking the dishwasher, rinsing dishes at the sink. The kitchen was long and narrow and they moved like dancers, pausing, waiting, as they passed to and fro, in and out of the breakfast room.

  ‘Have you thought about spending some time down here?’ she’d asked. ‘Oh, not necessarily here at the High House. But a bit closer to us all. You know, Matt, I have a feeling that the answer to your searching is here with us. I don’t know how. I just feel that something will guide you towards some kind of answer to your restlessness and the subject of your new book, and it will be all part of the same thing.’

  He’d paused to look at her, a wineglass in each hand, longing to believe her. He had great faith in Lottie.

  ‘But how d’you mean?’ He’d sounded like a child longing to be convinced.

  She’d frowned, taking the wineglasses from him and putting them into the dishwasher. Matt knew that later Milo would come in and repack it all. He could always get three times more stuff in than anyone else.

  ‘It’s just a feeling I’ve got,’ she’d answered. ‘That the two things are tied up together and that you need to step back from everything and wait.’

  ‘And you don’t think that I can do that in London?’

  ‘No, I don’t. There’s too much going on, and even your travelling has an ulterior motive. It’s not simply holiday, is it? You’re always making notes, testing your reactions for ideas. Step right out of it just for a few months.’

  ‘And the family bit? Being with you all?’

  She’d dried her hands and turned to look at him.

  ‘Your mother has just died, Matt. The death of someone close to us reveals all kinds of terrors and pain within ourselves. I think that you’ve never truly come to terms with Tom’s death though you’ve written out a lot of it over the years. What you don’t need to do is to fill your life with more clamour and busyness and travelling so as to silence the fears and deny the mourning. You need to allow thoughts and memories to surface. I don’t mean that you have to be introspective, cudgelling your brain to remember things; just a period of quiet emptiness with people who love you close by in case you need company or to talk about the past. We’re frightened of silence, aren’t we? Switch on the television, pick up a book, make a telephone call. Anything rather than sit in silence. We’re always trying to get away from where we are, from the here and now. We think that life is always going to begin tomorrow, or somewhere else. But sometimes waiting patiently in silence reveals things …’

  She’d rubbed her fingers across her eyes. ‘Look, what do I know? It’s just what’s come to me over these last few days, that’s all. And then you being here, and the photographs …’

  ‘They’re odd, aren’t they?’ he’d said eagerly, relieved that she’d agreed with him about the photographs. ‘As if Mum and I had a secret life somewhere that I can’t remember.’

  She’d stared at him, clearly shocked by this idea. ‘Show them to Imogen,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry, Matt. I’m honestly not trying to tell you what to do about all this.’

  ‘I know that,’ he’d said quickly. ‘And I like the idea of some quiet time. I could clear up all the odds and ends and come down at Easter for a couple of months. It sounds a great idea. I think I’d like to find my own pad, though.’

  ‘Of course you would. But your room is here if you want it. You know that.’

  Now, as he passed across Birchanger Bridge and drove up towards the toll cottages, he realized that he was growing excited by the idea. Lottie was right: he’d always made sense of life by writing about it; by retelling it to himself in stories so that he could come to grips with it. Even his grief for his mother he’d re-shaped into an odd, rather gripping short story which had been published by the ‘Books’ section of The Times. It was as if he were unable to grieve normally but must take his grief and turn it into something else: yet the familiar haunting lifelong loneliness remained. It was much worse than loneliness: it was the anguish of real loss and separation from someone dear and irreplaceable – but for whom?

  There was nobody at the tollgate so he got out to put the money in the slot and then drove on again, up the hill to the cottage.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The stone cottage was built into a fold in the hill, facing across Porlock Bay towards Hurlstone Point. With Julian’s four-track and Imogen’s hatchback pulled on to the hard-standing beside the cottage there was no room for his own car. He pulled off the road, parked opposite and climbed out. From this vantage point he could see across to Bossington: there was the High House, with its tall round chimneys, clearly visible perched high above the village and, lower down by the stream amongst the trees, he could make out the red-tiled mansard roof of the Summer House. The
sea was a soft pearly grey, smooth as ice; a container ship seemed to skate on its surface, gliding down the Channel from Bristol.

  He turned as Imogen opened the door, a finger to her lips.

  ‘Rosie is asleep,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to have a proper grown-up conversation. Come in here. Jules is asleep too, in front of the television. So tell me about Nick.’

  He sat at one of the stools at the pine counter while she switched on the kettle.

  ‘I don’t know anything more than I told you when I phoned. They’re having problems and Alice has taken the children off to her parents.’

  ‘I wonder if Nick’s been playing around.’

  He shrugged, uncomfortable with this kind of speculation. She grinned at him.

  ‘OK. I know you hate a good gossip. Listen, we’ve had details of a cottage in Dulverton. Like to come with me to have a look at it tomorrow?’

  He nodded; it would give him a chance to see if there might be anything to rent for a couple of months. It would be unlikely, of course. Most holiday cottages would be already booked for the spring and summer, and any that weren’t would be very expensive. He wondered whether to mention this new plan to Im now but, instead, decided to show her the photographs before Jules woke up.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you. I found them in Mum’s rosewood box.’ He took the folded brown envelope from his pocket and slid the photographs on to the counter. Im bent eagerly over them.

  ‘Oh, how sweet. Photos of when you were little. Oh, and older ones, too. I wonder why she kept them separate from all the others.’

  He was relieved that she showed no sign of jealousy that there was not even one of her.

  ‘Look at this one,’ she was saying, laughing in a kind of disbelief. ‘Hey, wasn’t your hair short then? And look at this one …’

  He waited, and she glanced across at him enquiringly.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you worried that she kept them apart from the others or is it that there are none of me?’