The Summer House Page 5

  He smiled then, and shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? But it’s not just that. Do you see anything odd about them?’

  She peered at them again, frowning. ‘What d’you mean, odd?’

  ‘I can’t quite decide. First of all, yes, it’s odd that you aren’t in any of them. But this one, for instance. I just don’t remember this jersey – or this baseball cap. And did I really have my hair that short? And I don’t recognize this car. Do you?’

  She stared at him and then looked again at the photographs. ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered, frustrated. ‘I just know there’s something wrong.’

  Across the passage, Julian stirred, and got up. They heard the sitting-room door open. Swiftly, Matt swept the photographs together and slid them into the big brown envelope. He shook his head at Im and she turned away and began to make the tea.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, as Jules came in. ‘Did we wake you? I’m just making some tea.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Hi, Matt. I wasn’t really asleep.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Imogen immediately. ‘So what was that you were watching? A snoring competition?’

  Before Jules could respond they heard a wailing cry, and Imogen groaned.

  ‘Well, that’s our civilized tea party done for. Rosie’s awake. Go up and get her, would you, Jules? She’ll be so pleased to see Uncle Matt.’ When he’d gone she turned to Matt. ‘Why don’t you want him to see the photos? You’re not really worried, are you? Nobody can remember all the things that they wore when they were young. It’s always a bit of a shock, isn’t it, seeing old family photos?’

  ‘Well, it was,’ he said. ‘I think it was just coming across them unexpectedly like that in Mum’s box. You know?’

  ‘I can understand that,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I can. Do you mind if we have tea in here? Rosie’s more manageable if I can corral her in the playpen. I’ll show you the details of the cottage in a minute. Jules quite likes it but it’s still further away from Simonsbath than we’re happy with.’

  He smiled, nodded; preparing to be a jolly uncle. Jules came in, carrying Rosie, who immediately stretched out a pudgy fist to him. Her beaming smile touched his heart and he took her in his arms while Jules and Im smiled upon them both with a mixture of affection and pride.

  Venetia stared at herself in the looking-glass: she approved of what she saw and smiled a little, as if sharing her self-congratulation with her reflection. She turned her head slightly, raising her chin, checking her jaw-line. Pretty good, all things considering.

  God, she was lucky to have been born a blonde with fine, fair skin. And these striped pie-crust-collar shirts were still very good value, hiding the less than flattering neck and lending a youthful look, very Princess Di. Lucky, too, to be naturally thin. Clothes hung well on her and her ankles were still excellent. She stuck out a leg to approve the narrow elegance of her calf and ankle. She liked to wear sheer tights and high heels, not like darling Lottie in her long skirts and Ugg boots and hand-knitted garments; mind, Milo was a mean old devil when it came to the heating bills. He still stuck to the military rule: the heating never turned on until the first of October – and not even then if the weather was mild – and off again punctually on the first of April, even if there should be snow on the ground. Lottie never complained, she simply added another layer, and they both lived in the breakfast room all day as close to the Aga as they could get without actually moving right into the kitchen. Venetia shivered. Much as she loved the High House, she couldn’t have borne it; she hated to be cold. And anyway, Dunster suited her for the time being; her pretty little house was always cosy, and it didn’t take long to hop into the car and nip down the A39 to Bossington.

  Venetia dipped her finger into a small, precious pot of light creamy foundation and gently smoothed it on to her face. Poor old Lottie with that brown skin.

  ‘Darling,’ she’d said to her once, ‘you look as if you’re rusting. Now, I know the most perfect moisturizer for you. And are you remembering to put on your sun block?’

  Lottie had simply chuckled. ‘It’s a bit too late in the day for me, I’m afraid. I’ve always been a gypsy, you know that.’

  Well, it was true: Lottie had always been a little brown girl, like a shaggy pony. Nevertheless … Venetia frowned: she hated it when a woman didn’t make the best of herself. That’s why dear old Milo still adored her, of course. He loved her femininity, though he had no idea of the punishing routines that supported it. Just as well they’d never married: she’d have had no secrets then.

  She gave a tiny shudder at the thought of Milo seeing her with no clothes on. Much better as it was, with both of them playing the little game that continued to admit the possibility of resuming intimacy whilst always postponing it. She loved him, of course she did. Oh, what a handsome man he’d been; well, still was, of course. Still thin and elegant, straight-backed and straight-legged. She couldn’t have loved a man who’d let himself go. They were both fortunate that they could eat what they liked and never put on an ounce – and those years looking after poor, darling Bunny had kept her on the run and fit as a fiddle, of course. How patient he’d been; how extraordinarily generous. He’d never grudged her a bit of fun; he’d encouraged her to get as much as she could out of her life. My God, she’d made up to him for it, though. She’d done everything she could to make his own days as bearable as possible.

  Venetia blotted away a few tears with a tissue. She’d adored him; oh, not in the mad, passionate way she’d fallen in love with Milo, but nevertheless she’d adored Bunny. And Milo had been perfectly sweet to him: sitting with him for hours, pushing him down to the pub in that wretched wheelchair for a pint. Of course they’d all joined the army more or less together. The Somerset Light Infantry it had been in those days, and one big family. Oh, what fun they’d had! She’d thought about it the last time she’d visited poor old Clara, quite gaga and beginning to be difficult with the girls who were looking after her; shouting at them and fighting them when they needed to cut her nails and wash her hair. Tragic, it was, just tragic.

  Venetia stared at herself in the looking-glass, willing back the tears: shoulders down, chin up. She’d found a photograph of Clara from those old, happy days. She’d been so dazzlingly pretty, in a low-cut ball gown, laughing into the camera. She’d managed to look imperious and naughty all at once, and Venetia intended to take the photograph into the nursing home and show the girls and say: ‘Look at this. This is the real Clara; this is the person you’re looking after. Be kind to her.’

  She shivered at the prospect of becoming like Clara; the swift descent into dependency and mindlessness. What would she do then? She’d never got on well with her daughters-in-law, and her sons were quite hopeless. What would she do if she were to become ill? At these moments she wished that she and Milo had married after Bunny was gone; that she was safe (if cold) at the High House with darling Lottie – so much younger – looking after them.

  Actually, had Milo ever suggested that they should marry? Surely he had; just half-jokingly, perhaps, and she’d made some jolly reply – and that had been that. Would it be sensible, perhaps, to think about it more seriously; to encourage Milo towards the prospect of matrimony? Just a formality, of course, and they could be very civilized about it – and she’d have people around her, looking out for her. Was it worth the loss of independence? It had occurred to her before but she’d never quite convinced herself of the absolute need of it. Things worked so well as they were.

  Venetia finished applying her make-up, checked her appearance, got up. She mustn’t get anxious; worry was so ageing. She bent to peer again into the looking-glass, gave herself a little wink. Perhaps no need to panic quite yet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lottie slipped out of the garden door, a plastic container in her hands, Pud attentive at her heels. She made her way round the side of the house to where the bird table stood outside the breakfast-room win
dow. Carefully she put out the breadcrumbs, some raisins for the blackbird, a few shreds of pastry. Pud quartered the grass beneath the table, hoping for some lucky treat, but presently he gave up and ran across the lawn towards the trees on the trail of some night visitor: fox or badger. Lottie waited for a moment, staring out across the coast to where a half-moon hung, ghostly in the pale early morning sky over Culbone Wood.

  From his bedroom window, Milo watched her. He was reminded of his mother performing that same task with the small Lottie beside her, carrying the bird food with a rather touching mixture of importance and anxiety. One of Pud’s ancestors would have been with them, hoping for a free morsel, just as some ancestor of the blackbird, which now flew down to seize a piece of bread and carry it away into the safety of the shrubbery, would have been waiting all those years ago to do the same.

  He liked the sense of continuity, and was grateful to Lottie for the innumerable odd ways she provided it; though his mother would never have gone out dressed as Lottie was now, with her Kaffe Fassett long, knitted coat pulled over her pyjamas and her feet in gumboots. His mother would have been up early, bathed and dressed and every hair in place. She’d been a tough, strong woman – but she’d loved little Lottie.

  ‘She’s the daughter I never had,’ she’d say to him, half apologetically, hoping he would understand.

  At twenty-three he’d been too old to feel any kind of jealousy; anyway it accorded exactly with his own feelings about Lottie, and her visits to the High House made him feel less neglectful about staying away so much when he might have been able to get home, and often forgetting to write or telephone. Some people actually believed that she was his sister whilst others, who’d made suggestive remarks and hints, got very short shrift. He’d guessed that Lottie had been in love with Tom. She’d never said a word, and he’d never asked, but once or twice when she’d talked about him there had been an expression on her face that had wrenched his heart. Of course, he’d never known Tom, never met him, but he, Milo, had always had a great respect for war correspondents and had absolutely agreed with Lottie’s support of Tom’s family. Thinking about it now, he guessed that Lottie would have met Tom sometime in the seventies when she’d been editing his book and, after he’d died, she’d asked if she could bring the children down to the High House to give their mother a break. Matt would have been about five then, and Imogen two. Dear little things; how they’d loved the freedom of the grounds to play in, and the big attics. Milo smiled, remembering. His mother had adored them – just as she’d adored the small Lottie.

  Poor little Lottie; how loyal she’d been to the young fatherless family. He remembered an occasion when he’d been playing a CD; Chopin nocturnes and sonatas. It was in the middle of the B minor sonata that he’d noticed that Lottie had begun to weep, a terrible, silent weeping, so that after a moment he’d moved to sit beside her and put his arm round her. She’d leaned into him, still sobbing, and they’d sat together like that until she’d recovered.

  ‘It was the music,’ she’d muttered. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? I’m OK now. Sorry.’

  He’d known then that the sonata had reminded her of Tom and he’d wondered briefly if they’d ever been lovers. He’d guessed not. But even at those moments, when a different kind of intimacy might possibly have blossomed between them, the old brother and sister relationship was too firmly entrenched for it to be possible. Gradually, friends and acquaintances accepted it for what it was and, fortunately, Venetia had made it even easier; their love affair was more or less an open secret. Indeed, a great many men envied him.

  ‘Lucky devil,’ they’d say. ‘Having that pretty girl looking after you, and a gorgeous woman like Venetia crazy about you. What’s the secret, Milo?’

  Only Sara was furious with him for having it all.

  Milo frowned. Along with the thought of Sara came the remembrance that Nick would be arriving later. Sara had telephoned first.

  ‘Nick wants to come down to see you,’ she’d said aggressively, almost as if his father would have denied him. ‘And don’t nag him, Milo. The poor boy’s very upset. Just be nice to him.’

  He’d felt a familiar surge of indignation, even anger: why did she always assume that he was going to be difficult or unpleasant? Or did she want to believe that only she understood their son properly? Milo shook his head: it wasn’t true. When Nick had been growing up they’d had some wonderful family times here at the High House, but also, sometimes, just the two of them together; some fantastic sailing holidays. And he’d always made great efforts to be around for important events at school, though the army hadn’t always made that easy. This unfair remark of hers used so often in the past had almost made him want to be difficult with Nick, but his love for his son – and Nick’s own laid-back attitude to his mother’s partisanship – always disarmed him. Nevertheless, he suspected that this visit was going to be tricky.

  Another blackbird had appeared and a battle for territory was now taking place; Lottie had called to Pud and disappeared. Milo turned away from the window and went to take a shower.

  Downstairs, in the parlour, Lottie opened the door of the wood-burner and carefully put a small log on top of the still-hot ashes. She, too, was thinking about Nick and wondering what this visit might be about. Sara had been evasive.

  ‘Nick’s going to be phoning,’ she’d said in the autocratic voice that implied she was still in charge of life at the High House. ‘He wants to come down to see his father. I hope Matt’s not still with you.’

  ‘Matt’s gone,’ she’d answered calmly, ‘but even if he were here there would be plenty of room for Nick. We love to see him. You know that.’

  ‘That’s not the point. Just occasionally, Charlotte, Nick likes to see his father alone. It’s his home, after all.’

  ‘Of course it is. And, anyway, as I said, Matt’s gone and I promise that I’ll be very tactful and keep out of the way.’ She’d hesitated. ‘I hope there isn’t a serious problem.’

  ‘No.’ She’d answered too quickly to be convincing. ‘And Alice is overreacting, of course. Get Milo for me, would you?’

  Now, Lottie closed the wood-burner’s doors and stood up, dusting her hands, pulling the woollen coat closely around her. Sara made no secret of the fact that she’d never really liked Alice; not even to Alice. Her dislike of her daughter-in-law wouldn’t help this present situation.

  Lottie stood for a moment, watching the birds on the seed and nut feeders and on the table: bluetits, a robin, a flutter of sparrows. Suddenly a much larger bird appeared. Beyond the french doors a pheasant paced the terrace, his richly coloured plumage iridescent with copper and greens and reds. He paused, head lowered, neck stretched, staring at the window in which he saw a rival: a beautiful, aggressive male staring back at him. He came closer and his reflection moved with him, strutting, thrusting, pecking at the glass, until Pud came into the room, hesitated in amazement, and then launched himself at the window, barking. The pheasant reared backwards with a startled staccato cry and ran, stiff-legged, into the shrubbery.

  Lottie laughed. ‘Come away, Pud. He’s gone. Let’s go and have some breakfast.’

  Her mind ranged over the few things still to be done before Nick arrived that afternoon. His room was ready, a fish pie prepared for supper; it was really just a question of waiting for him to turn up. She gave Pud his breakfast, pausing to smooth his silky head, and then made her porridge and cut some bread for toast. She pottered between kitchen and breakfast room, laying the table, waiting for the toaster to pop, and was surprised when Milo appeared, earlier than usual. She was even more surprised when he smiled at her, touched her shoulder, asked if she were ready for some coffee.

  Suddenly she realized that his unusual readiness to communicate was due to restlessness; anxiety, probably, about Nick. Lottie sprinkled brown sugar on her porridge and waited.

  ‘Saw you feeding the birds,’ he said. ‘Looked jolly cold out there.’

  ‘It was,’ she agreed. ‘The wi
nd’s swung round to the north-east. Nick’s bedroom is like a fridge so I’ve turned the radiator on. He might need a hottie tonight.’

  Milo looked contemptuous but refrained from comment. Lottie grinned at him.

  ‘We’re not all as tough as you,’ she said. ‘Or as inhuman.’

  ‘He’s a young man,’ Milo protested. ‘Hotties! Good grief!’

  ‘He’s nearly forty,’ Lottie said mildly. ‘Not very young. And he’s not used to our Spartan existence.’

  Milo snorted. ‘They keep that house like an oven. No wonder the children are so sickly. Always got coughs and colds and snivels.’

  He frowned, as if he’d just reminded himself of Nick’s unknown problem, and drank some coffee in silence. Lottie spread marmalade on her toast.

  ‘It seems impossible to believe that Alice would leave him,’ she said, refusing to be intimidated by the subject and speaking out. ‘He’ll have had to have done something pretty serious. I think we’re jumping the gun.’

  Milo stared at her; he looked stricken. ‘What, though?’

  Lottie looked back at him compassionately. She shrugged, pulling down the corners of her mouth, speculating on what Nick’s crime might be.

  ‘I suppose it’ll be sex or money,’ she said at last.

  ‘You make it sound like a Jane Austen novel,’ he said crossly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but those are the two usual things, aren’t they, when it comes to marital problems? Sorry,’ she said again quickly, seeing his expression. ‘That was tactless, sorry, Milo.’

  ‘It’s true, though.’ He poured more coffee. ‘It’s just … You know what they say about children of divorced people being more likely to go through it themselves. God, Lottie, I just feel so guilty about things sometimes.’

  ‘I should think it’s much more to do with the characters themselves,’ she replied calmly. ‘Nick is very attractive and he’s very kind, and his gambling instincts make him good at his job, but he’s insecure, isn’t he? He can’t resist flirting because it gives his self-esteem a boost, and once or twice it’s gone too far and got him into trouble. On the other hand, they both overspend all the time. It might be either. And it’s very early days to be talking about divorce, isn’t it? We shall know soon.’