The Sea Garden Read online

  ‘Come on,’ says Kate. ‘I’ll show you your bedroom and you can unpack.’

  * * *

  Oliver drives out of the town, through Horrabridge and Dousland and up on to the moor. He thinks about his reaction to Jess – apart from the normal physical response to a young and very attractive girl. He’s picked up on the complications of her character: strength and vulnerability; determination and fear; an openness to outside influences and a strong sense of self. He ponders on the fact that everyone is shaped by external events, and wonders what Jess might have been like if her father hadn’t been killed in Bosnia and her mother hadn’t remarried and gone abroad.

  ‘Now I’m on my own I have to be careful,’ she said revealingly: careful how she responds to signs and portents now that she has nobody to catch her if she misreads them and crashes. She has no margin for error, no safety net, she’s saying, and he’s rather taken aback by his strong reaction to protect her. Luckily he has too much experience to verbalize it, and a great deal of practice in hiding his feelings. He’s let the moment pass. The age gap between them is a big one and he mustn’t make a fool of himself: he’s done that before.

  And now he, too, sees the ghosts of past years: beloved Phyllida, for whom he’d cherished an agonizingly romantic infatuation but who preferred to remain happily married: beautiful Claudia, with whom he had a brief but very physical and passionate affair; and sweet Chrissie, who adored him, but was too young for him to take seriously enough for a long-term relationship.

  As he turns in between the gates of the Old Rectory he sees Tom cutting the grass on his sit-on mower and feels relief that there won’t be an immediate third degree on Jess. He knows that Tom’s questions will embarrass him.

  The minute he sees Cass, however, he realizes that something much more important has happened and Jess is no longer the hot topic. His mother is looking excited but anxious and she glances past him as if she fears that Tom might have followed him into the house.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she says at once, ‘Gemma phoned. She’s coming home next week with the twins. She says she’s fed up with discussing the question of divorce with Guy, who simply pretends it isn’t happening, and she’s had a terrific row with Mark.’ Cass drags Oliver into the kitchen and shuts the door. ‘Your father is furious,’ she says, speaking quickly, still holding his arm, one eye on the door. ‘He thinks we are sanctioning the separation by allowing them to come here. But what else can she do? She’s made no real friends there and we have to think of the twins. Deep down Tom didn’t believe she would actually leave Guy. He thought it was just one of those blips and that she’d get over it. He says it’s absolutely wrong of her to behave like this with no plans or arrangements made.’

  He releases himself gently. ‘And what do you think?’

  Suddenly she looks frightened. ‘I don’t know any more. Of course I want Gemma and the twins nearer than they are in Canada, and I want her to be happy, but I don’t want her marriage to break up. Guy’s not really my type – he’s too much like his father – but he’s been good with Gemma and the twins. Your sister hasn’t been exactly…’ she hesitates, searching for a word that isn’t too blunt, ‘… easy,’ she says at last.

  Oliver laughs. ‘I thought that was rather what my dear sister has been. Isn’t that how the trouble began?’

  Cass stares at him for a moment. He sees that she doesn’t quite know whether to be outraged on Gemma’s behalf or amused – and then she laughs too.

  ‘Honestly, though,’ she says, ‘what on earth shall I do?’

  ‘You’ll welcome them home and give her breathing space,’ he says. ‘Don’t get heavy about this. What has she said to the twins?’

  ‘She hasn’t told them the absolute truth. She’s said that they will be coming back to live here and Daddy will come when he can. Meanwhile they think they’re having an extended holiday from school.’

  ‘Fine. So let them go on thinking that.’

  ‘But what about Tom? You know what he can be like.’

  Oliver thinks about it. ‘It’s a pity that Jess has turned up at this precise moment,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Gemma and the twins could have stayed in Chapel Street.’

  ‘But I want them here,’ protests Cass. ‘We haven’t seen them for months. What’s she like, by the way?’

  ‘Jess? She’s lovely. Rather boho. Definite personality. Look, I still think that this whole Gemma thing needs to be regarded as a time for getting things into perspective. Don’t turn a drama into a crisis.’

  There is a telling little pause.

  ‘Great,’ says Cass. ‘And shall you tell your father that or shall I?’

  * * *

  As she sits on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, thinking about the day, Jess sees that Kate has put the painting on a specially made, small wooden lectern and placed it on the little chest beside the bed.

  A sign or a portent. Bless you for everything. It’s been perfect.

  Jess gazes at the painting; she feels on the brink of something very mysterious and important. She is touched by the warm welcome she’s been given. It’s as if Kate and Oliver have always known her, accepting her and making her feel easy in an almost casual way while, at the same time, cherishing her as someone special. She’s already texted her two closest friends, who are travelling together in Thailand, to say that she’s arrived. Now she picks up her mobile and stares at it, wondering whether to try to explain to them how great everything is.

  How, she wonders, could she describe the space and silence of the moors where she and Kate walked whilst Flossie ran ahead, tail waving with the joy of it all? In that space and silence there was a sense of peace and healing and, as she sits there on the edge of the bed, Jess remembers how deeply she breathed, drawing in great gasps of the clean moorland air. The cold grip of loneliness that has curled around her heart for so long was eased as she took those deep breaths. When Kate pointed to a sinuous, dazzling glint of water away in the west and said, ‘Look, that’s the Tamar,’ Jess’s heart, freed from that chill, habitual constriction, suddenly bumped with an odd sensation of recognition. Her roots were here: here, in this part of the West Country, her father’s family once lived. Just for a brief moment she experienced a feeling of closeness to him, as if he were beside her, encouraging her, approving her journey.

  Jess puts her mobile on the little chest beside her bed: there is simply too much happening to condense it into text-speak. She looks again at the little painting and, seized with a confusing mixture of excitement, happiness and terror, she switches off the light, slips quickly beneath the duvet, curls into a ball and prepares to sleep.

  * * *

  ‘I can’t get over it,’ Tom says for the third or fourth time. ‘She’s Juliet to the life. She’s gorgeous.’

  Kate has brought Jess over for lunch and he is absolutely captivated by her. Now, after supper, he sits with Cass in the drawing-room, remembering the parties down on the Tamar and the lovely Juliet.

  ‘You’re salivating, darling,’ Cass says, leaning forward to switch channels. ‘Not very attractive.’

  Tom makes a little face behind her back. Meeting Jess has made him feel young again: strong and virile.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to admit that it’s true,’ he says. ‘It’s an extraordinary likeness. Wait till Johnnie sees her, and old Fred. We really must have a thrash to celebrate. Who else do we know who’d remember Mike and Juliet? What about the Mortlakes? Stephen always lusted after Juliet. He got quite serious about her, actually, way back before he was married.’

  There’s an odd little silence. Cass seems to be engrossed in River Cottage, her head slightly turned away from him towards the television, and Tom remembers that Stephen was also very attracted to Cass, much later on after they were all married and settled with children. He’d been a bit of a pest – but then Stephen had always been a chancer.

  Anyway, that was a long time ago, water under the bridge; Tom makes another little face and finishes his glass
of wine. Funny how Jess has really jollied him up. Oh, he’d been aware of Oliver’s sardonic eye on him through lunch, but that hadn’t stopped him. He’d been on form; a bit of a devil. Jess likes him, he can tell. He settles back to watch Hugh – ‘Sod it, where’s the corkscrew’ – Whittingstall and, glancing sideways, Cass can see that he is now totally engrossed.

  But Cass is wrong. Tom is staring at the television screen but the pictures he sees are quite different from Hugh doing clever things with ducks in his kitchen. He has slipped back forty years in time and is seeing the ballroom on HMS Drake; Juliet twirling in Mike’s arms, laughing across his shoulder, her long skirts floating and clinging to his smart uniform.

  * * *

  Tom stood at the edge of the floor, waiting for Cass to come back from the heads, watching Juliet and Mike. Juliet’s beauty was not ethereal, though she was graceful and slender; her hair and eyes were a strange mix of red and brown, the colour of a vixen’s coat. She was of the earth, earthy. The long thick hair was piled up high tonight, but long shining strands fell around her throat, and Tom imagined himself taking the hairpins out, one by one, and watching that heavy shining mass fall down around her shoulders and over her bare breasts.

  Cass tiptoed up behind him. ‘Keep your eyes in the boat, darling,’ she whispered, and he jumped and turned quickly, a self-defensive denial ready in his mouth. But Cass, as usual, forestalled him.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘the lovely Juliet. Well, she is lovely. Oh, look. Al has cut in. Doesn’t Mike look grim?’

  And Mike did indeed look grim though he tried to laugh it off, to pretend that he didn’t care if his best friend and oppo was making up to his wife. He shrugged, headed for the bar, but even Tom, who wasn’t particularly analytical, could see that Mike was cross.

  ‘Al’s the limit,’ Cass was saying. ‘He’s holding her too tight. He will do that. Lots of my chums say the same. It’s damned annoying. He knows we daren’t slap his face or make a fuss, especially with his father sitting over in the corner looking on. No girl wants to get her husband into Dickie’s bad books. Al trades on our good manners.’

  Tom muttered something about it not being that bad. He felt uncomfortable. He thought it was a fuss about nothing but Cass was right about one thing: none of these young men was going to be pleased if his wife showed herself up in front of a senior officer. After all, nothing much could happen on a dance floor. He said so to Cass, who asked sharply how he’d feel about being touched up every time he danced with a woman.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said, laughing it off. ‘I certainly wouldn’t mind if it was Juliet, I can tell you.’

  He glanced at Cass, wondering if he’d gone too far, but she was laughing again and he felt a great surge of gratitude: God, he was lucky to have her. She was so ready to laugh, to enjoy life, and his friends lusted after her almost as much as they lusted after the divine Juliet. He was damned lucky. And here came Stephen Mortlake, wanting a dance, taking Cass away, and Tom waved them off good-naturedly and went to join Mike in the bar.

  ‘That’s the penalty,’ he said, ordering a Horse’s Neck, grinning at Mike, ‘for having a beautiful wife. You and me both.’

  But Mike wasn’t in joshing mood. He looked glum as he downed his drink and his eyes were fixed on Al and Juliet as they slowly circled the floor. And then Johnnie and Fred arrived with the usual brace of pretty girls they always produced for a ladies’ night or a party. Tom made a little face, jerked his chin towards Mike so as to warn them, but Johnnie and Fred weren’t likely to pander to Mike’s mood. They’d suffered too much from his bullying in the past.

  ‘Been stood up?’ asked Johnnie genially, and Fred asked, ‘Would you like me to go and cut him out for you?’ and Mike snarled at him, ‘When you’re big enough you’ll be too old,’ and took another pull at his drink.

  Johnnie and Fred made comical faces and, grinning at Tom, ushered their girls out onto the floor. Stephen Mortlake brought Cass back.

  ‘Says she’s had enough,’ he told Tom.

  ‘Of course she has,’ said Tom. ‘That’s why I married her. She’s got such good taste.’

  And he took Cass in his arms and they moved away onto the floor as the band began to play ‘California Dreaming’.

  * * *

  Tom’s thoughts return to the present; he reaches for Cass’s hand, smiles at her. Cass takes a tiny breath of relief and relaxes a little. Stephen Mortlake’s name has raised old ghosts, reminding her of a younger, naughtier Cass, who took chances, got caught out. Clearly, Tom hasn’t made quite the same connections but she doesn’t want to pursue the topic of conversation just now. Let him think she’s jealous; that will do nicely. It will massage his ego and put him in a happier frame of mind. She squeezes his hand in return and they settle more comfortably together on the sofa.

  * * *

  ‘Who was the woman who owned the little painting?’ Jess asks. Her first few days in Tavistock have been very busy – meeting Cass and Tom, exploring the moor – but even with all these new experiences it is the painting that continues to fascinate her. It is the first thing she sees when she wakes in the morning and the last thing before she switches out her light.

  ‘Felicity,’ says Kate. Her voice is thoughtful, rather sad. ‘Felicity was a naval wife too, like me and Cass and Juliet. She had a cottage up on the moor over near Mary Tavy. Anyway, when Felicity was in her forties her husband died of cancer. It was very quick and unexpected…’

  ‘Did she have children?’ Jess feels that a little prompt is necessary.

  ‘No. No children. Felicity was the least maternal woman I ever met. No, she just carried on, as one does because there’s nothing else to do when someone you love dies.’ Kate hesitates again. ‘Well, you know that, don’t you?’

  Jess nods, remains silent.

  ‘Well then, David came down to visit his daughter, who lives near Moretonhampstead, and decided to have a bit of a painting holiday. Remember, I didn’t know him then. Anyway, he began a painting of Felicity’s cottage, which is a beautiful old long-house, and she saw him sitting out there in the lane, found out who he was, and invited him in for a cup of coffee. They became lovers.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And?’ asks Jess, fascinated by this little history.

  ‘And David spent a wonderful few weeks discovering a different direction in his work whilst having an affair with Felicity. They were both widowed, but she’d had a lover for some years – an extra-marital diversion, you might say – so her reputation led David to believe that she would be quite happy when it was time for him to return to London.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A tragedy happened. David genuinely believed that it had been one of those perfect little gifts that life sometimes gives us but he never imagined it as a long-term commitment. Felicity saw it differently. She’d unexpectedly fallen in love with him. After he’d gone back to London she tried to contact him, unsuccessfully, and then one evening she had too much to drink combined with too many of the tablets that she took for her migraines.’

  ‘Oh, my God…’

  ‘Yes. He couldn’t ever forgive himself.’

  ‘How terrible.’ Jess remembers the words: Bless you for everything. It’s been perfect. ‘How could you get over something like that?’

  ‘He didn’t. Even though it was an accident – which everybody accepted that it was – he said that she wouldn’t have been drinking so much if she hadn’t been so unhappy. I met him a year after it happened and he told me all about it. I was able to fill in some facts about Felicity, which made it slightly more bearable for him, I think, but he never really got over it.’

  ‘But you said it was Felicity who left you the painting.’

  ‘She did. She left me everything she owned. I’d been divorced and I was struggling to make ends meet. Since I was the one to end the marriage I refused to take anything from Mark, except for Guy and Giles, and I think for some reason she felt sorry for me. I’
d had an affair too, after my divorce, so I understood what she was feeling. I stopped my affair because I thought it might become a difficult relationship for the boys: they were still very young. I was in love with him so it was very painful. Felicity thought I was crazy. One day the boys would leave me, she said, and I’d be alone and, by the time she met David, that was true. Loving David changed Felicity. It softened her, made her vulnerable, and she poured it all out to me; how she loved him and how she felt so different. When I met him afterwards it was all such a shock. He came to my house looking for someone else and the first thing he saw was the painting, and so it all came out.’

  ‘And you got married.’

  ‘After a while. It took me a bit of time to leave the safety of not feeling anything. Loving hurts but at least you know you are alive. David was a good man. He wanted to give; to share. He persuaded me that it’s better to cut your feet on the glass than never to feel the sand between your toes. So I took my shoes off again and married him.’

  Jess shakes her head. ‘It’s all so weird,’ she says.

  Kate looks at her sympathetically. ‘Oldies emoting about their pasts? It’s a bit gross, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ cries Jess. ‘No, I don’t mean that. It’s just that, coming here, it’s like walking into a story. You and Cass and Tom knowing my grandparents and all being young together. And hearing all this about David. David Porteous! I mean, he’s like an icon to me and now you’re telling me all this stuff and that little painting is a part of all of that. Those words he wrote on it.’

  ‘Poor Jess. Rather overwhelming as stories go, I’d say.’

  ‘No,’ says Jess vehemently. ‘It’s good. I’ve been kind of shut in since Daddy was killed and Mum took off to Brussels. Being an artist –’ she looks faintly self-conscious, as if she might not deserve the title – ‘it keeps you on your own a bit. It’s something that makes you need to be alone for most of the time. Well, it does for me, anyway. And then not wanting to keep having to explain about Daddy, and Mum getting married again, all those things kind of keep you a bit apart. And suddenly I’ve wandered into like a tapestry or something, with all these figures, and they’re all coming to life round me. Hearing Tom talking about Granny was really, really bizarre. And the way he couldn’t get over how much I was like her. Even after all these years he remembered her.’