Second Time Around Read online

  ‘No. I telephoned Ma to say that the ship is in Devonport for a few days. Engine problems. She told me that you were down here, too, and I thought you might like to come out for a drink. I couldn’t get a reply when I phoned so I drove over.’

  From the beginning, Tessa had left her current telephone number and address with Mrs Anderson in case of emergencies but this was the first time that Sebastian had ever taken advantage of it. Tessa felt quite weak with excitement and love but she attempted to keep her voice under control.

  ‘Sounds great,’ she said. ‘So have you hired a car or what?’

  ‘I thought I might as well get about while we’re here.’ Sebastian, a lieutenant on a naval destroyer, was based in Portsmouth. ‘I’ve got to be back on board at six. Can you leave the dogs?’

  ‘Oh yes. They’ve had a long walk up to Wrangaton Beacon.’ Tessa was wishing that she wasn’t in her old jeans and faded sweatshirt. ‘I’ll just go and change, shall I?’

  He glanced indifferently at her clothes. ‘You look fine to me. Tell you what, we’ll drive over to Dartmouth and look up one or two of the old haunts. Have some lunch. How about that?’

  ‘Terrific,’ she said fervently. She didn’t care what they did as long as she could be near him. ‘I’ll bed Romulus and Remus down in the kitchen …’

  ‘Romulus and Remus?’ He burst out laughing. ‘No kidding? Rommy and Remy.’

  ‘I know. But they’re dear old things. You mustn’t laugh at them. It’s not their fault, is it, boys? Come on. On your beds and you shall have a biscuit.’

  He watched her as she stroked their golden heads and gave them each a biscuit. ‘Be nice to her,’ his mother had said, when she’d given him the address. ‘She gets very lonely, you know. And she’s so fond of you.’

  He’d puzzled a little over those words as he drove out from Plymouth and now, as Tessa rose to her feet and beamed rather shyly at him, he wondered if his mother might be warning him. He remembered how he’d made love to Tessa and suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He’d drunk too much and taken advantage of her affection for him and she’d accepted his explanation—which had been partly true—and made no demands on him. He took in her slender figure and mop of bright hair, the small face and golden eyes, and smiled at her.

  ‘OK, kiddo?’ he asked gently—as he’d been asking for the last eight years—and she grinned at him, unable to hide her excitement.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ he said—and Tessa grabbed her bag and followed him out, locking the door behind her.

  Eight

  MATHILDA FINISHED THE LETTER to her lawyer and leaned back in her chair. The day was mild for early April and sunshine streamed in through the window, which was open on to the balcony. Without moving she knew the exact state of the tide. It was on the turn, the heavy swell crashing against the wall of sand where it shelved sharply and dangerously, far out at the edge of the cove. Presently, the waves would flatten, rolling above the shelf, surging over the rocks, to run in across the beach, creaming up to the high-water mark. It was the time of the full moon and the springs were at their highest, leaving a line of seaweed and other gleanings way up on the sand.

  Mathilda pushed back her chair and wandered out on to the balcony. Behind the house, high on the cliffs, seagulls screamed as they swooped above the nesting colonies and the scent of flowering gorse was sharp on the salty breeze. Beyond the mouth of the bay a fishing boat had hove to, and two men were busy hauling up the lobster pots, bracing themselves against the heavy seas. Mathilda watched them, leaning her elbows on the railings, shivering a little despite the warmth of the sun. The doctor’s diagnosis was always with her now; the knowledge at the back of her mind whilst she read or walked, or played Scrabble with Isobel. The lump in her breast had become too big to ignore and she had no intention of allowing matters to be taken out of her own hands.

  She had summoned her GP whilst Isobel was at the bookshop and he had examined her in silence and then told her what she’d guessed already. They both realised that it was too late to hope that there was time to save her but, nevertheless, he wanted her to have an operation, treatment …

  ‘What is the point?’ she’d asked him. ‘If my life cannot be saved, what is the point of such a waste of resources on an old woman? What you have described would cost thousands of pounds. Why? So that I can die in six months’ time instead of three? Less.’

  He was silent, staring out of the window across to Start Point lighthouse gleaming white in the sunshine that shone out between scudding thunder clouds. Stabs of light pierced the dark green seas which pounded on to the beach and the wind howled and shuddered against the old house.

  ‘Why did you wait so long?’ he’d asked. ‘We could have done something if you’d come to me earlier.’

  She’d shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice it until recently,’ she told him honestly, ‘and when I did I suspected that it would have spread. Secondaries, d’you call them?’

  ‘It’s worth having a try,’ he’d said—but she detected a lack of conviction in his voice and shook her head.

  ‘Surely,’ he’d said gently, ‘you don’t want to just give up. Look at this place. Your view! Isn’t it worth fighting for? Life is very precious …’

  ‘Ah, no,’ she contradicted him. ‘Not at any price. It’s the quality of life that is important. I’ve had eighty-four years. It’s enough.’

  He’d shrugged then, his expression changing, frowning a little. ‘There may be no choice, you know. I can’t give you a shot in the arm to put you out of your misery.’

  She’d smiled at him. ‘I realise that. I need time to think.’

  He’d looked at her, taking in her frailty, the yellowish tinge to her skin, the strained lines on her face.

  ‘The pain won’t get any better,’ he said brutally, hoping to shock her into compliance. ‘Please be sensible. Let me help you. You have no family?’

  Common sense warned her not to arouse his suspicions. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘You’re right, of course. I can’t just ignore it. Please allow me some time to adjust …’

  He’d nodded, taking advantage of her more rational approach. ‘Of course. But not too long. I’ll give you a prescription but I want to see you soon.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course. Just a few days to come to terms with it.’

  After he’d gone the storm had broken; hail clattered on the roof whilst out at sea the lightning sizzled and the thunder rolled round the bay and resounded back from the cliffs. Presently Mathilda had turned away and sat down by the fire, huddling into her rug, remembering Nigel …

  The fishermen had emptied the pots and the boat was heading back towards Dartmouth, seagulls wheeling in its wake. Mathilda was visited by a moment of utter loss and despair. She knew now why people cling to life; its joys and simple pleasures and all the dear familiar things. How difficult to relinquish them of one’s own free will; how much easier to allow oneself to be deprived of them. There would be, she knew, a sense of relief in giving in, in letting some other person take control of her life, of being officially terminally ill.

  The sound of the Morris bumping down the track had the effect of stiffening her spine. Her hands clenched for a moment on the balustrade and then she turned back into the room, slipping her letter into the drawer to be put in the post box by the back door later on. She heard the kitchen door bang and went out on to the landing.

  ‘Hi. Mathilda?’ Isobel’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

  ‘Coming,’ she called back, and began to descend the stairs.

  ‘It’s cold out there.’ Isobel was unpacking bags, putting the shopping away. ‘Don’t be deceived by the sun.’

  Mathilda smiled at her, her heart warmed by affection. ‘I shan’t be. But I’m thinking of going out fishing tonight. Don’t be surprised if you hear the boat.’

  ‘Fishing?’ Isobel paused in her labours to stare at her almost indignantly. ‘Well, of course you
’re quite mad. Fishing! Honestly, Mathilda …’

  ‘You know I’m more than capable,’ said Mathilda calmly. ‘You’ve seen me going out often enough to know that now.’

  You’re not getting any younger,’ grumbled Isobel. ‘Supposing you couldn’t get the engine started or something? Sitting there in the freezing cold …’

  ‘It will be a beautifully clear night,’ Mathilda told her peaceably as she sat down beside the Rayburn. ‘Full moon and a gentle swell. The forecast’s good. Please don’t fuss.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make any difference if I did!’ Isobel pushed the pan of soup on to the hotplate and put some rolls in the oven. ‘Go and drown yourself and see if I care!’

  ‘Of course I know that you’re longing to meet these relations of mine.’ Mathilda watched her as she laid the table for lunch.

  ‘Well, I must say that I think you’re mean not to invite them down so that we can give them the once-over,’ said Isobel, stirring furiously as she brought up this old grievance. ‘I almost feel as if I know them. I’ve got a picture in my mind.’

  ‘We don’t know yet that they are alive,’ Mathilda pointed out.

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’ Isobel filled two bowls. ‘Come and have some soup. And for heaven’s sake wrap up tonight and don’t forget to take a flask …’

  THE BOAT ROCKED GENTLY alongside the small stone quay. Mathilda stood at her window, watching it. She wondered if she had the courage to do what was needed and whether it would work. Even if it did not, she reasoned to herself, she would be no worse off. She was aware of the house all around her, silent, washed in moonlight; her refuge for so many years. She allowed the happy memories to filter in to her mind, dwelling on each and then letting it go. Finally she thought of her father after his stroke and Nigel in the hospital in Oxford …

  Abruptly she turned from the window and went downstairs. On the table stood the flask which Isobel, fearing that Mathilda might not bother, had filled for her earlier. She picked it up and put it in the duffel bag that stood by the door and, with one last look round, went out into the dark. She crossed the beach as quietly as she could, her plimsolls scrunching on the sand, and, with a glance at Isobel’s curtained window, dropped the bag into the boat and untied the painter.

  Mathilda had neglected to take the launch round to Salcombe for its winter overhaul and the engine started reluctantly at the second try. She pushed the gear lever forward and headed out to sea. As she had forecast the moon was full and the water fractured into a thousand splinters of silver as a capricious breeze shivered across its surface. The beam from the lighthouse which swept the sky was pale and insignificant beside the brilliant glory of the night.

  Mathilda set course for Start Point but her chin was on her shoulder and she stared back at the cove until the cliffs hid it from her view. She was conscious of the engine puttering gently, the only sound except for the restless sea, and she huddled herself more deeply into her jacket as the boat moved out of the shelter of the land. When she was some way out, over the place where she had flung Nigel’s ashes on to the surface of the deep waters, she switched off the engine. She sat for some while watching the moonlight and listening to the slap of the waves against the hull; thinking about her life, trying to decide about her future.

  Her intention—to slip over the side and let the sea take her—needed more courage than she had imagined. Here, in the cold empty indifferent spaces, her resolve wavered; her desire to cling to warm, vital life strengthened. Sunk in her thoughts she had not realised that the tide had turned and that the wind was rising. The water was choppy now, and broke unevenly in little wavelets, rocking the boat. The breeze was cold. Mathilda, disturbed from her reverie, glanced around her and saw that she was being carried further round the Point. Suddenly she was frightened. She saw the rocks beneath the cliffs and, getting to her feet, reached to start the engine. There was no response. Terror in her heart, her hand shaking, she turned the key again. The engine puttered into life only to die again almost immediately. The tide was running strongly now but the wind was backing round behind it, driving the little boat closer and closer to the shore.

  Mathilda struggled for’ard to find the starting handle. The boat lurched and she stumbled, bruising her shoulder on the thwart before she regained her balance. Trembling, she managed to fit the handle into its bed and, summoning all her energy, she swung it. The engine’s flicker of life was extinguished almost immediately and, with a superhuman strength, Mathilda swung the handle again; nothing. Dropping it she crawled into the well beside the engine. The boat was now in shallower waters and the waves broke over the gunwales, soaking her with their spray. She opened the duffel bag with shaking fingers and pulled out her heavy waterproof. Her only hope was that the boat might lodge itself between the rocks where she could wait until help arrived. She dared not look. The thundering of the sea against land warned her that she was close under the cliffs and she lay down, wrapping herself in the coat, wedging herself firmly between the engine housing and the thwart.

  A wave lifted the boat and flung it amongst the rocks, jarring Mathilda where she lay. The boat twisted and caught between two boulders as the tide continued to recede. Shivering, Mathilda raised herself a little; the boat rocked ominously. The moonlight showed her that she was held fast under the cliffs and would soon be left high and dry by the falling tide. Cautiously she stretched her hand towards the bag and felt for the flask. The movement caused the boat to settle itself lower on to the rocks and Mathilda lay motionless, hand still outstretched. Presently she caught the bag in her fingers and dragged it slowly closer. The smooth rounded body of the flask evaded her cold, damp grip but she found the handle of its plastic cup and drew it carefully out of the bag. Barely moving she unscrewed the cup and then the top of the flask, blessing Isobel’s thoughtfulness. The smell of hot coffee brought tears to her eyes and she began to cry weakly as she dribbled the liquid into the cup.

  The pain, which was always with her now, threatened to overwhelm her and she felt inside her jersey for the little bag of painkillers which she had put on a leather thong around her neck. She managed to insinuate three tablets into her mouth and washed them down with a gulp. A last wave surged up against the rocks, jolting the boat and spilling the coffee, and Mathilda grasped at the flask, feeling for the lid. She gulped back another mouthful but resisted the urge to finish it, knowing that she would need some later. Weakness engulfed her as she pushed the flask into the bag and tried to make herself comfortable. The boat seemed to be firmly held and she prayed that an early fisherman out of Salcombe would spot her; or perhaps the incoming tide would lift the boat free. She burrowed into the waterproof, pulling it across her face and felt the nagging pain begin to recede. Consciously willing her muscles to relax she felt exhaustion overtake her. She seemed to be sinking into a cold dampness which received her kindly, numbing her gently into insensibility …

  The moon sank into the west and the chill light of dawn showed bright fingers of light along the horizon. The sun rose. A fishing boat motored out of Salcombe harbour and headed for the fishing grounds. Others followed but no one noticed the small boat half hidden amongst the rocks. A walker, taking her early morning constitutional on the cliffs above, was the first to spot it. She shouted down to the bundle curled on the bottom boards and, receiving no reply, began to run as fast as she could back to Hope Cove.

  ‘I TOLD HER,’ WEPT Isobel. ‘I told her that she shouldn’t go. That she was too old.’ She stretched her arms across the kitchen table to the young coastguard who watched her sympathetically. ‘I said—I actually said—“Go and drown yourself and see if I care!”’ Isobel put her head in her hands and cried in earnest.

  ‘We got the boat off,’ he told her. ‘The engine wasn’t working. Our guess is that she was carried round the Point by the tide and swept into the rocks.’

  He pushed the mug of tea closer to her elbow. He was a local boy and he’d recognised Mathilda’s boat at once. As soon as he was ab
le, he’d driven down to the cove and found Isobel frantically telephoning the coastguard. He told her that Mathilda had died of hypothermia and exhaustion and that the doctor had also noticed advanced stages of cancer. Shocked and silent, Isobel had sat staring at nothing while he made tea and attempted to comfort her. All at once she had begun to cry, the tears spurting from between her fingers, and he’d wondered if he should call her doctor or take her to the surgery.

  ‘She did it on purpose.’ Isobel sounded a little calmer, although sobs burst from her uncontrollably. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted operations and things. If only I’d known. Oh God …’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She was always going out on her own, wasn’t she? My dad said she’d done it all her life. No reason why she shouldn’t go last night. Lovely clear night, it was.’

  Isobel looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m a bit late for work. Only I don’t like to leave you. Is there somebody you could phone up? I could give you a lift.’

  ‘No.’ Isobel shook her head and attempted to control her trembling lips. ‘I’m OK. You’ve been great. Honestly, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  He tucked his chair under the table and she followed him out on to the beach, raising a hand to him as he climbed into his car and disappeared up the track. Keeping her eyes resolutely away from the empty house, Isobel wandered down to the sea. The sun shone in her eyes and a gull cried mournfully as it drifted above her, white wings outstretched. She thought of Mathilda, of the fear that she must have known during the long cold night, and the tears streamed unchecked down her face. She tried to imagine her own life without Mathilda; without her dry humour or her companionship; without the refuge she had given her against the storms. Now she had no one. Isobel sat down on a rock and, bending her head towards her knees, gave herself up to grief.