Second Time Around Page 8

  Nine

  SUNDAY MORNING. THE JUNE sunshine slanted through the arched windows of the chapel, touching the heads of the smaller boys in the front rows and lingering on the bowl of yellow roses placed at the altar. The drowsy peace was briefly disturbed by the frantic fluttering of a butterfly as it beat its tortoiseshell wings against the glass. Abruptly it abandoned its struggle for freedom, dropping down to rest on the stone sill. The scent of the roses drifted faintly on the warm air and the headmaster’s scholarly voice was soothing—almost soporific—as he read the gentle words of St John …

  ‘Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God … Little children let no man deceive you … He that committeth sin is of the devil … For this is the message that ye heard from the beginning, that we should love one another …’

  Matron, ever vigilant from her vantage point in the choir, watched the small boy opposite. His face was dreamy and peaceful as he unobtrusively slid his fingers under the thigh of his even smaller neighbour and pinched the bare flesh. The cry of anguish was frozen on his victim’s lips as she leaned forward to look sternly at both of them. They stared back at her with innocent guileless expressions—but she saw the sharp jab of an elbow in retaliation and smiled to herself.

  ‘ …My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and truth …’

  Matron sighed deeply; thirty-five years in the company of boys between the ages of eight to thirteen had given her a rather cynical outlook. The first twenty years of her career had been at a boys’ preparatory school in Dorset. When the headmaster retired she decided that she, too, should make a change and she had come here to this small school on the edge of the New Forest. It was the right decision and she had been very happy. A succession of little boys had passed through her capable, caring hands and, after they left, she continued to learn of their achievements through the pages of the school magazine and their occasional visits. How she would miss them! She looked down into the body of the chapel and wondered how she would cope with retirement. Her glance picked out the familiar head of the History master. She knew without looking how he would be sitting; hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles and thrust out into the aisle, chin on chest. He was unconventional, sometimes outrageous, an inspired teacher—and the boys adored him. She had regulated her love for Tony Priest so that only she knew of it. It was so humiliating to have such feelings when one was over fifty; especially if the object of one’s desire was a married man. Yet the thought of leaving him, the school, the boys, was a terrible one. Her closest friend, a widow, assumed that they would enter into old age together at her little house in Winchester; or there was the option of buying a small flat, here in the town, not far from the school. She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she mentally reviewed its advantages. The most prominent of these was its cheapness but also important was the comfort in the knowledge that she would be able to keep in touch with the school; to see Tony Priest from time to time. She thought of the letter she had received yesterday from a lawyer in Plymouth; some distant relative had left her a share in a house. She had never heard of this distant cousin and was surprised that she should have been mentioned in her will. It had been suggested that she travel to Devon to see the house but really there was no point. On the other hand the money would be very useful indeed …

  The rustle of hymn books brought her to her feet with the other members of the choir and she felt for the reading spectacles that swung from a chain around her neck. The small boy sitting directly in front of her sniffed juicily and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Matron poked him sharply in the back and he turned to stare up at her, aggrieved. ‘Handkerchief!’ she hissed and he fumbled obediently in the pocket of the grey shorts of his Sunday suit.

  Tomorrow, she thought, as he blew with exaggerated ardour into the grubby square of linen, tomorrow I shall write and see what it’s all about …

  ISOBEL DRAGGED THE SHEET from her bed and the cover from the quilt and bundled them into a pile on the floor. She carried the quilt to the window so as to hang it out in the warm sunshine and stood transfixed, one hand outstretched to open the window wider. Below her, on the beach, was a girl. She was standing quite still, with her back to the sea, staring up at the house. The sun glinted on the short blonde hair and her whole attitude was one of tense expectation. Suddenly she swung round and extended her arms, fists clenched in a gesture of triumph, head flung back, eyes tight shut.

  Isobel realised that she was still clutching the quilt to her breast; her hand gripping the window latch. She had the strangest feeling that she was spying but, before she could turn away, she saw a man emerge from the house and stroll down the beach. The girl had heard his approach and stood easily now, her hands thrust into the back pockets of her jeans. Nevertheless, Isobel was aware of a kind of joy emanating from the slight figure. Her own heart beat quickly as their voices mingled with the shushing of the tide upon the sand and she saw the man—whom she now recognised—gesture towards her own cottage.

  Isobel dropped the quilt and went downstairs and out into the sunshine. James Barrington—Mathilda’s lawyer—raised a hand to her and she was aware of the girl looking at her keenly as she went to meet them.

  ‘Good morning, Isobel.’ James smiled and held out his hand. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Isobel liked James. He had recently moved back to the West Country from Oxford and had inherited Mathilda from a retiring partner of the Plymouth law firm where, as a law student nearly fifteen years before, James had worked during his holiday placements. He lived somewhere near Dartmouth and had been very willing to come out to the cove and talk to Mathilda about her quest for her unknown relatives. She had been very taken with him and the three of them had spent several immensely enjoyable evenings together. On one occasion, at Mathilda’s request, he had brought his wife, Daisy, and their small boy for Sunday tea.

  ‘This is Tessa Rainbird,’ he was saying. ‘She is Miss Rainbird’s cousin, several times removed. This is Isobel Stangate.’

  The two women looked at each other.

  ‘So he found you,’ said Isobel lightly. ‘Hello.’

  Tessa’s hand was warm in hers and the golden eyes looked anxious.

  ‘I never knew her,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it terrible? I didn’t know about her, you see. And I’ve been down in Devon so much in the last couple of years. Oh, it’s such a waste!’

  ‘Never mind.’ Isobel was taken aback at her intensity. ‘She didn’t know about you, either.’

  ‘But she was family,’ said Tessa sadly. ‘I wish I’d known her. And now it’s too late.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isobel winced at the stab of pain which reminded her of her own loss. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘Mrs Stangate will be able to tell you all about her.’ James’s voice was comforting. ‘She looked after her, you know.’

  ‘Well, up to a point.’ Isobel looked at Tessa and felt curious. ‘Do you like the house?’

  ‘I love it,’ said Tessa simply. ‘All of it. The house and the cove. It’s … Well, it’s magic, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s rather special,’ agreed Isobel. She was feeling confused. She had been prepared to dislike on sight these relatives who were to supplant Mathilda and turn the cove into a kind of holiday camp——but this girl wasn’t quite what she had envisaged.

  ‘I want to live here,’ Tessa was telling her, ‘but I have to wait to see what the other beneficiaries want to do.’ Isobel looked at James who shrugged. ‘Perfectly true, I’m afraid. If they want to sell it’ll be two against one.’

  ‘I can’t bear it.’ Tessa screwed up her eyes as though she might burst into tears but laughed instead. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Love at first sight,’ said James sympathetically. ‘Often painful. Want another look round before we go?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Tessa at once. She hesitated but James knew what
was in her mind.

  ‘I’ll leave you to go round alone,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a chat with Mrs Stangate, if she can spare the time.’

  Tessa’s face lit up. ‘Great!’ she said. ‘Shan’t be long.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ said Isobel, who had every intention of pumping James for information. ‘Come in for some coffee when you’ve finished.’

  TESSA WENT SLOWLY FROM room to room, touching the furniture and ornaments with gentle fingers and reading the titles of the books in the bookcases. Her plan to buy a cottage and live on the moor had been abandoned instantly as soon as she had entered the house. The rooms were full of trembling pearly light and the sound of the sea was like distant music. All was just as Mathilda had left it. Isobel had tidied the rooms and went in daily to dust and air the house but there was an atmosphere of friendly welcome, as though the owner had just popped out and would be returning at any moment. Tessa opened the windows in the study and went out on to the balcony. It had shocked her to learn that she had had a relative of whom she knew nothing; a woman with the same name as her own, with whom she shared a common ancestor, someone of her own flesh and blood who had lived in this magic place.

  She leaned on the balustrade and watched the great white sails of a yacht filling with the gentle breeze that ruffled the turquoise sea. On the horizon a tanker appeared to be stationary, painted against the shimmering sky, its great length rendered toy size by distance. The tide washed gently in, hardly seeming to encroach upon the shore, and the sun shone on the stone of the old house and warmed Tessa where she stood in desperate longing.

  I want it! she told herself silently. I want it.

  She remembered James explaining the terms of the will. There were two other relatives involved so that even if they loved the place as much as she did there must inevitably be certain complications.

  ‘It might be difficult,’ James had said thoughtfully, ‘all mucking in together, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said hopefully, ‘maybe they’ll just want to come for holidays or weekends or something.’

  James was silent. Tracking Tessa down had not been easy and her reaction—in light of her own losses—was not particularly surprising. He forbore to point out that almost invariably his instructions in these cases were to get the property sold as quickly as possible and split up the proceeds. After all, there was no question of Tessa buying out her fellow legatees. Despite the fairly primitive conditions in the house, its position alone ensured a high asking price. Properties of this nature were rare and it would be snapped up quickly. He realised that she was watching him, willing him to agree.

  ‘We must wait and see,’ he’d told her gently.

  Tessa thought about Isobel. She had the right to stay on in the cottage as a sitting tenant. James had explained that sitting tenants sometimes made a place difficult to sell … A cormorant skimmed the water, flying south with steady wingbeats. The tanker had disappeared below the horizon and the yacht had sailed round the headland towards Salcombe. Tessa went downstairs, locked the door carefully behind her and crossed the beach to the cottage.

  ‘I ALWAYS THOUGHT it was a crazy idea,’ Isobel was saying. ‘Leaving it to three people. I mean, why not just one? It’s bound to cause trouble.’

  She thrust the sugar bowl at him, glaring at James as he maintained a judicious silence. His brief description of Tessa’s background had filled her with a maternal concern and she felt cross that the two other as yet unknown relatives would destroy the girl’s prospects before she could enter into them.

  ‘Honestly!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s cruel, isn’t it? To see this place and fall in love with it and then be unable to hang on to it! Poor Tessa. I really feel for her.’

  James sipped his coffee. He was aware that it must be just as hard for Isobel to have lost her own security and, more importantly, her friend. He suspected that Isobel’s anger at Mathilda’s will was indirectly aimed at Mathilda. She couldn’t forgive Mathilda for dying, for leaving her. James knew how close the two women had become and how important it was for Isobel to have someone to look after, to love, to worry about. It seemed that she was about to transfer her allegiance to Tessa.

  ‘Don’t sit there looking so smug!’ cried Isobel. ‘Sorry.’ She caught herself up and sat down at the table. ‘I have this terror, you know, of these relations turning the cove into a kind of up-market Butlins.’ She folded her arms on the table and shook her head. ‘I miss her so much,’ she admitted.

  Her mouth turned down at the corners and James thought briefly of his own small son when he was hurt or frightened. Just so did he look—although a comparison between a two-year-old boy and a forty-something woman was faintly ridiculous.

  ‘Mathilda had some strange ideas,’ he said evasively. ‘I don’t know quite what was in her mind but she seemed very set on having her way.’

  Isobel snorted. ‘Nothing surprising about that,’ she said tartly. ‘But I still don’t see …’

  There was a knock on the door and Tessa put her head in. ‘Hi,’ she said rather shyly. ‘Am I interrupting anything, Mrs Stangate?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Isobel jumped up and fetched another mug. ‘And call me Isobel. We were just discussing these tiresome relatives of yours.’

  James looked at her warningly but she made a face at him. Tessa laughed a little.

  ‘I’ve longed for a family ever since … well, since I’ve been on my own. But I must admit that I could do without these two.’

  ‘Of course you could.’ Isobel put the mug beside Tessa’s elbow and pushed the milk and sugar towards her. ‘So come on, James. Tell us all about them. Don’t put on your lawyer’s face. We shall know sooner or later.’

  James remembered that Mathilda had taken Isobel into her confidence over her will, how she had always been quite frank before her at their meetings, and gave in. He explained that Beatrice Holmes worked in a boys’ school in Hampshire and that Clarence Rainbird had recently retired from his administrative post with the United Nations and had been widowed three years previously. He lived in Geneva. Both had been informed of their inheritance but, as yet, he had received no acknowledgement from either of them.

  ‘Geneva,’ said Isobel thoughtfully. ‘Listen. Perhaps he’ll let Tessa rent his bit of the house from him and he can use it for holidays. How about that?’

  James sighed. ‘It’s no use speculating. We must wait. No good getting hopes up only to be dashed.’

  Isobel looked at him. ‘Do you ever have the urge to be wildly indiscreet? ’ she asked. ‘To make unconsidered remarks? Commit yourself irrevocably?’

  ‘Not to two women at once,’ answered James, shocked. ‘Although I have been known to have a haircut on the spur of the moment, without taking advice or making an appointment.’

  Tessa laughed. ‘It’s up to you, Isobel,’ she said. ‘When they turn up I rely on you to persuade them. Convince them that it would be criminal to sell. I simply can’t bear the thought of losing it now I’ve seen it.’

  Ten

  WILL RAINBIRD—HE HAD adopted his second name, preferring it to Clarence, on his first day at school—parked his hired car at the top of the track, tucking it well in beside the hedge, and climbed out. He stood for a moment, looking about him, aware of the drone of bees in the honeysuckle that grew in the hedge beside him, smiling with pleasure at the trailing tangle of fragile dog roses. He sniffed, luxuriating in the salty scented air and patted his pockets absently as he craned about for signs of habitation. The jolly lady at the little bakery in the village up on the main road had been very helpful in describing his route to the cove. He had made no secret of who he was, although he had not yet advised the lawyers that he was in the country, and there had been a mild if discreet sensation when he had told the bakery people his name.

  Well, here was a track, precisely where the lady had said there would be a track, but there was no sign board to indicate that it led to the cove. Will located his pipe and his matches
and strolled slowly down the dusty path. Cow parsley leaned out at him, its creamy crumbly flowers brushing his arms. Red valerian and sulphurous yellow stonecrop clung in the crevices of the stone wall which bordered a field of grazing sheep. The afternoon was hot and still, with a hint of thunder in the air, and the great spaces of sky, now a purplish bruised blue, hinted at the proximity of the sea. Will packed tobacco into his pipe, his eyes fixed on the blue horizon, and listened to the sea birds screaming on the cliffs.

  The track dropped downwards and, as he came round the sharp right-hand bend, Will caught his breath at the view of the sea which appeared briefly before him. He found that he was hurrying, his feet slipping on the small stones, and as he came out on to the small fanshaped beach he gave an inarticulate cry of delight. He stared up at the house, swung round to look about the cove and smothered another exclamation as he saw the figure stretched out on the beach. She lay on her face, head on arms, and he studied the long tanned slender limbs and the dark shining hair that fell across her wrists.

  Will stood still. He guessed that this was the tenant of the cottage and he glanced quickly at it perched on its rocky plateau before taking a cautious step forward, clearing his throat noisily. Isobel raised her head, rolled over and sat up swiftly. He took another step towards her, his hands raised in a kind of supplication.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘so sorry to disturb you.’

  He saw that she was older than he had first imagined but he found her tremendously attractive and smiled apologetically as she pulled a T-shirt over her head and fastened a long cotton skirt around her waist. Her brown eyes were angry but there was a touching vulnerability about her mouth.