The Courtyard Read online

  ‘Really?’ Sam sat down. His glance slid over Gillian and came to rest on her face. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounds promising so far.’

  ‘Hang on,’ protested Gillian. ‘I’m a drone, remember. I hate work.’

  ‘In that case we speak the same language, lady.’ Sam nodded at her and she gave him a tiny intimate smile.

  ‘That’s why it’s a brilliant idea,’ argued Simon. ‘All you need is the right person and you’ll both make some money.’

  Sam and Gillian looked at one another. He sent her an almost imperceptible wink.

  ‘You have our attention,’ said Gillian, raising her glass. ‘I wouldn’t like to miss out on a new experience. OK, Simon. Spit it out!’

  Nine

  GUSSIE LEANED HER ARMS on the stone balustrade and gazed out over the countryside: the Courtyard, Nethercombe woods, the little stream bordering Nethercombe’s fields where their own herds browsed contentedly. Home! Even after a few weeks her heart still swelled and throbbed at the word.

  She had been amazed to find Henry at her bedside at the flat, protested feebly when he talked of carrying her off to Devon and had sunk luxuriously into being nursed back to health by Mrs Ridley. It had taken longer than she could possibly have imagined. Weakened by her poor diet during the long winter, she had no strength left to fight the infection and even now in early May, with the rhododendrons just coming into flower, she still felt weak but it was a weakness that was purely physical. The fears and doubts of living alone, of making ends meet, of simply existing had vanished away. Henry made it quite clear that her pensions were her own but Gussie’s pride insisted that she pay a small sum for her keep and Henry, realising that she would feel happier if she did, accepted it. Even so, it left Gussie feeling relatively wealthy and she had many happy moments imagining how she would spend her money, once it had accumulated, to the benefit of Nethercombe.

  Now, for the first time for more than forty years, Gussie felt that she was not alone. Looking back, she knew that she had never felt as much at home anywhere as she did here; not in the army quarters as a child nor in her flats in Bristol, and she knew that the medicine which had done her most good was the news that she was to live permanently at Nethercombe. She could hardly believe it and, when Henry had assured her that it had been in his mind for some while but he’d feared she might not want to give up her independence or leave her friends in Bristol, tears slid weakly down from beneath her closed eyelids. He wanted her, it seemed; needed her. Even loved her? She had been given two rooms on the corner of the east wing with a bathroom adjoining but Henry made it clear that she was to look upon the rest of the house – apart from the set of rooms upstairs that he and Gillian used – as her home too.

  Her first thought, when she was stronger and her mind was clear again, was how on earth Gillian had taken the news. There certainly seemed to be no change in her behaviour which was still casual, easygoing, natural. She often spoke to Henry in a way that made Gussie wince, making no effort to dissemble or hide her feelings in any way and, after a while, Gussie managed to harden herself to it. It didn’t take long for Gussie to discover that Gillian was rarely around during the daytime and often not in the evening either but she tried to keep out of their way as much as she could, spending time in her own rooms, in the grounds and in the kitchen with Mrs Ridley. Here a real alliance had sprung up, neither of them saying much but both definitely on the same side. Sometimes Gillian spent the night with her friend Lucy in Exeter and, whenever she appeared in the kitchen with this particular piece of information, the two women would stiffen at their tasks and when she’d gone their eyes would meet and exchange a look of understanding.

  ‘Real fond o’ that Lucy,’ Mrs Ridley would say, kneading dough with a rhythmic twist of the wrist.

  ‘I never think of Gillian as a girl who gets on particularly well with her own sex,’ Gussie would say thoughtfully, polishing the silver.

  ‘Which is quite wrong of me, Lord,’ said Gussie now, looking out over the woods. ‘Encouraging Mrs Ridley to gossip and undermining her employer’s wife. Not to mention making judgements. “Judge not, lest ye be likewise judged.” But I know quite well that she is deceiving Henry and it’s a terrible thing to have to stand by and do nothing. I know that You will deal with her accordingly. “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” But it’s hard. You’ve got to admit.’ She paused, wondering why it was so hard, and discovered a tiny unpalatable truth lurking in a dark corner of her mind. She hauled it out into the light and had a good look at it. Presently she sighed. ‘You’re quite right of course, Lord. Always the dear self. The truth of the matter is that I find it very hard to let her go on believing I’m such a stupid old woman that I can’t see what she’s up to.’

  She leaned forward to watch Mr Ridley cutting the lawns which ran down to the Courtyard. She knew that he loved his mowing, seated on the machine, driving to and fro across the grass: his cap was perched at an angle and even the set of his shoulders looked jaunty. Gussie smiled and then looked serious again. Her second thought, after her arrival, had been for Nell. She missed her so much and was eternally grateful for all she had done for her during the last three years. She knew now that she would never have managed without her, especially during the last year. Nell may not have offered her a home but she too had made her feel needed. Despite the age difference she was the best and dearest friend Gussie had ever had and the one fly in the ointment was leaving Nell behind. She told them this one evening during supper and Henry insisted Nell should come to stay whenever she was able to and Gillian smiled at him oddly and said she certainly must, and John and Jack, too. Henry had blinked a little and said that, naturally, they were all welcome. Gussie remembered this little scene now, with the sun warm on her back and the swallows wheeling above her, and she frowned a little. There had been something in Gillian’s voice …

  ‘“The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la …” ’

  She turned in surprise as Henry came out on to the terrace behind her. She’d assumed that he was helping with the silage at Higher Nethercombe since the tenant farmer had broken his ankle. Henry was always ready to muck in and lend a hand wherever it might be needed.

  ‘Wonderful day!’ he said. ‘Watching the swallows? Mrs Ridley says is it warm enough to have coffee out here?’

  He was tilting back the wrought-iron chairs which always stood on the terrace and Gussie’s heart filled and overflowed with love and gratitude.

  ‘Oh, I think it is, Henry, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and help her carry.’

  Henry strolled to the balustrade and he, too, looked down at Mr Ridley and beyond him to the Courtyard. It was doing very well and Henry allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. It had been a quite terrifying project for one of his temperament and yet, despite the recession and the slump in the housing market, the Courtyard development was gradually working, the cottages selling. Henry blew out his lips in grateful recognition of what a disaster it might so easily have been. The Beresfords, who had bought the very first conversion, had spent Easter in their cottage and the new young man in his midtwenties who had bought the smallest cottage was settling in happily. Henry frowned a little, cudgelling his memory. Guy. That was it. Guy Webster. He ran a yacht brokerage in Dartmouth and was often away, moving boats to and fro. He wanted somewhere in the country, he told Henry, but where there would be somebody around to keep an eye on things during his absences. The Courtyard was perfect, he said, although Henry suspected that Guy had a reservation that it might be a little too friendly. He looked like someone who kept himself to himself. Henry had bent to stroke the golden retriever which was always at Guy’s heels.

  ‘Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Bertie, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ They both looked at Bertie who looked back, unused to this concentrated interest. He wagged his tail a little and looked at Guy. ‘My mother breeds them,’ he said, almost reluctantly, and Henry knew that he was right and that this was a ve
ry reticent young man who resented parting with any information about his private life.

  ‘Well, you know where we are,’ he said lightly. ‘Don’t be lonely. You’re all on your own down there at the moment. The Beresfords only use their cottage for holidays. Let us know if you’ve got a problem. When you’ve settled in you must come up for a drink and meet my wife and my cousin. And Mr and Mrs Ridley.’

  They parted and although a week or two had passed, Guy had not yet been up for his drink.

  Plenty of time, thought Henry. And now there was another prospective buyer coming to look at one of the two remaining cottages. Usually his agent showed people round but this morning there had been a hitch and Henry agreed to meet the client at eleven thirty down in the Courtyard. As he heard the coffee arriving behind him, he had an idea.

  ‘Got a woman coming to view,’ he told Gussie, strolling over to the table where she was assembling cups and saucers. ‘Mr Ellison can’t make it. Like to show her round?’

  Gussie stared at him, arrested in the act of pouring. ‘I?’ she said, round-eyed. ‘Oh …’

  ‘Why not?’ Henry sat down. ‘You know the setup as well as I do now. You’ll do it much better. Get myself tied up in knots.’

  ‘Oh, Henry!’ Gussie passed him his cup, a spot of colour burning in each cheek. ‘I should love to, of course …’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said Henry comfortably. ‘It’s a Mrs Henderson. Now I can have my coffee in peace and get back up to Higher Nethercombe. I don’t think this weather will hold much longer.’

  He stole a glance at the silent Gussie who was now sitting bolt upright in her chair, gazing in front of her. Her lips moved silently and he wondered if she was having one of her frequent conversations with the Almighty or rehearsing the details of the cottage.

  Henry smiled to himself and sipped his coffee. It had been a good day when Nell telephoned from Bristol and he’d decided to offer Gussie a home. Nell. At the thought of her the smile softened on his lips and his eyes grew dreamy. How beautiful she was and how kind she’d been to Gussie! He remembered her cry, ‘But will Gillian?’ and his smile faded.

  Gillian had behaved very well; much better than he’d dared to hope. She made no demur at the idea of Gussie coming to live at Nethercombe. Rather to the contrary, she’d seemed to welcome it. Henry was deeply relieved, touched by her generosity and suggested that now might be the time for thinking of redecorating their private sitting room upstairs. Gillian opened her eyes at him and he felt as though he were treating her as he might a child or offering her bribes.

  ‘Lovely idea,’ she said. ‘Come into some money, have we? That’s a lucky coincidence, isn’t it? Just as Gussie’s arrived.’ She laughed at his confusion. ‘I’ll look around. Get some ideas together.’

  He had begun to notice, however, since Gussie’s arrival she was at home even less than she’d been before and he wondered if she had seen Gussie’s presence in the house as a possible cloak for her own activities. Henry sighed and stirred. Gussie was getting to her feet.

  ‘I must go and keep my appointment, my dear,’ she said, her voice vibrant with pride.

  Henry smiled up at her. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Bring me back a sale.’

  ‘I shall do my best, Henry.’ She smoothed down her tweed skirt and patted her hair. Henry watched affectionately.

  ‘“She may very well pass for forty-three,” ’ he sang, ‘“In the dusk with a light behind her!” ’

  He grinned at her and she made a shocked face at him. At the end of the terrace she turned.

  ‘Henry?’ she said. He raised his eyebrows, still grinning. ‘Drink your coffee! It’s getting cold!’

  JOHN SAT IN THE little study with his head in his hands. Never before had he felt so alone as he did now. He could never have imagined how much he would miss Martin; how desperately he longed to have someone to talk with who knew exactly what was going on, from whom nothing need be hidden. Friendship and camaraderie were what had carried him through in the Navy. Now, without Martin’s cheerful optimism, problems were almost too difficult to bear. John didn’t have his easy way with people, his ability to lie his way out of trouble, his instinct to make light of disasters. But it was more than that. It was just the fact of Martin himself, there, bustling about, jollying him along: coming in with a bar of chocolate or a sandwich for him, taking him to the pub at lunch time for a pint, slapping him on the back with relief when they solved a problem, calmly talking things through when life was getting too much for him. Nothing ever seemed quite impossible to cope with when Martin was around. And now John was alone.

  He groaned aloud. The sheer emptiness of the office, the silence, almost defeated him before he got through the door each morning. While Martin was with him, encouraging him, showing him the advantages, he’d believed that he could do it alone. He’d come home to Nell and told her, his heart still high with hope, boosted by Martin’s assertions that he would succeed. Nell stared at him, anxiety plain on her face.

  ‘But how will you manage alone?’ she asked. ‘If Martin doesn’t think there’s any point in carrying on, is it sensible?’

  He told her that Martin was under pressure to go back to his wife and he put forward Martin’s theories about how he might do even better alone. Nell, however, was not convinced and John could feel his hard-won confidence seeping away. As usual, he masked his fear with anger.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I manage?’ he asked, his voice loud. ‘Why can’t you ever support me?’

  ‘I have supported you,’ she replied. ‘Be fair. You know I have.’

  But he didn’t want to be fair. She had roused his demons of insecurity and fear and they would not be quieted without a scene. He’d lost his temper and then had flung out and gone down to the pub. He returned, as usual, repentant and in desperate need of her love and she’d given it. But for how long could their relationship bear the strain?

  Martin kept his word and provided enough money to keep all the creditors quiet, if not paid off, and two weeks later John sold a very large property to a company which was sending one of their employees to work in the area. The deal went through quickly and John’s spirits flew up on wings of hope. Nell, who was learning lessons, didn’t point out that it was probably just an enormous stroke of luck but enthused with him, agreed that the tide was turning and that things were going to be all right. For three days he lived on cloud nine, buying her flowers and taking her to the theatre. He booked a table at their favourite restaurant and took her out to dinner and it was so wonderful to see him relaxed, happy, talkative, that Nell threw all her caution away and laughed with him. Euphoric, delighted with themselves and the evening, they staggered home and made wonderful, satisfying, ecstatic love for the first time in months.

  Now, John shook his head and felt like weeping. Why did life have to be so cruel? So relentless? The money had gone so quickly; there were so many expenses and, unlike Martin, John panicked at the final demands, the threats of court action. He seemed unable to hold creditors off with a placating telephone call or lies about imminent sales. His own bank manager was continually on his back and now this letter from the building society was the last straw. It had been impossible to keep up with the mortgage payments on the cottage at Porlock Weir and John had been keeping his fingers crossed that a miracle would happen and he would be able to pay it all back in a lump sum. Unfortunately, the quarterly payment for their own rent had also fallen due when he’d been in funds and, what with one thing and another, the mortgage payment had been put aside yet again. But to foreclose! John beat his forehead against his clenched fists and gave a dry sob. How on earth had it mounted up so quickly? Six months’ back payments were due and the society had had enough. He’d arranged that all communications should be sent to the office, thus preventing Nell from seeing and opening the letters, but lately he’d been putting the familiar envelopes unopened into the bottom drawer of his desk. He simply couldn’t face them. He remembered, too late, Martin’s advice.
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  ‘Keep talking to people. Let them know you know the problem and are trying to deal with it. Never ignore people you owe money to!’

  But how was he to tell Nell? He couldn’t go to his mother for help. He knew that she simply didn’t have that sort of money tucked away and was finding it difficult enough to live on the widow’s allowance of his father’s army pension. She’d already helped him out and now, anyway, she was in hospital. John raised his head and stared ahead. The cottage would have to go. With the mortgage paid off there should be enough spare to pay Jack’s school fees for the next year at the very least and the rest would straighten up their own financial muddle; the bank, Barclaycard, the usual bills. It would have to be sold. He imagined Nell’s face and put his head back in his hands. He couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t face her. Perhaps something would turn up. He opened the drawer in his little desk and took out a miniature bottle of whisky. He needed something to keep him going. Putting the bottle to his lips, he gulped back a mouthful of the strong golden liquid. He swallowed, rubbed his lips and fetched a great sigh. After all, another day or two might just turn the tide. He took another swig. It would be foolish to act precipitately; he needed time to think. And he was so tired. John sighed again and took another smaller sip. The whisky warmed and soothed, dulling his fears, making light of his terrors. He seemed to hear Martin’s voice in his ear.

  ‘Don’t let the buggers get you down.’

  He smiled a little and his eyelids grew heavy. He was so damned tired. No, he simply mustn’t panic; anything could happen. Anything … John’s head drooped forward and presently, with his forehead on his arms, he slept.

  Ten

  GILLIAN SAT IN COOLINGS waiting for Sam. Although they’d met several times since that first occasion with Simon, this was the first time she’d agreed to see him alone. To her surprise she was nervous. Ostensibly, this was a business meeting but Gillian knew that for both of them it was more than that. Hitherto, Simon had been there, keeping the situation under control, and Gillian’s heartbeat hurried a little as she thought of being alone with Sam. Simon had seen none of the signals that passed between them. He was too absorbed in their new project, or rather, Sam’s project.