A Summer in the Country (11 page)

She stumbled behind Frummie into the bedroom and, kicking off her shoes, collapsed into the bed.

Frummie pulled the quilt over her and stood for a moment, staring down at her.

“You have to have a strong head for malt whisky,” she murmured kindly.
“Not
married. Well, well, well.”

She wandered unsteadily from the room, visited the bathroom, sat for a moment on the side of her bed. The moon peered, not quite full, staring in at the window. She stared back belligerently, rocking a litde.

“Bugger off!” she said distinctly and, turning her back, she pulled her blanket over her head and fell into instant slumber.

“I've never even met him,” said Brigid wretchedly, for the third or fourth time. Sleep seemed out of the question and, although they were now upstairs, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed whilst Humphrey lay stretched out, ankles crossed, his arms folded behind his head. “I know you've told me things but, let's face it, your stories about him have hardly endeared him to me.”

Humphrey was silent. It would be specious, at this late stage, to attempt to gloss over the negative aspects of his father's character; nor would Brigid be taken in by such an attempt. He thought of one or two remarks but realised that each of them was open to criticism. The obvious retort was “It's OK for you. You'll be in the Bahamas.” He could point out that they'd already taken her mother in for the rest of her life, whilst his father only asked for a few months' sanctuary, but he was waiting for Brigid to think of that one for herself. Meanwhile, Humphrey remained carefully silent.

Brigid looked at him. “And what about our autumn visitors? Do I tell them they can't come?”

“I was wondering,” said Humphrey, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, “whether he could use the stable wing. If either of the boys comes home they'll have to muck in together.”

“You're joking?” Brigid's voice was laced with panic. “I don't want him in the house with me. He'd have to use the kitchen, you know that. That's why we had to give Mummie the cottage. The wing isn't self-contained.”

“That wasn't the only reason,” said Humphrey gently, “was it? The thing is that Frummie is a… long-term proposition. Father's asking for three months with us before he moves into his other place.”

Brigid thought: Three months with
me.
With
me,
not with you. You won't be here!

She drew up her knees, her long arms locked around them, and rocked herself, resting her head on her knees.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said, her voice muffled. “You're thinking three months isn't much to ask since we've allowed my mother to have the other cottage with no strings attached. I know all that. It's simply that I don't know your father and… you won't be here.”

Humphrey uncrossed his legs and pressed one of them against her thigh. It was a loving gesture, showing a kind of solidarity, an understanding. She wasn't accusing him even if she might be thinking it. Brigid was too fair-minded for that; she was just stating the case.

“It seems he has nowhere else to go,” he said after a moment “Well, he has one or two friends who could fit him in for short bursts but it would mean being shunted about like a parcel. He's a bit old for that sort of thing.”

Brigid raised her head. “I'm surprised you should care after the way he behaved to your mother,” she said protestingly.

Humphrey shifted a little. “Are you? You shouldn't be.”

“Oh, I know all that,” she cried. “I know it's the same with me and Mummie. It's just… too much.” She feared that she might suddenly burst into tears and caught herself back from the edge of such self-indulgence. She longed to tell him about Jenny, to share her fears with him, but was even more afraid of his reaction. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It's just a bit of a shock. The thought of having both of them here is… slightly overwhelming. But I can't have him with me in the house for three months, Humphrey. I simply can't.”

“OK.” He sounded quite calm. “That's perfecdy reasonable. In that case, it'll have to be the cottage. Have you got any October bookings yet?”

She shook her head. “The Davisons aren't coming this year. He's had a slight stroke and they've cancelled. Louise's down for the middle of September and that's it, at the moment.”

“Right. So I'll write and tell him that he can be here from the last week in September. He'll have to find somewhere else for the first two weeks. It seems he needs somewhere from early September until the end of November but I don't think it's too much to ask if he has to stay with one of his friends for a week or so to begin with. We might lose a bit of income for those three months but I expect we can live with that. Thank God he doesn't need a permanent home or my retirement plans would be right up the spout. We can't afford to lose another cottage.”

Brigid's stomach contracted with terror. “I suppose we'd manage,” she muttered. “You'll have your pension and your gratuity.”

“We shall need it,” he prophesied cheerfully. “I'm very expensive. Anyway, we want to make up for lost time, don't we? We're going to have lots of fun together.”

He was trying to cheer her up, to help her to look beyond the temporary problem of his father, but his words struck her like blows. How could she possibly tell him that there might be no cottage or that the mortgage would have to be substantially increased to deal with Jenny's disaster?

“Of course we are.” She struggled to sound convincing.

“Well, then. Come and give us a cuddle.”

She crawled up the bed and surrendered herself to his warm embrace.

“I shall miss you,” she mumbled—and realised that it was terribly true; that she couldn't bear the thought of six long months without his reassuring bulk and steady cheerfulness. Her arms tightened about him and he held her closely, entwining his legs with hers.

“Home for Christmas,” he reminded her, longing to reassure her, angry to have to leave her in such a predicament but wise enough to know that railing at fate was pointless and exhausted one's mental resources. “What shall I bring you back from the Bahamas?”

She laughed, comforted by his presence, momentarily resigned, filled with a kind of desperate carelessness. “A coral necklace,” she said. “Beautiful enough to drive all my friends wild with envy.”

“Done!” he said—and bent to kiss her.

T
OWARDS DAWN,
Louise woke with a dry mouth and pounding head. She lay for some moments, frowning, until she remembered—somewhat fuzzily—the events of the preceding evening. Stiff with embarrassment she tried to remember exactly how much she had told Frummie, wondered how much the older woman would recall. They'd both had far too much to drink but she suspected that Frummie's capacity for alcohol was much greater than her own and could only trust that she'd have too much tact to mention Louise's indiscretions.

Groaning quietly she sat up, clutching her head, realising that she was still fully dressed. Slipping her feet into her shoes, picking up her shawl as she passed through the living room, she let herself out into the cool, fresh morning. The soft, clean air washed over her like water and the familiar distant sound of the river calmed her troubled spirit. In her own kitchen, she poured a tumbler of orange juice, gulped it back greedily and refilled the glass. Sipping more slowly now, she climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom to switch on the shower. She stripped, dropping her crumpled clothes in a pile, and stood, head bowed, beneath the hot jets of water, letting them stab and prickle on the back of her neck. Gradually, weariness, stiffness, the patina of sticky grubbiness were slowly washed away, gurgling with the water, down the plughole.

Dressed again in clean jeans and a warm, fleecy shirt, she stood at the living-room window, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the sunrise. Rosy light, streaming from the east, touched the world alive; reaching with long bright fingers into valleys and combes; smoothing rough, stony tors with gold; caressing dark, massed woodland into fiery, leafy filigree. The doves whirled up, their wings dazzlingly white against the pure tender
blue of the
sky, swooping and wheeling in an aerial dance of delight.

The voice, behind
her, seemed
to drift in from the
hall,
plaintive, anxious.
“I've lost Percy, Mummy. Have you
seen
him anywhere?”

Louise closed
her eyes
against the brightness of
the
doves' wings, against
her own hot
tears. Tired, confused,
she
felt quite weak with a sudden onslaught of despair.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice shook. “So terribly sorry.”

She turned, staring round the empty room, into
the
deserted hall beyond, and then with trembling hands switched on her radio and made some coffee.

She thought: I'm going mad. What shall I do?

Flight was the only solution: flight into busyness, planning, doing; escape through exhaustion so that there was no time to think about the past. Only it wasn't working
any
more; her carefully built defence mechanism was crumbling. Why? Why now?

She thought: It's because of Martin. The shock of it has unbalanced me. Concentrate on Martin. It can't be Carol. Frummie's wrong. He can't stand her. It can't be… she's so
obvious.
Everything he loathes.

Gradually, by sheer willpower, she drew away again from the abyss of that other, darker fear, and began to make some breakfast. Singing with the radio, talking to herself, she drove back the haunting echoes, back behind the wall which had contained them for so long.

“I
KNOW
it's early,” said Jemima ruthlessly, “but you've got
a
long way to go. And I have my reputation to think about”

He stared up at her blinkingly, his face creased with puzzled, unwilling irritation. “What time is it?”

'Time you were gone. Coffee's ready.”

“Can't you bring it in here?”

“No,” she said—and went away.

He dropped back, face down in the pillow, but he was already mentally alert, considering. He'd broken one of his rules but he couldn't bring himself to regret it and he was wondering how much further he might go. Not just one night—but two. He felt a clutch of self-preservation which he immediately combated with bravado. So what? He was down in the West Country on business for three days—nothing odd about that—and he'd carefully covered his tracks but it was still a great risk. He rolled over, stood up and, dragging his bathrobe round him, wandered out into the passage. The sitting room was swimming in bright watery light and he frowned against it as he tied the towelling belt around his narrow waist The cat with the outlandish name was sitting in a basket chair staring at him with an inimical gaze.

“I don't like you either, Buster,” he muttered. ‘Why don't you go catch a mouse? Be useful, why not?”

Jemima came in from the balcony and raised her eyebrows. “Not dressed yet? Well, have some coffee now you're here.”

He tried to catch her as she passed but she eluded him so naturally that he wondered if she'd even noticed his attempt. He sat down, a slight dissatisfaction tingeing his sense of physical wellbeing.

“You seem to be in a hurry to get rid of me.”

Jemima smiled, poured some coffee and realised quite suddenly that she was bored with him. She was possessed by a great need to be alone. It might have been that conversation with Louise which had spoiled her contentment in his company but, whatever it was, the magic was gone. It had coloured that first evening and she'd been edgy when he'd arrived, unable to respond quite so readily. He'd been suspicious, disappointed, and she'd felt guilty enough to agree to a second night, but now she was regretting it. The familiar requirement to be here, in her own place, in solitude, was pressing in and she could hardly bear to sit across the table watching him drink his coffee. She was visited with an urgent desire to snatch his cup from him, propel him out of the door and throw his belongings out after him. It was such a ridiculous notion that she chuckled and then choked on her coffee.

“What's so funny?”

His touchiness amused her even more and she was aware of that up thrust of joy, the reminder of wholeness: she was still free of any emotion which might bind her to him; she remained unaffected by his moods, uninvolved in his needs. He was not her responsibility and he had no power to render her happy or miserable. This being the case, she should leave him alone.

“Nothing, really.” She answered his question, smiling at him. “An old joke. Not worth repeating. Do you want anything to eat? It's quite a way down to Truro, so you mustn't hang around or you'll be late for your meeting.”

“I was wondering—no, nothing to eat, thanks—whether I might drop in on my way back, tonight.”

'Tonight? Not possible.” She shook her head, giving him what she hoped was a regretful smile. “Sorry. I'm busy.”

“All night?” The light, casual query did not quite hide his annoyance—and something more than that.

“Maybe.” She made herself look directly at him. “I thought you didn't do sleepovers?”

“I don't, not usually. You're special.”

She thought: Rats! So what do I do now?

“Thanks,” she said. “That's… nice. But it doesn't change the situation tonight.”

He thought: There's something wrong. Is she backing off or playing hard to get? I don't want to lose her but staying two nights has given her a lever. Watch it!

“That's a pity,” he said. “I might not be down for a while.”

Jemima very nearly shrugged but stopped herself in time and he felt his irritation grow at her lack of response.

“Well, then.” He pushed back his chair. “Better get dressed, I suppose.”

She made no attempt to follow him, giving him no opportunity for any physical persuasion, and when he came back she was out on the balcony again. The cat gazed at him un-blinkingly and he stared at it with dislike.

“All ready?” Jemima was watching him from the doorway and he forced a smile.

“All ready. Thanks for… everything.”

“It was a pleasure ” Was there mockery in her smile? He couldn't tell. “Drive carefully.”

“I shall.” She was already opening the door and he could only kiss her quickly, his bag knocking uncomfortably between them, before he was out on the stairs alone.