A Summer in the Country (12 page)

“That was mean of me.” She scooped MagnifiCat into her arms and laid her cheek against his fur. “Oh, I know you don't like him but I was a bit of a cow, throwing him out like that I'm such rubbish at relationships. I get it wrong: feel the right thing at an inappropriate moment, and vice versa, and then get panicky. Oh hell! Let's have some breakfast.”

She carried MagnifiCat into the kitchen and dumped him in a chair where he spread comfortably, soft and boneless as an old cushion. Whilst she put bread in the toaster and reached for some of Brigid's home-made marmalade, she continued to wonder why none of her relationships ever quite gelled. So far and no further, seemed to be her motto. She thought of Brigid, her stable relationship with Humphrey and commitment to her children, and sighed sadly.

“It's not for me,” she told MagnifiCat. “Anyway, I only get married men. Perhaps they can tell that I'm a natural-born mistress.”

She wished that Louise's remarks had not made such an impression on her and wondered if Martin was actually having an affair or if Louise were simply imagining it Either way, it had certainly affected the last two nights. She glanced at the diary hanging on the wall and her spirits rose: lunch in The Wardroom with Mandy and Ness, who owned the Cove's Quay Gallery.

“I'll bring you back a sardine,” she said teasingly to MagnifiCat—and went away to dress.

F
RUMMIE WOKE
clear-headed and refreshed, and lay for a moment, gazing at the ceiling.

“Not
married,” she murmured. “Extraordinary.”

She hopped out of bed, paused on the landing to see that the spare room bed was empty, and pattered downstairs.

“Coffee,” she told herself, cheerfully. “Hot black coffee. Oh,
poor
Louise. She'll be trying to remember exactly what she told me. You need a strong head for malt whisky,” and, humming aloud, she switched on the radio for her morning fix of Terry Wogan.

“I'll write to him then,” said Humphrey, as they washed up together after breakfast. “If you're really sure. I'm sorry, love, I really am, but I think it's the right thing to do. Which is very easy for me to say when I shall be thousands of miles away.”

“It's only difficult,” said Brigid slowly, “because of knowing how you feel about him. It's like… being disloyal, if you see what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he answered at once. “Don't you think I feel the same way about Frummie? It drives me mad when she comes in here and starts winding you up. I long to smack her hard and sometimes I can barely keep my temper;”

“It's the unfairness of it,” agreed Brigid.
“She
behaves very badly and
I
feel guilty if I react to it Just because she's old…”

“It's not simply that, though, is it? It's because, when all's said and done, she is your mother and some genetic instinct keeps you tied to her. Even now, something deep inside you still longs for her approval.”

Brigid stared at him, shocked. “Is it so obvious?”

Humphrey sighed. “Don't you see that it's because I feel exactly the same about the old man? I was furious with him when he remarried so quickly after Mother died. It was so heartless and it was clear as daylight that he'd been having an affair with Agneta for years. I shall never know if Mother knew. She was so loyal and gentle and devoted, and she was hardly buried before he was off. I know I wasn't a child, I was at Dartmouth, but even so, twenty-one's not very old. He couldn't wait to be shot of me. Yet I still feel I owe him something. It's like you and Frummie. We can't just wash our hands of them the way they washed theirs of us.”

“I know.” Brigid was saddened by the look on his face. “I wish I'd met your mother. Look, it'll be OK. I doubt he'll want to spend much time with me, anyway.”

Humphrey gave a crack of laughter. “Frummie can deal with him,” he said, as he dried his hands. “They were made for each other.”

Brigid grinned unwillingly. “That would solve all our problems. Where is he actually moving to, when he leaves here?”

“Some village in the north, I think he said. The Scottish Borders. Perhaps he has friends there. Anyway, a nice, long way off. He can take Frummie with him and leave us in peace. Now, let's forget both of them and decide what we'll do today. Shall we go off somewhere and have lunch? Tor-cross? Dartmouth? Exeter?”

“Oh, yes,” she said at once, hanging the damp cloth over the Aga rail. “Let's go off on our own for the day. I don't really mind where as long as we're together.”

He smiled, reaching out for her, hugging her. “We'll take it as it comes. Let's head for the coast and see what happens. Blot can come along and we'll give him a walk at Start Point. It should be wonderful up on the cliffs today. How about that?”

“Great,” she said, holding him tightly for a moment, refusing to think about anything but the few hours ahead. “Let's get organised and creep away before anyone sees us.”

F
RUMMIE WATCHED
them go. Unlike Brigid she took no great pleasure in her own company and viewed the day ahead with a lowering of spirits. Anyway, she was missing Margot. What fun it had been, remembering times past, gossiping, shredding their mutual friends' reputations to pieces. Returning to her breakfast, Frummie reflected that there was nothing mealy-mouthed about Margot; no finer feelings hindered her outspoken views. In sixty years she'd barely changed. Of course, she was looking her age, poor dear—Frummie smiled her down-turned smile—and her legs were a terrible sight. Not that she'd ever had good legs. No, Frummie shook her head regretfully, even when Margot was a girl, her legs wouldn't have looked out of place supporting a piano and the varicose veins certainly added to the problem. Now if only she were wise enough to lower her
hems just
a little— well, several inches—and why not?
Perfectly
fashionable and attractive—it would be a great deal better for everyone. And it was a mistake to be
quite
so determined in maintaining the original colour of her hair. If you were naturally very dark it was probably more sensible to go gracefully grey. Of course—Frummie patted her own hair absent-mindedly—it was simply good luck to be born blonde so that one's hair gently faded into a kind of pretty, soft, fair colour but, in other cases, dyeing often did more harm than good, aesthetically speaking. It was certainly so in Margot's case. Her poor old face, surrounded by those unnaturally bright chestnut locks, looked so … well, “haggard” was the word which came to mind. The contrast was so cruel: all that lovely young-looking hair and those terrible lines round the eyes. “Craggy” was putting it kindly—and unfortunately make-up was no substitute for a smooth skin. Now if only dear old Margot could be persuaded not to
ladle
the foundation cream on—it positively congealed in those furrows which ploughed between her nose and chin; Polyfilla just wasn't in it—she'd look so much better. But she wouldn't listen. And as for that quite startling eye-shadow. Impossible to explain that her eyes were no longer that extraordinary green—if they ever had been. Actually, as far as she could remember, Margot's eyes had always had a brownish tinge, rather muddy-looking, in fact, rather like her skin, and darling old Nanny had often remarked that Margot's diet had a lot to answer for…

As for the chin … Frummie shuddered sympathetically as she refilled her coffee cup. Of course, bones were all a question of luck and there was no doubt that, as one grew older, saggy jowls didn't actually
help—
she smoothed her own sharp jawline reflectively—but it was sad that her dear old friend had such a bulldog look. One was reminded of darling Winston—though without question, it was much more acceptable in a man—but poor Margot's cheeks simply
swagged
about when she laughed, no two ways about it. And it would be much more sensible if she simply accepted the fact that she was as blind as a bat and wore her spectacles all the time, instead of pretending that she didn't need them except for driving and the television. Really, one got the
least
bit weary of reading the menus to her in pubs and watching her trying to focus on things only a few feet away. There were plenty of
very
attractive spectacles about these days and it was extremely unusual to reach the mid-seventies without needing them—she, Frummie, happened to be one of the lucky exceptions—but, really, why not face facts?

Frummie shook her head and began to clear the table. Funny old Margot, what an old chum she was; it would be good to have her to stay in the autumn. She glanced at her watch: a bit too early to put on a video, perhaps. Sighing a little, feeling rather at a loose end, she decided that she'd strip Margot's bed and wash the sheets. It was a gloriously sunny, warm day; a good drying day.

 

As she climbed the stairs, she thought about Louise again.
“Not
married,” she murmured. “Well, well well.”

 

Louise passed through the wicket gate and stood quite still, transfixed by an incredulous joy. The waters of the reservoir, polished and level as a metal shelf, mirrored the heavenly blue of the sky; dark reflections of tall pines striking across its surface, clear and sharp as paper cutouts. The soft, bright green needles of the larch shimmered, delicately luminous in the sunshine, whilst, somewhere out of sight, the cuckoo called. His evocative cry echoed in the woods and across the lake; speaking of other springs, of May mornings belonging to some distant past, and touching the melancholic, restless, plangent chords of undefined longing which vibrated in her heart.

The song ceased abrupdy and with it her unearthly moment of ecstatic joy, although the restlessness remained. Concentrating carefully, determinedly, on the beauty of this magic place she set off around the reservoir. The path was well defined, gravelly, and running, for the most pit, at the water's edge. To her left, beneath the pines, delicate white wood anemones flowered palely on the dense, fibrous, springy carpet of brown needles. It was warm, here, in the shelter of the trees, and presently she stopped at one of the benches, taking a Thermos from her rucksack. She sat staring out across the water, drinking her coffee, a resolution beginning to form at the back of her mind. It was important to make some kind of gesture, to be proactive, before she was engulfed by the rising tide of fear. Already it had breached the strong wall of her defences and now it lapped at the edges of her reason. Who knows what might happen if she simply allowed herself to be swamped, rendered helpless and floundering? This tide of fear, sucking and swallowing at the solid footholds of her security, was already uncovering her weaknesses, her terrors and her guilt.

It was anxiety about Martin which had fractured her confidence, allowing the first trickle of unease to seep into the locked, defended fortress of her mind. In addressing the fear of his infidelity, she might shore up the crumbling wall again. Sitting on the bench, the wood, rough and splintery beneath her fingers, her eyes on the water, which washed gently, demurely, against the tiny semi-circle of gritty beach, she hardened the resolve, steeling herself to it. The hot coffee was a stimulant, giving courage, and now she swung her rucksack on her back with a lighter heart and stepped out more courageously.

Back at the car park, she changed her walking boots for Timberlands, took off her fleece and climbed into the car. It was hot, almost airless, and she wound down the window whilst she fiddled for a tape. She needed something in keeping with this new decisive mood and chose her Alison Moyet tape, which she sang to, defiantly, until she reached Ashburton and parked again.

In the telephone box, she took out her BT chargecard and gave the operator the number of Martin's mobile telephone. He answered immediately, his voice slightly wary.

“It's me,” she said, trying hard to sound as she usually did. “Surprise!”

“It is indeed, sweetie.” His voice was warm now, quite in control. “I wondered if it could be, although I didn't recognise the number.”

“Recognise…?”

“It comes up in the litde box.” He sounded amused. “You really will have to move into the twenty-first century one of these days, my sweet. What's the problem?”

“Problem? Why should there be a problem? Can't I telephone you without there being a problem?”

“Well, of course.” He sounded very slightly nonplussed. “It's just that we don't usually—do we?—on our holidays. Not that I can telephone you, anyway, immured in the fastnesses of Dartmoor. Is everything OK?”

“Yes.” She deliberately drew the word out, implying doubt. “It's just that… I'm missing you.”

“Oh, sweetie,” his laughter was forced, “that's nice.”

“Is it?”

“How do you mean?” The least, the
very
least tinge of irritation coloured his question.

“I just wondered if it really
is
nice. To be missed, I mean. I was thinking that I might come home early.”

“Early?” sharply. “How early?”

“I don't really know. A few days. How about you?”

“Me? Well, to be honest, Louise, it would be damned difficult. After all, it's not quite that simple, is it?”

His extravagant use of endearments was habitual and she noted both the sudden and unusual demotion from “sweetie” and also the annoyance which he was now making very little effort to mask but reminded herself that both could be perfectly reasonable, that there was nothing necessarily suspicious about his reaction.

“How are the boys?”

'The…? Oh, fine. Absolutely fine. But that's the point I can't just chuck it in and go home, can I?”

“Can you only play golf in foursomes?”

“Sweetie, please. I'm not being unsympathetic but what is this all about?”

Quite suddenly she remembered the man in the train: the impatience echoing beneath his careful question; his endearment almost an insult.

“Oh, I'm just feeling a bit low. I know it's not the norm but there we are.” She hesitated. “By the way, Martin, what's the name of the hotel? I might telephone again this evening.”

A silence. When he spoke his voice was cool.

“I've told you a million times, sweetie, haven't I? Do what you've just done and telephone the mobile. It worked, didn't it? We don't want people chasing all over, looking for me. I might be in the bar, or in the dining room, or anywhere. The boys often like to go on somewhere else for a pint after dinner. I promise you, it's the safest thing to do.”

“Oh, I was thinking of later than that. Much later.”

“Not too late, I hope,” His jocular tone was unconvincing. “I get pretty knackered with all the fresh air. We walk a fair few miles, most days, you know. Anyway, whatever time it is the answer's still the same. Use the mobile. It's cheaper than hotel rates and I imagine you're using your charge-card.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But where are you, Martin? I know you're touring some of the golf courses in the northwest, aren't you? What are they like?”

“Pretty good.” His anxiety was palpable. “Look, I know it's not your scene, sweetie, is it, a blow-by-blow of the golf courses of the British Isles? Not really? So why this fit of the glooms, d'you think?”

“Oh,
I
don't know.” She could understand how infuriating she must sound, noted his unsubtle change of direction. “It's just not working very well for me this time, for some reason. I'm not feeling too well, which doesn't help.”

“In what way ‘not well'?”

There was none of that caressing, loving anxiety which had so characterised their early relationship. It had been his chief attraction and oh! how she had needed that tender, caring awareness. Now the authentic note was missing; she was a tiresome appendage who could not, however, be brushed aside too lightly.