A Summer in the Country (16 page)

Brigid stared at her across the table. Louise's face was filmed with perspiration and her lips shook. She grimaced suddenly.

“Tell herl”
she screamed. She grabbed at the back of her chair for support. ‘Tell Thea that she'll be
dead
in the morning. Phone her and make her get the doctor. Get an ambulance.”

Frummie touched her hand and Louise stared down at her, blinking as if to get her into focus.

“Meningitis,” she said quiedy, her eyes blank, looking past her into another world. “It's meningitis. She'll be dead in the morning.”

Frummie stood up swiftly, putting her arm about Louise. ‘Telephone Thea,” she said to Brigid, who stood transfixed with horror and fear. “Quickly.”

With trembling, fumbling fingers, Brigid obeyed.

“Thea?” Her voice shook and she cleared her throat “Thea, listen. About Hermione. Louise says … ‘she thinks it could be meningitis … I know, but she's very definite that you should call a doctor or get an ambulance… Yes, I would… After all, it's better to be sure, isn't it? … OK. Will you let us know?… Right.”

She turned back, watching, as Frummie gently pushed Louise down into her chair, still holding one of her hands.

“So that was it,” she said gently. “My poor child.”

Louise looked at her. The madness had passed and her face was tired and sad. “She was dead in the morning, you see. I hadn't realised that it might be… serious. She was so white and listless but I didn't do anything. I thought she'd be better by the morning.” And she leaned forward, her forehead resting on the table, and began to cry.

Six weeks later, sitting in the July sunshine on the platform of the Old Station House, Louise watched Hermione playing with Oscar on the grassy track below. Although her heart still ached with an intolerable loss, the weighty, crushing sense of guilt had, at last, miraculously lightened. Three years ago, those two enemies, loss and guilt, had been too strong for her and she had taken refuge in denial. She'd learned that survival was only possible if she pretended that the agony was happening to somebody else and, after weeks of rage, despair and destructive madness, she'd stepped right away from it; become a different person. Martin had offered her the opportunity and she had taken it; after all, there was nothing else left: her child dead and her husband driven away by her anger and guilt. Martin was her passport to a new life, allowing her to bury her past wholesale, and to reinvent herself. She had done it with astonishing success until Martin himself had begun the process which exposed her. In facing up to his betrayal, the façade had crumbled with frightening rapidity. It was Thea's telephone call which had taken her, finally, to the edge of the abyss but this time it had been possible to stare into it. The two women, the sense of sanctuary in the old longhouse, the warm, sunny peace in the courtyard—all these had sustained her, protecting her, refusing to allow her to plunge back into the yawning pit of despair, keeping vigil until she was in some measure restored.

“Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair
… A
stony sanctuary
…
The heat of the sun and the icy vigil”
Gradually she had been able to talk; a thin, unwilling trickle of words which spread into a babbling tide of confused sentences, swelling at last into a flood of poured-out pain. During Hermione's convalescence from a virus, she too had been healed. Past and present still merged but now it was a gentle meeting, no abrupt collisions which unhinged the mind, although she sometimes imagined that it was her own child who played there, on the long-disused railway track, where oxeye daisies leaned and bees hummed amongst the wild flowers.

Her own Hermione would have been much the same age: six years old, nearly seven. For a brief moment Louise could see her: the long fair hair, caught back with clasps, wisps framing the small rosy face; the intent bright look, eyes wide and blue, fixed with friendly curiosity on some object or toy; smooth chubby limbs, jumping, dancing, relaxed in sleep. Louise closed her eyes against the stab of pain. What a shock it had been, to hear the name again; to see the child staring up at her so trustfully; and in such a remote and unlikely place. How carefully she had avoided young mothers, small children, and all those heart-rending reminders of her loss. Martin liked young, professional people, unfettered by family, and she had been buffered by his small circle of close friends. No contact was necessary which might impinge upon her protective bandaging from pain. He had been captivated by her, challenged by her desperate unhappiness. He was convinced that he, and only he, could mend her. He had carried everything before him in his determination and she had allowed herself to be swept away. Now, some other— younger—challenge had displaced her.

When he'd arrived at Foxhole, summoned by Brigid, Louise had been too ill to confront him sensibly. He'd been uncomfortable, embarrassed; not his usual style at all. Even in her weakness and exhaustion she'd guessed that her particular kind of challenge was no longer interesting to him. He'd been there; done it. Even a relapse was not stimulating enough to reignite his own particular need. No doubt he had a different, more challenging lame duck. Carol, perhaps? She'd heard that Carol had an eating disorder, the result of a disastrous marriage which had culminated in a bitter divorce. She hadn't had the strength to question him but she'd noticed the restlessness beneath his solicitousness. It was Frummie who'd suggested that she should stay at Foxhole, rather than return to London, and he'd agreed rather too readily. The strength of her own relief had taken her by surprise and she'd moved thankfully into Frummie's spare bedroom. She'd slept, talked, wept, talked again and slept. Incoherent, violent words had spilled out of her, exhausting her, and afterwards she'd liked to sit in the sun in the courtyard, her mind wonderfully, peacefully empty. As empty as her arms …

Louise instinctively crossed her arms over her breast. They'd had to take her dead child from her by force as she'd tried to hug her into warmth, into life …

“Where were you?” she'd screamed at Rory. “I
needed
you!”

For three endless, nightmare weeks she'd waited for his return from sea. The news was kept from him until the submarine berthed, by which time she had retreated inside her head to a place he was unable to reach. White-faced, he'd watched her, inarticulate with his own shock and grief; helpless, whilst she destroyed any chance of hope or comfort. She'd known the rules, known that a Polaris submarine is a deterrent and that its whereabouts must be secret; known that bad news is kept from its men because they can do nothing about it and they must remain ready for action. She'd known these things and had accepted them—in theory. In fact it was—to her—intolerable, agonising, that for three whole weeks he was living in a world which he believed still held his daughter. It was unimaginable that he had lived normally, utterly unconscious, whilst Hermione died and was buried. The other wives, the chaplain, Rory's fellow officers had been so kind, but she'd felt utterly isolated, quite alone; as alone as Hermione, in her tiny patch of quiet earth. She'd haunted the churchyard until her mother had come and taken her away from Faslane, taken her home—except that there was no longer any such thing as “home.” Home meant Hermione: her voice, her toys, her laughter and tears; her drawings stuck haphazard on the kitchen notice board, her picture-books on the floor, her tricycle in the hall, Percy the Parrot propped in her highchair, tucked in with her at night. He had gone with her, keeping her company at the last… And yet here he was, being offered to her. Automatically Louise held out her arms, accepting the toy.

“Mummy's bringing the tea,” said Hermione. “I'll help. You can look after Percy.”

The toy was something to hold on to, to fill the emptiness, as did Hermione, herself, who was so generous with her affection. Strange, that this child no longer filled her with fear. The rage and the madness had passed away and only grief remained. “Well, it's time you mourned,” Thea had said— and her matter-of-factness had been comforting. And Rory? Some long-subdued nerve throbbed painfully and her heart ached. He'd gone away, in the end, on exchange to the Canadian Navy as a staff officer in Ottawa. Her mother had never forgiven her.

Thea was arriving with a tray and Oscar was panting up the ramp to the platform, hoping for a biscuit. Louise smiled at them, able now to contain her feelings with a new patience. The need to pretend and deny was past; but what lay ahead?

'Tea,” said Thea. “Tea and then a walk along the track. What do you think?”

“Yes,” said Louise gratefully. One step at a time was quite enough to be going on with. “That sounds perfect.”

B
RIGID, TAKING
a break from an afternoon's work which consisted of lining curtains, came slowly downstairs with Blot clattering behind her. She passed through the long, low, sunny rooms, glancing out into the courtyard, deciding to have her tea in the sunshine. Her younger son, Michael, and his girlfriend, Sarah, had been home for the weekend and she was still missing them. It had come as a shock when she'd realised that it was unlikely she'd ever have time alone again with either of her sons. She'd been so thrilled at their growing relationships, clearly serious at last, that she hadn't foreseen that a certain part of her own life was coming to an end as theirs expanded; that she must step back and make room for the two girls with whom her boys were in love. Often it was necessary to bite her tongue during telephone conversations, to put the other side of a case when she was longing to be motherly and protective, to explain, instead, how Emma or Sarah might be feeling. Of course there would be odd moments, during occasional holidays or weekends, when she'd have the chance to be on her own with Julian or Michael but those long, lazy days, those family Christmases, those silly private passwords and games were receding into the past. Her children were making their own traditions and she must learn to stand aside whilst keeping a loving welcome always ready. So much time and energy, so much love and learning had gone into those long years of motherhood, and now, between a morning and a morning—or so it felt— they were over. It seemed that mothers of daughters had a more extended role but she knew that she was lucky to be allowed any part in her boys' lives and tried hard to be grateful and undemanding. It wasn't always easy, when she loved them so much, to practise detachment. She'd thought that the early separation, when they'd gone away to school, might stand her in good stead but this was a different kind of self-denial. Odd that the last of the parenting skills should be the most painful: the final act of letting go.

As she went into the kitchen Brigid remembered that there was the remains of some sponge cake to be eaten with her tea, out in the sunny courtyard. Her spirits rose at the prospect of these simple treats and, whilst the kettle boiled, she went outside, stretching her shoulders and blinking at the brightness. The swallows swooped above her head, carrying food to their babies who jostled snugly in the nests among the beams in the barn, whilst the richly coloured blooms of surfinia and diascia trailed riotously from the hanging baskets on the granite walls.

These hanging baskets were her great luxury and Brigid looked at them with pleasure. Without a greenhouse, it was impossible to bring on bedding plants quickly enough to make an early show and so Liz, at MGM Nurseries, made up the baskets for her. Each year, as soon as it was warm enough, Brigid drove to Loddiswell, collected her summer garden and transported it back to Foxhole. The sheltered courtyard was transformed to an almost Mediterranean luxuriance; a small lush oasis hidden in the stony harshness of the moor.

The doves murmured cosily, drowsing in the heat, and bees lumbered heavily, droning. It was a perfect afternoon and, on a sudden impulse, Brigid left the courtyard. The door to Frummie's cottage was open and music drifted from the living room: Glenn Miller's “A String of Pearls.”

“Hi,” she called. “Are you there, Mummie?”

Frummie came out, a dishcloth in her hand. “Hello. I was just making some tea. No time to stay for one, I suppose?”

Brigid suppressed her instinctive reaction to the inference that she was always too busy to be friendly: she was trying very hard to be less sensitive.

'To be honest I was going to suggest that you had one with me in the courtyard. It's such a glorious afternoon and I've got some cake.”

Frummie raised her eyebrows as if surprised—though pleased—at such an unexpected invitation. “I'd like that very much.”

“Good. Come over when you're ready.”

She hurried away before Frummie could make any observation about the cake being a leftover from Michael's visit and went into the kitchen to make the tea. When she brought the tray out, Frummie was already sitting on the bench, her face lifted to the sun.

“Heaven,” she murmured. “Absolute heaven. I think I must have been a lizard in a previous existence. It simply can't be too hot for me.”

She wore a long, sleeveless cotton dress, loosely belted, and leather sandals. Brigid looked at the finely lined skin, opened her mouth to ask about sun block and shut it again.

No use talking to Frummie about the fear of skin cancer. She considered the present climate of fear, which spread mias-mically around almost anything relating to normal life, completely paranoid. Despite her fair colouring, she was brown as a nut; Brigid, pouring the tea, envied her inasmuch as she never seemed to burn.

“You look as if you've been on holiday on the Continent,” Brigid said.

Frummie opened her eyes. “Speaking of which,” she said, “I do think that it was quite dim-witted of Martin to come home flaunting such an amazing suntan. Did he really think that Louise would believe he'd got that kind of colour from plodding round St Andrew's for a fortnight?”

“I don't think she was in any fit state to notice.” Brigid sat back comfortably with a sigh of content, Blot curled by her feet in a pool of sunshine.

“But he didn't
know
that she wouldn't be.” Frummie crumbled some cake, tasted it and nodded appreciatively. “I do dislike people who underrate one's intelligence.”

“Either that or he simply didn't care.” Brigid shook her head. “He was so awkward about it all, wasn't he? It was terribly embarrassing.”

“I warned you about that. He's moved beyond it and he's living in a different world. His concentration is elsewhere.”

“Clearly.” Brigid tried not to speak sharply, knowing that they were edging out on to thin ice. “But surely he could have made an effort when he saw the state she was in. He was rather like a spoiled child who's cross because his fun is being threatened.”

“The man's a wanker.” Frummie closed her eyes.

“Honestly, Mummie…”

Frummie snorted, hunching an impatient shoulder. “No good being mealy-mouthed. Louise's well out of it. She's coming on splendidly. And I have to say that at least he's being generous about it, financially speaking.”

“I should think so!” said Brigid indignantly. “He goes off on holiday with another woman. Seems quite indifferent to his wife—”

“Mistress. They're not married.”

The interruption threw Brigid off her stride. “Yes, I know. You did tell me. But I just don't see Louise as a mistress. And, after all, they've been together for three years.”