A Summer in the Country (26 page)

“Next…?”

“You did say any time? Is that too soon for you?”

“No. Oh, no. That's … that's simply great. You're sure?”

She thought: Don't ask that, you silly cow. Don't put doubts in his mind.

“Quite sure.” He was kissing her once more—but quickly now. “Do I get coffee before I go?”

“You certainly do.” She could be bright again: wacky, fun, flirty. He would be back; in seven days he would be back. “You could even have toast, orange juice.”

He was shaking his head. “No. I never eat when I'm travelling.”

“Fine.” She must remember that, along with all the other tiny, vital things she'd learned about him. No mumsy attempts at persuasion. No fussing. “Coffee it is.”

He held on to her, now that she was making no attempt to detain him. “It's great to be with a woman who doesn't make every thing into a drama,” he murmured. She raised her eyebrows as if to say “So what's there to make a drama about?” and, releasing herself, went into the kitchen, leaving him to lean on the rail, having a last look.

On her own, the door pushed almost closed, she punched the air with both fists, cheering silently, applauding her own performance, exulting in its success. Laughing at herself, she reached for the coffee. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “make him really miss us!”

Louise locked the car door and glanced about with an air of satisfaction: only two cars, parked at the further end of the car park, and one of those about to depart. During these last few weeks she'd developed a passion for the quiet path which bordered the peaceful waters of Venford Reservoir. The woods sheltering and silent, the rippling lake, the majestic stands of rhododendron engendered a mysterious, magical atmosphere; a fairy-tale scene. So enamoured had she become that she almost resented the presence of other holidaymakers who shouted back and forth to one another as they made their ways, single file on the shingly root-crossed paths, and whose dogs ran to and fro, barks and voices alike ringing across the drowned valley, shivering the silence into echoing fragments. She'd taken to arriving early and late, avoiding noisy family parties, so that she might walk alone in the rosy, glowing dawn or in the violet, shadowy dusk.

Now she crossed the road, skirting the iron palings, letting herself in through the gate, stopping to look at the rugged granite mortarstone with its three deep, rough holes. The ground under her feet was dry; soft brown needles carpeting the hard, sterile earth beneath the fir trees which towered above her. She paused to watch a robin flitting among the branches of the rhododendron and walked on, watching the reflections; cloudy shapes of gold and scarlet, trembling across the surface as a cat's paw of wind ruffled the water.

This evening, alone again, away from the companionship of Foxhole, she let the thoughts of Rory drift into her mind. He'd been in her thoughts all day but now she allowed him to come close to her. She experienced once more the reality of him: his shape and smell. Unbearable longing, need for him, squeezed and twisted her heart. His humour, his passions, his vitality and courage filled her senses. Painful though these memories were she recognised the necessity of facing them, dealing with them and then letting them go. Not denying but allowing them to take their rightful place in her past along with all the other experiences which had made her what she was now. Rory and Hermione. Sitting down on the wooden bench she could see them as clearly as if they were superimposed upon the peaceful scene before her. Rory and Hermione playing together: Rory racing her on Rhu Spit, letting her win, or walking patiently beside her little wooden tricycle with the pony's head, listening to her chatter: sleeping on Sunday afternoons, a film, unheeded, reeling silently out on the television screen, whilst he stretched full-length on the sofa, newspapers strewed about the floor, Hermione sprawling crab-like across his chest, her long fair hair in his mouth, her blue eyes sleepy. His pride in her: “These drawings are jolly good, you know, for a three-year-old.” His irritation: “Does she always have to throw a temperature an hour before Ladies' Nights or on Saturday evenings just when the surgery has closed for the weekend?” The bedtime stories with him sitting on the bed, legs stretched out comfortably whilst she leaned against his arm, sucking her thumb, her eyes fixed on the book. His voice, flexible, savouring the words:
“The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.”

Shutting her eyes, she saw the picture: a drawing of a small boy dressed in crown and ermine and, above his head, a rainbow of smaller scenes: a pig with a flower in its mouth, a sailing ship, a snowman in a top hat. It was titled
Happy Thought

Tears slipped from beneath her closed lids, grief dragged at her heart, and she wrapped her arms about herself lest she should fall apart.

The stealthy rustle, the sharp cracking of a dry twig in the wood behind her, made a faint impression on her sorrow. She frowned a little, still staring out over the water, not turning, and, as the memories faded, she wiped the back of her hand across her cheek.

“Look past despair,” Frummie had advised. “Concentrate on something good and positive.”

First, however, she must come to terms with loss; she must accept the pain of it, learn to live with it. Now, at this moment, all she could think about was the self-destructive madness which had allowed her to drive Rory away. Why had she not seen that he could have saved her; realised that together they might have been able to survive such horror? Resolutely she dragged her mind away from these negative questions. Memories were one thing, further self-destruction another. At least now she could tell the difference and slowly, if she persevered, the memories would lose their stinging, painful power. She must hold on to that.

A blackbird, startled from its perch, flew out of the trees, its staccato, warning cry stuttering over the water. Louise stood up, hugging her fleece around her. She'd been sitting for longer than she realised and it was growing darker. She began to walk back, deliberately concentrating on other, lighter thoughts. What music, for instance, would Frummie consider suitable accompaniment for an evening walk amongst these shadowy woods, beside the glinting water? Sibelius, perhaps? Grieg? One might easily imagine trolls behind the trees. She wouldn't ask her, though, guessing already at the sharp retort. For Frummie believed that these solitary walks were the height of madness and refused to be convinced that they were necessary.

“It's much too risky at the moment,” she'd said. “All those women were on their own. I know that they were all in cities or large towns but you shouldn't go out alone, at least not so late in the evening.”

Louise knew that Frummie had a point but sometimes she simply had to be alone, to have time to remember, to work through her feelings, to stretch and grow emotionally. She'd been very willing to yield up the cottage to Alexander—she enjoyed Frummie's society, needed company—but she also had an absolute requirement for periods of solitude. This evening, however, her serenity was disturbed. Some deep atavistic instinct was pressing against her preoccupation. Turning her head slightly she fancied she saw a movement in the woods, away to her left. The depth of her fear surprised her; it being the measure of her reviving love of life. Not too long ago she'd have been too sunk in misery to care much about survival. Now she was jumpy—and it was all Frummie's fault. Hands in her pockets, she chuckled at her fears—after all, it was most likely a fox, or a deer—nevertheless, her footsteps quickened and her breath came a little faster. Beneath the silent trees the shadows crept stealthily, reaching down to the path. The water, clear and cold, drained of all colour, stretched away to the further darkening shore.

There
was
a figure, too tall for any animal, skirting the furthest tree-trunks, slipping along inside the fence. Louise began to hurry, panic rising in her throat, measuring the distance to the gate, praying now for some noisy holidaymaker to break the silence with his cheerful shouts. There was a stumbling noise away to her left, a muffled crash, and Louise began to run, stumbling over the roots across the path, dragging open the gate, fumbling for her keys. One other car remained in the car park; the same which had been parked there earlier, surely, although it was too dark now to identify it.

With trembling fingers she unlocked the door, scrambled in and pushed the key into the ignition. The engine wouldn't start. Teeth chattering, quickly, desperately, she locked the other door and then her own before trying again. This time the engine purred into life and, gasping with relief, she slammed the gearstick forward and jolted across the car park, turning out on to the road, racing back towards Foxhole.

“YOU'LL BE
glad to get into the cottage,” Brigid was saying to Alexander, serving her rather special pudding, Brettle cream, on to his plate. This was their third shared supper and if the food were rather more extravagant than Brigid would have cooked for herself she was not admitting to it.

“I shall be very glad” agreed Alexander, looking with delight at his generous helping—despite his thinness he had a terrific appetite—and then smiling at her. “It will be a great relief.”

Brigid experienced the slight shock which was now becoming familiar at the devastating honesty with which Alexander answered questions. He had no concept of the mendacious verbal interplay which greased the wheels of social intercourse. She remembered Humphrey's words:
“He's unmaterialistic and penetratingly honest”
Well, the latter was certainly true. She hadn't wanted Alexander in the house with her but now, contrarily, she needed his reassurance that he had been quite happy with her; that they had both enjoyed this brief time of odd intimacy. He had been careful not to invade her space and to make himself as unobtrusive as possible.

“You'll need to use the fridge, of course,” she'd said, “or your milk will go off.”

“I shan't bother with milk,” he'd replied. “I drink my coffee black and I have some dried milk for an emergency.”

“What about breakfast?” she'd asked anxiously, trying to make up for her previous lack of hospitality. “Don't you eat cornflakes?”

“I shall have toast,” he'd answered. “You've lent me this very nice toasting-machine and Frummie has given me a pot of her home-made marmalade.”

“Has she?” She'd stifled the retort
“She would!”
knowing it to be childish, attempting a more adult approach. “You'll enjoy it She makes very good marmalade. Better than mine. Well, do say if you need anything and do feel free to use the courtyard.”

He'd been surprisingly nice to have around; finding it unnecessary to engage in idle chitchat but passing her with an inclination of his head and a smile, seeming to be happily occupied, utterly at peace. His peacefulness fascinated her. She'd never met anyone who was so serene; so apparently at one with himself. Remembering Humphrey's remarks about him she began to understand that such contented self-sufficiency might be seen as selfishness, a lack of interest, perhaps, in his fellow men, but she was beginning to be curious about Humphrey's mother. The usual conversational opening gambits, however, were utter failures; he simply didn't recognise them.

“I was so sorry to hear about Agneta's death,” she'd begun—hoping to lead on to some interesting disclosures.

“Were you?” He'd stared at her, surprised. “But you didn't know her at all. You didn't even know
me!'

She'd been silenced by such a prosaic response, unable to continue her probing. She'd murmured something platitudinous, too embarrassed to recover her poise quickly. He was entirely unafraid of silence and on one occasion they'd sat together in the courtyard for a whole hour, neither of them speaking. Even when he'd put down his book he'd made no attempt at conversation but had merely sat staring straight ahead of him, relaxed and perfectly at ease. She'd begun to learn that the only way to communicate satisfactorily was to be as straightforward as he was. This was not nearly as simple as it might at first appear. Sitting down again, with the Brettle cream within reach, she decided to make an effort.

“Does it seem odd to you,” she began, “that we should meet only now? After all, Humphrey and I have been married for nearly thirty years. Weren't you curious about me?”

“I was very curious,” he answered at once. “But I had to be content with what Humphrey was prepared to allow me.”

“Allow you?”

He looked at her, a keen, penetrating look. “He wrote to me, you know. Humphrey is very punctilious. He doesn't approve of me but he was always very filial in that respect. He told me about you but I was not invited to your wedding.”

It was odd how, after years of partisanship for Humphrey's mother, Brigid wanted to justify that decision; to explain how Humphrey had felt.

“He was very upset about his mother's death,” she said.

“And he felt unwilling to meet Agneta. It was all very difficult.”

“Humphrey was devoted to Elizabeth, and she to him,” Alexander said calmly. “He made his feelings quite clear.”

“And it was so quick.” She was gaining confidence. “Your remarrying, I mean. He thought that it was—”

“Insensitive.” He supplied the word for her. “And what did you think?”

“I thought so too.” She took a deep breath. This honesty was heady stuff. “It wasn't just that you remarried so quickly after his mother died. Humphrey wasn't very old. He felt that you'd abandoned him.”

“He was very confused.” Alexander was getting on with his pudding. “He was very loyal to Elizabeth but what he wanted was for me to take over where she left off. At that time he was still very immature. He relied heavily on her advice and she liked to be in control of his life. I was delighted when he chose the Nayy. She tried to stop him joining. Did you know that?”

“No.” Brigid was fascinated by these disclosures. “I had no idea.”

“She attempted to persuade him out of it, but he held firm, and I was very impressed with his courage. It was the first time he had ever stood against her wishes. She accused me of encouraging him, which was quite true. I felt that it would free him from her tyranny.”

“Tyranny? That's a very strong word.”

“She had a very strong claim on him. It was the infamous claim of the weak, sick, older person upon the strong, young one. She used his affection as a weapon, you see. Humphrey was afraid of sickness, afraid that she might die. She used his fear to bind him more strongly to her.”

“I had no idea,” Brigid said again. She had quite forgotten her pudding. There was no rancour in Alexander's voice, no hint of self-pity; he was simply stating the facts quietly and calmly, which made it all the more impressive. “But then how could he love her so much?”

“Silken cords are just as effective as a coarse rope”

Humphrey had no idea that he was being manipulated. She explained that everything she did was for his own good and he never doubted her. He accepted her values and she dedicated her life to him, a happy, willing martyr. She was very sweet and gentle, easily wounded. She suffered in silence— but it was a very loud, imposing silence. They were very close—until he joined the Navy. For the first time ever he discovered something which he loved as much as he loved her. When she saw that he was adamant she tried other tactics. She hoped he would become disillusioned and then she planned to buy him out. She died before that could happen.”