A Summer in the Country (28 page)

“I'll speak to Charles Price,” promised Thea, “and when term starts again you can come with me to meet Hermione and have a look around.”

“Thanks,” said Louise gratefully. “If you feel it's a sensible idea, I'd be really pleased to make some kind of move. In more ways than one. I have to think of somewhere to live too. Frummie's got a friend coming for October so Fve got a cut-off point. Quite a challenge.”

“Yes,” said Thea, not convinced for a moment by Louise's cheerful, determined tone. “Yes, it is. But you don't have to face it alone. We all want to share it with you.”

'That's … very kind.” Louise fought down a weak desire to burst into tears. “Gosh, it's getting hot. Oh look” the Prouts are off. Doesn't Brigid look relieved?”

Brigid was standing on the track, beaming wildly, her hand raised in farewell. On a sudden impulse, Louise and Thea waved too; standing up to cheer the travellers on their way, shouting “Goodbye, goodbye,” so that Brigid glanced round and laughed, shaking both fists in the air in a gesture of delighted thanksgiving. Frummie joined her and they went into the cottage together.

“I'll make some more cordial,” Louise said, getting up. “All the ice has melted.”

Thea pulled her hat forward a little, relaxing in her chair, watching the doves. A movement on the extreme edge of her vision alerted her. Away to her right, across the field which sloped down to the river, someone was moving along the hedgeline which bordered the road. This was Foxhole property and Thea wondered if whoever it was might have wandered from the footpath and was lost. She sat up a litde, staring intently, but the person was standing quite still now, gazing towards her. Louise came out, carrying the tray, and when Thea looked again the figure had disappeared.

It was much later, in her workroom, that Brigid found the unfinished letter to Humphrey. She picked up the sheets, staring at the words she'd written three days ago, before Alexander had come wandering into the courtyard; into their lives. Even now, he was moving into the cottage—with Frummie's assistance. Still holding the sheets of writing paper, Brigid let her gaze roam round the room, resting almost unspeingly on the familiar objects which created the atmosphere and formed the shape of this small cell at the heart of her stony sanctuary. Alexander's arrival, his extraordinary personality, had dominated her thoughts, occupying her mind to die exclusion of everything else. He was such a shock. Prepared to dislike him, with a lifelong partisanship on Humphrey's behalf, she'd been taken by surprise and he'd disarmed her almost immediately.

Brigid frowned a little, moving towards the window, her fingers trailing lightly across the material stretched out upon her work table, the letter still held in her other hand. No, “disarmed” was not the true word here: “disarmed” implied an intention on Alexander's part and she was convinced that there had been no such intention. He was too direct, too open. Dealing only in facts, he appeared to be indifferent to praise and blame alike which gave him a tremendous inner strength. This was his attraction, the lodestone which drew her towards him. His was no febrile charm but a real power consisting of serenity and courage borne of that inner strength; a power of which he seemed unaware.

She leaned upon the sill, staring out of the window towards the unevenly piled granite of Combestone Tor. The sun, now at its height, flooded the landscape with a brilliance which flattened and drained it of its mystery; the heat pressed down, suffocating, enervating. Even the waters of the West Dart were subdued to a distant muffled murmur. Brigid withdrew into the coolness of the room. Her former ideas, received learning accepted unthinkingly from Humphrey's point of view, were now to be questioned. His mother had not been quite the saintly, hard-done-by, gende creature she'd imagined. She had been manipulative, controlling Humphrey by working on his childish affection and warm-heartedness, exploiting his loyalty. Other remarks, made over the years, held different meanings now. “Poor Mother felt things so keenly. She was such a sensitive soul that it wrung my heart to see her when she was hurt.”
She suffered in silence
—
but it was a very loud, imposing silence.
“She did so much for me; she made so many sacrifices.”
A happy, willing martyr.
“I felt I had to make up for Father's thoughtlessness.”
Humphrey gradually accepted her assessment of me.
“Of course, she was never really out of pain, it was terrible sometimes to see her.”
Humphrey was afraid of sickness, afraid that she might die.
“Father always got her back up when he was home. I was quite relieved when he had to go away again.”
Her resentment infected him.

He was twenty-three when they'd married. One of the bonds between them had been the experience of a difficult parent: it had become a joke between them. They'd grown up together, each strengthening the other. Had she been the mentor Humphrey had hoped he might find in his father once his mother had died? The Navy and marriage had between them forced Humphrey into adulthood; what might he have been like if his mother had lived? Freed from her influence he'd developed into the cheerful, determined man she knew and loved. He was not, by nature, weak or gullible. Perhaps Alexander had been right in his decision to make certain Humphrey stood on his own two feet, however brutal the method.

Still slightly shocked by her capitulation, her readiness to change sides, Brigid looked again at the letter in her hand.
“The real problem is that it's to do with Jenny and I know we never see eye to eye about her. Not that that's any excuse for not telling you the truth
…”

At the reality of the words, fear scraped in her throat and her gut clenched in a spasm of terror. It seemed impossible that she could have forgotten this problem which destroyed her peace and threatened her future. She simply had to concentrate on it; deal with it before the Bank lost patience and seized the cottage. Somehow she must find the words and phrases to complete the letter, explaining exactly what had happened and trusting that Humphrey would understand. Ignoring the worm of fear crawling in her gut, Brigid sat down at the corner of her work table, clearing a space, picking up the pen and blank sheets of writing paper which she'd flung down soon after Alexander's arrival. She sat for a moment, idly imagining a scenario in which she might tell him her problem; ask his advice. The thought of sharing it was so tempting that she had to prevent herself from hurrying downstairs to find him. She shrugged hopelessly. Even if she didn't consider it disloyal to tell him before Humphrey knew the truth, the idea was still nonpracticable. He would be busy, unpacking his few belongings, settling in; and then again Frummie would be with him, helping.

Brigid rolled her eyes in silent impatience. The sight of her mother, dressed as if she might be going out to lunch rather than volunteering to clean a cottage, was still vividly before her. It was clear that she was very taken by Alexander, considering him worthy of her mettle and attracted by him too. Brigid shuddered slightly. Quicksands lay ahead which must be carefully navigated. It would be too embarrassing if Frummie were to make a fool of herself. He had accepted her offer of help so politely—though pointing out that he had very little to be unpacked—accepting her offer of lunch graciously but with a private smile for Brigid, clearly noticing and understanding her anxiety. It was odd how protective she'd felt towards Frummie: protective and furious. She couldn't have bome it if Alexander had been amused by the smart clothes, the unskilfully applied make-up, the ornate bracelets clanking on the skinny, fragile wrists. Yet she'd been scorched with humiliation at the sight of her mother frisking to and fro like some elderly chorus girl. She'd been glad to go away; to leave them to it.

The house had welcomed her as always; cool and shadowy after the bright, hot sunshine. She'd kicked off her shoes, enjoying the sensation of the flagstones sharply cold beneath her bare feet, stopping to crouch beside Blot, who'd been fast asleep, an inky puddle in the gloom. The peace and silence enfolded her, restoring her, and she'd decided to do some work. It was only when she'd been fiddling at the table that she'd seen the letter.

She thought: And even now I'm putting it off. Allowing myself to be distracted. Procrastinating.

She smoothed out the sheets, read through what she'd written, picked up her pen and began to write.

W
HEN THEA
had gone, Louise continued to sit for a while, deep in thought. Presently she went inside, put the tray on the table in the kitchen and sat down beside the telephone. Her call was answered very promptly. Martin's voice was comfortingly familiar.

“Martin,” she said. “It's me. Louise.”

“I can still recognise your voice, sweetie,” he said. “How are things?”

“This isn't a difficult moment?”

“If you mean ‘Is Carol around?' the answer is no. She's having a lie-in.”

For a second or two the mental picture, with its associations, was so powerful that Louise was unable to speak: Carol asleep, relaxed and untroubled amongst the rumpled sheets where once she'd lain with Martin. She swallowed, frowning, trying to concentrate.

“Are you OK?” His voice was anxious.

“Of course. I just wanted to talk something through with you. The thing is, I've been thinking of starting work again. I can't stay with Frummie much longer and I don't want to be dependent on you either. Even if I can work with children again, it's unlikely I shall fall into something this term and if I'm not earning I won't be able to find something to rent. I might have to take a fill-in job—waitressing or something like that.”

“Look,” he said urgently, “don't do anything in a hurry. Just don't. I'm not worried about how long it takes. If it weren't for me you'd be here still, wouldn't you? You'd have come back home and we'd have gone on as usual.”

“Oh, Martin,” she said warmly, “it's nice of you to put it like that. But don't forget that I've changed too. I'm not certain it would have worked any more.”

“Probably not, but you'd have had the time and space to find out where you were going. Because of Carol it means that you're doing it down there instead of up here. Just don't jump into something without thinking it through. Give yourself time, sweetie. Promise?”

“Yes. But I have this cut-off point with Margot coming. I should be able to get a winter let—a cottage or a flat for six months. I've got to make the break sooner or later, Martin. I need to feel independent.”

“I can see that. But just don't take on anything too permanent all at once.”

“No, I won't. My real difficulty is that I think I might have to pay three months” rent in advance but I doubt I'd get paid until the end of the first month. Would you sub me? I could pay you back once I'm working …”

“Look, sweetie, if we'd been married for the last three years I'm sure you'd be able to claim all kinds of things. If you find a job and a flat I'll pay for you to go in and sort yourself out. After that you're on your own. How does that sound?”

“It sounds fine. Bless you, Martin. You're a terrific comfort.”

“It's not a problem. Stay in touch.”

She replaced the receiver, sat indecisively for a moment and then made up her mind. She collected her car-keys, hesitated over whether she needed a jacket and went out again. Frummie was lifting a box from Alexander's car and Louise paused beside her.

“I'm going to Ashburton,” she said. “I want to go to the chemist and I think I'll grab a sandwich while I'm out.”

Frummie raised her eyebrows. “I hope you don't feel that Alexander and I need to be alone?” she asked.

“Of course not. It's just I feel a bit… oh, you know. Restless. Twitchy. I need some exercise. Don't worry. I won't go off into the lonely wild. I'll stick with the crowds.”

“Make sure you do,” said Frummie sharply. “See you later.”

Louise drove up the track and pulled out on to the road. There were the usual number of cars crammed into the layby beside the O Brook and, as she passed over Saddle Bridge, one of them, to her irritation, pulled out behind her. She hated being followed over the moor; she liked to be able to relish the glorious spectacle of the hills unfolding to misty horizons, the stony peaks, the deep-sided combes and wooded valleys. The rowan trees by the bridge were bright with berries, stonechats perched, swaying on the bracken, and the warm, exciting scent of gorse drifted on the faint currents of air. The car parks at Combestone Tor and Venford were packed with holidaymakers: families with children making the most of this last weekend of freedom before the new school term. The waters of the reservoir lay calm and unruffled in the noonday heat and it seemed impossible now, in bright sunshine, to imagine that sudden nightmare panic which had sent her fleeing from the wood. Perhaps, after all, it had been Pan, the god of fields and woodland, who waited behind stone and tree so as to ravish unsuspecting travellers. She chuckled, slowing to allow some sheep to cross the road, glancing in her mirror as she applied her brakes. The car following was idling some way back and she pulled away again, glad not to be pressured into driving too fast.

She clattered over the cattle-grid and picked up speed, heading for Ashburton, hoping it wouldn't be too crowded. The small red car continued to follow her out on to the Poundsgate road and along beside the river to Holne Bridge. Here there was the usual weekend crowd of canoeists, putting on wet suits, unloading canoes from their cars and vans, and Louise sat in a queue of cars, waiting to cross the bridge, watching them and occasionally glancing in her mirror at the car behind. The driver, the only occupant, was wearing Ray-Bans and a baseball cap. His arm, in its rolled-up shirtsleeve, rested on the window-ledge and the fingers of his left hand beat a rhythm on the wheel. Louise felt a tiny pulse of recognition and wondered if he was the man who had come to Foxhole recently to clean windows. The car looked familiar…

She pushed her hair back impatiently, hot and wanting to get on, disliking the smell of diesel fumes and the noise of idling engines. Mentally she reviewed her conversation, with Martin, remembering the sudden need to communicate. If only she could effect some change in her circumstances. Despite the descents into fear she was quite certain that she needed to make a new effort but it was odd—and deeply unsettling—how the prospect of the future could be alternately exhilarating and terrifying. Suddenly, without warning, she was possessed with an overwhelming longing for Rory: the need to feel his arms round her, to hear his voice in her ear.
“So that's that. Now! Where were we?”
She stared straight ahead, biting her lip, her eyes wide and staring against tears.

Suddenly the road was clear again; she was passing over the bridge and in another five minutes was approaching the town. She drove into the car park, peering for a space, spotting a car on the further side which was backing out. Feeling lucky, she parked, checked for some change and strolled over to the pay meter to collect a ticket. The small red car was not so fortunate. He pulled in, waiting behind a row of cars, watching until Louise had locked her car and walked quickly away towards the shops.

L
ATER, AFTER
some lunch at the Victoria Inn and a trawl around the shops, Louise went back to the car park, put her shopping on the passenger seat and drove off. By the time she arrived back at Foxhole it was nearly four o'clock. Frummie came out to greet her and Louise climbed out, surprised and faindy alarmed.

“Is everything OK?”