A Summer in the Country (37 page)

“No, I suppose not.”

She'd heard him sigh and immediately had felt anxious that she'd been overdoing it, longing to cry, “I love you. I want you to be here
nowV

“I'm going to see Annabel tomorrow evening,” he'd said—and her stomach had instantly curdled with fear; her hands were icy.

“Oh?” The small sharp word had sounded curt; loaded with terror.

“Well, she asked if I'd go over.” He'd sounded conciliatory. ‘There are still things to discuss and she's got some of my stuff. You know how it is.”

“Sure ” She'd made herself answer calmly, even cheerfully. Yet why shouldn't she show her insecurity; ask for confirmation of his love? Why not give him the chance to comfort and reassure her? Some instinct warned her against it: some deep intuitive sense told her to wait.

“I miss you,” he'd said softly. “I really miss you.”

They'd talked nonsense for a while; teasing each other affectionately, laughing, making plans …

Now, sitting at her desk, Jemima groaned with longing— and tensed her muscles against that trickle of excitement. Maybe she had nothing to fear, after all. With an uprush of her natural optimism she closed her eyes and began to fantasise: he'd have found a wonderful job in Exeter; they'd never be separated again; he'd want to get married, have babies … She opened her eyes abruptly,

“Dream on!” she muttered derisively—and, seizing her address book, she began to turn the pages, searching diligently through its scribbled entries.

“I've been thinking about this suggestion of yours.”

Humphrey's voice was very nearly truculent and Brigid, her nerves stretched taut with hope and nervousness, was seized by a crazy desire to say, “Oh? Which suggestion was that?” Hysterical laughter bubbled inside her and she took several deep breaths in an effort to control herself. She thought: I'm going mad. The strain is sending me round the bend.

Aloud she said: “Have you? Well, it was just a foolish idea, really. Not properly followed through.”

“No, I realise that.”

He still sounded alarmingly unfriendly but she instinctively knew that he was having difficulty in introducing die subject. The fact that he had done so raised her hopes, convincing her that he was at least interested. It was necessary to encourage him now, but she must be tactful.

“I'm sure it's terribly complicated,” she said, taking care to keep her voice light, not quite dismissive, not too enthusiastic.

“Well, I've been giving it quite a lot of thought.” She remained resolutely silent. “I'm beginning to think that I might be able to work something out”

“Really?” The sharp upward inflexion at the end of the word indicated amazement and she grimaced, wondering if she'd overdone it.

“Well, obviously it's not going to be easy.”

She thought: Huffy. That's the word. He sounds huffy.

“I'm sure it can't be,” she agreed! She simply mustn't be patronising. “I don't even know whether it can be done, of course.”

“It occurred to me that if they're trying to sell it there must be some kind of prospectus. Do you think you could get hold of one and send it to me?”

She was silent for a moment, eyes stretched wide, before she hastened into speech. “Of course. I'm sure I can. What a clever idea!”

“Well, not
that
clever.”

He was unbending slightly, the chill in his voice thawing into his more usual tones, and she did not waste this small opportunity.

“I was wondering if you could speak to the Bank? They're pestering a bit about the forms. I know it's not really fair to ask you to do it…” She let the sentence die away, having subtly indicated dependence, guilt and remorse.

“I can if you like.”

It was clear that he was reluctant to sound too eager and she was quick to give him space.

“I know it's not easy with the time difference and, after all, I dropped us in this mess, but they're getting a bit stroppy.”

She allowed a touch of pathos, a tiny hesitation to creep into her voice, appealing to his natural chivalry.

“It's probably sensible.” He sounded almost his normal self. “I wouldn't mind running a few ideas past them. Just harden up a few thoughts, that kind of thing.”

“Oh?” The initiative was now definitely passing from her to him. “Well, that's great, then.” A tiny pause. “It sounds rather exciting.”

“It could be. I might just be able to turn the thing round. I'd be away quite a bit, though. I don't know how you feel about that?”

Her mind leaped in several directions at once. An answer of “Oh, I don't mind a bit if it sorts out the problem” was neither quite accurate nor was it tactful, yet she could hardly say, “Oh, I can't bear the thought of it!”

“How do
you
feel about it?” She turned the answer back on him, opening herself up to a direct reproach: a “Well, I don't really have a lot of choice, do I?” kind of bitterness.

“Well, we're used to it, aren't we?” he answered, almost cheerfully resigned. “I expect we'd manage. I'm prepared to give it a try if you are. Assuming, of course, that the Bank will agree and I can sort out all the nitty-gritty.”

She was humbled by his generosity, feeling guilt, gratitude and an enormous relief all in one huge upsweep of emotion. She answered him from her heart.

“I love you,” she said.

There was a short silence.

“I love you too,” he said—and he was Humphrey again: warm, human, kind. “We'll have a go, shall we? Give it a whirl?”

“Oh, darling! Do you think you might like it?”

'1 was talking to some of the chaps here about it and they were really enthusiastic—rather envied me the opportunity. I expect fall retirement could have been a bit OTT just yet.”

“You might have got a bit bored.” She was deliberately cautious: careful not to take too much for granted. “But I feel so mean for taking away your choices.”

“Oh, well. I wouldn't have had the choices in the first place if it hadn't been for you, would I?”

“How do you mean?” She was genuinely puzzled.

“Well, Foxhole is yours, my sweet You share it with me but, let's face it, you have the right to do what you like with your own cottage.”

“I've never thought about it like that. It's you who's made it possible all these years. Your salary paid for the renovations so that they'd support our retirement.”

“They still will.” He was comforting her now. “I'm only fifty-two. Thirteen years till retirement. Anyway, I might have made a packet out of the sailing school by then.”

“Oh, Humphrey.”

“Look, you tried to help an old friend. It's not your fault it came unstuck. I've been thinking about it quite a lot and it could just be a stroke of luck for us. I know I'd have to be away quite a bit but we could cope with that, couldn't we? My role would be mainly advisory, I imagine, and administrative stuff, although I have to say that a bit of sailing does have an appeal. It would probably be quite quiet in the winter and I don't see why I couldn't do some of the administrative work from home. As long as the staff in the office is reliable. If anything blew up, I could be down there in an hour or so if necessary. What d'you think?”

“I think it's a wonderful idea,” she said warmly. “I really do. If you're absolutely sure?”

“I think I am.” He sounded pleased, almost jubilant. “I'll talk it over with the Bank. Oh, and see if you can get hold of a prospectus.”

“I will,” she promised. “It all sounds quite exciting. Well…” She gave a little chuckle. “I think I need a drink after all this. It's come as a bit of a shock.”

“I know how you feel. It needs a bit of adjusting to—but I feel sure it should be followed up.”

“If you think so.” She stressed the “you” lightly; giving him the credit for it. “It's … well, it's quite an idea.”

“You'll soon get used to it,” he told her kindly. “I know it's not how we planned it but I think that it's right for us. I wish I was at home with you. Apart from anything else, it would be so much easier to start negotiations.”

“I wish you were here too,” she said. “But I'm sure you'll manage.”

“Go and have that drink,” he said affectionately. “Oh, by the way, how's Father?”

“He's fine. He's got a friend staying with him. A very nice man called Gregory Stone.”

“Oh, yes, I remember him. An old school-friend, isn't he? So he's not being a pain in the arse? Father, I mean.”

“No, oh no. Not at all. I … I hardly see him. Mummie's got Margot staying with her, so they're doing things in foursomes. They're having a ball by the sound of it.”

“That's great. Only I'd rather you don't mention my plan to him just at the moment. OK? Not until it's a bit more set-ded.”

My
plan? “Of course not,” she said quickly. “No, I quite understand. Mummie doesn't know about it either. I'll get hold of that prospectus and send it off to you. And you'll stay in touch, won't you? Let me know what the Bank says and things like that?”

“Of course I will. I'll have to speak to them very soon to let them know why I'm not sending back the forms. I'll ring as soon as I've got anything to report.”

“Great,” she said. “Good luck. Love you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Me, too.”

She replaced the receiver and stood, grinning to herself.
“My
plan. You'll soon get used to it.” She remembered Alexander's words: ”
I have no doubt that in time Humphrey will believe that he
did
think of it first”
and burst out laughing. Feeling happier than she had for months, Brigid found Jenny's telephone number, lifted the receiver and began to dial.

T
HE WIND
was strong and cold, stinging tears to the eyes, piling up the breakers which pounded thunderously on the shore, filling the air with a salty, misty spray. The surging heaving sea was grey, reflecting the rain-heavy clouds which rolled sullenly before the westerly gale, although an occasional bright finger of sunshine pierced the gloom, to touch the watery mass with a golden brilliance, so that dazzling rainbows shimmered above the curling, windblown, white-headed waves.

They walked in silence, the shingle crunching beneath their boots, hands resolutely in pockets. Jemima hadn't had the courage to take his hand, as she sometimes did, and he made no attempt towards intimacy. He was stunned by the violence of the elemental forces which were sweeping the coast and he paused at regular intervals to stare out to sea, almost shocked by the noise: the crashing water, sucking greedily at the land, and the relentless roaring of the wind. They'd shouted to one another to begin with but had been obliged to stop, their words torn from their lips and tossed into the maelstrom before either could hear what the other had said. Sea-birds screamed above their bent heads, carried and bullied by the squalls which buffeted them unmercifully.

Jemima watched him, almost amused by the effect the gale was having upon him. The weekend had not yet completely recovered from its unfortunate beginnings. She'd been unable to find anyone to help her with the changeover and, on the Friday evening, he'd telephoned, furious and frustrated: he'd got back late from an unscheduled meeting to find that the car wouldn't start and the garage was closed.

“I'll get away as early as I can in the morning,” he'd said. “Let's hope that there's nothing seriously wrong.”

She'd tried to hide her disappointment, explaining her own problem. “I could leave the key with someone in the museum downstairs,” she'd offered—but he'd refused.

“I probably won't be down much before lunchtime anyway,” he'd said gloomily. “I'll go and have a pint in the Ferry Inn. Come and find me when you're back.”

She'd fumed her way through the morning, hoovering, changing sheets, cleaning and dusting. The new arrivals were over an hour late and by the time she'd left them, her face aching with smiling so falsely, it was well past lunch-time. By the time she found him in the pub, he'd already eaten. He'd been tired, slightly irritable, and she'd been unable to overcome an attack of nervousness. They'd sat in the pub for a while and then wandered round the town, behaving rather like polite strangers, a barrier between them, invisible but most definitely there. Back at the flat the tension had eased a little. In this familiar setting they'd both loosened up. The harbour scene was blessed by autumn sunshine, which warmed the room with its glowing radiance before deepening gently into a crimson-streaked sunset. Gradually the brittleness between them dissolved and presently, after she'd opened some wine, they'd made love with an unusual intensity. She'd had the sense to prepare a simple but delicious supper, and they'd watched some late-night television, but he'd fallen asleep almost as soon as they'd got into bed.

Jemima had lain awake, listening to his regular breathing, feeling his warmth, lying as close to him as she dared without waking him. She suspected that he was coming close to making a commitment and was having an attack of cold feet. She was able to sympathise, in part, but she was aching with the need to be rid of all these estranging moods which beset them. She longed to have the rights—or privileges—of a steady relationship and was becoming weary of cautioning herself to act warily.

They'd made love again in the early morning and she'd slept, then, until nearly lunchtime. The walk had been mooted—despite the dramatic change in the weather—to clear their heads and wake them up. It had certainly achieved its purpose. When they climbed back into the car their heads were ringing with the clamour of the gale and their eyes streamed and stung. They had a drink and some lunch at the Tower Inn at Slapton and drove back to Salgombe, warmed and refreshed.

“You haven't told me your news yet,” she said later, putting a tray of tea on the low table and sitting beside him on the sofa. “All this talk about relocating. So what's happened?”

He was unaware of how much it was costing her to raise the subject, or to speak so naturally, and she wondered if he saw her hands tremble as she poured the tea.

“Nothing concrete yet,” he said—and her heart swooped dejectedly—“but there are one or two openings which look quite promising.”

“Whereabouts?” She was grimly determined to hold on to her initiative, persuading herself that she had the right to ask; yet she kept her voice cheerful, almost jokey.

He frowned a little. “Bristol,” he said almost reluctantly, at last.

“Bristol?” She couldn't prevent the involuntary query; the implied disappointment.

He shrugged. “It's a start,” he said defensively. “It's more difficult the further west you come.”

“I can believe that,” she said reasonably. “It's just, from the way you spoke, it sounded as if… well, as if something really good had happened.”

“There's a faint possibility of something in Exeter,” he admitted. “But it's too early to get excited about it.”

“Right.” She drank some tea thoughtfully.

“It might take a while,” he said, “but, hey, let's not give up hope.”

He smiled at her, touching her shoulder and then drawing his hand down her arm, and she felt the familiar shudder of excitement deep in her gut. She set down her cup, turning to look at him, pressing her hands between her knees.