A Summer in the Country (38 page)

“The thing is,” she said, “I've got some news myself.”

“Oh?” He looked at her quickly, his eyes bright, wary. “And what's that, then?”

“I'm being chucked out of here,” she said. “They've given me three months' notice to quit.”

“What?” He laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head. “Sorry, I think I've lost the plot. You said this was your place. You said your father had left you some money …”

“I said I had a legacy.” She kept her eyes on his face. “But I didn't say I'd bought the place. It just enabled me to pay the pretty astronomic rent” She nodded towards the window. “Waterfront properties don't come cheap.”

“No, I imagine they don't.” His own eyes were blank. “Right. I see.”

“The point is,” she felt almost angry now, oddly hurt by his reaction, or lack of it, “that we could live somewhere a bit more convenient to… well, where the work is, if you see what I mean. I can't go too far from my own patch, of course, but we are rather out on a limb here. We could be a bit more central. Nearer the A38, for instance.”

She stopped speaking and silence crashed between them. Violent gusts of wind flung the rain against the glass so that it ran in rivulets, pouring like tears down the cold cheeks of the window.

“Well,” she said, after a while, “that seems to have been a bit of a conversation stopper.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Really, I am. It was quite a shock.” He still looked dazed.

“I found it so,” she said, almost brutally.

He looked at her quickly. “Sure. God, yes. Look, I'm really sorry.”

“Well,” she refused to lose her grip, “perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. Like I said, it gives us choices.”

He pulled himself together. “Of course it does. You're right. It could make things much easier.”

She said, “Your tea's getting cold.”

“Right.” He sat forward, swallowed the tea. “And I ought to be making a move. This bloody awful weather will really slow me down and I've got to get the wretched hire car back. This hasn't worked out quite like I hoped. Better next time, don't you think? But it's been great…”

He talked himself through his packing and his goodbyes, out of the flat and down the stairs. Once he'd gone she stood at the window, staring out at the night whilst the wind tore across the black water of the harbour and raced shrieking overhead. MagnifiCat came winding round her ankles, rubbing his head against her legs, and, drawing the curtains to close out the storm, she turned back into the warmly lighted room.

Louise sat back on her heels, scanning the skirting board anxiously for any glossy dribbles, and sighed with relief. The living room was very nearly finished and she was looking forward to being able to live comfortably again. She'd been lucky to finish the galley and the living room's walls before the stormy weather arrived. Until the change in the weather it had been possible to leave the windows and doors open to the gende autumnal warmth but now she longed for the comfort of a fire in the evenings. Sitting in the small conservatory was no longer an option but she was cautious about having a fire whilst the gloss paint was still wet. The tiny grate would have to be cleared out each morning and she simply couldn't risk ash settling on the tacky surfaces. She'd had to make do with an old-fashioned convector heater whilst the damp, chilly fingers of the wind poked and pried around the cottage, reaching beneath doors and squeezing through rattling window frames. The draught had whistled round her ankles and played about her ears as she'd sat huddled in her shawl, thick woollen socks on her feet and a hot-water bottle clutched in her arms. A power cut had suddenly plunged her into darkness and sent her stumbling and bumping in search of her torch before she could find the candles and the matches with which Jemima had so thoughtfully supplied her. She'd sat shivering in the flickering light, whilst the convector heater gradually cooled and she grew colder and more miserable until, in the end, it had been sensible simply to go to bed.

Today was bright again; the power restored. The storm had passed away, the last lingering rags of clouds drifting eastwards, and the sun was shining. She stood up, stretching, and went into the galley to wash her brushes. The clean brightness, the fresh smell of paint, pleased her. She felt the sense of satisfaction which comes with the contemplation of the results of hard work and she sipped at her mug of hot soup, her spirits rising. Tomorrow she would begin work upstairs. Meanwhile, she planned to go for a walk. She'd barely been out since the stormy weather had set in and she longed to stride out over the cliffs or along the beach, resting her dust-filled eyes on distant vistas and stretching her legs after days of crouching and kneeling. Her back felt permanently bent with scraping, sand-papering and rubbing down. She'd worked long and hard, and a treat was in order.

As she finished her soup, between taking bites from a cheese-filled roll and peeling an apple, she decided that she would drive down to East Portlemouth, park in the lane above the ferry steps so as to wander along the beach—if the tide allowed—and up through the wood to Rickham Common. This was one of her favourite walks and she decided to take a small picnic with her: a flask of hot tea and a few small rock-cakes would go down rather well up on the cliffs. Fifteen minutes later she was putting the lightweight knapsack in the car, hurrying back inside to collect her fleece hat, and finally setting off. She did not notice the small red car parked beside the village green, nor the man who was standing half hidden by the stone shelter. He wore a baseball cap and Ray-Bans and appeared to be engrossed in the unusual windvane on the roof of the shelter, his head tilted back as he stared up at its crown and the letters EIIR. Once she had passed, however, he walked quickly to the red car and climbed in, turning it so as to follow her through the winding lanes.

As Louise descended the steps which led down to the beach, she was pleased to see that the tide was ebbing. This meant that if she were careful she could get along the beach quite safely, although she might have to scramble over some of the low-lying rocks. She picked her way along, glancing across to Salcombe, wondering what Jemima might be doing, until she rounded the rocky point into Mill Bay. As she crossed the beach she remembered her dream. It was here that Hermione had danced, teasing the waves, and Rory had stood beneath the trees, watching her. For a moment her heart filled with despair and loneliness and she struggled to keep depression from muscling in; wrestling her happiness in the bright day down to helplessness, dragging her spirits down into misery.

Frummie's words slid into her mind and she clung to them grimly.
“Look beyond it”
She climbed the path into the little woodland, concentrating on the view of the sea which lay ahead. The bent and twisted oaks and sycamore, ancient and stunted by the salt spray, seemed unusually quiet and oddly eerie. She had the odd sensation that someone was near at hand, and she was glad to climb out into the sunshine on the common amongst the fading bracken. She walked more slowly now, looking across the narrow mouth of the estuary to Starehole Bay and the Mew Stone on the further side. The silvery silken skin of the sea stretched to a misty, indistinct horizon, and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily, the slanting rays of the sun gleaming and glinting on their painted decks.

She wandered along the coastal path, watching gannets diving and the smaller terns with their dancing, skimming flight, noticing the gorse bushes still in flower and the clumps of thrift which grew amongst the rocks. Presently, beneath some wind-shaped apple trees, she laid out her waterproof and poured some tea into the plastic cup. The rock-buns tasted good, full of delicious fruit, and the tea was hot and refreshing, and she sat dreaming in the afternoon sunshine until she began to grow chilly. Kneeling, she packed the waterproof and the tea-things into her knapsack, swung it on to her back and got to her feet. The sun was low now, dazzling into her eyes. For a moment she thought she saw another figure on the footpath but when she looked more carefully, shading her eyes, there was no one there. She started back, watching the boats which were now heading for harbour, hugging the channel of the further shore as they crossed the spit of sand called The Bar.

Louise walked quickly, hands in pockets, crossing the common once more, passing through the woodland and down to Mill Bay. As she came out of the trees and began to cross the half-circle of beach, she caught her breath in a tiny gasp of shock. Beneath the trees, half hidden by the rocks at the edge of the cove, a man was standing. So strongly did he remind her of her dream that she glanced involuntarily towards the water's edge, expecting to see the small child dancing. There was nothing there; only the tide washing gently in across the sand. She looked back at him, her steps slowing, feeling suddenly afraid. There was something familiar about him, about the cap and the black Ray-Bans, which made her search her memory, wondering where she'd seen him before. He was slightly turned away from her, staring over the harbour, yet, even as she advanced he moved round the edge of the point, looking at her now. Trembling, poised for flight, she stopped, and in a swift movement he took off his cap, crushing it into his pocket, and removed the tinted spectacles.

She stared at him, heart hammering in her side, fists still jammed in her pockets and, just as it had been in the dream, no words would come and she was immobilised with fear. He came towards her, hesitated and came on until he was an arm's length away. They stared at each other in silence until he shook his head almost irritably, as if dispelling some emotion which had gripped him and paralysed him, and with an immense effort he smiled at her.

“Hello, Louise,” said Rory.

T
HE WALK
back to the ferry steps seemed to take hours. The reality of his presence, suddenly after three years of absence, was a tremendous shock and, to begin with, she could neither move nor speak. She stared at him, struggling with a whole variety of emotions: disbelief, delight, fear, guilt. He took the initiative—but then he always had. She was reminded of those returns from sea and her frustration in her inability to cross the barrier which distance and loneliness had erected in his absence.

“I didn't know how to do it,” he was saying anxiously, apologising for the shock. “I couldn't think of any other way.”

She shook her head, trying to say, “It's OK. I understand,” but still the words wouldn't come. She simply did not know how to begin. What words could be adequate after the way she'd left him? Quite instinctively they began to walk back along the beach together. Whilst he talked, trying to build some kind of bridge, she stole glances at him, sliding her eyes sideways, still gripped with shyness—and shame.

“I've been following you.” It was a kind of apology. “Trying to get up the courage to speak.” He chuckled, a not very convincing sound, but he was doing his best. “Obviously my disguise worked.”

He took out the baseball cap, smoothing it and turning it in his hands. His efforts were palpable and she was shaken with an overwhelming tenderness for him.

“I thought I
did
recognise you.” She spoke at last but the words were husky, as if her voice were rusty with disuse. “But not as you, if you see what I mean. As someone else.”

He turned to her eagerly, encouraging her, stuffing the cap back into his pocket. “You've probably seen me about without realising it,” he said. “I followed you once from Foxhole in the car. We were in a hold-up for a few minutes and I wondered if you'd seen me in your mirror. And I was in The Wardroom when you were there having coffee.”

She stared at him, shyness forgotten in surprise. “But how did you know where I was? Sorry. I'm being a bit dense, aren't I? I thought you meant you'd seen me by accident…” She hesitated, confused.

“Martin told me,” he said. “He said that you'd… come to terms with things.”

He looked uncomfortable but she was too shocked to notice it.
“Martin
told you?”

They stood quite still, staring at each other, and, when he spoke, he chose his words very carefully.

“He stayed in touch with me, you see. He was horrified by… such a tragedy and he tried to keep hold of me, if you can understand that.”

She looked away from him, surprised to see the children running on the sand and boats chugging into harbour. The brilliant light and the sounds crashed in on her consciousness. It was as if. the whole world had narrowed down to the tiny space which he and she inhabited. Now it expanded almost violently around her. The children's voices echoed over the water and the engines of the fishing boats purred rhythmically. The sun was nearly gone, rolling away behind the cliffs.

She said, “That sounds like Martin. He's a mender of people.”

“Yes.” A silence. “He was very sensible, actually. He made me see, though not all at once, that you needed the space…”

She turned back to him quickly, desperately. “I am so sorry, Rory. Oh God, I was so cruel but I couldn't… I couldn't…”

“I know. Honestly. It's not that I—Look, I'm not asking for explanations. It's just… I'm explaining how it was.”

His hair was ruddy in the sunset's glow, his eyes the same colour as Hermione's. Her lips trembled. “Yes. I see that. Sony…”

“Well, he kept in touch.” They were walking on again now. ‘There was a point when we both wondered if it would ever change. And then back in the summer he telephoned.” A long pause. “I'm out of the Navy now.”

“Out?”

He nodded. “I did an exchange with the Canadians for two years but after that it was never going to be the same.” He shrugged. “There was never a day when I didn't think of you both.”

“Oh, Rory …”

He was determined not to take advantage of her emotion.

“So I got a job with an engineering company in Newport. There's a lot of research and I really enjoy it. Martin phoned and said that you'd had a kind of breakdown but that you were … on your own again. He thought you might be able to…”

“Face reality?” He did not look at her and his expression was wary. She sighed. “That's what it was, you see. At the time, I couldn't face it. The only way I could manage to survive was to deny it. To pretend that it had happened to another person. By the time you got back from sea I was too far along the path of denial. You had to be denied too.”

He said bleakly, “I've never forgiven myself for not being there.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Look,” she said. “Look…Ohhell…”

“Shall we go and have some tea somewhere?” They'd reached the ferry steps and he was smiling at her. She could hardly bear the love in his eyes. “Just so that we can talk. Nothing heavy.”

She smiled back. So it had always been: the familiar advance and retreat until she'd been able to cross the final barrier. He'd never pushed, never forced, but had waited patiently to be accepted once more into her life: her life—and Hermione's.

“Come back to the cottage for tea,” she said. “You can follow me. Although… I suppose you know where it is?”

He nodded, embarrassed. “Martin told me, you see. I'm sorry. It's rather horrid to be spied on, isn't it, but I didn't know what else to do. I didn't think that telephoning out of the blue was a very good idea.”

“No, I think it would have been even more difficult.” She tried to convey her gratitude for his making such an effort; for his sensitivity. “Come and have some tea, if you'd like to, but I'll have to go down to the end of the road so that I can turn.”

“I'll follow you,” he said—and turned away to his own car.

All the way back to East Prawle she drove automatically, quite unaware of her surroundings; shocked, excited, frightened. He followed her quickly and efficiently, parking behind her outside the cottage, waiting with hands in pockets whilst she unlocked the door.

“It's a bit of a mess,” she said. ‘I'm decorating it, you see.”

He wandered about, asking questions, whilst she boiled the kettle and spoke lightly about the joys of decorating, but both of them realised that the spell was broken. That unexpected meeting on the beach, on neutral ground, out of time, had moved them forward—or backward—unbelievably quickly. Suddenly, here in the small cottage, they were awkward, ill at ease, uncomfortable. Louise talked because she could not bear the silence, dismayed by her brittleness, helplessly groping towards that earlier extraordinary intimacy. Even Rory seemed incapable of narrowing the gap which now yawned between them.