A Summer in the Country (4 page)

Brigid, nevertheless, felt anxious that Oscar might be pining for his people and had given him lots of cuddles whether he'd seemed to want them or not. He'd borne her affection with great patience and enormous courtesy and had lain down again afterwards with a sigh of relief. She'd grown terribly fond of him but dealing with Blot's jealousy had rather taken some of the pleasure out of Oscar's visit.

“You're spoiled rotten, that's the problem,” she murmured, as he padded before her into the kitchen, tail wagging. “But then, whose.fault is that?”

She placed his bowl, with the leftovers from supper, beside the Aga and began to tidy up. She was happy now. The dishwasher was taking most of the load—“Young people nowadays don't know they're born,” Frummie had muttered waspisly—and she enjoyed restoring the kitchen to its normal state: squeezing behind the rectangular oak table so as to plump up the cushions on the settle which was built in against the wall, replacing the blue lustre jug full of yellow tulips in the centre of the table, putting the remains of the cream into the fridge. She kneeled for a moment on the window seat, opening the window which looked east, leaning to listen to the murmuring lullaby of the West Dart, looking up at the stars. The owl which lived in Combestone woods was flying up the valley, his thin quavering call echoing tremulously over stone and heather; far below him a vixen yelped once and was silent.

Leaning on her folded arms, Brigid was lulled, enfolded, in the mystery of the scene: the deep rural silence, the vast empty tracts of moorland, the singing of the spheres. She breathed deeply, gratefully, and then turned back to the warm, bright kitchen, refreshed and at peace.

S
TANDING AT
her bedroom window, which looked across the O Brook to Combestone Tbr, Louise was also listening to the owl. For once, however, she was not soothed by the peacefulness of the countryside: she felt restless, confused. Ever since she'd watched the man in the train, noting his body language, listening to his conversation, she'd been uneasy, her suspicions about Martin coalescing into a tangible fear; and then the unexpected sight of the woman in the field with her child had jolted her mind from its habitual guardedness, leaving it open to assault from the past. The past was buried and done with: finished, over. Yet those whispers, those images, had already undermined her hard-won contentment It was these, she was sure, which had made her abnormally aware of the rifts and tensions between Brigid and Frummie. She'd sensed other emotions underlying Frummie's barbs and Brigid's anguish.

The vixen, down in the valley, yelped. It was a wild, disturbing cry that set the blood tingling, and Louise turned abruptly from the window, seized her dressing gown and went quickly into the bathroom.

F
RUMMIE SHUT
her front door behind her, checked the locks with an unsteady hand and headed for the drinks cupboard beside the fireplace in her living room. It was a big, delightful room which faced south and west but she still hadn't forgiven Brigid for giving her the smaller of the two cottages.

“We simply can't afford to, Mummie,” Brigid had said, almost pleadingly. “We can't lose the income from the bigger one. You must understand that. It's cost an awful lot to get them converted and we can't just give away the bigger one. We're very happy for you to have this one, though.
Please
try to see our point of view.”

“Oh, there's no need to make it
quite
so clear that beggars can't be choosers,” She'd answered bitterly. “Don't worry.

I'm entitled to benefit from the government and I shall be able to pay you rent.”

She'd enjoyed Brigid's flush of embarrassment; it had eased her own shame.

I'm not bothered about rent,” Brigid had said. “You know I'm not It's just… Oh, forget it. I'm not going to argue with you. If you can manage here then I'm glad we have it so as to help you out. You must suit yourself. Come over to the house when you've looked round and made up your mind.”

Frummie opened the door of the cupboard and reached for the whisky, her lips twisting in a grimace of remembrance. There had been no luxury of choice for her. Her fourth husband, who was considerably younger than she was, had left her for a woman half her age and she'd had nowhere to go. The lease was up on their flat, she'd had no income of her own, and she'd been utterly unable to meet the stares and knowing glances of her friends. Humiliation waited; little quarter would be given to one who had, in the past, been so ready to discourse wittily and cruelly upon the downfall of others. Flight to the country had been her only hope; a desperate need for sanctuary. She'd known just how generous Brigid was being but her own fierce pride must be supported, fed, upheld. Her acceptance had been ungracious but, after all, she'd lived in this damned hole—Foxhole was a good name for it—for eight long, mind-numbing years. She'd deserved something for her trouble. Of course, he'd left the lot to Brigid.

Frummie poured the whisky with a shaking hand, put the decanter back into the cupboard, and made her uncertain way upstairs. She undressed slowly, pausing for sips from the glass, and climbed into bed. Sitting for a while, cradling the glass, a pleasant drowsiness stealing over her, she nodded against the piled pillows. She, too, heard the owl's haunting call, the vixen's scream, and, with a shudder of horror, she drained the last drop from the glass and huddled down beneath her blankets.

“You're going home today,” Brigid told Oscar, giving him his morning biscuit and then watching whilst he ate it, lest Blot should snatch the pieces that fell to the ground before Oscar should be ready for them. He scrunched thoughtfully, in a leisurely manner, as if pondering on her words, and Brigid stroked his large black head. “It's not that I want to get rid of you,” she assured him. “Get off, Blot. Eat your own biscuits and leave him alone. I'd be only too pleased to have you if it weren't for this neurotic fleabag. Go
away,
Blot. You're a very calming influence, Oscar. No wonder Thea is always so serene. You're a bit like Humphrey, actually. Large and solid and dependable. Finished? Sure? Good. I'm going to have some coffee, then ”

She left Oscar sitting outside the lean-to door, gazing down with a kind of regal astonishment at Blot who was hoovering busily round his large paws for any spare crumbs, and went back to the kitchen. The room was full of sunshine and she made coffee with an unusually heartfelt sense of gratitude. She'd discovered very early on that a surprising amount of holidaymakers who rented the cottages seemed to hold her responsible for the weather.

“I'd no idea it rained so much,” they'd say disconsolately. “I thought Devon was supposed to be a sunny place.” Or, discontentedly, “Wish we'd gone abroad again, at least you get the weather there,” as if rain and mist weren't weather but some kind of scourge especially reserved for Devonians. To Brigid, who'd spent many sleepless nights and anxious days wondering if the cottages were up to the necessary standard, these remarks seemed to strike to her heart as personal criticism.

“My dearest girl,” Humphrey had said, putting his'arms about her, “even
you
are not able to control the weather. Let them go back to the Mediterranean, or wherever, next year if they don't like it here. Things will settle down and we'll start getting regulars, people who really love the place, coming back year after year.”

He'd been right, yet she still felt a huge sense of relief when the sun shone on the first day of each visitor's holiday. Not that she needed to worry about Louise. Louise had Brigid's own kind of passion for the place and accepted the rain as part of the package. She was almost a member of the family. A great many of Brigid's visitors had become-Mends; they sent Christmas cards and she'd watched their children grow, year by year, so that the couples who'd been the first to stay were now grandparents as she and Humphrey were. Most of them were seeking peace and quiet, enjoyed walking and exploring, and fitted in quite naturally, making few demands. With some of them a closer relationship had developed: a supper together, or a trip to the Church House Inn in Holne; a showing of photographs—a wedding or a christening—over a cream tea or a barbecue. It was only with Louise, however, that Brigid had really let down the barriers; only Louise who had pierced the guard of Brigid's privacy.

It had been hard to tell these annual visitors that one of the cottages would no longer be available. It meant that some of them were booking holidays earlier in the spring or later in the autumn but Louise had been one of the favoured few who had been privileged to retain her usual fortnight twice a year. Since she'd always booked late May and mid-September there were fewer contenders but, even if there had been more, Brigid would have still kept those weeks sacrosanct.

“One can't help having favourites,” she'd said, almost defensively, “and I just have this feeling that it's more important for Louise than it is for lots of the others.”

“I think you're right.” Humphrey had smiled at her. “You don't have to try to convince me, you know.”

“I know.” She'd laughed at herself but had shaken her head, frustrated. “It's so difficult having to refuse people we've known for so long …” She hadn't added, “and all because of my wretched mother,” but he'd understood.

“We didn't have any choice,” he'd said gently. “We couldn't leave her in some depressing boarding house.”

“She
left
me”
Brigid had cried hotly, resentfully, before she could help herself, and had turned away so that he might not see her tears.

“But not alone and amongst strangers,” he'd said, just as gently. “It's hell but if we hadn't taken her in you'd be riddled with guilt. It's a Catch 22 situation.”

“I know.” She'd blown her nose, smiling at him gratefully. “Sorry.”

“What for? We both know what it's like to have a selfish parent. At least we had one good one each.”

Breaking the dead heads from her geraniums, refilling the Aga kettle, pottering quietly, Brigid wondered why she should fear Humphrey's retirement so much. He was so kind, so stable, and he could always cheer her out of any depression or anxiety; she missed him, looked forward to his weekends at home and his leaves, so why feel so anxious? He'd had several shore jobs during his career but a shore job wasn't the same as having him at home all the time. Would he be hurt by her requirement for periods of solitude? How would they manage being permanently together who had been so much apart? Eighteen years ago the prospect of the holiday cottages providing income so that Humphrey could take early retirement had seemed wonderful but now, as the time drew closer, she'd been assailed by this terrible anxiety. Humphrey was looking forward to it; he liked meeting the visitors, chatting to them, getting to know them. Did she imagine that his friendliness might inevitably lead to a breakdown of her carefully preserved privacy? Both conversions had been designed so that no window looked across the courtyard to the longhouse. The visitors, in the main, needed very litde assistance but it was possible that Humphrey's extrovert tendencies might change the balance—or maybe something worse…? Quickly she pushed this unnamed terror aside.

“I'm an introvert,” she said to Blot, “that's my problem.”

He watched her with sad, loving eyes, tail gently thumping, and she crouched to pat him. His curly black coat was soft and warm and she tickled his nose with one of his long ears. The telephone rang and she rose reluctantly.

“Lovely evening, darling. I did enjoy myself.” Frummie sounded as fresh as paint. “I was just wondering. If you're taking Louise to pick up her car perhaps I could cadge a lift. I need a few things from Ashburton and it seems silly to take two cars.”

“Of course you can.” Brigid was convinced that since her stroke, minor though it had been, Frummie shouldn't be driving at all. “Half an hour OK?”

“Perfect. Oh, by the way, Jem will be over later for lunch and we're going to the pub to make up for last night We wondered if you'd like to join ns?”

Brigid was silent for a moment. Frummie usually preferred to keep her outings with Jemima very private and this invitation was the olive branch complete with dove. “That's nice of you,” she said at last. “The thing is, Thea's coming to fetch Oscar and I don't quite know when she'll be here. She said ‘sometime after lunch,' which isn't very helpful.”

“Well, we shan't be late back. And, after all, it won't hurt her to wait for a few minutes. Anyway, she probably won't arrive until tea-time and then you'll have missed a nice lunch. Now don't be stuffy, darling.”

“No. OK. I'll see if I can catch Thea and suggest tea-time.”

“You do that”

She hung up abruptly and Brigid replaced the receiver. “Well,” she said to Blot, “there's a turn-up for the books. Let's hope it doesn't turn into a slanging match.”

She glanced into the mirror and grimaced, wishing she'd washed her hair, and then shrugged philosophically and sat down at the table to write a shopping list.

A
CROSS THE
courtyard, Louise had already made her list and was now standing at the open door in the sunshine, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. She'd been glad to wake from a troubled sleep to the clear, radiant dawn. It had rained heavily in the night and, beyond the open window, she'd seen the doves circling and wheeling, their wings shiningly, dazzlingly white against the delicate purity of the clean-rinsed sky. She'd leaned out, bundling back her springing, curling dark hair, breathing in the fresh, cool air, needing to be part of this sparkling magic scene. Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, pausing only to swallow down a glassful of orange juice, she'd laced on her walking boots and had made her way down to the river. She'd been rewarded by the magnificent sight of the tumbling, racing water, thundering towards its clamorous meeting with the East Dart further down the valley. This morning it was as if it could hardly wait for its union, so eagerly and noisily did it roar in its rocky bed. The birdsong was rendered inaudible by its rushing and the overhanging branches of the willows were drowned in its tumultuous passing.

Louise, overawed by so much passion, presendy left the river at Week Ford and followed the footpath to Saddle Bridge where the O Brook was making its more sedate way beside the rowan trees. Leaning on the stone bridge, she'd watched two stonechats flirting in a gorse bush whilst the sun rose higher, until hunger compelled her to walk back to Foxhole along the deserted road. A litde later, sitting at the table eating brown toast and honey, she'd made a note of the stonechats and recorded one or two other things of interest—the gorse in flower and the hawthorn tree blossoming on the rocky river bank—before settling to the more mundane business of making a shopping list.

Now, standing in the sunshine, drinking her tea, she examined her feelings cautiously. She'd embarked on her holiday with a suspicion casting a shadow over her normally sunny anticipation. This suspicion—that Martin was having an affair—had grown out of intangible sensations, subtle changes which could not easily be defined. There was nothing so positive as the telephone call cut short, no notes found in pockets, no sudden late night meetings at the office. No, her suspicion was centred in Martin himself. There was a brightness about him, a kind of shiny expansiveness which manifested itself in bursts of generosity—oh, nothing so vulgar or obvious as presents; there was nothing
guilty
about his demeanour—rather as if his new-found joy could not be contained, must be expressed, even to her who was not the cause of it and might have every reason to resent it Even here, however, nothing was clear-cut. Martin had always been a warmly generous, thoughtful companion. It was his awareness and quick compassion, after all, which had drawn her to him in the first place; his cheerful, positive approach which had caught her in its undertow and been impossible to resist She'd met his expartner, an attractive woman with a sour smile and cynicism in her eyes. “Don't be taken in,” she'd advised. “Martin loves everyone. But everyone. And everyone loves Martin but you have to remain a challenge for him. He's the original Mr. Fixit and he needs his fix.” Louise had mumbled some inadequate reply, embarrassed and confused, and they hadn't met again. Louise never mentioned this conversation to Martin: she'd needed his happiness, his scope for enjoyment, his army of acquaintances far too much. For three years she'd bobbed in his wake, involved with his friends, busy with the social life he loved, entertaining clients from the advertising agency when necessary. There had been no dissensions or quarrels, no deviation from the usual routines, yet this doubt had crept into her consciousness and she was unable to explain it. Impossible to confront Martin with such implausible suspicions, yet she'd become wary. It was the man on the train who had given her a clue, conducting his affair with the aid of his mobile telephone. Martin always carried his mobile with him, never left it about, refusing to let her borrow it when she'd had to travel suddenly to Scotland by train—“You'd never understand how it works, sweetie. There will be a phone on the train if you need it“—yet it never rang when he was with her. Text messages?

Louise sipped her tea thoughtfully. Odd, too, that whilst she'd been on the train, watching him, wondering, she'd seen the woman and the child, so that the memories, which she'd thought were so safely buried, had come sliding back through cracks in her consciousness made by suspicion and fear.

“Good morning. And what a lovely one.” Frummie was hanging clothes on the rotary washing line in the corner of her small paved garden. “Did you sleep well?”

“It's wonderful, isn't it? Yes, quite well, thank you. It takes time to get used to the silence after London.”

Frummie pulled a face. “It's a myth that the countryside is peaceful. It's full of sex and violence. Terrible.”

Louise laughed, glad to be distracted. “So is the city.”

“At least city-dwellers are honest about it. All that harvest home and roses round the door—Helen Allingham should have been drowned at birth.”

She snapped the last peg in place and disappeared indoors. Louise was still trying to place Helen Allingham when Brigid appeared.

“Are you ready? Great. I'm bringing Blot with me but I'll just go and shut Oscar in the lean-to. Could you give Mummie a call? Thanks.”

Louise rinsed her mug under the tap, picked up her bag and came out again into the sunshine. Frummie appeared, shrugging herself into a coat, and Brigid drove out on to the track and stopped so that they could climb into the car. Louise settled herself comfortably, looking forward to the drive across the moor, resolutely banishing darker thoughts and fears.

Later, sitting in the Cafe Green Ginger, having coffee with Brigid whilst Frummie finished her shopping, Louise asked casually, “Who's Helen Allingham?”

Brigid looked surprised, frowned a litde. “Wasn't she the Victorian artist who painted those rather idealised studies of country cottages and small children? Very pretty but rather sentimental. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” said Louise. “I just wondered.”