A Summer in the Country (42 page)

“I couldn't have raised my game today.” Jemima sat down at the table. “I am definitely not on my best form.”

Brigid looked at her. Jemima was dressed all in black: a. soft angora jersey with a roll-neck over an ankle-length narrow, tweedy skirt. She wore leather boots and a long, black fleece waistcoat; her hair, bright and shining, fell loose over her shoulders. Although the unrelieved black accentuated her pallor, she looked very striking and Brigid was reminded of a younger Jemima who had smiled with such sweet friendliness at her father's funeral twenty-two years before.

“You look tired,” she said gently. “Would you like a drink?”

Jemima sighed and her shoulders drooped. She seemed too weary to make even such a simple decision.

“I don't know,” she said. “I've had a permanent headache for the last few days and alcohol seems to make it worse. Pathetic, isn't it?”

“I can't see why. Alcohol isn't a universal placebo. Have some elderflower cordial with some ice.”

“Oh, yes.” Jemima sat up. ‘That sounds nice.” She bent to pat Blot who sat at her feet, tail wagging. “Aren't animals nice?” she asked irrelevantly. “Much nicer than most people.”

“Now that,” said Brigid, filling a glass with water, “sounds like someone who has been shat on from a great height. Who's been horrid to you?”

Jemima laughed briefly and fell silent. She watched Brigid add the ice and then took the glass. ‘Thanks,” she said—and sipped a little. “Delicious. To answer your question, several people.”

Brigid filled her own glass, took a quick look into the oven and sat down opposite. “Really?” She checked the question which rose to her lips and drank a little of her wine, praying for wisdom. She simply mustn't begin the third degree or show any of that arrogance which assumed that she had some God-given right to deal with other people's problems. She said, “I always thought that Sartre had the right of it when he said ‘Hell is other people,' or something like that.”

Jemima stared into her cordial. “I've been asked to leave the flat,” she said.

“You're kidding?” Brigid was shocked. “But why?”

Jemima shrugged. “Well, it was always on the cards. It was made quite clear when I took it on that they might need it for themselves as a rest area for staff. It's perfectly reasonable but I'd just grown rather to love it.”

“I'm not surprised. It's in a beautiful position. Oh, I am
so
sorry. Have you any idea where you might go?”

Jemima shook her head miserably. “Not yet. They're being very kind about it but I've got to look about. All my own places are short winter lets or holiday lets so I've got to start making a real effort. It's going to be a very difficult act to follow.” She smiled wanly. “You always said I should have put the money towards a little place of my own and now, you see, you were right.”

Brigid felt no particular gratification at this observation, only a very real sympathy. She also had the feeling that there was something more which she had not yet been told.

“I think it's wretched for you,” she said. “Look, you can always come here, you know. Don't jump into something that's not right. I know this is out of your patch but at this time of the year that's not so critical.”

'That's really kind.” Jemima glanced at her gratefully and Brigid saw that there were tears in her eyes. “Thanks.” She made an attempt at a chuckle. “It'll be a family commune soon, if you're not careful.”

“I'll expect we'll manage. Where do you think you'd like to be?”

“I don't really know.”

She seemed so apathetic that Brigid was genuinely worried. Jemima was usually so light-hearted, so optimistic: this weary indifference was most unlike her. Brigid choked down the desire to ask if she had run out of money and sat in silence for a moment, reviewing and rejecting platitudes.

“Give yourself time to think about it,” she said at last. “There's always room here. Don't feel pressured.”

She could see that Jemima did not trust herself to speak and cast about for some lighter topic which might give her sister time to come to the point.

“Hungry?” she asked casually. “We could eat if you like?”

Jemima wrinkled her nose. “I'm not terribly hungry,” she said apologetically. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

“That sounds worrying.” Brigid was determined not to panic but she was already wondering if Jemima was ill; whether she was about to tell her that she had some terrible disease. “Not like you at all.”

She took up her glass and drank determinedly, her hand shaking a little.

“I've been dumped,” Jemima said suddenly, almost casually. “Really dumped. Not my usual stuff. It was terribly important. I thought we were going to be together and now it seems we're not.”

Brigid realised that she was gaping and pulled herself together.

“Oh God, I'm really sorry. How bloody! I had no idea. Who…?” She stopped herself. “I didn't know there was anyone special.”

“He's been around for most of the summer. He had a very long holiday at one of my cottages and then he came down most weekends. He'd just split up from his girlfriend and we got on really, really well.” She paused, biting her lip. “He was going to relocate. We were making plans.” Her chin shook and Brigid longed to get up and go to her. “I love him,” she muttered. “I really love him and I don't know how to manage now it's over.”

She set down her glass and burst into stormy tears, folding her arms on the table and burying her face in them. Brigid pushed back her chair and went round the table to her.

“Poor, poor Puddle-duck.” For the first time in their lives she used the name quite genuinely as an affectionate nickname, kneeling beside her sister as she wept, an arm about her shoulders, her cheek against Jemima's hair, waiting for the storm to pass.

“We thought you might be missing Gregory,” said Frummie, “so I've popped over to see if you'd like to come for supper. Don't be polite. If you're enjoying the peace and quiet only say the word.”

Alexander smiled. “I wouldn't dream of refusing such a generous offer,” he said. “Thank you.”

“And you needn't think,” said Frummie, somewhat waspishly, “that it's because we're having withdrawal symptoms. Margot and I have a great deal to say to each other.”

He looked shocked. “Such a thought would never occur to me,” he protested. “I have no doubt that your inner resources are … unfathomable.”

She grinned reluctantly. “If only that were true,” she said, abandoning all attempts at pride. “As winter draws on my spirits sink depressingly low. I dread the dreary wet days and endless dark evenings.” She hesitated, as though wondering whether to tell him some of her thoughts, and then pressed on determinedly. “Margot's asked me to go back with her,” she said, “and I have to say that I'm seriously tempted.”

Alexander stretched out his long legs, crossed at the ankle, and waited. He'd lit the wood-burning stove in the small sitting room and had been reading when Frummie had arrived. Now he put his book aside and watched her, preparing to keep one mental leap ahead.

“Well, it would be fun,” she said, crossing her bony knees and resting back against a cushion, her eyes on the flames. “Margot tells me that Gregory has invited us to stay with him in London. I wondered if you would be there?”

“I?” He raised his eyebrows. “Why should I be with Gregory?”

“I just thought that you said something about staying with him on your way north.”

“Oh, I see.” His face cleared. “Yes, that's true but only as an overnight stop, as it were.”

“London's hardly on the route to the north.”

“No, it isn't, is it?” He chuckled at her relentless curiosity. “Nevertheless, I shall spend a day or two with him.”

“And when will that be?”

“When I leave here,” he answered blandly.

Frummie compressed her lips and her foot tapped the air impatiently. “Have you any idea how irritating you are?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, I think so,” he answered judicially. “People have been fairly frank about it during the last seventy-odd years.”

She laughed. “Wretched man!” she said cheerfully. “I want to ask you something, Alexander. It's rather personal.”

“Ask away,” he said, amused and intrigued. “I reserve the right, however, not to answer.”

“Oh, I'm sure you do,” she snapped. She paused, her eyes still on the flames. “Are you going away to hospital? Are you ill? Dying, perhaps?”

He stared at her in surprise and then burst out laughing. “Good heavens, no! What gave you such an idea?”

She looked at him searchingly. “Just a suspicion I had. Not a nursing home, then?”

“Not a nursing home.” He met her gaze levelly. “I'm going north to work.”

“To
work?”

“Do you think I'm too old to be useful?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not necessarily. But what work?”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “I'm not at liberty to tell you that at present.”

She frowned, biting her withered lips, her fingers beating out a silent rhythm on the chair's arms. “Have you heard of Humphrey's latest plan? That he's going to run a sailing school?”

“Really?” Alexander sounded noncommittal. “Well, why not? Sounds quite interesting.”

“It's down in Cornwall.” Frummie sounded peeved. “Quite ridiculous, in my opinion. Just when he could be here at last, spending some time with Brigid, he has to go rushing off to Cornwall. I think it's rather selfish of him. They'll hardly see each other at all. It would have been such fun to have Humphrey around.”

He watched her compassionately. “And what does Brigid say about it?” he asked.

Frummie shrugged. “Oh, the usual thing. That they're used to being apart and he's too young to retire completely. He's buying the school, it seems. He hasn't discussed it with you, then? You didn't know about it?”

He shook his head. “Humphrey doesn't discuss his plans with me,” he answered carefully. “Perhaps it's a good idea. After all, if it's only in Cornwall, they'll see much more of each other than they do now. It will give them time to adjust”

“I suppose so.” She grimaced. “I was rather looking forward to Humphrey being about.”

“Yes,” he said gently. “Yes, I can imagine you were.”

“You're alike, you know,” she said unexpectedly. “Physically and in other ways. You're the kind of people that one can become very easily attached to.” She looked at him, her chin up, eyes defiant, hiding her fear of humiliation. “So you don't want any company in the north? No helpmeet to support you through the new job? I have very good references and a great deal of experience.”

“It would be impossible,” he answered, “but thank you. I feel deeply privileged.”

She shrugged again, smiling her own particular self-deprecating smile. “Worth a try,” she said, almost cheekily—although her eyes were bright with self-mortification.

Had he guessed how much it had cost to make such an offer? Did he pity her? “You'll stay in touch, though?”

“Of course. But I'm not going for a few weeks yet.”

“No, I realise that, but I might hitch a lift with Margot. I'll see how I feel. Once the clock goes back I start getting low. In the depths of winter the sun doesn't climb over the hill until after nine o'clock and it's gone again by three.” She shivered. “Have you any idea how much it rains up here?”

“I had the feeling that you and Brigid were getting on much better,” he said, answering her obliquely. “You seem less prickly and she seems more confident.”

“I think that's true,” she agreed, “but it doesn't make the winter any shorter. I was rather counting on Humphrey.” She paused and smiled rather bitterly. “Or you.”

“It would be impossible,” he repeated.

She looked at him curiously, suddenly suspicious. “Is there someone else?”

He hesitated, his eyes softening, sliding past her and fixing on something she could not see. “You could say that,” he said at last.

“You're in love.” She was unbelievably hurt, shocked by the strength of her jealousy.

“Yes,” he said—and his voice held a deep note of joy. “I am in love.”

“Well.” She tried to laugh, to hide her pain. “I can see that now. I've been rather a fool, I'm afraid.”

He saw that it was essential to restore her pride. “I think you've been extraordinarily generous,” he said sincerely. “It means a great deal.”

“I'm sure it does,” she said sharply, getting up. “Always nice to have an extra scalp. Well, I must be getting back. Don't stand up. We'll see you at supper time.”

She went out swiftly, before Alexander could make a move, and he continued to sit staring into the fire. After a while he picked up his book again and began to read.

D
RIVING BACK
from Foxhole a few days later, on a wild autumn afternoon, Louise could feel her confidence growing and expanding, forcing out the last vestiges of fear. She'd been so nervous of this lunch with Brigid and Frummie that she'd been unable to eat breakfast, trying to convince herself that she had nothing to dread, yet feeling the need to prepare herself by mentally writing various scripts which the meeting might require. It was going to be difficult to explain how Martin had approached the situation; how he had attempted to protect her from herself whilst holding on to Rory. She'd realised that Thea might grasp this compassionate but unusual attitude very readily—it was exactly how Thea herself might act—but Louise could foresee problems with Brigid and Frummie. It was odd too that she and Rory were still married. For herself, she'd switched off so completely from her former existence that she'd never thought of it but she could see now that Martin had never intended theirs to be a long-term relationship: it was not the way he worked. It might be seen as strange, however, that Rory had never wanted to free himself.

“But I never stopped loving you,” he'd explained, “and Martin always implied that there was a very real chance that you would recover. He always insisted that you were not in love with him. He said that what you felt for him was the sort of thing that some women feel for their gynaecologist who sees them through a very emotional and dangerous time. A kind of trust and affection—and a dependency. Rather special but not real love.”

He'd looked at her anxiously, fearful lest she should misunderstand him, wondering if she'd thought he was patronising her, but she was thinking about what he'd said, rather struck with the analogy.

“That was rather clever of him,” she'd answered, “and very true. Looking back, there was that doctor-patient feeling about it all. He was always so kind and… and sort of watchful. I felt safe with him.”

“In a way, I felt it too,” admitted Rory. “It probably sounds bizarre but that's how I saw it and why it was bearable. But I'm so glad that you're out of it now.”

His warm, loving look had made her feel oddly shy and she'd wished that she could throw off all her inhibitions and tell him she loved him. Telling Brigid and Frummie was a hurdle, something still in the way, which needed to be got over, rather as if she were clearing the ground in preparation for her new life. She needed their approval, their good wishes; to feel their support. They'd been a family to her and Foxhole had been her home at a time of great need; a stony sanctuary.

Where does one go from a world of insanity?

Somewhere on the other side of despair…

A stony sanctuary …

The heat of the sun and the icy vigil.

They were knitted into the fabric of her life and their love was important to her. Rory had understood it.

“They'll all want to meet you,” she'd teased him. “Can you face it?”

“I think I might have met Humphrey,” he'd said, “a few years back. I expect I'll survive.”

As it happened, Louise need not have been frightened. Brigid had been utterly delighted, charmed by the idea of Rory waiting for her and then turning up so suddenly, and Frummie had seemed oddly muted, not her usual biting, witty self. She'd been very positive, however, and rather sweet.

“Go for it,” she'd said with a strange intensity. “Don't let him go because you're frightened you might not be really over your grief. We can get glued to the past, staring back at it when we should be looking ahead. Pass through your pain together. Look beyond it and hold on to each other.”

“I will,” she'd promised, deeply touched. “I really want to. It's just… you know.”

“Yes. I know.” The older woman had smiled her distinctive down-turned smile. “You'll be fine. I know you will. But don't forget your promise.”

“Promise?” She'd been momentarily confused.

“Nina Simone,” Frummie had answered succinctly. “And the bottle. Several bottles. Rory can come too if he likes. The more the merrier.”

Louise had laughed. “I promise,” she'd said. “Say the word and I'll be there. I mean it.”

“I'm counting on you,” the older woman had said. “By then you might be the only friend I have left.”

Before she could answer Brigid had come back into the kitchen with a bottle of champagne and the party had become steadily noisier. When Louise had prepared to leave, Brigid had hugged her tightly.

“Bring him over,” she'd said. “He's part of the family now. I hope he can cope with us all.”

“Bless you,” Louise had said, holding on to her, surprised by the strength of her love for her. “Thank you for everything. We'll come and spend our holidays every spring and autumn just as I always did.”

“So I should hope,” Brigid had answered. “And don't forget that we want to meet him as soon as you're strong enough ”

Now, driving back to her cottage, Louise was filled with a wild joy that matched the roaring, boisterous wind which streamed across the open, airy spaces of the moor; the dying bracken bowed before its lusty breath and the black branches of the thorn shivered and trembled. The waters of the reservoir flung themselves against the stony walls of the bridge and raced in, to dissolve into flying spume upon the sandy beaches. The memories of the last few months crowded in upon her and, as she descended into the shelter of the deep, quiet lanes, her only real anxiety was for Jemima. It was difficult to be wholeheartedly happy when Jemima was suffering so much, yet, typically, Jemima was genuinely happy for her friend, truly pleased at such a healing outcome to the terrible tragedy. She was looking for somewhere to live, trying to be positive, and quietly pleased that she and Brigid had become much closer.

“She's told me that I can stay at Foxhole if I need to,” Jemima had said. “She really means it too. She was so sweet about it all. But I need to find my own pad. I can't decide whether it would be too painful to stay in Salcombe, assuming that I can afford a little place somewhere, or whether to go somewhere different” She'd sighed. “I expect it will be a case of going wherever something turns up.”

Louise had longed to be of use, keeping her own private joy under control yet looking forward to the weekend.

“Come and meet Rory,” she'd said, surprising herself. “I'd really like it if you would. It would make it more well,
real,
if you know what I mean. There are times when I feel I might be on some kind of film set or something.”

“Come and have supper with me,” Jemima had said at once. “Or lunch. Whichever you prefer. Let's have one last fling with my dear old view. We'll go out with a bang not with a whimper.”

It had been a tremendous success. Jemima had clearly pulled out all the stops and MagnifiCat conceived an instant passion for Rory, who reciprocated fully. There had been a great deal of laughter and she and Rory, once the first awkwardness had been smoothed away by some wine, had behaved like the happy couple they had once been.