A Summer in the Country (43 page)

“Drop-dead gorgeous,” Jemima had pronounced on the telephone the next day, “and MagnifiCat agrees. He's the first man he's ever taken to, which must say something about my taste in men.”

Louise had glowed with this praise, overwhelmed with her good fortune, yet, even with all this new confidence, she was unable to make that final leap. Rory continued to book into his hotel and she stayed at the cottage, both of them searching for the last action which would carry them over the last barrier into the future.

She drove on, wondering how it might be achieved, her thoughts rushing ahead to the weekend when they would be together again.

On a chill Sunday morning at the beginning of November a small party gathered to see Frummie and Margot off to Salisbury. The grey uniformity of sullen cloud loured down upon the proceedings, leaking a few spots of icy rain from time to time to drip upon the heads of the well-wishers as they gathered on the track. Frummie was in a gay, almost brittle mood now that the actual moment had arrived, although she'd been somewhat subdued during the last few days.

“You'll be all right, won't you, darling?” she'd asked Brigid in a moment of uncharacteristic maternal anxiety on her last evening. “Thank goodness, they caught that awful man. At least we can all feel safe again. But do take care of yourself.”

“Of course I shall.” Brigid had been touched by this rare display of affection. “I've still got Alexander for a few weeks yet, don't forget.”

“Yes, that's true.” Her mother's face had drooped into a kind of bitterness, a disappointed expression, which worried Brigid. “And Humphrey will be back soon.”

“At the end of November.” Brigid had been unable to hide her grin of delight. “Apparently he'd hoped that it might be earlier than he told me at first but he didn't want to disappoint me. It's great!”

“And you're not upset about this sailing school thing? I know you've always needed your own space and you were anxious about his being here full time after so many years apart, but I'm surprised that he's hurried into something so quickly.”

“Honestly, it's fine. I think it'll be a very good balance.” Brigid, who had promised Humphrey that no one should know the exact details, hurried away from the subject. “And it'll be lovely to be all together for Christmas, won't it? Julian and Emma with little Josh. And you and Jemima. It'll be a houseful.”

“I'm glad,” Frummie had said hesitantly, with a certain difficulty, “so glad that you and Jemima are … friends.”

“So am I. If only we can find somewhere nice for her to live. You wouldn't mind her sharing with you over Christmas if nothing turns up quickly?”

Frummie had shaken her head almost impatiently. “Of course not. If you don't mind her being here.”

“I think it would be rather fun.” Brigid had been surprised to realise that this was true. “Anyway, we'll see how it turns out. How long do you think you'll be with Margot?”

“Not too sure.” Frummie wrinkled her nose. ‘To be honest with you I can't stand that wretched daughter-in-law of hers, although Harry is a darling. Barbara likes her to know who's boss. I've been spoiled, living here, doing my own thing.”

Brigid had been taken aback, and rather moved by this admission. “Well, you can come back whenever you want to,” she said. “If it's embarrassing to tell Margot why you're leaving, I'll send you a letter demanding your immediate return. We'll dream up a crisis which only your presence here can solve.”

“You'll be my Bunbury, will you, darling?” Frummie had smiled with a genuine affection. “I'm sure it will be fun. We're going to London for a few days to see Gregory, hoping to coincide with Alexander's stay.” A pause. “We still don't know where he's going, I suppose?” she'd asked, almost irritably. “I have to say that I find all this secrecy and silence thing a shade boring.”

Brigid, surprised by her vehemence, had shrugged. “He says that it's something rather important to him and he's afraid to speak about it in case it goes wrong.” She'd laughed. “I suppose it sounds a bit silly, put like that, but I know what he means, don't you? It's almost a superstitious thing, isn't it?”

“If you say so.” It was the old Frummie again, cool, dismissive, faintly amused. “Anyway, Gregory's promised us a few treats: the theatre and the exhibition at the Courtauld, and he's taking us to his favourite restaurant. Sounds rather fun. Margot's planning a shopping-fest.”

“Which reminds me.” Brigid had suddenly flushed painfully, standing up from the table and going to her bag on the dresser. “Your birthday happens when you're away so I thought I'd give you your present now. I thought with all that jollity it might just be simpler to … to … well, give you this.”

Frummie had stared at the cheque, a very generous one, in silence whilst Brigid had watched her in an agony of anxiety, praying that she wouldn't feel patronised, knowing that with no income Frummie would find her forthcoming visit expensive.

She thought: Please don't let her mind or be humiliated. Please let her just take it. Don't let her be sarcastic because her pride is hurt.

Frummie had folded the piece of paper very carefully and slipped it into her pocket whilst Brigid closed her eyes on a silent sigh of gratitude and relief.

“Thank you,” her mother had said. “That will be very … welcome.” She'd looked up, and Brigid had seen tears in her eyes. “You are a very dear girl. Forgive me if… if…”

“Nothing to forgive,” she'd answered quickly. “Absolutely nothing. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Yes.” Frummie had smiled her familiar smile, clearly relieved to move on from this emotional moment. “I intend to. So tell me some more about this sailing school.”

It was the last time they'd been private together. A flurry of packing had ensued and now, on this last morning, Jemima had arrived to say goodbye. The unfriendly weather kept the farewells short and to the point. The sisters hugged their mother and watched her climb into the car, which bumped away up the track. Presendy, Alexander's car had followed it and Brigid and Jemima were alone. They were glad to be back inside, in the warm kitchen. There was a pan of soup simmering on the Aga, rolls heating in the oven, and Brigid poured them both a drink.

“Well,” she said, feeling partly relieved that it was over, partly flat and oddly lethargic. “Let's hope they get there safely. Thank goodness Mummie isn't driving.”

Jemima smiled sympathetically. “She's somewhat erratic of late,” she admitted. “But I can't blame her for clinging to her car. I imagine that it must be hell to give up the independence of driving.”

“I know. It's just the worry that she might hurt someone else and be consumed with guilt. Anyway, Margot is a great deal more steady so I'm sure they'll be OK. How's the house-hunting?”

“Oh, not too good.” Jemima stood her glass on the dresser and leaned against the Aga, warming her chilled hands on the rail. “There's a little cottage in Kingsbridge. It's tiny but big enough for me and MagnifiCat. And a flat with a bit of a glimpse over the estuary. That's if you stand on your toes and crane your neck. You know the kind of thing? It's a question of making up my mind to it, that's all. Rory said that it was best not to attempt to recreate my flat but to go for something utterly different. He said that it was always a temptation to try to replace something you've really loved with a lookalike. I think he may have a point. He's a really nice guy. Louise's very lucky.”

“I like him too.” Brigid sat down at the table. “I think it's just so wonderful that they've got back together again. It makes you feel that it hasn't all been entirely wasted.”

“It's not easy, though.” Jemima joined her sister at the table. “They're still trying to deal with all the emotional baggage and terrified that it's going to blow up in their faces. He feels guilty because he wasn't there when she needed him and she feels guilty because she walked away from him.”

“I can understand that.” Brigid looked thoughtful, turning her glass round and round. “I can easily imagine that the only way to deal with such a horror is to switch off from it, can't you? And it's probably easier for couples who are separated a great deal, anyway. Louise was used to doing without him, to compartmentalising her life. You can't live for weeks at a time as if he's just popped out for a packet of ciggies. You have to get on with it. OK, he's gone again. This is what I do when he's not here. It's a different life. You don't forget about him, or stop thinking about him, but it has to be on a different level. I can see how she could switch off completely after such a mega shock.”

Jemima was watching her curiously. “I have to say that I've never thought about it quite like that,” she said. “But I see your point, you'd go mad, just sitting waiting, feeling lonely.”

“Exactly. It's a delicate balance. Loving him, missing him, but making a life which doesn't include him but will allow him back in when he comes home. But poor Louise went several steps further on. Martin must be the most amazing man. I think that he felt that Louise was as healed as she was ever going to be and he'd been attracted by a newer, more interesting problem. I can't help wondering what would have happened if she hadn't broken down when she did. I'm sure Martin had begun to move on.”

“Might he have begun to step back from her deliberately, in order to hasten the crisis, as it were?”

Brigid shrugged. “We shall never know. He was very embarrassed when he came here, although I have to say that Mummie didn't exactly help the situation. She was very abrasive. But it was right, the way it worked. If Louise had gone back to him then she might never have struggled free.” She hesitated, feeling her way carefully. “And how is it with you?”

Jemima didn't pretend to misunderstand her. “Bloody,” she said honestly. “I'm so miserable, I just can't seem to raise my game.” She smiled, a tremulously brave smile. “But I'll manage. The thought of moving is keeping me occupied. I was wondering.” She took a sip of wine. “I suppose you wouldn't like to come and see a flat with me, would you? It's described as a ‘studio,' which means it's seriously small, but it sounds quite fun. No views but a very small courtyard, sitting-out area. Just say if you're busy …”

“I'd love to see it,” said Brigid warmly. “What fun!”

“Great! Thanks.” Jemima looked relieved. “I've got an appointment for three o'clock.”

“We'll get on with lunch then.” Brigid got up, paused. “But don't forget, whatever happens, you're booked for Christmas. Your great-nephew is looking forward to meeting you.”

Jemima's eyes filled with tears. “I can't wait,” she said, not looking at Brigid. “It'll be … great.”

“He's growing so fast.” Brigid was fetching bowls, laying the table, pretending not to see. “I'll show you the latest photographs in a minute. I promise you, Puddle-duck, this is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

L
OUISE LIFTED
the small, cane-seated chair back into its place, manhandled the oak bookcase against the wall, and looked around the bedroom with a sense of enormous satisfaction. It was finished; the job completed. Of course, she couldn't quite take all the credit to herself, Rory had helped, but it was a splendid achievement. Each room sparkled with a bright cleanliness and she felt quite sad at the prospect of leaving this small place which had sheltered her. Nevertheless, her gut twisted with anticipatory excitement as she thought about that other cottage in the Wye Valley.

“You must come and see it,” Rory had said, with a lightness of tone which was not in the least misleading. “I think you'll like it.”

“It sounds … nice.”

She'd known that they were both trying to imagine the scene. Would she be going as a guest or as a wife? It was easier, somehow, maintaining the distance here. This was always “the cottage” and the hotel was always “the hotel.” Neither ever quite usurped the other's patch. “Come back and have tea at the cottage,” she'd say; never “Come back home with me.” “Shall we have dinner at the hotel?” he'd ask. Yet he talked about the cottage in the Wye Valley as “home.” “When I get back home.. “he'd say. “I've still got all your books, you know. At home…” They'd begun to talk about Hermione: tiny, fearful glances back in time. He was braver than she was: much braver. “Do you remember…?” he'd say—and her heart would shrivel with fear, shrinking instinctively from the pain. Yet gradually, as he had always been able to do, he led her back into the paths of peaceful, heavenly sanity, where she could walk quietly, allowing memories to unravel gently from the tiny ball of agony clenched deep inside her.

Yet she knew that “home,” the cottage in the Wye Valley, was where she longed to be; where she belonged; the last step—if only she could bring herself to make it.

Louise took a last glance round the room and went downstairs. Standing on the table was the Erica Oiler card from Frummie: two enormous, elderly, fur-clad ladies, tottering on tiny feet, parade arm-in-arm along a pavement. The caption: “Cruising for Boys.”

Me and Margot, would you say, darling?
she'd written in sprawling, generous letters.
Except that Margot has a beastly cold. The poor dear is not looking her best. Streaming eyes, red nose, sneezing madly, blotchy cheeks, hair like hay, sleeves stuffed with tissues. So can you see it? Determined, however, to make the trip to London. Gregory's managed to get tickets—like gold dust he tells us—for some exciting West End production, clever old thing, so we're going up early. Not before time. The wretched Barbara is like some terrible school matron, prowling about checking that we're not leaving the lights on too late or drinking whisky too early, which tends to bring out the worst in me. How is the handsome Rory? What a sensible girl you were to have found him! Don't lose him again. Remember what I said and all the luck in the world.

Louise chuckled as she reread it, imagining the wicked glint in the eye, the down-turned smile. The mere sight of the writing gave her courage. Humming softly under her breath she finished tidying the kitchen and went into the living room to light the fire.