A Summer in the Country (44 page)

Surrounded by boxes, Jemima perched on the arm of the sofa idly looking through an old magazine. Why, she wondered, had she kept it? Once she'd started this process of packing she'd discovered that she had the tendencies of a magpie. Unlike Frummie, who preferred to travel light, Jemima realised that she'd hung on to any foolish bits and pieces which could be seen, in one way or another, as representative of her past. In the drawer of her desk she'd found cards from friends, letters, theatre programmes, menus, even a receipt from one of those meals eaten during those halcyon summer weeks. She'd smoothed it out, remembering the evening they'd dined at the Gara Rock Hotel not long after they'd first met; recalling how she'd insisted on paying. He'd accepted gracefully and she'd noted it, making the assumption that Annabel liked to keep her independence. It was still hateful to think of them together. Jemima put the magazine into the black plastic rubbish sack with a groan, and MagnifiCat leaped into the sofa beside her, rubbing his head against her, purring loudly. He disliked this upset, although he was very glad to have her to himself again, and took almost permanent refuge from the upheaval by remaining curled up in the basket chair by the window.

“I wonder if you're going to like the studio,” she murmured, pulling him into her arms where he lay contentedly, like some huge, furry baby. “No more balcony for you, but you might like the dear little courtyard. At least you'll be quite safe in it but I'm not absolutely thrilled by the iron spiral staircase. No drinking too much or we'll be breaking ankles.”

She gave him a last hug and poured him out in one long sinuous movement on to the sofa and went back to her packing. As she started on another pile of books the telephone rang.

“Hi,” she said, expecting Brigid. They'd begun to move some of the small portable boxes in the back of her old estate car, so that, finally, only a small removal van would be required. Brigid was practical, well-organised and knew how to make moving as painless as possible. “All those married quarters,” she'd said succinctly. On good days, Jemima had even managed to enjoy the building of her new nest. “Hello?”

“How are you?” His voice was so familiar—yet so utterly unexpected.

She sat down again with a bump on the arm of the sofa. “I'm… as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“Oh, Jemima.” It was a caressing, affectionate cry of regret. “Look, I'm phoning to say that I'm just so sorry—”

“We've done that bit. Remember?”

“Yes, of course I remember. Of course I do. This isn't just some kind of conscience-soothing exercise. I feel a shit about the whole business, you know I do. I'm phoning to say … to ask if there's any chance of you being able to forgive me?”

She frowned, gripping the mobile, trying to see into his mind. “Oh, I don't do forgiveness,” she said lightly. “So why should it matter?”

A pause. “I think I've made the most god-awful mistake,” he said quiedy.

She took a very deep breath, dropping her head back, eyes closed. “You
think
—”

“I know it,” he said quickly. “It's for sure this time.”

MagnifiCat came purring back, winding himself round her, climbing across her lap, so that she overbalanced and fell backwards, right into the chair, her legs hanging over the arm. He lay across her breast, pinning her down.

“Jemima?” He sounded alarmed. “Are you OK? I can hear an odd noise.”

“It's MagnifiCat,” she said. “He's right beside me.”

“Oh,” he said, with a little chuckle, as if the introduction of the name moved them very slightly back into intimacy. “That old poser. He never liked me much, did he?'

“No,” she said slowly, remembering how MagnifiCat had crawled all over Rory, purring loudly with ecstasy. “He didn't, did he?”

'The point is whether you did.”

“Did what?”

“Liked me much. Whether you still do? Enough to have me back, that is.”

“Have you… left Annabel?”

“We're not together.”

She thought carefully about this ambiguous remark. “I see. Might I ask who left whom?”

“It was a mutual decision,” he said rather too quickly. “We realised that it was just not going to work again. The first break was the right one.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“I want to come down,” he said urgently. “I know we can make it work. Honestly, I believe that Could we try? Find a place together? Begin again?”

Jemima realised that she'd been holding her breath. She stared into Magnificat's round, flat face; his eyes were fixed on hers. She breathed out slowly in a long, long sigh, happiness bubbling inside her. Odd that she'd forgotten what this particular happiness felt like: the lightness, the separateness, that upward swoop of joy. Now that it was back she'd be able to cope so much better with the loneliness and the pain.

“Jemima?” His voice was sharp with fear. “Can we?”

“No,” she said gently, sweetly. “No, I'm afraid we can't. No,” as he burst into speech, “no, it's not revenge or anything like that. It's simply that I'm sure it wouldn't work. All of a sudden I absolutely
know
it wouldn't work. I'm sorry but I'm moving on. Thanks, though, and good luck.”

She pressed the button and cut off his protests. It rang again almost immediately and this time she checked the number and then answered it.

“Hi,” she said to Brigid. “Did you try just now?”

“I did,” said her sister cheerfully, “but it was engaged. Nothing important, I hope?”

“No,” said Jemima, smiling to herself. “Nothing important. So when will you be over?” She laughed aloud. “It's funny,” she said, “but I shall be quite glad to leave now. Odd, isn't it? Come when you're ready. We'll be waiting for you.”

MagnifiCat padded over to the basket chair and leaped in gracefully. He turned round, tucking in his paws, wrapping himself about with his feathery, plumy tail. As he rested his head on his paws, eyes closed, he seemed to be smiling.

Two
WEEKS
later Brigid stood at her working table, pinning heavy brocade material, listening to
Book of the Week
whilst Blot, a black shadow, lay curled nearby. Despite the radiator, powered by the Aga in die kitchen below, the room was cold. A northeasterly wind prowled lazily about the house, penetrating and bone-chilling, and Brigid paused, rubbing her icy hands together, aware of her cold feet and ankles.

“Coffee,” she said. “Hot coffee. That's what I need. Come on, Blot.”

They went down together, his claws clattering on the wooden stairs, and into the sitting room. Now, towards the end of November, Brigid kept the two wood-burning stoves alight day and night, a glowing centre of heat, but, even so, as yet the granite walls and slate floors were cold to the touch. She paused in the hall to pick up the letters lying on the door mat and went into the kitchen, glancing through them, lifting the Aga lid and pushing the kettle on to the hotplate. Her mother's writing, distinctive as always, caught her attention, and she put the other letters on the table and slit the envelope. Perhaps this would tell her that Frummie was coming home. She'd cleaily been enjoying herself but Brigid suspected that it would be difficult to extend the stay much longer. Although the night-storage heaters were left on a low heat in Frummie's cottage, it would be necessary to light up the wood-burner and warm the place right through. She found that she was actually looking forward to having her mother home again and smiled to herself as she took out the sheets and glanced over them. Various phrases seemed to jump from the page and with the smile fading she reread them carefully, disbelievingly.

… Please do try, darling Brigid, not to take this personally … it's simply that Gregory and I get along so well… we have so much in common… such him. He has a tiny villa in Portugal where we shall spend Christmas. Oh, the lovely thought of hot sunshine. You know what a lizard I am… It's not that I haven't been grateful, terribly grateful, for the sanctuary you gave me but it's so wonderful to be back in London and darling Gregory is so lonely… I can't bear for you to feel in any way upset—after all, you and Humphrey have your own lives to lead and your own exciting new start I hope you'll wish me luck with mine… I shall be in London with him from now on and the address is at the top of the page …We shall be back to see you of course…

She had no idea how long she stood, holding the sheets, reading them over and over. When she looked up, her face white with shock, Alexander was standing in the doorway.

“You didn't hear me knock,” he said, “and I wondered if you were all right.”

She stared at him. “It's from Mummie,” she said blankly. “I can't believe it. She's bolted.”

Her lips trembled and he feared that she might cry. “With Gregory?'

“Yes.” She sounded angry. “Yes. With Gregory. I can't believe it. We were getting on so well for the first time ever. And she's just gone off and left me again.”

He watched her compassionately but remained silent.

“Silly, isn't it?” she demanded with painful self-contempt. “Silly that I should care? Why should I have believed that she felt anything?” She stared about her, as if she didn't quite know where she was. “I mean, can you believe it? Just in a letter like that. Not even a telephone call. Just a bloody letter. ‘Dear Brigid, just to say that I'm bolting again. See you around and thanks for all the fish, your loving mother.' Christ!” She began to laugh, a high, angry noise, and he went to her, taking the sheets of paper from her hand and pushing her down into a chair.

“Shh,” he said, as if she were a restive animal. “Be quiet now. Don't imagine things.”

“Imagine things?” She stared up at him, hurt, but still angry.
“Imagine
things? I'm not imagining anything. It's all there. Read it if you want to. Why not? It's hardly a secret.”

He turned away from her, not wishing to disclose the telephone call he'd had from Frummie earlier that morning. “Look after Brigid,” she'd said. “I can't help it. Alexander, I can't spend another winter on Dartmoor or I shall die of it. Just be around until she's read the letter. Please.”

“I'll be there,” he'd said, unemotionally.

“And don't despise me,” she'd said, with an odd, pathetic bravado. “I'm not strong like you. Or like Brigid.”

“My dear girl,” he'd said, “I've made far too many mistakes in my life to sit in judgement on anyone else.” A pause. “And how is Margot taking the news?”

She'd given an unwilling snort of laughter. “Spitting nails,” she'd said, “but she'll come round when she gets an invite out to Portugal.”

Alexander had chuckled. “Give my regards to Gregory and tell him from me that he doesn't deserve you.”

She'd laughed. “I wish it had been you,” she'd said—and had hung up.

Now, he made coffee whilst the clock ticked quietly but insistently and Blot lapped from his bowl of water: ordinary kitchen sounds.

“So,” he said, putting the mugs on the table, sitting beside her, “tell me.”

“She's bolted with Gregory,” Brigid said, more quiedy. “He's got a house in London and a villa in Portugal. Well, you know all that, don't you?”

“Yes ” he answered. “I know all that.”

“Well,” she shrugged, picking up her mug, her eyes angry, “that's all it takes, it seems.”

“But don't you think that your mother will be happier in that situation? She's not a countrywoman. You know that, don't you? If she is offered an opportunity which is suited to her temperament, why shouldn't she take it? You don't need your mother to live next door to you in order to prove that she loves you. You're not a child.”

“It's not that!” she cried crossly.

“What is it then?”

“It's … it's …” Brigid cast around for the truth. Even in her present state she instinctively understood that nothing less would do for Alexander yet she could not admit it “It's just so humiliating,” she said evasively at last. “It's hurtful to go off without any hint of it. She might have telephoned and talked it through. So, yes, that hurts. Especially as I'd believed we were much closer now. But the real thing is that it's so embarrassing for a woman of her age to run off with a man who's even older than she is, just like they were two star-crossed lovers. Oh, it's just so …” she shook her head as if lost for words,“… so utterly shaming,” she brought out at last.

“For her or for you?” he asked.

She stared at him. “Well, for her, of course. What will her friends say? People like Margot and Barbara and Harry?”

“Does it matter?”

Her blue eyes were enormous, dark with shock. “What do you mean? She'll be a laughing stock. It was bad enough before. But now… She's seventy-three. Oh, dear God, it's unbelievable. And Gregory seemed so nice.”

“He
is
nice. That's why she wants to stay with him. He'll make her life fun and he'll be grateful to her because he's lonely. He's the kind of man who needs company so why not Frummie's? Why shouldn't two lonely old people, who might otherwise be a charge on younger people who have their own lives to lead, get together and be happy?”

Brigid was silent, remembering that last conversation with her mother: the tears in her eyes when she'd said, “Forgive me…”

She relaxed, letting the tension flow out of her. “You're right,” she said dully. “As you say, why not? Mummie won't care what people say at this late date so why should I?”

“I can't think of any reason,” he told her. “Nothing could matter less. I promise you that he will take care of her. Try to be pleased for her. She doesn't love you less because she needs bright lights and sunshine. You gave her sanctuary when she had nothing left. Perhaps you can forgive her for all her hurts now, just as I hope Humphrey will be able to forgive me. Do try, Brigid dear. It will mean so much to her but she'll never be able to ask, you see. She's hurt you too much and her guilt stands like a barrier between you.”