A Summer in the Country (7 page)

“Better than the Little Chef at Buckfast,” agreed Margot, unruffled. “I hope you do as good a breakfast.”

“Since when did you eat breakfast? A cigarette and cup of' black coffee shouldn't be too challenging for me.”

A car drove up the track and pulled in beside the other cottage. Louise'climbed out, waved to Frummie and disappeared inside.

“Who's that?” Margot peered after her. “Pretty girl.”

“She's one of Brigid's regulars. Comes twice a year while her husband plays golf.”

“Really?” Margot sounded sceptical.

“Quite. My reaction exactly. But you never know. I suppose some husbands are faithful…”

“Name three,” suggested Margot idly. “If you can.
You
could certainly name three who
weren't,
of course, but Diarmid was pretty loyal.”

“Oh, don't start on that again,” said Frummie wearily. “You're getting dull in your old age. What about supper at the pub this evening?”

“What pub?” Margot sounded interested.

'Ten minutes away. You can drive us.”

“I think we'll stay here.” Margot settled herself comfortably. “I've got a rather nice malt whisky with me. Darling Harry always makes sure I'm looked after. Poor Barbara suffers agonies of embarrassment taking the empties to the bottle bank. So tell me about Jemima. What's she up to?”

The two women bent closer over the teacups, heads together.

Louise, coming back to collect some belongings from the car, thought that there was an almost sinister air about diem as they huddled together.

She thought: You're imagining things again. Seeing shadows …

The card was behind die door: a big square of white, pushed into the corner when she'd thrust the door open earlier. She left it lying there and went to dump her bags in the living room, emptying flasks, putting uneaten fruit away, taking off her walking hoots, before going back into the small hall. The envelope had been delivered by hand with just the name “Louise Parry” written on it; no address, no stamp. She stood staring down at it, every instinct alert and warning her against picking it up and opening it.

“Will Daddy be at my party?” “No, darling. He's a long way away. He's left a present for you, though.” “I'd rather Daddy was here
.”

She opened her eyes and allowed her tightly clenched fingers to stretch, relax, to pick up the card. Putting it on the table she filled the ketde and switched it on, forcing her mind to other things: supper with Jemima tomorrow, a day at Bigbury and lunch on Burgh Island… but the formula was no longer working. Her defence mechanism was faulty and the past was pressing in; she held it away desperately. Singing to herself—learning the words of songs, of poetry, was another protection against memories—she made tea, fetched milk, opened the window. Putting the mug of tea at the end of the big, square table, she sat down and pulled her notebook and tiny paintbox towards her, intent on bringing her diary up to date. The distant music of the West Dart drifted up to her, mingling with the lazy cooing of the doves in the courtyard, but today this quiet peacefulness was full of danger. Her attention was caught by the bright white square, lying just beyond reach, and she picked up her mug hastily, concentrating on the things that she had seen on her walk: hawthorn blossom and cuckoopint in the springtime beauty of Hembury woods; house martins wheeling and circling above her head whilst she was having coffee at the Forge Caf6 in Holne; a peacock butterfly warming itself on a mossy stone at Dean Ford. She wrote quickly, making the tiny sketches, painting in the delicate hues. The voices were quite quiet, barely audible, murmuring quietly together.

“Can I do painting like Mummy? ” “I should stick with the crayons. Less messy.” “I could be very careful.” “Tell you what. Let's do this one together first and then we'll see
…”

Louise rinsed her paintbrush carefully and laid it down. Her face bleak, mouth grimly compressed, she reached for the card. It was not just a card, it was too bulky, and with a sense of dread she slit the envelope and drew out its contents. A card first: a clever cartoon of a Newfoundland, ears pricked, staring through the window of what was clearly Brigid's lean-to, beyond which a car waited. All his anxiety and suspense informed the animal's tense posture, yet there was something comic about the scene.

“Thanks so much,” Thea had written inside. “Do please come and have tea with us. Would you like to have a word with Brigid about it? We should love to see you again.”

Louise stared at the cartoon, something familiar about the style focusing her attention. Presently she picked up the folded sheet of paper and opened it out. The tide “Oscar” was printed carefully, though in an uneven hand, the letter S a great deal taller than the O. The dog-shape had been crayoned in black with a large pink tongue.

“This is Oscar saying thank you. Please come to tea. Love Hermione.”

The writing sloped alarmingly, slipping off the page, and die name was drawn in alternate blue and red crayon. Hermione. Louise was still staring at it when she heard the knock at the door. It opened an inch or two.

“May I come in?” called Brigid.

Only a lifetime's habit of good manners made it possible for her to answer. She was still sitting at the table when Brigid came into the living room. Louise forced herself to smile at her, trying to summon the control needed to rise, offer tea.

“I see you found it.” Brigid nodded towards the card. “She sent it to me and I dropped it in earlier. I'm going over to see them later in the week and she seems anxious that you should come too. Would you like to, d'you think?”

“It's …” Louise swallowed in a dry throat, “… it's very kind. There's no need at all.”

“Oh, I don't think it's politeness. Thea's a darling but she's not conventional. I think she simply liked you. And Hermione—”

“The thing is,” interrupted Louise, quickly, “trying to fit everything in. A fortnight isn't long.”

“I quite understand that. And there's no reason at all why you should go …”

She fell silent and, through her own fear, Louise dimly noticed that Brigid was looking very drawn.

She thought: I can't deal with this.

“Well then.” Brigid smiled awkwardly, made as if to go. She looked as if, in some way, she had been recently hurt.

“Have some tea.” Louise heard her own voice with surprise and cursed herself. “I've only just made some and I'm old-fashioned enough to make it in a pot. Can't bear the mess of squashed teabags in the sink.” She spoke randomly, getting up, taking a mug from the dresser, whilst all the time an echo inside her head was saying: I can't
do
this. I can't

Brigid placed her hands about the mug, as if they were cold, and gazed into the tea. Louise sat down again and stared at her.

“Are you OK?” She spoke quite gendy.

Brigid's eyes were wide and blank with fright. “Yes, of course. Just a few things on my mind.” She smiled a quick, automatic smile. “So then. What about Thea?”

“Maybe. Later on. Shall we see how things… you know… pan out?”

“Yes. Right. You'd love the Old Station House. And the girls. You've met Hermione, of course, and Julia and Amelia are gorgeous. And there's Percy, of course. Thea's famous. She writes and illustrates children's books and there was the show on the television. Not that you'd know if you don't have children. It was an absolute cult a few years ago—T-shirts and mugs and toys …”

'Toys?”

“Percy the Parrot. He was gorgeous. Unfortunately, my boys were too old for him but we always watched the programme. It was a huge success. Anyway, have a think about it and let me know. Thanks for the tea.”

The front door closed. In the silence which was left behind her Louise trembled, clammy hands knotted together. It was as if a huge wall of black water stood above her; building, rising, towering, threatening to engulf her. She could hear it roaring and then realised that the noise was inside her head. Dizzily she stumbled towards the table and sank into her chair, dropping her forehead on her arms, but, even now, she could not cry.

B
RIGID, BACK
in her own home, roamed resdessly. Her usual sense of peace, of sanctuary, was destroyed by her fear. What was Jenny coming to tell her? She'd telephoned several times but Jenny's answerphone was permanendy switched on and she'd been unable to make contact What could be wrong? It was three years now since Brigid had agreed to let one of her cottages stand security for the new business which Jenny, her oldest, closest friend, was planning with her husband and a partner. The proposal was to set up a sailing school on the Fal, an industry in which Bryn— Jenny's husband—had already had some experience, whilst the partner was a quite famous young man who had sailed the Atlantic single-handed. The business plan was submitted and approved by the Bank, hopes were high, interest intense, everything positive. It was merely a matter of form and Brigid's lawyer had seen no real danger in underwriting the fifteen thousand pounds. The little cottage was worth much more and, anyway, Jenny had assured her that Bryn had plenty of other ways of raising the cash if it should come to it—but the Bank wanted something solid. It was such a perfect opportunity and Brigid would get an annual payment, not much to begin with, but a surety of their confidence.

Jenny had been so happy, glowing with the idea of the school, the opportunities ahead, the new joy in her relationship with Bryn after her disastrous divorce from her first husband, Peter.

“Only don't tell Humphrey,” she'd begged. “Please don't. He and Peter are still good friends and I can't bear him knowing all the details. Peter, I mean. You don't have to, do you, Brigid? I mean, Foxhole's yours, isn't it?”

“Well, it is,” Brigid had answered, unhappy at the idea of subterfuge, yet longing to help her friend. “But we've mortgaged the longhouse so as to renovate the barns, and the mortgage is in our joint names. It's not a very big one but it's there and Hurtiphrey is the one who pays it.”

“But the cottages are unencumbered?”

“Yes,” she'd said slowly. “The cottages are still in my name.”

“Well, one of them would be enough. It's not much. Bryn and I are putting some in and Iain's got a bit. It's just to get started. We need a building so that we can get dormitories in, and things like that, and some sailing dinghies. It's going to be great. Could you help us, Brigid? It's just on paper but the Banks are funny after the recession.”

“I don't like not telling Humphrey.”

“Dear old Brigid,” Jenny had smiled at her affectionately, “you were always so strait-laced. Even at school you made me feel naughty just by looking at me.”

Strange how certain words and phrases had the power to hurt.
“Brigid won't She's strait-laced like her papa. Not into nicknames; much too silly.”

“It's not that,” she'd said quickly, defensively. “I just don't like secrets between husbands and wives. It's dangerous.”

“Join the real world,” Jenny had sighed. “Lucky you, that's all I can say. I don't think Peter ever told me the truth in fifteen years of marriage.”

“Oh, Jenny.” Brigid's heart had been wrung with compassion. It was true that she'd been badly deceived and ultimately humiliated.

“If she'd ever stopped talking and started listening she might have noticed a few things,” Humphrey had said un-sympathetically. “It's not all Peter's fault.”

'Trust you men to stick together,” Brigid had answered, hurt and upset for Jenny. “Did you know he's been having an affair with that Wren for years?”

“I'm not saying anything.” Humphrey had smiled, not unkindly. “Need-to-know basis, that's my motto.”

Afterwards, she'd been glad that Humphrey had been so guarded. She'd been able to say, with absolute truth, that she knew nothing of Peter's affairs, and her own friendship with Jenny had remained intact. This was why she'd reluctantly agreed to keep the arrangement secret from Humphrey. It was, she told herself, the same need-to-know basis. It would be difficult for Humphrey, whilst he and Peter still worked together, not to let some information slip—and so she'd had the whole scheme checked out and put up one of her cottages as security. For the first two years she'd had her payment from the business and had heard good reports. Could something have gone wrong? But why should it? Why should this be anything more than a friendly visit?

She thought: Because Jenny's voice was all wrong on the answerphone. It was brittle. Too quick. Too light. And why isn't she answering any of my calls?

She stood at the window, looking across the valley, washed with the creamy colour of the rowan blossom and the hawthorn, vivid with yellow gorse, to the stony heights of Yar Tor. Sheep were climbing the winding track amidst the new, bright green bracken, whilst ponies grazed peacefully nearby. The afternoon sun cast long shadows into the valley and a lark was singing somewhere out of sight. Brigid went through to the lean-to, kicked off her shoes and slipped into her gum-boots. Blot struggled up from his sleep on the sun-warmed slates, wagging his stumpy tail with delighted welcome, and followed her gladly out of the courtyard and across the field.

S
TANDING AT
the window, Louise watched her go. She'd managed to dredge up a measure of control and was now using all her experience to regain her habitual poise. She had done it before and she could do it again: concentration and willpower could force back the sagging wall which had been so painstakingly built against the onslaught of memory. Martin: she would think of Martin, whose infidelity seemed, at this moment, to be hardly more than a counter-irritant to other, more terrible possibilities. Martin …

She willed herself to contemplate the situation; deliberately conjuring up reactions: humiliation, jealousy, misery. The difficulty was that, at present, Martin seemed so far away. An unreality persisted, an indifference which, she knew, would vanish as soon as she saw him again. These holidays, the sanctuary of Foxhole, had always had the power to isolate her from her ordinary, daily life. Here she was apart, out of time. They exchanged postcards almost immediately, on arrival at their destinations, and each accepted that this should be the extent of their communication until the very end of the holiday when another exchange took place. She hadn't yet received the first postcard—there was no telephone in die cottage—and,-quite suddenly, it occurred to her that he might not be with the others at all. Perhaps this time he was with the woman who had been the cause of his new, inexplicable joyfulness.

The shock of this thought had the desired effect and she found that she was considering die idea very seriously. Of course, she had the number of his mobile telephone but that meant he might be anywhere. For the first time she had not been given the names of the hotels—they usually managed two separate golf courses within their fortnight—nor any telephone numbers except for Martin's mobile. Much more sensible, he'd assured her, since she could contact him anywhere and at any time. If it were switched off, she must simply leave a message.

“Of course,”
she remembered the wink, “ /
switch it off when
I
'm in
…
meetings”