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Authors: Marcia Willett

Summer House (19 page)

BOOK: Summer House
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She could see that he was taken aback by her direct response and she guessed that Nick had said nothing that might get her deeper into trouble. Once again she seized her opportunity.
‘Darling, please don't let this foolishness upset you. Heavens! You know Nick. He's mixed-up but he's quite harmless and I should have thought that you know how happy I am with you here and now. It's been so good since we moved, hasn't it? Don't let some silly, sentimental message from Nick spoil it.' She went closer to him, heart thudding, gut churning, and put out her hand. ‘I love you, Jules. If you don't know that by now you never will.'
She allowed just a hint of hurt, even anger, tinge the affection in her voice, and she saw the doubt in his eyes, the relaxing of the muscles around his mouth, and she knew that it was going to be all right. Suddenly she felt exhausted: the long drive and the walk to the beach; the tension earlier with Nick, and now this. She let her hand fall and turned away.
‘I think I need a drink,' she said, rather low, rather sad,
appealing to his chivalry and sense of guilt. He reacted at once and caught her hand.
‘I was worried about you,' he said defensively. ‘You didn't say you were going out and then you'd left your phone behind. I wouldn't normally listen to your messages but I was so worried when you were late that I wondered if it was
you
phoning. Oh, I know that sounds crazy, but I was
worried
, Im …'
‘Oh, darling.' She clasped his hand, put an arm around him. ‘I'm so sorry all this has happened. I should have phoned to tell you where I was going but it all happened so quick and I never thought I'd be late back. Rosie and The Dodger were so knackered when we'd got back up from the beach that I stopped to give her some tea. Oh, Jules, you're not really worried about poor old Nick, are you? Surely you trust me?'
He was defeated; unable to resist her reasonable attitude which, after all, chimed with Nick's message. He put his arms around her and she hugged him. Relief flooded her and she felt quite weak.
‘I'm sorry,' Jules was saying contritely. ‘It was just the way he was talking …'
She leaned back in his arms and looked up at him, feeling badly that he should be apologizing. ‘I know,' she said. ‘Let's just forget it and have that drink. And then I'll have to get Rosie to bed. Look at her; she's knackered. They both are.'
Rosie had climbed on to the sofa and lay sucking her thumb, Bab hugged to her chest; on the floor beside her, The Dodger had curled into a ball and was fast asleep. Im and Jules looked at them and then at each other: both silently acknowledged that there was so much to lose and that neither of them wanted to jeopardize all that they shared. The danger was past and all was well.
Lottie took the jersey from the knitting bag and laid it out on the sofa. Nick stared at it.
‘You've really done it?' he asked, amazed. ‘Is it for me?' He reached out to touch its thick warm softness. ‘I can't believe you've really done it.'
‘Why not?' she asked. ‘It was a challenge. I haven't knitted such a big garment for years. It's come out very well, though I admit that it's not the weather for it at the moment.'
Nick was already trying it on; rolling down the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt, pulling the jersey over his head, tugging out his shirt collar.
‘It's perfect,' he said. ‘What do you think?' He posed, guying it up, turning round. ‘Thanks, Lottie. I love it.'
She was looking at it critically, clearly pleased by his reaction.
‘It looks very good,' she admitted. ‘I got the size right, didn't I? But then you were very patient about being measured. It was great fun to do and I'm glad you like it.'
‘I love it,' he repeated. He smoothed the navy, ribbed
wool, not wanting to take it off. It gave him an odd sense of comfort, of reassurance, and he sat down beside her again, still wearing it.
‘It's good to see you, Nick,' she said. ‘We were hoping that we might see Alice and the girls, too. It seems rather a long time since they were here.'
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘You know what it's like when people invite you to stay. There's a timetable, and everyone has to do their bit, so it's tricky saying that you're going off to visit someone else, and it's a bit of a trek up here from Rock. Anyway, Dad's coming up to London very soon, isn't he, so he'll see them all then. And by then I hope that things will have improved. Alice is still a bit … well, chilly, if you see what I mean.' He shivered theatrically and grinned at her. ‘That's why I'm so glad to have my jersey. But I hope for the best. You know what an optimist I am.'
‘Is hope the same thing as optimism?' Lottie asked thoughtfully. ‘Optimists have expectations, don't they? That the weather will clear up, or that the political situation will improve. Hope is to do with faith, isn't it? “Hope is the conviction of things unseen.” Who said that?'
He shook his head. ‘Too complicated for me, Lottie. I think you're splitting hairs.'
‘Probably. Have you told Sara that Venetia is here?'
He stared at her anxiously. ‘Oh God. I don't think so but I might have done. Would that be a terrible mistake?'
‘Probably. She resents Milo using the house as what she calls an orphanage and Venetia will probably be the last straw. We haven't heard from her just lately so you probably haven't told her.'
‘But you couldn't do anything else, could you? Poor old Venetia. She couldn't have been left to fend for herself.'
‘That's what we thought.'
‘Mum's a control freak,' he said. ‘Well, you know that, don't you? But honestly, I can't see what business it is of hers.'
‘She's afraid that if the High House is full of refugees when Milo dies then you'll have a problem entering into your inheritance, that's all.'
‘You're not a refugee, Lottie,' he said, distressed.
‘Aren't I?' She smiled at his expression of dismay. ‘I told you before that I've always felt an alien in this world and that Milo rescued me. He offered me a refuge. You could say that that makes me a refugee, I suppose.'
‘Well, it's not how I see you. Dad needs you. He's not as tough as he seems, is he? He has a few demons lurking. And now, poor Venetia.' He fell silent, making connections, looking bleak. ‘Is anyone really happy?' he asked abruptly.
‘We're all damaged in one way or another,' she answered. ‘Some are more damaged than others, and some are more easily able to manage their disabilities. And some refuse to admit to them at all.'
‘Is that bad?'
‘Not as long as they don't despise others who do. How was Im?'
He laughed. ‘The reason that you feel an alien, Lottie, is simple. You're a witch. How do you know I saw Im?'
‘It's nothing to do with magic powers; it's just being able to deduct perfectly obvious things.
Did
you see her?'
‘Yes. We had lunch at The Hunter's Inn and then we took Rosie and The Dodger down to the sea. It was great fun; nothing more, I promise. It's all finished, Lottie. Not that there was much to finish. But whatever you feared, it's all over. Do you believe me?'
‘Yes,' she answered him. ‘Thank goodness. But it was dangerous, Nick.'
‘I know, but I can't help thinking that life would be so good with her. Im always loves me, whatever I do, you see.'
‘She loves you so unconditionally precisely because she's
not
married to you,' replied Lottie candidly. ‘That's your optimism kicking in again. It's not based on anything concrete and requires no effort on your part. Optimism whispers temptingly that, if you and Im were together, the future would somehow be a wonderful cloud-cuckoo-land and you'd live happily ever after. Hope, on the other hand, is implicit in rebuilding your relationship with Alice and your children in a quiet, humdrum, day-to-day reality. Hope tells you that, though you can't see the results, if you have faith and if you are wholehearted, your work will pay off. After all, Alice loves you too, in a realistic, workaday kind of way. Not in a “Let's have a picnic and go to the beach” kind of way. But it's a durable love and she hasn't given up on you just yet. And despite her faults, you love her too.'
‘Yes,' he agreed, after a moment. ‘Yes, I do. But she's so much harder to love.'
‘That's because she's your wife,' said Lottie cheerfully. ‘Nobody said it would be easy. Why do you think I never married? And now you have the perfect right to tell me to mind my own business. After all, what do I know? Sorry, Nick. Take no notice of my ramblings.'
He laughed. ‘The trouble is, I have a horrid feeling that you might be right.'
‘And, anyway,' she said, ‘you'd already made up your own mind, hadn't you? So that's great.'
‘I've ordered Dad's birthday present.' He changed the subject. ‘I stopped off in Porlock and went into the Gallery
and had a chat with Marianne about it. I've chosen a painting of Dunster for him by Anthony Avery. The Yarn Market and the castle on a sunny day, with fantastic light and sharp shadows; you can feel the heat. It's almost exactly the view from Venetia's house. I hope he likes it. It's being framed.'
‘I'm sure he will. I'm planning a bit of a party so I hope you'll circle the date in your diary in red ink and talk to Alice about it.'
‘I will,' he promised. ‘It would be good if we could get down for it. How's Matt getting on in the Summer House?'
‘He's doing it by degrees. He wants to get it absolutely right and he doesn't want to rush it.'
‘Dad says that he's given him some watercolours that some distant rellie painted down there. Judging by Matt's pad in London, I shouldn't have thought Victorian watercolours were much in his line. He's quite stark and modern, isn't he, usually?'
‘Well, he is. But I think he's trying to keep with the atmosphere of the Summer House as far as possible, though some of the things he's ordered are quite modern. It'll be an interesting mix.'
‘I'm sorry I missed him.' Nick looked down at his jersey again with pleasure. ‘I'm really pleased with this, Lottie. Honestly.'
‘I'm glad,' she said. ‘It was a labour of love. In its truest sense.'
‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Thanks, Lottie.'
Matt tried to cry out but he couldn't make a sound; he was shaking Im, shouting at her, yet his arms and legs were heavy and he could barely move. He opened his eyes suddenly and lay in the dawn light; his heartbeat was loud in his ears and he was soaked with perspiration. Breathing slowly, deliberately, he quietened himself, trying to remember the nightmare; reliving it.
He and Im are together on a bus, with Rosie in her stroller. As they stand waiting to get off, a man comes up behind them and begins to talk; all of them join in, laughing. The bus stops and they all climb off and then, at some point, he realizes that Rosie has been left on the bus. His terror is so great he can barely speak but Im won't respond to his fear. She is silent and angry; she pushes him away, growing more and more remote. He shouts at her: ‘We've lost Rosie and it's all my fault. We must find her,' and still she stares at him, stony-faced until he seizes her and shakes her.
The dream was fading and his heartbeat was slowing. He pushed back the sheet and climbed out of bed. Apart
from the physical reaction to the nightmare he was bitterly disappointed: he had so hoped that the influence of the Summer House was healing him; drawing off the demons. Yet here they were back again; strong as ever. He stood at the window, still feeling the terror and the helplessness. During that glorious period when he'd been writing
Epiphany
, he'd have gone straight to work; using the demons and the nightmares, turning them into shapes and patterns within the story: laying the ghosts by writing them out into something that could be understood, something apart from him, and therefore able to be defeated.
Now he stood in silence staring out. Gently the beauty of the morning was borne in upon him and he opened the window wider and leaned out into the warm, soft air. A thrush was singing; so heavenly was its song that he could barely believe that this was an ordinary garden bird. He listened in silence, whilst the heavy sweet scent of the purple lilac drifted and filled the room. The sound of water, ever present, rippled softly and, quite suddenly, once again he had an inner vision of Selworthy Church, shining white, standing high on the hill.
Calmer now, he turned back into the room, took his towelling robe, wrapped himself in it and passed out on to the wide landing and down the stairs. He switched on the kettle and went straight to his portfolio of paintings, looking through them whilst the kettle boiled. Presently he sat down with his mug of coffee and examined more closely the paintings he'd selected. Here was a study of the church itself, and here were several sketches of the churchyard with mossy headstones and long shadows, and bluebells and buttercups growing in the long grass. The smallest painting was of a little statue; a cherub holding a stone vase, painted against a
shaded, grey-black oval background. There were primroses in the stone vase, their creamy-yellow petals gleaming with an unearthly light. To one side, lightly sketched in and barely visible, was another face; a child's.
As he stared at it, Matt was filled with a strong conviction of a presence close at hand, of something important to be done. He sat quietly, not hurrying his coffee, allowing the idea to form in his mind.
 
Half an hour later he was driving up the lane towards Allerford; it was not yet six o'clock. He drove slowly, the car window down, gazing in delight at the riot of colour in the hedgerows: rosy patches of pink-red campion; the brilliant golden dazzle of bright buttercups; a little azure pool of bluebells. Creamy cow parsley brushed, thick and powdery, against the car, and the hawthorn flowers were tipped with scarlet. Matt saw all these miracles of colour and design through Helena's eyes now; vivid and entrancing, they drew his gaze again and again.
He approached the A39; pausing at the junction to watch the swallows skimming in the sunshine above the quiet fields, and then driving the short distance to the turning to Selworthy. For the first time since he had been coming here, the church car park was empty. He got out and shut the door, staring across the vale towards Dunkery, rinsed rose and gold with early morning sunshine. He crossed the narrow lane and climbed the steps into the churchyard, turning left and bending his head as he passed beneath low, over-arching branches of the great yew tree. He wandered over the mossy grass amongst the grey headstones, not knowing where to look for the little cherub with his stone vase. He knew where Milo's family was, grouped on the west side, and he paused
here and there, reading the names until he saw with a shock her own name: Helena. It was carved beneath the words: ‘In Memory of Miles Grenville who died at Bloemfontein 1860 – 1900 and his beloved wife Helena 1872 – 1925'.
He stared at it; oddly shocked and confused by this stony manifestation of her existence and paying his own quiet homage. After a while he grew conscious of a bird singing in the trees nearby and he raised his head to glance around for it; he left the grave and walked slowly along the wall where ivy clambered and some young ash trees grew. Behind their twisting roots, beneath the ivy's straggling branches, the cherub lay under the wall: chipped and rubbed, he was barely visible. Matt crouched, staring at him, and then he reached to pick him up, lifting him out gently so as to study him more closely. There was no inscription, no dates or names; only the cherub, his wide, blind eyes looking past Matt's shoulder, his lips curved in a smile.
As he crouched there, an idea presented itself, shadowy at first but becoming clearer. He stood up, still holding the cherub, and walked among the grassy paths: here it was. ‘In Memory of George Grenville 1890 – 1919'. The small blond boy who had played with his toy engine at the Summer House, more than a hundred years ago. Matt stood silently, saluting him across the years, and then made his way back beside the wall, pausing to gather some buttercups. He went once more to Helena's grave, scattered the buttercups over the close-cut grass beneath the headstone and turned away.
 
He wasn't at all surprised to see Lottie strolling down the drive with Pud running ahead. Matt stopped the car at the turning down the avenue to the Summer House and went to meet them.
‘I think I know,' he told her. ‘I think I've guessed the truth at last, Lottie.'
He was shivering with emotion and she took his arm. ‘Can you tell me?'
‘Of course I can, I want to. Can you come back with me now?'
She nodded. ‘You go on and we'll catch you up. We shan't be long.'
She was right. He needed to look again at the painting, and to put the chairs on the veranda; even make some coffee. He was aware that he was setting the scene, and marvelled at this detachment that, even in a moment of such overpowering excitement, insisted that he must somehow tell it as a story. He was ready for her when she came round the side of the house. The two high-backed wicker chairs were in place with a table between them holding a pot of coffee, two mugs and the paintings.
‘Pud's foraging,' she said, sitting down. ‘So tell me.'
He pushed the painting of the cherub towards her and poured some coffee. She lifted it, turning it so as to study it, and then looked at him questioningly. He passed her the two other paintings of the little boy.
‘All three of them have something extra,' he said. ‘Can you see what it is?'
She looked again, moving the paintings to and fro; then her face changed and she stared up at him, her eyes bright with discovery.
‘There's another child,' she said. ‘Like a little ghost in the background.'
‘Exactly. A little ghost. D'you know what I think? I think this little boy, George, had a twin who died. Helena paints him in with George here at the Summer House and in the
garden. See him just there in the shadows of the hedge? I think he was probably stillborn and they simply took his body away and disposed of it. I think the cherub is his memorial.'
He reached down beside his chair and lifted the little stone cherub up. ‘He was in the churchyard, down by the wall. I think she put him there in memory of George's twin, hidden under the wall because she couldn't give him a proper grave. But some trees have grown up and their roots had knocked him over. It was only because I was looking for him that I saw him.'
Lottie took the cherub very gently: she touched his stony scars and ran her finger round the chipped rim of the vase.
Matt watched her. ‘She couldn't forget him, you see. Like Mum.'
Lottie's hands were stilled; she frowned at him.
‘Yes,' he said urgently. ‘That's the whole thing. Like Mum, Helena had twins and one died, but she couldn't forget him. She grew reclusive and shut herself up here but little George was a constant reminder of the child she'd lost. Don't you see? That's the connection I can feel. I think I had a twin who died. It explains my sense of loneliness, as if something is missing. And my nightmares and memories where I can feel as if I'm being separated from someone and see my own face in a mirror-image.'
‘There was a child,' remembered Lottie, still cradling the cherub. ‘When I asked Tom why Helen was so melancholic he said that she'd had a miscarriage.'
‘
Did
he, though? Are you certain that those were the words he used?'
‘You mean he might have said that she lost a baby and I immediately assumed that it was a miscarriage?'
‘It's what we all believed, wasn't it? We grew up remembering some distant mention of Mum losing a baby and, for some reason, imagining that she'd miscarried. And nobody was ever allowed to talk about it. Supposing I'm right, and that I had a twin who died when he was very small and she simply couldn't bear it? And then Dad was killed and she just completely lost it? She wouldn't talk about the past, would she? Her face would go all stony and angry. And I would have been a constant reminder of him, wouldn't I?'
Lottie was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you would. And so the photographs … ?'
‘Helena painted George's twin into the pictures. He's always there with him. Supposing those photos Mum took of me was her way of remembering my brother? She put me in different clothes, and in different backgrounds, pretending that he was there but in a slightly different world. That was why Im was never there with me. Mum couldn't have pretended so well then, could she? Painting lends itself so much better to the fantasy.'
He drank some coffee, his hand trembling. The solution to this long-carried burden seemed like a miracle; a promise of peace at last. Lottie was watching him compassionately. She set the cherub on the table between them.
‘I believe that you're right, that you had a twin—'
He broke in eagerly, ‘I just feel it so strongly. As if Helena's here trying to tell me, and to ask me to remember George's twin. We could ask Milo about it, couldn't we? But I don't want anyone else to know about me yet.'
‘Not even Im?'
He hesitated. ‘Not quite yet. I need to accustom myself to it. Although, to be honest, it seems so right and natural that it's hardly even a surprise. Just a huge relief.'
‘You must tell her when it's right for you.' She drank some more coffee whilst he gazed unseeingly across the garden, wrapped in thought. ‘I must get back to breakfast. Venetia will be wanting her morning cup of tea.'
They both stood up, and she embraced him, holding him tightly for a moment. He smiled down at her wordlessly, and she gave him a little smiling nod in return, and then went away along the terrace and round the side of the house, calling to Pud. Matt watched her go, then he picked up the little cherub and went into the house. Gently he washed the mud and stains from the rough stone and dried it with a soft cloth. Carrying the cherub he wandered through the house, looking for a suitable place for him.
He climbed the stairs, which turned halfway up and then led on upwards to the broad landing, and here he paused. He'd set a small sofa before the wide window, with a little table beside it holding books and magazines. Now he placed the cherub on the windowsill, half turned so that his smiling gaze looked out upon the garden, and then he sat down on the sofa and made his own quiet act of remembrance.
BOOK: Summer House
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