Summer on the River (12 page)

He got over it, of course – or he thought he had until he saw Evelyn Drake in the Royal Castle. He can see now that all the little failures and disappointments lead directly back to her refusal to help: the bullying at school, his low self-esteem, which affects his interpersonal skills, the terrible depression. Watching her in the bar at the Royal Castle, and then earlier outside the pub, his hatred for her crystallized into a desire to do something violent: to make her pay for ruining his life. She has success, money, an international reputation, whilst he has so little in comparison: no wife, no job, a little flat that he might lose at any time. He'd like to break her neck – but not tonight.

Jason runs the cold tap, laves his face with cold water, dries it on some kitchen towel and creeps quietly up the stairs to bed.

CHARLIE GETS UP
early the next morning, sliding out of bed, picking up his towelling robe, which he pulls on as he goes quietly downstairs. He makes himself a cup of coffee and then unlocks the kitchen door and climbs up through the garden. On the top terrace he puts his mug on the table and stands looking out to sea. His love for this place always comes as a little shock; each time he visits he promises himself he will visit Dartmouth more often and then, once he's back in London, his life resumes its usual shape and the memory fades. He's glad that Benj was here to welcome them; it seemed even more like a homecoming, and he realizes that this is the first time he's stayed in the Merchant's House since his father died. Last time there were tenants here and he stayed with Evie – and they had great fun.

‘I just can't quite see how you can be so besotted with her,' Ange said once, a long time ago. ‘After all, she was your father's mistress. Don't you feel disloyal to your mother, being so affectionate to her?'

He'd loved his mother, valued her advice, sought her good opinion and was grateful for everything she'd done for him. Yet alongside his love ran a current of anxiety lest he should disappoint her, let her down, incur that cool emotional withdrawal of which she was capable each time he challenged her authority. Evie was so much easier to be with; ready to joke, treat him as an equal, give him space.

‘Well, of course she is,' cried Ange, when he tried to explain this to her. ‘She has no responsibility for you. She doesn't care. Your mother loved you. She wanted the best for you.'

Charlie didn't disagree, but after that he avoided conversations about Evie. He knew that his father had known Evie for some time before his mother's death – that they'd had a relationship – but deep down he couldn't quite condemn TDF. The temptation to be able to relax, to be free from his mother's watchfulness, must have been overwhelming. Yet he can see that, like his father before him, he benefits from the same kind of relentless power that drives Ange in pursuit of the best for her family.

The town is waking up to regatta, preparing for the fête: the guardship lies at her mooring. Charlie wipes the dew from the chair with the hem of his towelling robe and sits down at the table. His father loved it up here, sitting watching the river, joshing with Claude – who called this top terrace the poop deck – and with Evie. He made the steps through the garden more accessible, levelling them so that they were easier to climb. During the last five years, after he retired and rarely went to London, he and Evie lived here at the Merchant's House and Evie kept the boathouse for visiting friends and family and for working, though she'd begun to do less of that.

It's odd, thinks Charlie, that there are no real memories of his mother here. Like Ange, she preferred to be in London or to jet off to some luxurious hotel and sunshine. Self-catering in the damp West Country didn't appeal to her.

‘Terribly dull, darling,' she'd say. ‘I simply don't know what people do all day. It's rather fun for an occasional weekend, but two days are about my limit, I'm afraid.'

He'd come down in the summer holidays with his father and Benj, just for two weeks. He and Benj would go out into the town, play with the local children, go swimming at the nearby beaches, sail on the river. They still have friends in the town, working in the tourist industry: one owns a chandlery, another a small restaurant.

‘I suppose I ought to let the old place,' his father would say, standing in the drawing-room, gazing from the window, ‘but I can't quite bring myself to do it. It's good to know that I can come down here when the mood takes me; remembrance of things past and all that.'

Other people used the house for holidays; friends and relations were glad to take the opportunity to spend time there. Claude brought his family once or twice. Marianne's older sister and her family spent Easter at the Merchant's House for a few years when the children were small. Then TDF married Evie and began spending more and more time in Dartmouth, until he finally passed the reins to Charlie and moved down permanently.

‘Do you mind?' Charlie asked Evie once. ‘Leaving your boathouse and living here?'

‘I haven't really left it,' she answered. ‘I still work there. This is a beautiful house, and I adore the garden, it's just that I can't quite think of it as mine. It belongs to your family so I feel very slightly like a guest in it.'

He could see what she meant. Because it was fully furnished, fully equipped, there was no point in changing things. Evie had no opportunity to imprint her own personality except in very small ways, nor did she attempt it. He accepted her implication that once his father died it would be left to him, and so she had no true sense of belonging, yet he was upset that she felt that way and tried to assure her that it was her home.

She gave him a hug. ‘Thanks, Charlie. It's fine, honestly. I'm very happy here.'

Nobody guessed for a moment that TDF would leave the house to her.

Charlie leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table. What he can't understand is why his father didn't warn him: explain why, for the first time in five generations, the Merchant's House should be left away from the rest of the estate. Although he won't enter into Ange's discussions about it, he too is puzzled as to why it wasn't simply left in trust for Evie's lifetime so as to keep it in the family. He feels oddly hurt that his father didn't take him into his confidence and explain his reasons.

The top terrace is warm in the early morning sunshine; Charlie can smell the lavender. He breathes deeply, expels anxiety, and decides that he will walk into the town after breakfast. Part of him hopes that Ange won't want to come with him. He finishes his coffee, wanders back down the steps and into the kitchen. Ben is there, yawning over a fresh-made cafetiere.

‘Morning,' he says. ‘Is Ange up?'

Charlie shakes his head. ‘I'll take her some coffee. She might like a bit of a lie-in.'

Ben's raised eyebrows suggest that this is unlikely; that Ange is more likely to be down organizing breakfast. Charlie shrugs, takes a mug of coffee and goes upstairs. Ange is sitting up in bed, checking her iPhone, tapping out a text. She gestures with her head towards the bedside table and continues tapping. He sets the coffee down.

‘Thanks,' she says. ‘You can shower first. I brought croissants with me but I doubt Ben will have thought about lunch so I shall go and forage. Thank God there's a Marks and Spencer's in the town now. Don't be long.'

It's mid-morning by the time Charlie closes the front door behind him, crosses the road, and strides down Bayard's Hill. He pauses outside the Dartmouth Arms, wanders over to stand at the wall and look across to Kingswear. The river is full of small craft, some of which jostle round the guardship like goslings paddling around a stately grey goose.

He turns away, heading for the Embankment, enjoying being alone: knowing that he is a local amongst the crowds of holidaymakers and visitors. There is music blaring from stalls, echoing from the funfair; an atmosphere of carnival, of gaiety. He remembers how, when his girls were younger, they loved regatta; clinging to his hands lest they should be separated by the crowds, screaming in the bumper car and on the big wheel, begging for ice creams. Now, at thirteen and fifteen, they are frighteningly sophisticated, plugged into iPods, endlessly texting, preferring to be with their friends down at Polzeath than with their parents. He misses them; misses their small warm hands holding his, their dependency, the way they used to laugh at his jokes.

A woman is coming towards him, holding a little girl by the hand, laughing down at her. The child looks up with a trusting, happy smile, giving a little skip of anticipation as if at some promised treat, and just for a moment Charlie experiences a sharp pang of loss; a longing for times past. Then, as he watches them, the woman glances at him and her face opens into an expression of pleasure, of recognition. Even the child seems to know who he is – and, as they move towards him through the throng of people, he finds himself smiling back at them, his heart beating more quickly as if something momentous is happening.

The woman – she is beautiful, warm, vivid with the joy of simply being here – cries out: ‘Hello. Isn't this great? We came in on the Park and Ride.'

And, despite the fact that he has no idea who she is, he knows nothing will ever be quite the same again.

Even as she calls out to him, Jemima is suddenly filled with disquiet. The man who now approaches them is so like Ben – his height and grace, his dark hair and smiling brown eyes – and yet it isn't Ben. Not quite. She stares at him, her smile fading a little, feeling a bit crazy.

At her side, Maisie jumps with excitement, swinging on her hand, as if she remembers the man from Stokeley Farm Shop, and shouts, ‘Hello!'

Jemima stares at him; and as he stretches out his hand, and she automatically takes it in her own, she knows that nothing will ever be quite the same again. They stand still, the crowds surging and barging around them and the music playing, linked, staring at each other.

Jemima gathers her wits, smiles quickly, and lets go of his hand.

‘This is crazy,' she says. ‘I actually thought for a moment that you were Ben Fortescue but you're not.' A tiny hesitation. ‘Are you?'

The question makes him laugh, and she laughs with him, and the tension flows out of the situation.

‘I really wish I were,' he says. ‘I'm his cousin, Charlie.'

‘Gosh,' she says. ‘Well, at least I'm not quite crazy. That was totally surreal. I'm Jemima Spencer and this is Maisie. Her mum has to work so she's staying with me for the weekend.'

‘Hello, Maisie,' he says.

‘Otto couldn't come,' Maisie tells him seriously. ‘He has to stay at home because he doesn't like the bus.'

‘Otto?' Charlie raises an eyebrow at Jemima.

‘My Labrador,' she says quickly. ‘He's not bus-trained and he whines all the time. Look, I'm sorry about rushing at you like that. You are so alike. You must have thought I was out of my mind.'

He shrugs, shakes his head. ‘So what's on the agenda? Coffee? An ice cream?'

‘Ice cream!' shouts Maisie. ‘Jemima said I could have one. Please, Jemima.'

She doesn't quite know how to handle it: whether to let him come along simply because he's Ben's cousin; whether it would look petty to refuse. He's looking at her as if he's trying to feel his way forward and she simply can't bear the thought of watching him walk away.

‘There's a stall selling coffee and ice cream,' she says. ‘Let's slum it, shall we?'

She sees his look of relief, of pleasure, and she is filled with such joy that she can barely stop herself from jumping up and down like Maisie is; from beaming at him. Instead, she takes hold of Maisie's hand more firmly.

‘Come on, then. The treat's on me. It's regatta.'

‘So how do you know old Benj?' asks Charlie, taking the polystyrene cup, tasting the coffee cautiously; actually, it's not too bad. He watches Jemima passing Maisie her ice cream.

‘We seem to frequent the same cafés,' she says. ‘We saw him first at Stokeley and then I met him again at Alf's and we had coffee together. He loves being up there in Southtown, doesn't he?'

‘Yes,' says Charlie. He has a childish desire to be competitive: to say, ‘But it's my house not his' – and then remembers that, actually, it's Evie's. ‘Have you been there?'

She shakes her head. ‘Oh, no. I don't really know him all that well.'

He remembers her expression of pleasure when she first saw him, thinking he was Benj, and feels a little jab of envy.

‘Though,' she adds, glancing away from him, ‘he did invite me to see the house. I work for a company that does holiday lets and we've got one in Southtown. It's beautiful.'

‘Do you live in the town?' He'd been on the verge of inviting her back there and then, but suddenly he sees the foolishness of it: Benj's surprise, not to mention Ange's.

‘I live at Torcross.' Suddenly she laughs. ‘This is a bit like déjà vu. I had a very similar conversation with Ben and the fact that you look so alike makes this seriously weird. Did you double for each other when you were children?'

‘Just occasionally we helped each other out.' He grins, reminiscently. ‘Not any more, though.'

‘So are you on holiday or just down for regatta? Ben mentioned that some of his family live in London but that he's renting the house from them because his marriage is over.'

Charlie raises his eyebrows. Clearly Benj and Jemima got quite a long way on just one cup of coffee. ‘That's right. Well, more or less. Ange and I are down for the weekend staying with Benj.'

How hard it is to mention Ange's name; impossible not to.

‘Ange?'

‘My wife.' Their eyes meet briefly, acknowledge the barrier, glance away. ‘She prefers London. Usually I come down on my own. We have two teenage daughters but they like to go down to Polzeath to stay with Ange's mother in the holidays. They've got lots of school-friends they meet up with. And you? Are you … attached?'