Summer on the River (8 page)

‘Small girls can be incredibly complicated,' says Ben. He shows no reaction to the information she's deliberately given him. ‘But then so can big ones. I suppose they're getting on each other's nerves.'

‘Yes,' says Jemima, surprised by his intuitiveness. ‘That's exactly right. Miranda is hurt that Maisie has not immediately rejected her father because of his behaviour to her mother – and to her – and Maisie is upset that her mother wasn't able to keep hold of her father for her. It's very odd.'

‘And very destructive. It's all to do with loyalty, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Look, this is really weird. Why am I telling you this five minutes after I've met you? It seems a bit disloyal to Miranda really.'

Ben shrugs. ‘How long does it take to feel you can trust someone?'

She snorts derisively. ‘And have you never made a mistake about that?'

‘Of course. But it doesn't stop you being optimistic about it.'

Jemima laughs. ‘OK. But I must go. We're taking on a cottage at Dittisham and I've got to check it out.'

‘And I was hoping you might come and see my beautiful house and that you'd invite me to see your bit of a cottage.'

She stands up, reaching for her bag and Otto's lead, smiling a little.

‘It's not impossible, I suppose.'

He takes out his wallet and hands her a card. ‘Just in case,' he says.

She takes it, hesitating, still smiling. ‘Thanks,' she says, and hurries out, wondering if he is looking after her. She hopes that he is – but she doesn't look back.

Ben watches her go. He feels very much at ease; delighted to have seen her again but very calm about the outcome. This strange sense of peacefulness, of wellbeing, contains him. There is no stress; no anxiety. He can't quite understand it, sometimes even testing it with a series of negative reactions about his failed marriage, but the feeling persists. He can't believe his luck that his life should have fallen into such a pleasant pattern – enough work, the Merchant's House, his card project – and Jemima Spencer, on top of all this, seems rather too much to add to it all.

He drinks his coffee and thinks about the little girl, Maisie. He can imagine the kind of ‘you and me against the world' scenario in which she and her mother have lived, happily dependent on each other, until Maisie was old enough to begin to discover that she quite liked the world. How difficult, then, for her mother to step back and allow her to enter into it. How hurtful to discover that, far from being angry with her father for abandoning them, Maisie blames her mother for allowing him to go.

Ben thinks about Laura. She, too, is feeling resentful that Kirsty has chosen Iain, announced that the marriage is at an end and the family home must be sold. Part of Ben feels sorry for Kirsty. Theirs has not been a relationship ending in quarrels, shouting, arguments: it has been a quiet descent into a kind of indifference. He can't blame Kirsty for being attracted to this man whom she's known in another life and obviously likes enough to cause such a rift. Perhaps Iain has brought a new excitement to her life; a different dimension. But how is she to explain it to Laura in a way so that her daughter won't be hurt, diminished and resentful on her father's behalf?

He and Laura didn't inhabit the ‘you and me against the world' scenario of Miranda and Maisie, but he was very present during her growing up: taking and fetching her from school, attending assemblies and plays, amusing her, bathing her, putting her to bed. His beautiful photographs in the well-known glossy magazines were far more easily appreciated than Kirsty's long hours in the office and the added responsibility when she was promoted.

When was it that Kirsty began to be jealous of his and Laura's easy camaraderie, her natural instinct to turn to him first; to ask for his help, to tell him about her childish victories and disasters? When did bitterness begin to creep into decisions to do with home improvements, new clothes, foreign holidays? At what point did his own irritation with Kirsty's subtle – and not so subtle – implications that without her hard work such luxuries wouldn't be possible begin to turn into resentment? Increasingly her air of martyrdom began to colour her attitude towards him, though he still worked hard, shopped, did most of the cooking.

It was a slow process. There were still happy moments, periods of contentment, but the spaces between them grew longer, and by the time Laura went to university there was not much left. Nevertheless, it was a shock to discover that Kirsty had been seeing Iain: that this unknown man had revived in her the love and passion that had been lost in their own relationship. When she'd told Ben that it was over, that she was going back to Edinburgh and the flat must be sold, he'd experienced a terrible sadness, jealousy, an overwhelming sense of loss – but also, deep down, this sense of relief, of peace.

It was odd that in his moment of crisis, wondering where he would go, what he would do, it had been to Evie that he turned, hoping he might stay with her at the boathouse until he sorted himself out. He knew that here there would be no judgement, no criticism; there would be none of that salacious, dreadful glee that is so often present even in the best of people when such a disaster happens. Amongst his and Kirsty's friends there was a degree of that lip-licking, eye-glittering voyeurism, that eager neck-craning to get a glimpse into the pain of somebody else's failure, that was barely disguised by sympathy.

Well, he'd agreed to Kirsty's terms: no arguments, no quibbling about the divorce. The flat to be sold and split three ways – between him, Kirsty and Laura – after the mortgage was paid, and the inference that he was lucky to be getting his share. Perhaps he was. He'd always contributed what he could, though his earnings were irregular and it was her salary that kept the mortgage paid. He'd have enough to pay Charlie back and some left over – but where to go while he sorted himself out?

That's when he telephoned Evie.

‘Of course you can come,' she said. ‘It will be lovely to have some company.'

A week later, his old VW Golf packed with his belongings, he was on his way to Dartmouth. It was so good to be going back, going home: that's how he always felt about returning to the West Country, to Dartmouth.

Evie welcomed him as she always did; not as a guest, or a visitor, but as someone returning to the place where he belonged. He sat on her huge sofa, with its back resting against the long wide oak table, and stared out at the river. It was as if he were supported and embraced by the dazzling light, his spirit lifted and carried by the rising tide.

When she offered him the Merchant's House he was silent with surprise.

‘Why not?' she asked. ‘The tenants are going in a few weeks. It will be empty. I'd rather you were there than someone I don't know.' And again she asked, ‘Why not?'

He was confused. ‘Well, it seems a bit cheeky, I suppose. I probably can't afford the rent you'd get for it and … what about Charlie?'

‘What about him?'

‘Well, I suppose I feel that he might not like it.'

‘You mean Ange might not like it.'

He laughed then. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.'

‘Well, TDF left the house to me so I shall do as I please with it and I'd love to have you there if you'd like it.'

He was overwhelmed with such joy that he felt he might burst into tears. Nobody had ever guessed how much he loved the elegant, graceful house overlooking the river.

‘Never mind about the rent for the time being. We'll come to some arrangement about that later. Just think how nice for me to have you there, and there's room for Laura when she needs a bolt hole,' Evie was saying. ‘If it means that we shall see more of darling Laura it will be an added bonus. I can use the garden and the garage, those are my conditions, though you'll have to share with Charlie and Ange when they come down. Not that it happens very often. Will you mind that?'

Ben shook his head. ‘There's plenty of room.' He was already planning that he'd have the two rooms on the second floor for his own quarters. ‘It would be amazing, Evie. If you're really sure?'

He was slightly surprised by her own delight at the scheme; as if it had solved a problem. Perhaps it had. Perhaps she didn't want any more tenants though it was a big house to leave empty for most of the year. It was a relief to think that he might be helping her out, paying some rent, paying the utility bills, whilst realizing his own private dream.

‘The last of the really good pieces went to London when TDF died,' she was saying, ‘but it's more than adequately furnished. Quite comfortable.'

‘I can't wait to see it again,' he said.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to. It won't be empty for another few weeks but you'll have all the fun of anticipation.'

Now, Ben finishes his coffee, gets up and goes out. He's been at the Merchant's House for four months, and in a few days Charlie and Ange will be down for regatta. How will it work out?

MAISIE LOVES JEMIMA'S
little cottage. There's a tiny room at the top of the house where Maisie sleeps when Mummy is on a night or weekend shift at the hospital and Granny is away. It's her own special place; nobody else sleeps in the small camp bed and a few special toys are always kept there. There's another bedroom next to Jemima's where Maisie can be if she wants to, but she likes to be in the little loft room. Granny's house is nice, and it has a garden with a swing and a slide and a trampoline, but Jemima's cottage is very nearly on the beach. She loves being with Jemima in the car and going for walks with Otto – and Jemima doesn't get cross when Maisie talks about her father.

All the time, now, she's looking for him. Ever since Mummy told her about how he left them, she's been watching: it could be the man at the check-out, or someone in the farm shop, or at the garage.

‘No,' Mummy says. ‘No, it doesn't work like that. I'd recognize him. He'd recognize me. You've got to stop this, Maisie.'

But Maisie can't stop. It's nearly six years since he left them and he might have changed. Mummy's changed. Her hair is shorter and darker then it is in the photographs taken when Maisie was a baby. And she's much thinner. He might not know her straight away, and so Maisie has to keep watching.

She doesn't look at fathers with children – if her father didn't want her then he wouldn't want anyone else – and she knows she mustn't talk to strangers or wander off alone, but she can't stop herself watching. She's stopped asking Mummy about him because she gets a funny look on her face: part of it as if she is angry and part of it is like she might cry.

Sometimes Mummy makes friends with men who don't live with their families: they live on their own. When one of these men comes round to the flat Mummy is different. She's like a person that Maisie doesn't know, which can be a bit frightening. She gets a bit giggly, and talks very quickly, like she's a little girl. She hugs Maisie: her cheeks get very pink and she fiddles with her hair whilst looking at this other man. Then Maisie gets uncomfortable and pulls away and then Mummy gets cross and the man looks uncomfortable, too. It's much better when these other men aren't there.

Maisie climbs carefully down the little wooden staircase to the landing where Jemima is waiting for her.

‘All settled in?' Jemima asks. ‘Unpacked?'

Maisie nods. She likes it that Jemima doesn't fuss. She feels comfortable and happy with Jemima like she used to feel with Mummy. Now, though, Mummy seems to be a bit upset when Maisie wants to be with her friends or go to clubs after school, and then she feels sad because Mummy is on her own. If her father were to come back then Mummy needn't be alone, but she got upset when Maisie said that so now she has to be very careful. It's good to be with Jemima and not to have to think about what she's saying all the time.

‘So,' Jemima says. ‘Otto needs a walk before supper. Are you OK with that?'

Maisie nods happily, she's very OK with that, and they go downstairs together. Maisie thinks the cottage is like a doll's house. The sitting room is upstairs and really small, and the kitchen has a glass room leading off it that is called a conservatory. This is Jemima's favourite room: she can see the ley from the windows and she can watch the ducks and the swans. All along the windowsills are painted pots with flowers in them.

‘This is my garden,' Jemima tells people. ‘Good, isn't it?'

And Maisie thinks it's really good. And so does Otto. He has a basket under one of the windows and he stretches out in it with his paws hanging over the edge. He's waiting for them now; he looks excited like that, with his ears pricked up and his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. Jemima puts his lead on and gives Maisie a blue cotton bag, in case she finds a precious stone or some pretty glass, and they all go out through the little yard.

Maisie carefully closes the gate behind them and they turn down the narrow passage between the houses to the beach. She loves this beach, which stretches so far she can't see the end of it. It's not sand, though; she can't build sandcastles but she doesn't want to do that anyway. She likes to see what the tide has washed up: strange smooth lumps of coloured glass, oddly marked pebbles, pieces of wood bleached white as bones. She collects these things and makes patterns in Jemima's yard or on the windowsill beside the flowerpots. Their own flat doesn't have a garden, and her collection grew too big for her bedroom, so now she leaves some of them with Jemima and takes some to Granny, who has given her a special box for the best pieces.

Otto is running towards the sea, his tail going round and round in circles, his galloping paws sending up showers of shingle, which makes her laugh. She turns to look up at Jemima, who is laughing too, and Maisie seizes her hand and they run together after him over the shingle down to the sea.