The Christmas Angel (20 page)

Kitty slams the front door behind her and peers in the hall mirror, turning her chin slightly. Is her hair too short for her slightly square jaw? She can see now that it is, and some of her confidence trickles away. Sally’s observations have roused other fears. Of course, Sally always fancied Rupert herself; still does. But she’s simply not his type: she’s much too managing, much too bossy.

‘I had a sergeant-major just like her,’ he said just after they met – and they’d laughed together, though she’d felt guilty. Guilty, but pleased.

Sally was there when she first met him: they’d been taking a mid-term break together from their university office.

‘Dishy,’ Sally said, after Rupert had shown them round the cottage and given them a key. ‘He fancies you.’

They had a fit of giggling, just as if they were still schoolgirls, but now, as Kitty stares at her hair – it
is
too short – she can still remember the little jolt in the diaphragm when she looked at him that very first time. He told her his future plans for the restoration of old properties over a pint in the pub one evening. His vision and passion thrilled her and she knew quite simply and clearly that she wanted to be with
him
every minute. And she had been: camping, laughing, working together.

So why not now? It isn’t that she doesn’t want to be with him; it is simply that she’s got used to city life again, and the prospect of going back to remote cottages and painting walls has suddenly lost its appeal. Even the days she’s spent down at the cottage haven’t reignited any enthusiasm. She prefers it when he comes to Bristol. If she’s fair she has to admit that, if she were living with him, the cottage would be much more comfortable but she doesn’t want to be fair. Just at the moment it is rather good having a big, roomy flat to live in, with the city on her doorstep. Even with Mummy in her confined state and needing supervision, she manages her moments of freedom.

She’s still hoping that without her there, Rupert, too, might be tiring of this peripatetic way of life, and that he’ll be pleased to take it easier, but so far he’s made it clear – very clear – that such a future does not appeal to him at all. Of course, it’s a bit tricky with poor Mummy ill – she can understand that – and Rupert’s not the kind of man to function at his best in the sick-room atmosphere. That’s why he’s not getting back quite so regularly; nothing to do with playing around. Sally has always liked to imply that he’s not quite to be trusted – and, to be honest, there have been a couple of moments when she’s had to be very watchful – but she’s always been able to tell when he’s being distracted. He seems to almost shine with contentment, eyes bright, and he’s even more up for it than usual.

Kitty turns away from the looking-glass, that firm jaw set pugnaciously. She’s not about to give in over this one. No more camping, no more renovations: this is to be the last one. She might just consider a terraced house in Bristol, for
students
’ use, perhaps, which Rupert can oversee perfectly well from this comfortable sunny flat.

Sally’s right: it’s time to make a stand.

When Rupert arrives Kitty’s waiting for him. She studies him closely but can see no signs of anything out of the ordinary: he’s cheerful, affectionate and clearly quite happy with his life. Somehow this irritates her.

‘You look on good form,’ she says: it’s almost an accusation. He agrees readily.

‘Tired, though,’ he adds quickly as though he’s given away a point. ‘Bushed, actually. I’ve been working very hard this last couple of weeks.’

‘Well,’ she can’t resist such an opportunity, though instinct warns her against it, ‘what have I been saying about slowing down?’

‘Oh, come on, love,’ he says, half laughing, half impatient, dropping his overnight bag on the floor. ‘Let me get in the door before you start.’

Immediately she feels aggrieved and some of her good intentions vanish. ‘I’m not starting anything,’ she snaps. ‘Do you want some lunch?’

‘That’s usually the form at this time of day,’ he murmurs sarcastically – and she suddenly wants to shout at him, to kick his bag in a childish fit of anger, but the cleaner puts her head round the kitchen door and says, ‘Can I have a word, Mrs French?’ and Kitty quickly rearranges her face and tries to smile. Rupert is greeting the cleaner as if she is some dear old chum, and the cleaner is beaming and bridling, and Kitty is able to grab her temper and calm down.

But the weekend is not off to a good start.

* * *

Two days later, Rupert parks the Volvo outside the cottage, climbs out and stands in the afternoon sunshine. He feels quite limp with the relief at being back again. Without taking his bag out of the car, he walks onto the little lawn and looks about him with delight; listening to the water’s clear ringing song mingling with the soft insistent murmurings of an unseen dove. He breathes deeply, aware of the thick sweet scent of the honeysuckle that winds its intricate clinging way over the thorny hedge. This,
this
is where he is most at home; most himself. And once Kitty would have felt the same, he tells himself. She professed to love the tranquillity: the slow, inexorable rhythm of the quiet places. He can imagine her here: eating breakfast at the picnic table, still in her pyjamas, watching for the dipper bobbing on his midstream boulder, listening to the robin’s cheerful song. Or in the long midsummer evenings: sitting with a glass of wine, waiting for the full moon to rise above the trees’ leafy canopy and hearing the owl’s shrill scream down in the woods below.

He broached the prospect of buying another property to restore but she prevaricated and he grew impatient. His cheerful mood was disseminated into the chill and brittle atmosphere that he was beginning to know and dread, and which lasted right through Sunday.

Surely she must see that he can’t simply give up his work and sit in a flat in Bristol whilst someone else runs his business. Even though he could afford to retire he would feel miserable with no projects and no challenges: surely, knowing him as she does, she can understand this.

Standing in the hot sunshine, he thinks suddenly about Dossie: cooking, planning, dashing about in her little car. She understands how he feels. He needs someone to chat to about the day’s work, about suppliers’ incompetence and
the
idiosyncrasies of his clients. Dossie understands and sympathizes about all these things and it is good to share a meal, have a pint together, and simply relax with her. It’s a bit tricky that she seems to think that his wife has died. Possibly Chris at Penharrow is unwittingly responsible for that, having heard some rumour and muddled the fact that Kitty went back to Bristol to look after her mother when her father was taken suddenly ill and died. He doesn’t know Chris very well, and they’ve never discussed anything of a personal or private nature. Anyway, it’s too late to go into it now with Dossie. He has no intention at the moment of rocking the boat by telling her the truth. He works on the ‘need-to-know’ basis with women.

As he gets his bag from the car and unlocks the cottage door he is acknowledging to himself that it would be good to see Dossie; really wishing he hadn’t been quite so edgy during that last meeting when she’d taken him by surprise. He glances at his watch: twenty past four. He’ll send her a text.

He drops his bag in the hall and goes into the kitchen. There are a few things, one of Kitty’s scarves and some fashion magazines and a pair of her walking shoes, that he feared Dossie might see – and ask about – when she turned up unexpectedly. Luckily, there was no need for her to go into the cottage but he reminds himself that he’ll have to be much more careful. Taking his mobile phone out of his pocket he goes back outside to the picnic table where the signal is strongest and begins to text, wondering where she is.

She is on the beach at Peneglos with Jakey. A few local families are grouped about in the narrow cove whilst seagulls perch
on
black spiny rocks and watch them with yellow-glass eyes. The tide had turned and the sea retreats placidly, sending little white-fringed wavelets across the smooth yellow sand where three children play at the water’s edge. Even now, on this hot afternoon in late June, the sea is icy cold and Jakey is happier paddling in one of the sun-warmed rock pools whilst Dossie wanders close at hand, keeping a lookout for pebbles or larger stones that might do for Janna’s collection. Jakey’s big red plastic bucket stands nearby containing a few selected pebbles and Stripey Bunny, whose long legs hang over the edge of the bucket.

Jakey lies down in the shallow water and splashes and kicks and pretends that he is swimming.

‘Look at me,’ he shouts. ‘Look, I’m nearly swimming, Dossie,’ and she laughs and claps her hands and holds up Stripey Bunny so that he can see too.

Jakey comes out all in a rush and a scatter of water, and stands before her; his warm sun-browned skin glitters wetly in the sunlight. He shakes himself like a dog and drops of water fly around him, bright as a rainbow.

‘Is it time for the picnic now?’ he asks hopefully. ‘Stripey Bunny’s hungry.’

She picks up the big soft towel and wraps him in it, rubbing him dry and hugging him at the same time, and his narrow blue-brown eyes sparkle as he wriggles and protests and chuckles as she tickles him. She pulls his navy-blue hooded towelling jersey over his head and puts the towel on a rock to dry in the sunshine.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Honey sandwiches, I think. And some rice cakes and some grapes. And there’s a Fruit Shoot.’

‘No chocolate?’

She shakes her head: ‘This is one of Daddy’s healthy picnics,’ she says, and puts two small sandwiches on a little paper plate beside him on the rug. Just now, sitting cross-legged, his gilt-blond hair ruffled by the breeze, he is so exactly like Clem was at the same age that she is transported back across the years to the beach at Rock, and she and Clem picnicking in just this same way. Even as a tiny stab of nostalgia and sadness pierces her heart, her mobile makes its little bleeping sound that signifies the arrival of a text.

She opens her bag and lifts it out, heartbeat quickening, eyes narrowing against the bright light as she tilts the phone to read the message.

Back home. All well with bank and mother. Hope u ok
.

Dossie takes a deep relieved breath: all is well. He is home and all is well. Ever since she last saw him, some deep-down anxiety has troubled her and she’s regretted that sudden impulse that took her down to see him unannounced. A tiny voice tells her that she has every right to take the initiative occasionally but she smothers it with sympathetic considerations for his situation: she must give him space and time to recover from his grief. She doesn’t want their relationship to be haunted by ghosts of his former life. Because it is never discussed between them she is free to be herself and to approach him happily without sighs and sad looks for his loss. One day it will be right to speak of it, but not yet.

She hesitates, rereading the message, and then decides not to answer it immediately. It is better to stay cool; not to look too keen.

‘Who is it, Dossie?’ Jakey has finished his sandwiches and is watching her. ‘Is it Daddy?’

She shakes her head, reaching for the wipes and rubbing
the
honey from his fingers. ‘Just a friend. Tell you what, why don’t we build a lovely sandcastle and have some more picnic afterwards? What d’you think?’

Jakey considers and then nods. He scrambles up and goes to fetch his spade whilst she takes Stripey Bunny and the pebbles out of his bucket and puts them together on the rug. As she watches Jakey digging, busy and preoccupied with his task, she remembers that kiss. She smiles inwardly and happiness expands her heart. Suddenly, dispensing with caution, she fishes her mobile out again and taps out a short message.
Glad all is well. Same here
.

She hesitates, wondering whether to add something more encouraging, but decides against it. It’s up to Rupert to make the next move. She sends the message, tucks her mobile away and kneels down on the sand to help with the sandcastle.

Waiting patiently, sitting at the little picnic table, Rupert reads the message with relief: all is well. He considers the week ahead and decides to take a chance. He texts quickly:
Meet here coffee on wed? Lunch at pub
?

While he waits for her reply, he scrolls down to the Bristol number. Kitty answers at once.

‘Hello? Are you back? How was the journey?’

‘It was a good one. No hold-ups.’

He notes that her voice is bright, willing him to be cheerful, and he responds to it readily. It is as if he’s come to some kind of decision and it is important now for her to be reassured. She’s chattering on, telling him about some plan she’s got for the theatre when he comes back again.

‘But not this weekend,’ he reminds her. ‘The plumber’s coming in on Saturday morning …’

‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I remember you told me about
it
, but the weekend after that, perhaps? Look, I’ll phone and check the ticket situation and let you know. We can have dinner afterwards.’

It is very clear that there has been no change of heart on her part. She isn’t missing him that much and is determined to pretend that their only life together is in Bristol.

‘Sounds fine,’ he says lightly. ‘Look, I’d better unpack and get some supper sorted.’

‘Take care, then,’ she says.

She hesitates, as if she might say something more, and her voice is suddenly slightly anxious but he presses the button quickly and sits quite still for a moment, staring out over the little stream. It is as if some kind of Rubicon has been crossed but he doesn’t quite know why or how. He feels elated, excited, free. His mobile beeps and he scrolls quickly to Dossie’s answer.

Love to. C u 11-ish Wed
.

He sighs with relief and pleasure, puts the mobile in his pocket, and goes into the cottage.

It is very hot. The dogs lay stretched at full length on the cool flagstones in the boot-room; Pa walks them early and late in the cool of the day. In between he watches Wimbledon, where people are passing out with the heat and there is no requirement,
none at all
– he repeats with enormous satisfaction – for the new roof.