The Last Summer (45 page)

From the moment we arrived at Deyning I didn’t think of Charlie. Not once. Deyning was nothing to do with him and everything to do with Tom and me. In my mind it was sacred, like our love for each other; like all the snatched moments of the preceding years. Stacked together they amounted to so little, and yet I had lived more, felt more alive during those moments than any time in between.

I remember breathing in that soft smoky night air, the scents of pine and cedarwood so familiar to my senses. And for a split second, as I stepped through the open doorway, time reversed and I was back to that summer: I saw Mama’s roses standing in a crystal vase on the hallway table; Caesar, clip-clapping across the marble floor towards me; George, disappearing down the passageway towards the library. Then I saw myself, hat in hand, coming down the staircase, en route to meet Tom.

He stood behind me, in the doorway, leaning against its frame, smoking, watching me. ‘Home,’ I said, turning to him, and he smiled.

I walked on, into the lamp-lit drawing room, glanced about,
and then went back into the hallway, down the passageway to my father’s library, now his study. I walked along the shelves of books and stood by his desk at the window. But for the light from the hallway the room was dark. I could see the lake in the distance, a shimmering mirror, reflecting the vast night sky. Yes, I was home, I was where my heart lived, and I turned and wrapped my arms around him.

There was no dinner, nothing at all prepared and no one about. And I realised that he’d been truthful in the car: he’d decided at the very last minute to take me back to Deyning. In the kitchen, as I looked about, noting all the modern new conveniences, he disappeared down to the cellar, and returned with a bottle of wine, saying, ‘I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.’ And so we ate there, at the table, pulling at a carcass of a cold chicken with our bare hands, and giggling like children at the mess in front of us, and on our faces. Then he picked up the bottle and our glasses and said to me, ‘Let’s go down to the lake.’

‘But I can’t, look at me.’

I was in heels, still dressed for a formal night out in London. He scratched his head, then pulled a ‘eureka’ face. ‘Come with me.’

He led me upstairs to the small room opposite his own bedroom, which I recalled – much to his amusement – as once having been known as ‘the sewing room’. It was Nancy’s dressing room.

‘No, I don’t want to wear her clothes,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear her clothes.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to improvise, Miss Clarissa.’

‘Don’t call me that. I hate it.’

He took me through his bedroom, turned on the light of his dressing room, stepped back and sat down upon the bed as I moved hangers – looking through his wardrobe for something,
anything. As I pulled down my dress, I glanced up through the open door and caught his eye. I pulled on a pair of his trousers, made a point of showing him the rather roomy waist.

‘There’s a belt in the top drawer, the one on the left,’ he said.

I chose a pale pink cashmere sweater, and as I pulled it over my head, I breathed him in, wanted to wrap my face in its softness; languish in the feel of it against my skin.

When I emerged through the doorway, he smiled: ‘You could be seventeen.’

‘Really, is
this
what I looked like then?’ I asked, looking down at myself in mock horror.

We took the back stairs down to the kitchen, grabbing at the cold chicken as we passed by the table, and then we headed through to the garden room. He was still in his dinner suit, minus his tie, and as he bent down to help me into a pair of Wellington boots, he said, ‘I always said I’d be a rather good lady’s maid to you.’ And I giggled.

We walked down through the meadow hand in hand, and as we passed the chestnut tree he glanced over at it. ‘You know, I often see you there.’

‘You mean like a ghost?’

‘Yes, I suppose so . . .’

At the lake, he brought out two deckchairs from the boathouse, and we sat in silence, side by side, looking across the water – opalescent and vast, and stretching all the way up to the stars. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t speak; I was in some blissful state beyond words, beyond a here and now. And being there, back there with him, all my years of pain and loneliness evaporated. You see, he was my world, my life: he was my universe.

When he rose from his chair and began to strip off his clothes, I laughed. I watched him run naked along the jetty and dive
into the water, and for a few minutes I remained where I was, seated. Then I stood up, pulled off my ridiculous ensemble, all of it, and walked to the end of the jetty.

He called out from the water. ‘It’s perfect. Not cold at all.’

I remember the coolness of the water as I dived into it, under it. And I remember emerging, looking up at the stars, and shrieking. As we swam, never too close, we laughed at the memory of that day, after the War, when he’d swum over to me on the island. But there was an almost embarrassed self-consciousness to us both, an invisible barrier, and one that seemed hard to cross. As though we’d both become more aware of the passing of time, the distance between then and now; as if those days which had bound us had slipped further, creating a space, a void.

He climbed out of the water, walked along the jetty to the boathouse, then reappeared, wrapped in a towel, holding another out to me.

‘Gosh, such luxury,’ I said, as I climbed out of the water and grabbed the towel from his hand. ‘We never kept towels down here in
our
day.’

I went to the boathouse, dried myself and put on my clothes, or rather
his
clothes. ‘Wasn’t that glorious?’ I said, when I emerged. But he didn’t speak, and suddenly I felt apprehensive. Perhaps he’d regretted bringing me back. I moved over to him, placed my hand upon his bare shoulder. ‘Don’t feel guilty,’ I said.

‘I don’t feel guilty, Clarissa . . . I feel sad.’

He took my hand, pulled me to him, on to his lap, and I laid my head against his cheek, closed my eyes, and once more wished away the life I’d been born into. For even then, it seemed, so many years had passed us by, swallowing up our lives; gulping up our love. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressed my lips against his skin. I was lost, I was found; I was with him once more.

‘I think I owe you an apology,’ he began, ‘about my behaviour . . . that last night you were here, with Charlie. I was angry, and, I think, quite vile to you.’ He moved his head closer. ‘Forgive me.’

I ran a finger down the side of his face. ‘Forgive you? I forgave you that very night.’

He took hold of my hand. ‘And I need to tell you something,’ he said, closing his eyes, turning away. ‘Nancy . . .’ he paused: ‘We’re having a baby, Clarissa.’

We’re having a baby . . .

‘A baby . . . But how wonderful. Congratulations.’

I felt my head begin to spin; the carousel begin to move once more.

A baby . . .

He turned to me, frowning. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Good gracious, don’t be sorry,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘It’s happy news . . . lovely news.’

He shook his head. ‘You know what I wish? Shall I tell you what I wish?’

‘No. Don’t tell me,’ I said quickly.

I moved towards the water, stood with my back to him as I heard him go inside the boathouse to dress. It’s good news . . . happy news, I whispered. Be happy for him. I closed my eyes.
He deserves some happiness
.

We walked back through the meadow – past our tree – in silence. And as we passed his mother’s cottage, I saw him look up at a light still shining from an upstairs window. Inside the house, he took hold of my hand and led me up the stairs, and I said, ‘I’m tired . . . so tired.’ In his bedroom, he undressed me, pulled back the covers and helped me into his bed. He got down on to his knees, kissed my forehead and said, ‘I never, ever want to let you go.’

‘No, don’t let me go. Never let me go.’

I’m not sure what woke me, but the room was still quite dark, the house deathly quiet. And for a moment I thought I was at home, in London; thought it was Charlie in my bed, lying next to me with his arms around me. And I was confused. I turned over, and as I did so I remembered where I was: I was with him; I was at Deyning. I reached out, ran my hand over his bare flesh. He sighed, turned on to his back, and I moved with him, wrapping myself into him. I held on to him, listening to his breathing. And I lay there, wide awake, until dawn.

And then I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes, he was there, watching me; his head propped on one hand. ‘You’ve been talking in your sleep.’

I reached up to his face. ‘Oh really, and what was I saying?’

‘You were speaking of your
little friend
. . .’

‘My little friend?’ I had no idea what he meant.

‘Emily . . . your imaginary friend.’

‘Ah . . . yes, Emily.’

‘She’s still with you, isn’t she?’

‘Yes . . . I suppose she must be. What was I saying?’

He ran a finger along my brow. ‘I’m not sure . . . couldn’t make it out. But you were calling for her.’ He smiled, shook his head, then lifted my hair, moved his lips slowly down my neck, on to my shoulder. I closed my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him not to take me back to London, to Charlie, to that house, to let me stay there with him. Forever. I pushed my hands through his hair, pulled him to me.

By the time we had breakfast it was almost ten o’clock. And still I didn’t think of Charlie: what I would say, what I would tell him. I wanted to walk through the grounds, see the gardens before I left. So we strolled to the bench by the ha-ha, looking out towards the lake, the South Downs in the distance.

‘Do you remember when we first sat together here?’ he asked,
looking straight ahead. ‘It’s when I fell in love with you. You were so beautiful, so innocent.’

‘
Were
?’ I repeated.

‘Well, you’re certainly no longer innocent . . .’ he said, glancing at me with that half-smile. ‘You were a child then. You believed that everything and everyone was good. Your world was perfect, and I longed to be part of it. Part of the Granville world . . . Clarissa’s world.’

He leant forward and lowered his eyes, smiling at a memory.

‘What?’ I asked, watching him, smiling too.

He shook his head. ‘I was so consumed by you, so intoxicated . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘But I’ve learnt to live without you, had to live without you, and yet . . . it never feels
right
. . . nothing ever feels right. Bit like wearing clothes that don’t fit, I’d imagine,’ he added, looking sideways at me.

I reached out, took hold of his hand.

‘Do you ever wish we could go back?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘No, I don’t. I was no one then . . . I was the housekeeper’s son, always looking from the outside in, never quite part of things. Look at me now: the owner of Deyning Park. I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted, bar one thing . . .’ And I closed my eyes, for I knew what was to come. ‘I don’t have you.’

‘It’s impossible . . .’

‘Yes, it would seem so,’ he said, nodding. Then he laughed, but it was a hollow, hard laugh. ‘Here I am, trapped in the place that belongs to you . . . without you.’ He looked up into the sky. ‘Such a waste,’ he added.

Walter drove us back to London, and I felt as though I was going to a funeral, perhaps my own funeral. That hard knot had returned to my stomach, accompanied by a feeling of dread. We sat in the back of the car holding hands, and from time to time he lifted my hand to his lips, and held it there, pressed to them.
But he seemed distant now, preoccupied. As we headed into the sprawl of London I turned to him, but he didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes straight ahead, as though concentrating on the road, our journey. And so we passed through the streets of Battersea and Chelsea in silence. And when the car finally came to a standstill outside my home, he turned to me and said, ‘I need you to understand . . . try to understand – there’s a child now.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I can’t leave her, Clarissa. I can’t abandon my child.’

I nodded.

He climbed out of the car and moved swiftly to my door, but I’d already stepped out. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and I reached up to his face, placed my hand upon his cheek. ‘I wish only for your happiness, Tom.’

I didn’t look back; couldn’t bear to watch him go. But as I closed my front door I heard another slam shut, then the rumble of an engine, slowly fading as it moved away down the street. I put down my bag, walked through to the drawing room and poured myself something – I’m not sure what – from a decanter, and sat down upon the sofa. It was Sonia who later came into the room and asked me if everything was quite all right; if there was a reason why I’d locked and double-bolted the front door.

That evening, Charlie returned home from work earlier than usual, muttering about the traffic and some ghastly man he’d had to sit next to on the tube. I sat in silence with a book in my hand as he poured us each a drink. And I wondered why he’d come home early: was it to interrogate me, accuse me? I had no plan, no idea what I was going to say, but I wasn’t going to say anything until he’d laid the ground, as it were.
Innocent until proven guilty
.