The Last Summer (47 page)

We didn’t often visit Charlie’s sister, but it was a house he knew and could cope with. And the following spring, perhaps six months or so after I’d met Mrs Cuthbert, we went down to Sussex to stay with Flora and her husband David. They lived about fifteen miles from Deyning at that time, in a sixteenth-century timber-framed cottage: a hotchpotch, rambling place, and, like so many others, still without electricity or running hot water. Their two sons, my nephews, were both away at school, and they lived a somewhat eccentric, Spartan existence,
tucked away there, without any luxuries and with only candlelight at night.

I hadn’t planned to drive over to Deyning, but on the Sunday, the day after we’d arrived, there was a pause in the day and it seemed the perfect afternoon for a drive. It wasn’t long after Easter and the countryside was just beginning to take on the soft, luminous hue of springtime. And of course, being so close to Deyning, I couldn’t
not
think of the place; couldn’t
not
think of him. The previous evening, over dinner, Flora had mentioned him to me, and I’d immediately felt that momentary sense of loss, a feeling I had each time I heard his name. It was different with my brothers, I’d often thought, because two of them were dead; they had gone and could never return. And Henry? Henry may have disappeared but he was alive somewhere, I knew that, and I also felt sure he would return to us some day. But Tom, Tom had not died, nor had he disappeared. He lived and breathed on the periphery, somewhere on the edge of my life. Flitting in and out of conversation, lurking in the shadows.

Flora told me that she and David had been to a charity fund-raising dinner at Deyning a month or so earlier. ‘Golly, he is a dish,’ she said, leaning towards me, as David and Charlie talked business. ‘But he’s not at all at ease with himself. And for all his money, he doesn’t strike one as . . . particularly happy.’

I smiled but said nothing. I did and didn’t want to talk about him. I wanted to ask questions, but didn’t altogether wish to hear the answers. Then she said, quietly, ‘Of course, there’s talk that the marriage has been in trouble from the word go.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mm,’ she said, taking a sip of wine and glancing at David. ‘Apparently he’s in love with someone else.’

I looked at her. ‘Perhaps he just works hard,’ I replied.

She smiled, knowingly. ‘I think there’s a little more to it than that, dear.’ She’d hooked me. I was intrigued.

‘And . . .’

‘Well, you’ll recall Mrs Wade, who cooks for us?’

‘Yes,’ I said, although I didn’t really.

‘She sometimes helps out over at Deyning, when they have big dinners there and so forth, and she’s been there rather a lot of late.’ She paused, lit a cigarette from the candle on the table. ‘She told me it’s common knowledge
he’s
in love with someone else, someone in London, I think, and that the marriage is in trouble.’

‘And how does Mrs Wade know this?’

She laughed. ‘Clarissa, really, you more than anyone should understand that servants know
everything
.’

‘Yes, but they’re not meant to tell, Flora,’ I said.

‘I think those days are well and truly gone, darling. We’re all exposed now. Anyway, Mrs Wade says there’ve been quite a few big arguments and rather a lot of door-slamming going on at Deyning, not that
he’s
there much. But when he is . . .’

‘But I thought . . . I’d heard that she was . . . that a baby was due?’

She shook her head, shrugged. ‘No . . . no babies. We saw them only a month ago, and she certainly isn’t expecting anything . . . other than perhaps a letter from
his
lawyers,’ she added, raising her eyebrows. ‘I think divorce is imminent, dear. And he’ll no doubt have his pick for Mrs Cuthbert number two . . . all that money and those looks, really.’

So, as we sat outside after lunch, replete, and enjoying one of those blissful lazy Sundays, rustling newspapers and watching clouds roll across the sky, I said, ‘I think I might take a drive.’

‘Oh really? Where to? I might come with you,’ Flora said.

‘I don’t know . . . perhaps to Midhurst.’

‘Darling, there’ll be absolutely no one about, nothing at all happening . . . you know it’s really terribly dull there.’

I managed to get away on my own and took the road back
towards Deyning. I had no intention of motoring up the main driveway, but I knew the road that led to the farm, and the track from there towards the woods by the lake. There’d be no one about; no one would see me. I turned off the London road and drove down the narrow lane towards the farm. I drove past two children, waving to them as I crossed in front of the red-brick farmhouse, and then I picked up the track towards the lake, and stopped the car at the gate before the woods.

I stepped out of the car, on to the track where Papa and I had sat and listened to the sounds of guns so many years earlier, and, for a second or two, I thought I could hear them once more. I moved on, opened the gate, and walked into the dappled light of overhanging branches, lifting them up out of my path. The track had narrowed, was overgrown with weeds and thistles, and I caught my skirt on them more than once. I hoisted it up, tucking it into my belt, and walked on again until I came to a clearing and another gate, beyond which was the lower path around the lake; the one Papa had taken me to when I was a child. I wondered if the bench was still there. It was a warm spring day, not hot, and not entirely sunny, but clear and bright. I took off my shoes and my stockings, left them by the gate and headed down towards the lake.

I found the bench, collapsed and rotting; no more than an ancient piece of timber lying on the edge of an overgrown pathway, and I walked on slowly as the house came into view. I couldn’t be sure if anyone was there, but there were no obvious signs of life, and it was too tempting not to continue. I kept to the pathway, my head down, picking my way through sharp twigs and the shells of acorns beneath my feet. Then I glanced up and saw the chestnut tree in the lower meadow, the empty bench beneath its branches. When I reached the boathouse I looked up again, towards the house. A number of trees had disappeared, cut down to make the view from the windows on
the south-east side of the house more picturesque, I assumed. I could clearly see the gate to the stable yard, but there was no one about, not a sound, so I moved on, along the jetty, and sat down. I dangled my legs over the side, my toes skimming the water, and then leant back; lifting my face up to a blink of sun between shadows.
Home
.

Was he there? I wondered. Was he sitting yards away, at his desk, staring out towards the water my feet now touched? I remembered Flora’s words of the previous evening
. . . no babies . . . an affair . . . a separate life
. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I fancied I could hear his voice in the distance; a memory held and carried back amidst the rustling of trees.

‘Have you not read the signs, miss? This is private property . . . trespassers
will
be prosecuted.’

I turned. A man I’d never seen before was standing at the other end of the jetty.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said, quickly rising to my feet, rearranging my skirt. ‘I used to live here . . . I grew up here.’

He said nothing, didn’t move.

‘Actually, I happen to know the present owner, Tom Cuthbert, Mr Cuthbert . . . and I’m quite sure, quite sure that he wouldn’t be in the least bothered by my being here . . .’

‘That may be, miss, but I have my job to do. And Mr Cuthbert’ll no doubt already have been informed we have an intruder. You came through the farmyard, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right, I did. But, as I’m sure you can see, I’m not a poacher . . . not an intruder. I simply wanted to take a walk . . .’ I said, moving back along the jetty. ‘I can go now.’

‘I’m sure you mean no harm, miss, but I have my job to do,’ he repeated, as I scurried past him. And as I quickened my pace, back along the path, I could hear voices somewhere. And they were not the voices of ghosts from my past: these voices were male and very much alive. Oh God, I didn’t want to be caught
looking like a snoop, a spy, and I picked up my skirt and ran.

I ran along the path in agony as my feet crunched on acorn shells, pebbles and holly; my hair tugged and pulled at by newly hostile branches. I stopped by Papa’s rotting bench, breathless, and glanced back; I could see three figures, all of them looking in my direction, and I took off again, up the pathway towards the woods, and the gate where I’d left my shoes. When I reached the gate, my shoes and stockings had gone and I yelled out, because I couldn’t possibly drive in bare feet. But there was nothing for it, I’d have to try. I passed through the gate, breaking a nail
and
ripping my blouse on its latch, and shouting out again, ‘No!’ I continued back along the track towards the car, in tears, in physical as well as mental anguish. And then I stopped. Why was I running? I’d done nothing wrong . . . I’d simply gone to look at my old home.
My home
. I stood still for a moment, collecting my thoughts, calming my breath. I needed my shoes; I couldn’t drive without them. And so I turned and walked back towards the gate I’d just passed through and left ajar. I saw the man from the jetty walking up the bank towards me, carrying something, and I stopped by the gate and waited for him.

‘Mi-iss! Miss Larissa!’ he called out. And I thought, oh God, he may have my name wrong but he knows who I am, and that meant only one thing: one of the men by the boathouse had been Tom.

‘Yes, hello . . . hello again,’ I answered, closing my eyes as he came towards me, carrying my shoes and stockings.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Larissa,’ he said, huffing and puffing, ‘but you know how it is . . . we get all sorts here . . . can’t be too careful. And being as Mr Cuthbert has some very valuable antiquities up at the house . . .’

‘Oh really,’ I said, snatching my shoes and stockings from his arms. ‘It’s
Clarissa
, by the way.’

He looked confused.

‘My name, it’s Clarissa – not
Larissa
.’

He smiled at me. ‘A very pretty name too, miss,’ he said. ‘And Mr Cuthbert would like you to know that you’re very welcome to . . . to have a paddle in the lake.’

I laughed. ‘I was not paddling, I simply dipped my feet into the water,’ I replied and then I realised how I sounded, and added, ‘and I know, you’re just doing your job.’

I glanced towards the boathouse, but could see no one, and so I looked back at him and said, ‘And do thank Mr Cuthbert for his very kind offer of a paddle, but I must get back to . . . to London.’ And I turned and began to walk back towards the car, knowing full well how I must have looked to the old game-keeper, with my torn blouse, bare feet and dishevelled hair.

Oh God, how I wished I hadn’t gone there. To be caught
trespassing
, and then to have run off like that! I pictured him, Tom, standing with his gamekeeper, as the old man explained that he’d chased off a rogue
paddler
. And I could see him, see his smile. I leant against the bonnet, rolled up my stockings, one by one, and put on my shoes. I got into the car, slammed the door shut and as I started the engine, put the car into reverse, I saw him, Tom, in front of me, hurriedly marching through the grass towards the gate. I saw him raise his hand, shout something, but I pushed my foot down on the accelerator and turned away; and I kept my head turned away until I reached the entrance to the farm, and then I quickly turned the car back towards the main road and my sister-in-law’s house.

Why did I rush away from him that day? I suppose because I was embarrassed to have been caught there, trespassing; trespassing on his life. And it only made me feel more desperate, because I wasn’t altogether sure whether I’d returned to Deyning to look at the place, or whether I’d gone there in search of him. And so I drove back to Flora’s at a ridiculous speed, chastising myself all the way, and crying. When I arrived back at the cottage
I went straight to my room, cleaned myself up and changed. Then I went outside into the garden. Charlie and David were both asleep in their deckchairs. Flora glanced up at me. ‘Nice drive, dear?’

‘Yes, heavenly,’ I said, and I picked up a magazine and sat down.

Mama moved from her house in Berkeley Square to a flat in Kensington in the summer of 1928. Still proud, she told people that the house was much
too large
for her now, on her own, but in truth it was simply too costly for her to run. She’d grown weary of struggling on with too few servants, was tired of meetings with sympathetic, overly keen young bankers and their talk of
economies
. What did they know? she’d said to me: they had no idea, no idea at all of how things were, before the War. ‘It was a different world.’

And my mother belonged to that different world; Berkeley Square belonged to that different world: a world slowly fading. Like the Chinese painted silk upon Mama’s walls, now discoloured and watermarked by damp; like the chipped paintwork on the doors and staircase, and the unseen cobwebs, floating listlessly, clinging to the ornate cornicing of once busy rooms. The house exuded an ennui reflected in Mama’s own lassitude, and even Wilson’s devotion to my mother seemed to have taken on a lazy, apathetic air. For Mama herself looked not quite right, as though she
and
her maid had forgotten all about Edina
Granville, the woman who’d once presided over so much, and with such innate confidence. Her glossy chestnut hair had faded to a dull, flat grey, its texture altered with its colour, and the once delicate fine curls carefully arranged about her face now replaced by an unruly frizz. Without her garden, without access to that fresh country air, her pallor, too, had lost its bloom: that luminosity I recalled from my youth. And, perhaps in a bid to restore that vibrancy, she’d taken to wearing make-up. But her powder was a little too pale, her rouge a tad too vivid, and the whole effect, somehow, altogether wrong.