Voices in Summer (21 page)

The difficult we can do at once. He put on his blazer, took a clean handkerchief from his drawer, and tucked it into his top pocket. He let himself out of the room, crossed the landing, to where a window looked out over the courtyard. Ivan's car was parked outside his door. Eve, Gerald knew, was having a sit-down in the drawing room. Quietly he went down the back stairs and through the deserted kitchen.

Outside, the mist had thickened and it was damp and cold. From far out to sea he could hear the faint, regular moaning of the coast-guard foghorn. He crossed the courtyard and opened the door of Ivan's house.

The impossible may take a little longer.

‘Ivan.'

From above he heard the sound of running water, as bath water gurgled down a drain. As well, Ivan had his radio on, a blast of cheerful dance music.

The door led straight into the spacious kitchen living room, which comprised the entire ground floor of the house. A table stood in the middle of this, and comfortable chairs were drawn up before a log-burning stove. Most of the furniture in the room belonged to Gerald, but Ivan had added things of his own: the blue-and-white china on the dresser, some pictures, a pink-and-red Japanese paper bird, suspended from the ceiling. An open flight of wooden steps, like a ship's ladder, gave access to the upper floor, where the old hay loft now contained two small bedrooms and a bathroom. He went to the foot of these and called again, ‘Ivan.'

Abruptly, the radio was silenced. The water gurgled away. The next moment Ivan appeared at the head of the stairs, dressed in a small towel and with his wet fair hair standing on end.

'Gerald. Sorry I didn't hear you.'

‘I'm not surprised. I want a word.'

'Of course, make yourself at home. I won't be a moment. It felt so damp and miserable, I lit the fire. I hope it hasn't gone out. Anyway, pour yourself a drink. You know where it is.'

He disappeared, could be heard thumping about overhead. Gerald checked on the stove, which had not gone out. A faint warmth already emanated from its black iron walls. He found a bottle of Haig in the cupboard over the sink, poured a tot into a tumbler, and filled it with water from the tap. Holding this, he began to walk up and down the length of the room. Pacing the quarterdeck, Eve always called it. But at least it was better than sitting down, doing nothing.

Eve.
We won't tell anyone,
they had all agreed.
Oh, Gerald,
she had said,
we mustn't ever tell anyone.

And now he was going to break his word, because he knew that he had to tell Ivan.

His stepson came down the steep stairs full tilt, like an experienced sailor, damp hair slicked down, and wearing blue jeans and a dark blue polo sweater.

'Sorry about that. You've got a drink? Is the fire all right?'

'Yes, it's going.'

'Extraordinary how quickly it gets cold.' He went to get himself a drink. 'Up on the other coast it was really warm, not a cloud in the sky.'

'You had a good day, then?'

'Perfect. How about you? What have you and Eve been up to?'

'We,' said Gerald, 'have not had a good day. That is why I'm here.'

Ivan turned at once, the tumbler in his hand, half-filled with neat whisky.

‘I suggest you put some water in that, and then we'll sit down and I'll tell you.'

Their eyes met. Gerald did not smile. Ivan turned on the tap and filled up the glass. He brought it over to the fireside and they sat facing each other across the white sheepskin hearthrug.

'Fire away.'

Quietly, Gerald recounted to him the happenings of the morning. The hysterical telephone call from Silvia. Their instant response to her appeal. The letter.

'What sort of a letter?'

'A poison-pen letter.'

'A . . .' Ivan's jaw dropped. 'A poison-pen letter? You have to be joking.'

'It is, unfortunately, true.'

'Bu- but who's it from? Who the hell would write Silvia a poison-pen letter?'

'We don't know.'

'Where is it?'

'She has it still. I told her to keep it.'

'What did it say?'

'It said . . .' As soon as he had got home, and before he forgot the exact words, Gerald had written them down, in his neat script, at the back of his diary. Now he took his diary out of his breast pocket, put on his spectacles, opened the diary, and read aloud. '"You went with other men and drove your husband to drink. You killed him. You should be ashamed of yourself."'

He sounded like a barrister, reading aloud in court the intimate details of some sleazy divorce. His cultured voice reduced to cool impersonality the ill-framed, evil-intentioned words. But the venom, still, was there.

'How revolting.'

'Yes.'

'Was it handwritten?'

'No, the classic method was used: letters cut from newspaper headlines and stuck on to writing paper. Child's writing paper. The envelope printed with a rubber stamp . . . you know the sort of thing. Local postmark, yesterday's date.'

'Has she any idea who could have sent it?'

'Have you?'

Ivan actually laughed. 'Gerald, I hope you don't think it was me!'

But Gerald did not laugh. 'No. We think it was May.'

'May?'

'Yes, May. May, according to Silvia, has never been able to stand the sight of her. May has this fetish about drink. You know that as well as we do. . . .'

'But not May.' Ivan got to his feet, started pacing the floor, much as Gerald had paced it a few moments earlier.

'May is an old lady, Ivan. Over the last few months, her behaviour has become odder by the day. Eve suspects she's going senile and I'm inclined to agree with her.'

'But it's so out of character. I know May. She may not like Silvia, but deep down she's bound to be sorry for her. May can be maddening, I know, but she was never one to bear a grudge or be resentful. She was never wicked. You'd have to be totally wicked to think up a thing like that.'

'Yes, but on the other hand, she's always held very strong views. Not just about drink, but moral behaviour in general.'

'What's that meant to mean?'

'"You went with other men." Perhaps she thinks Silvia's promiscuous.'

'Well, she probably is. Was. Never did May any harm.'

'Perhaps May thought she was being promiscuous with you.'

Ivan swung around, as though Gerald had landed a blow at him. He stared, incredulous, at his stepfather, his blue eyes unblinking and blazing with indignation.

'With me? Who thought that one up?'

'Nobody thought it up. But Silvia's an attractive woman. She comes and goes at Tremenheere all the time. She told us that you'd driven her to some party . . .'

'So I did. Why waste petrol taking two cars? Is that being promiscuous?'

'. . . and that sometimes, when we're away, you have her up here for a drink or a meal.'

'Gerald, she's Eve's friend. Eve keeps an eye on Silvia. If Eve's away, I ask her here. . . .'

'Silvia thinks that May has watched from her window and disapproved.'

'Oh, for God's sake, what's Silvia trying to get me into?'

Gerald spread his hands. 'Nothing.'

'Well, it sounds like something to me. Next thing, I'll be accused of seducing the bloody woman.'

'Did you?'

'Did I? She's old enough to be my bloody
mother!’

'Did you sleep with her?'

'No, I bloody never did!’

The shouted words left a sort of vacuum behind them. In the silence that followed, Ivan tipped back his head and poured the last of his drink down his throat. He went to pour himself another. The bottle clinked against the side of the glass.

Gerald said, ‘Ibelieve you.'

Ivan filled the glass with water. With his back still turned to Gerald, he said, 'I'm sorry. I had no right to shout.'

'I'm sorry too. And you mustn't hold this against Silvia. She made not the smallest insinuation against you. It was just that I had to be sure.'

Ivan turned, leaning with grace against the edge of the draining board. His quick anger had died, and he grinned ruefully. 'Yes, I can see that. After all, my track record hasn't always been perfect.'

'There's nothing wrong with your track record.' Gerald put the diary back in his pocket, took off his spectacles.

'What are you going to do about the letter?'

'Nothing.'

'What if there's another one?'

'We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.'

'Is Silvia prepared to take no action?'

'Yes, Only she and I and Eve know about it. And now you. And you will of course say nothing. Not even to Eve, because she doesn't know that I've told you.'

'Is she very upset?'

'Very. I think more deeply upset than poor Silvia. She's frightened of what May might do next. She has nightmares about having to watch while poor May is wheeled off to some geriatric mental home. She protects May. Just as I protect Eve.'

Ivan said, 'Well, May protected us. She looked after me, and she stood by my mother all the time my father was ill and dying. She was like a rock then. Never faltering. And now this. Dear old May, I can't bear to think about it. We owe her so much.' He thought about this. ‘I suppose we all owe debts to each other.'

'Yes,' said Gerald. 'It's a sad business.'

They smiled at each other. 'Let me give you the other half,' said Ivan.

Eve and Laura sat in the firelit drawing room, listening to a concert on BBC 2. The Brahms Piano Concerto. It was past nine o'clock, and Gerald, not wishing to spoil their pleasure, had taken himself off to his study to watch the news in there.

Laura lay curled up in one of the big armchairs, Lucy in her lap. Ivan had not reappeared. While she changed, Laura had heard his car go through the gate and take off up the hill in the direction of Lanyon. She guessed that he was off to the pub, perhaps to have a beer with Mathie Thomas.

Across the room, Eve stitched at her tapestry. She looked, thought Laura, tired this evening and very fragile, her fine skin taut over her cheekbones and dark bruises of fatigue beneath her eyes. She had spoken little, and it had been Gerald who made conversation over the grilled chops and fruit salad, while Eve picked at the delicious food and drank water instead of wine. Laura, watching her through sleepy, half-closed eyes, felt concern. Eve did so much, was always on the go> cooking and organizing and generally looking after them all. When the concert was finished, Laura would suggest bed. Perhaps Eve would let her make a hot drink for her, fill a hot-water bottle . . .

The telephone began to ring. Eve looked up from her work. 'That'll be Alec, Laura.'

Laura pulled herself out of the chair and went out of the room, with Lucy at her heels, down the passage to the hall. She sat on the carved chest and picked up the receiver.

'Tremenheere.'

'Laura.' The line was better this time, his voice as clear as if he spoke from the next room.

'Alec. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you called before. We didn't get back till seven.'

'Did you have a good day?'

'Yes, it was lovely. . . . How is everything with you?'

'Fine, but that's not why I'm calling. Look, something's come up. I'm not going to be able to come back to Tremenheere to fetch you. As soon as we get back to London, Tom and I have got to go to New York. We only heard this morning. I got a phone call from the chairman.'

'But how long have you got to be away?'

'Only a week. The thing is, we can take our wives with us. There's a fair amount of socializing to be done. Daphne's coming with Tom, and I wondered if you'd like to come too. It'll be pretty hectic, but you've never been to New York and I want to show it to you. But it would mean getting back to London under your own steam and meeting me there. How do you feel about it?'

How Laura felt was appalled.

This instinctive reaction to a suggestion made by Alec, whom she loved, and intended for Laura's pleasure, filled her heart with a sort of horrified guilt. What was wrong? What was happening to her? Alec was asking her to go to New York with him, and she didn't want to go. She didn't want to make the journey. She didn't want to be in New York in August, especially with Daphne Boulderstone. She did not want to sit in some air-conditioned hotel with Daphne while the men attended to their business, nor pound the sizzling pavements of Fifth Avenue, window-shopping.

But worse was the realization that she did not want to get the train back to London. Nor be torn by the roots from this lovely, carefree existence. Nor leave Tremenheere.

All this took only a second to flash, with hideous clarity, through her mind.

'When are you going?' she asked, stalling for time.

'Wednesday evening. We're flying Concorde.'

'Have you booked a seat for me?'

'Provisionally.'

'How – how long would we be in New York?'

'Laura, I told you. A week.' And then he said, 'You don't sound very enthusiastic. Don't you want to come?'

'Oh, Alec I do. . . . It's sweet of you to ask me . . .but . . .'

'But?'

'It's just that it's all a bit sudden. I haven't had time to take it in.'

'You don't need much time. It's not a very complicated plan.' She bit her lip. 'Perhaps you don't feel up to it yet.'

She grasped at this excuse, the proverbial drowning man with his wretched bit of straw. 'Well, actually, I don't know if I do. I mean, I'm fine ... but I don't know if flying's an awfully good idea. And New York will be so dreadfully hot. ... It would be so awful if anything happened, and I spoiled it all for you ... by being ill. . . .' She sounded, even to herself, hopelessly irresolute.

'Well, don't worry. We can cancel the fourth seat.'

'Oh, I am sorry-. I feel so feeble. . . . Perhaps, another time.'

'Yes, another time.' He dismissed the idea. 'It doesn't matter.'

'When will you be back again?'

'The following Tuesday, I suppose.'

'And what shall I do? Stay here?'

'If Eve doesn't mind. You'll have to ask her.'

'And will you be able to come and fetch me then?' This sounded even more selfish than saying she would not go to New York with him. 'You don't have to. I – I can easily catch the train.'