Tom was grinning at Lisette and she glared at him in mock anger.
‘Do not go giving me your best smile, young man. I have better things to do than worrying about where my lady is. You should have seen she was home long before now. We have a ten-minute walk now before supper …’
‘Lisette, it will do me good. I have been sitting all afternoon …’
‘Well, I have not!’ Lisette said crossly.
‘I would offer to carry you on my back, Lisette,’ Tom said, ‘as for some strange reason I am to blame for you having to use the two good feet God gave you, but my arms might break and I would not be able to carve, so …’
Lisette swatted him. ‘You cheeky young beggar! Just because you have, by all accounts, been living with the gentry in those foreign parts, don’t you go giving yourself airs here …’ But she was laughing.
‘The day after tomorrow, my Lady, at three o’clock?’ Tom turned to go back down the hill.
‘Yes, I will be there,’ Isabella called, watching him walk briskly away.
‘He is a worker, I will say that,’ Lisette said as he disappeared. ‘He will be down to the quay now to help his father and brothers pack up for the day.’
‘Oh, I thought he would go home for his meal and rest now. He seemed so tired with the heat and the carving, which is difficult work, Lisette.’
Lisette gave Isabella an amused look. ‘Ben Welland and his boys will have been up working the boats since first light, Miss Isabella. Ordinary people do not have the luxury of thinking about whether they are tired or not. You work till the work is finished for the day. That is all you know.’
Isabella was silent, then she said in a small voice, ‘Is this how it is for you, Lisette, looking after me?’
She felt ashamed. She had never ever considered Lisette’s private life.
Lisette was silent as if she was considering the question, then she said, ‘No, Miss. Your mama, and now you, are my life. I do not wish another.’
Isabella stopped on the road. ‘But you have never married or had children. Is this because Mama died? Would you have left us to marry, Lisette, if Mama had not died?’
‘Goodness, Miss, how do I know what might have happened? You are quite enough for anyone, and how do you know anyone ever asked me to marry them?’
‘Well, did they?’
‘Once, Miss.’
‘When? Why did you not accept, Lisette?’
Lisette said quietly, ‘It was the wrong time. Your mama was killed the day after I was asked. Everything changed then. Everything.’
‘Oh, Lisette! I am so sorry. I never even stopped to think about you. You must talk to me about … things. You must help me not to be so selfish and self-centred.’
Lisette laughed. ‘You are neither, Miss. You were born to one way of life, I to another.’
‘Without you, I would have jumped into the sea after Mama died, truly, Lisette.’
‘I believe you might have done, but I was never going to leave you. Look, Miss, there is your cousin waving from the garden. Now there is a handful if ever there was one. A mind of her own and where she gets her notions from is anybody’s guess. I hear Mrs Tredinnick is at a loss to know what to do with her …’
Isabella laughed and waved back. There in the Summer House, with no grandeur or pretence, few servants and no husband, it was possible to feel free and to say and do whatever filled your heart and mind.
Chapter 38
Elan was walking over Waterloo Bridge to meet his agent at the Savoy when way ahead of him he saw a familiar figure. Something in the walk, the angle of the back of the head. Elan began to walk more quickly, conscious of the increased speed of his heart, of the old familiar pain lurking for moments such as this.
By the time he had crossed the bridge and was turning into the Strand, full of lunchtime crowds, it was impossible to make any individual out in the bobbing heads in front of him. He walked into the Savoy, wondering if he would ever stop seeing Patrick; in the street, at a party, in a gallery, in his sleep … Patrick, the kindest of men, who had made such a puzzling, unkind, treacherous disappearance.
His agent lowered his newspaper and jumped to his feet to greet Elan. He had said on the phone he wanted to talk about Elan’s next exhibition. The fact they were in the Savoy meant, Elan knew, that George either wanted the impossible or something unexpected had cropped up which was worth an expensive lunch.
It turned out to be both. A gallery in New York wanted some of Elan’s paintings for an exhibition of British painters in February of next year. Could Elan conjure enough paintings for them to choose twenty when the New York gallery owner came over in January?
Elan was horrified. It was December 15th now.
‘How many unsold paintings from my last exhibition?’ he asked George.
‘Four. The large seascape, a smaller gouache, Storm Window, and one small one, Rocks off Bryher. How many can you re-call locally?’
Elan tried to think while George ordered him a drink. Two at Penlee. About four in St Ives. At least six or seven sitting in Falmouth and National Trust galleries. He had no idea what he had hanging in Truro and Penzance. Not all of those paintings were necessarily ones he would choose to send to New York, but he must have enough for the gallery owner to pick and choose. It was possible … just … if he did not go away for Christmas.
He sipped his gin and let George stew for a minute or two, then he said, ‘Well, if I recalled most of my work … I guess I would need to paint at least five or six more canvases. I might be ready, just.’
George let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Great! Elan, if you get well known in New York it is going to be a whole different ball game. I thought I would bring Natasha Farini, the gallery owner, down to Cornwall. Great PR for her to visit your house and studio, see some of those wild places you paint …’
‘George!’ Elan reined him in. ‘You must remember that in the event this woman likes any of my paintings, I am not, nor will ever be, one of those painters who can churn out stuff at a rate of knots. I mean that. I would rather stop painting and turn to the bottle.’
‘Of course, of course. I of all people understand the quality of your work, Elan, you know that, after all I am your agent. But this really is a prestigious exhibition, vastly different from Chicago, though you did pretty well there … New York will do wonders for your profile. Now, let’s see if our table is ready.’
It was only when they had been sitting in the dining room for some minutes perusing a vast menu each, and George had chosen a bottle of very expensive champagne, that Elan looked up and around the room.
At the other end of the dining room, sideways on, profile to Elan, with a woman Elan recognized as his sister, sat Patrick. Recognizable for shape of head and long limbs. Unrecognizable in the sickly pallor of his once beautiful face and the painful thinness of his wasting body.
Instantly all was clear to Elan, and the agony of this understanding made him almost cry out, double-up in pain. Oh, Patrick! You fool, you bloody, bloody fool. How could you have done that to me and to yourself?
He was gripping the sides of the table and George, staring at him, said in alarm, ‘What is it, Elan? Are you ill?’
He turned in his chair, following Elan’s eyes, then swung back to face Elan, shocked.
‘God! It’s Patrick.’ He stared at Elan. ‘He hasn’t seen you. Do you want to leave, old thing?’
Elan had already made a decision.
‘No, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not leaving until Patrick has finished his meal. I do not know if I can eat, but I can certainly drink.’
With trembling hands, Elan looked down at the menu again and ordered.
When the champagne arrived, George asked, as he watched Elan’s pale face, ‘What are we going to drink to, my friend?’
Elan smiled faintly and lifted his glass. ‘To understanding. To resolution.’
And George, the tough agent, said suddenly, ‘Love, old thing. I think we will drink to br
ave, unselfish, unconditional love.’
Their eyes met. Elan lifted his glass, but choked, could not speak. He was already, in his imagination, on the other side of the room, bending to the chair which held his lifetime love and saying, ‘Did you really think you could hide this from me? We share this. We share it. Do you understand?’
Chapter 39
Gabby was standing at her bedroom window watching the rain gust sideways in great billowing misty sheets. She could not feel less Christmassy or more miserable. The house and everything in it felt damp. The only really warm places were the kitchen and Nell’s cottage. If it was not for Charlie she would have been tempted to let poor Outside Dog in from the barn. He looked just like Gabby felt.
There was so much to do and she had no inclination to do it. It was as if all her energy, the vitality needed over the summer to pursue the volume of work and a secret life, had suddenly evaporated leaving her shaky, burnt out and reluctant to leave her bed.
Josh would be home in a few days. The house must be cleaned and decorated. While she had been in London, Nell had arranged for Alan’s daughter to come in and clean, but the girl was erratic and prone to sudden ailments and now Gabby had returned Charlie said she was useless.
Gabby pulled on two sweaters and went downstairs. The remains of Charlie’s breakfast were on the table and the kitchen floor was full of muddy boot and paw marks. There was a note from Charlie propped up on the marmalade jar.
‘Could you find my dark blue work jeans and thick overalls? I can’t find them anywhere. Also, Alan has a cold and is not coming in so could you get the milk quota up on your computer for me. See you at lunch. Sandwiches will do as it is the shoot supper tonight, did you remember? C.’
Gabby slumped on a chair. I don’t want to be here. I can’t do this any more. Suddenly it seemed too much effort to make herself a pot of coffee. What’s the matter with me? I’m going to ruin Christmas for everyone. Josh loves Christmas, everything must be just as it’s always been. I am so tired. I want to go to back to bed and sleep forever.
She got up and took the kettle off the Aga and made a strong pot of coffee and some toast, willing herself into the day. I’ll make a list, then I’ll go through the list and tick off everything I get done today and then I’ll feel better. She switched the radio on and the warm kitchen, a place in which she had spent so many hours, began to soothe her as the storm raged outside. First on the list: washing.
Gabby went out into the old scullery to the washing machine and dryer and saw a vast heap of dirty washing on the wet floor. When she opened a cupboard to find the soap powder a smaller pile of clothes fell out: shirts, still buttoned up and arms carelessly half inside-out, Y-fronts, socks and the dark blue jeans. She stared at them. Had the girl pushed them in there, or Charlie? Shoved them in a cupboard to wait for her, Gabby, to do. Part of her job as a good wife. Part of her job description.
Blind rage seized Gabby. The shirts had done it. Not only had they been left for her to wash, but left for her to unbutton first and pull the sleeves the right way. How dare he? She kicked at the pile, screamed;
‘Bastard! Weeks of it. How dare you? How dare you leave it smelling and rotting for me to do? These are your clothes. Yours. All you have to do is push them in a machine, fill a container with powder and switch on. But oh, no, not you, Charlie. You’ve got to make a point. I should be here to look after you, you, Charlie, the head of the household … Well, I brought in money this year … I can’t do everything … I can’t … I can’t. I can’t … I’m so tired of it …’
Gabby turned, sobbing and choking, past caring, beside herself, and saw Nell standing startled and white-faced by the back door. But she could not stop now, she stood there shaking and heaving, looking at Nell like a small overwrought child.
Nell, who had quickly taken in the floor full of washing, moved over to her and held her, wordlessly, until the shaking and sobbing subsided. The sight of Gabby kicking at the pile of washing, screaming like a banshee, had shocked Nell to the core. She felt utter dismay. It was as if the great dark wave she had been waiting for all these years was suddenly looming over her. All her secret fears rose with it. There was going to be one almighty undertow to Gabby rebelling at last.
Nell understood. It could have been her standing there a decade ago amid Ted’s debris left for her to clear, swamped by a familiar sudden rush of despair. Nothing was going to change. Ever.
And it had done her no good. Ted was as tone-deaf to her distress as she feared Charlie would be if he ever witnessed Gabby’s age-old cry of lament first-hand. For it had merely illustrated to Ted, and, she feared, Charlie too, imbued with genetic smugness, the mental instability of a certain type of women who thought they were too clever by half.
Men like Ted and Charlie, who made it clear they did not like their wives to work or have interests outside their own familiar world, would never recognize in a million years that what they really feared was the perceived threat to themselves. The woman you married young must remain the same, must not move on, in case they moved away from the most important job in the world. Them.
Nell held Gabby, finding to her horror that she had never entirely let go of her own overpowering anger of a life dedicated to an implacable man. To the loss of love.
She led Gabby back into the warm kitchen, sat her down and made her more coffee. She went back into the scullery and piled a load of washing into the machine, and came back and poured the coffee into two mugs. Gabby was still sitting in the same position. Nell stopped herself issuing forth clichés. You are just tired; Christmas does this to people; it’s the weather. She sat beside Gabby and pushed the mug towards her.
‘Drink your coffee, lovie,’ she said gently.
Gabby gave a little shiver as if she was waking up and looked at Nell. ‘Nell … I’m so sorry, I …’
‘Gabby, you don’t have to apologize or explain to me.’
‘No.’ Gabby smiled bleakly. ‘I feel as if I am ploughing through treacle. I’m so disorganized this year. There’s one week to go and I haven’t even done any Christmas shopping or made out menus or cleaned the house properly or stocked up … Josh will be here on Saturday.’
‘Gabby, the world is not going to come to an end if the house does not sparkle. We can do that together, and Gabby, Josh is grown-up now, you do not have to re-create every single little ritual of childhood, lug sacks of food home because that is what we always have on the table. Josh is in love and will not notice or mind if there are not glass bowls full of crystallized fruit or nuts, or if he doesn’t get a sackful of presents. Gabby, you’ve worked harder this year than you ever have. It has been a protracted and concentrated summer in which you wanted to prove yourself in London. You have commuted back and forth for months. Of course you feel like this, it would be odd if you didn’t …’
I had a love affair all summer. Betrayed you, Nell; betrayed your love and your trust.
‘… Please, just go easy on yourself for once. We live on a farm, for heaven’s sake. I’ve organized the duck, the turkey and the ham. This year there is only Elan for Christmas day, just family. We have enough food for a siege for Josh’s usual Boxing-Day crowd as well as our own droppers-in. There is nothing to get exercised about. Relax. The only thing that will worry Josh is if he comes home and you are tense and stressed … for no reason …’
Except I miss Mark Hannah so much I feel physically ill … bereft …
‘I know, Nell. I know I’ve lost my sense of proportion.’ Gabby got up and went to look out of the window.
‘If this clears, why don’t you walk over to Elan’s with Shadow? Get some Cornish air back into your lungs?’ I can do jolly, jolly well, Nell thought. ‘Then, maybe go and hit the shops with a positive list for presents and by tonight you can relax …’
She paused, then said quietly, ‘Charlie is not going to change now, Gab, it’s too late. You’ve always done everything for him, he expects it.’
‘I know.’ Gabby turned fr
om the window and smiled at her. ‘Bless you, Nell.’
As she left the room, Gabby stopped at the door.
‘This Christmas thing I have with filling the table to overflowing, it’s childhood stuff, the terror of suddenly going back to an empty table, an empty house. All the little rituals I’ve always done here are like a superstition. As long as I religiously maintain them, all will be well.’ All will be well.
‘But all of a sudden it seems like such a lot of work. Not Charlie’s fault, Nell. Mine. Sorry.’
For a second, Gabby’s small face under the new short hair was as desolate as the day outside. Then she was gone.
‘Oh, God,’ Nell sighed. She had glimpsed something disturbing she did not wish to recognize.
Chapter 40
I can see Lady Isabella and Miss Tredinnick sitting up on the cliffs above the boatyard. I know it is them because of their large white hats. Miss Tredinnick, as always, has her sketchbook.
I pause for only a moment as I measure a length of wood, but my eyes are drawn upwards to those still figures. That one figure above me on the cliffs.
It is a hot day with barely a cooling sea wind and I have tied a kerchief round my head to stop the sweat falling into my eyes and blinding me as I work.
I long to be up in the old boatyard with my figurehead. I wish I could just carve all day, every day, in the peace and isolation that I need. I am concerned that I will lose the moment, that moment when her face will become alive, almost flesh and blood to me, when Isabella’s expression will emerge, when I will have captured those intense eyes. My fingers work fast as if guided by another and I wait, poised for the moment, there, there, when the essence of Isabella lies before me, captured in the wood under my hand.
The thrill makes me weak and sick just thinking about it.
The figurehead is the last thing I look at at night and the first thing I stare at each morning. When I came back from Prince Edward Island my mother’s cottage was overflowing with my brothers and their children and so I made a room for myself up in the sail loft above the old boatyard.
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