Tremarnock Summer

by Burstall, Emma

  In any case, it wasn’t something to raise with Bill, who wouldn’t have examined the close-up as carefully as Bramble had; nor, for that matter, had he prowled around the earl’s rooms, inhaling the same atmosphere that he once breathed, touching the objects that he once handled, absorbing something of his habits and starting to form a sense of the real man.

  She wound up the conversation, but despite being exhausted it took her a long time to get to sleep that night. She lay awake beside Katie, listening to the strange noises of grumbling pipes and creeping floorboards, the far-off hoot of an owl, the high-pitched howling of foxes. It seemed to her as if the ghosts of Alice and Lord Penrose were pacing about the manor, lurking in corners, occupying chairs, moving familiar objects around before replacing them in their original positions, whispering things – important things – that she so much wanted to understand.

  12

  IT WAS AROUND six the following morning that Liz received the call from Pat’s niece, Emily. Liz had been fast asleep beside Robert and it had taken her a few moments to work out where the noise was coming from.

  ‘I – I’m so sorry to have to tell you,’ Emily stammered when Liz picked up the receiver. Her stomach lurched. ‘I got a call at about three a.m. from the hospital telling me to come quickly. She’d had another heart attack. They tried to get it started again but they couldn’t. Pat’s dead.’

  The words plummeted like a bird from the sky and Liz’s knees almost gave way. She was on the landing and staggered back into the bedroom, still clutching the phone, before plonking down beside her husband. He was sitting bolt upright, looking at her anxiously, but she shook her head, gesturing to him not to speak.

  ‘Oh, God, I can’t believe it,’ she told Emily heavily. ‘This is such a shock. I can’t take it in.’

  The two women had spoken late yesterday evening, just before Emily had left the hospital, having been told that Pat had suffered a heart attack but was in a stable condition and everything was under control.

  ‘Rosie will be devastated,’ Liz went on as the tears started to flow thick and fast. ‘We’re going to miss her so much. The village won’t be the same without her.’

  Emily, who was crying, too, took a moment to gather herself.

  ‘You’ve been so good to her,’ she started to say, but Liz stopped her.

  ‘Don’t – please. She’s been like a grandmother to Rosie. We didn’t know anyone when we came here. She was so kind...’

  Images sprang to mind of Pat at her front window, looking out over her knick-knacks and waving at passers-by; Pat shuffling into the kitchen to fetch tea and chockie bickies; Pat cuddling Rosie in the big armchair in front of the TV that they used to share at Dove Cottage when Liz went to work at the restaurant. The old woman had been a mainstay in their lives for so long, always ready with a gentle word, some homespun advice, a piece of juicy gossip. How on earth were they going to manage without her?

  ‘I’ve got to deal with some things here before I go home,’ Emily said wearily. ‘I haven’t had much sleep, as you can imagine.’

  Liz asked if she could help, imagining that there must be paperwork to fill in, effects to be gathered, whatever ghastly practical tasks had to be completed when someone passed away, but Emily said no, not at the moment.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about the funeral – when the time comes,’ she added, and Liz shuddered. Funeral? Was this for real?

  ‘Of course.’ She was trying to compose herself while the very ground beneath her seemed to tremble. ‘Look after yourself...’

  But Emily, too upset for further discussion, had already gone.

  Robert opened his arms wide and Liz melted in, allowing him to wrap her in a tight embrace.

  ‘Poor Pat, poor darling,’ he said, kissing the top of his wife’s head, his body firm and still, absorbing the shudders that now racked her own.

  He knew not to try to stop her tears; they needed to flow as surely as a wound must bleed before it can heal over.

  ‘I never said goodbye,’ Liz spluttered. ‘It never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t see her again.’

  Robert did his best to comfort her. ‘You did everything you could. She was very old...’

  ‘But so funny and sharp,’ Liz cried. ‘So interested in everything and everybody – so very much alive.’

  Age seemed irrelevant when you were still enjoying life and had something to give. What was it but a number, after all? Liz could think of people, old and young, who moaned and grumbled all day long and seemed to find no pleasure in anything. Pat, however, despite her aches and pains, had continued to embrace existence with gusto. It wasn’t fair.

  They didn’t notice Rosie enter the room and hover for a moment, taking in the scene, before jumping on to the bed between Robert and her mother and curling like a small animal into their sides.

  ‘Pat’s dead, isn’t she?’ Rosie whispered, and when Liz said yes, her daughter burst into uncontrollable sobs and all that Robert could do was rock his girls gently to and fro.

  When at last they could shed no more tears, Liz rose and walked to the window to draw back the curtains. She was amazed to see the sun already shining on the whitewashed cottages across the street, making them glint and sparkle. Normally, she loved the bright pink and red geraniums and blue lobelias that hung in baskets and peeped from window boxes, but they seemed like an outrage today, the cheerful seagulls and jolly red-and-white bunting an affront to decency. Why was the world not in black mourning clothes? It should be, for Pat was gone.

  Her eyes stung and her face felt tight with misery as she tramped slowly downstairs to switch on the kettle. Emily lived some miles away, and Liz supposed that it would be her job to tell the villagers what had happened. The outpouring of grief would be immense, because Pat had been adored – not least by Loveday, with whom she’d had a special bond. Tabitha, too, would be dreadfully upset, and Jean the childminder and her husband, Tom, Esme – everyone really, for the old woman had touched the lives of so many.

  In all her years, Liz mused as she plopped teabags mindlessly into three mugs, Pat had barely stirred outside the narrow confines of Tremarnock. She’d never been abroad, never even been to London. She’d left school at fourteen and had worked in the grocery store until she’d retired. She’d hardly read any books and knew little of science or the arts; she couldn’t even spell particularly well. Yet despite all this, locals valued her opinion and had always come to her for advice. In fact, she’d seemed, in her own unique way, to possess the wisdom of the world.

  *

  Bramble and Katie rose at about seven thirty a.m., and after a quick breakfast of cereal and toast in the dining room, they carried most of the tins of gloss back to the car and drove to the DIY store to swap them for emulsion. On returning, they dug out the oldest clothes they could find and set about dragging Lord Penrose’s heavy furniture into the centre of his bedroom so that they could begin painting the walls and skirting boards.

  Although neither girl knew much about decorating, Bramble had at least helped her father do up the living room at home, so she was acquainted with turpentine and had been told how to spread the paint evenly across the walls. Katie, however, was clueless.

  ‘How do you get it in the pot?’ she asked, eyeing her roller doubtfully, and Bramble had to explain that you poured the emulsion into the tray first. It wasn’t a great start.

  Once they’d opened the windows wide to allow in some fresh air, they turned up the radio volume to lift their spirits. They started work side by side but kept bumping into each other, so Bramble suggested that it might be easier if Katie were to move to the opposite wall.

  ‘This is simpler than I thought,’ she chirped after about ten minutes, but when Bramble swivelled around, her heart sank.

  ‘Look, I know this is only the first coat but you need to cover all the green,’ she said, trying hard to be patient – and reminding herself somewhat of her father. ‘Otherwise it’ll look patchy.’

  ‘Oh.�
�� Katie bent down and dipped one corner of her roller in the gloopy tray.

  ‘And you need to cover the whole roller,’ Bramble went on bossily. ‘Like I showed you, remember?’

  Katie dutifully obliged, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, but a big splat fell on the wooden floor – ‘Whoops!’ – and she tried to wipe it off with a rag, only to smear it across a larger section.

  Bramble turned back to her own work, thinking that however amateur the job might be, at least the room would be fresher and more liveable in than before. She couldn’t have considered moving in otherwise.

  By mid-morning they’d covered all the walls with the undercoat and started on the ceiling, taking it in turns to perch on the same ladder that Katie had used to chop down bushes in the garden. They were both ready for a break, so it was quite a relief when Bramble’s mobile rang, and even more gratifying when she saw Piers’s name flash up on the screen.

  Quickly, she wiped her paint-covered hands on her jeans and pressed the answer button. It was noisy in the background, as if he were in his car, perhaps with the roof down, and she felt slightly wistful, wishing that she were beside him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said silkily, raising his voice so that she could hear him above the roar. ‘Not been tempted to get that mower out again, I hope?’

  ‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ Bramble replied, smiling, before explaining that she was redecorating her grandfather’s old bedroom, ready for her to move in.

  ‘Are you now?’ Piers sounded amused. ‘You’ll have to give me a guided tour when it’s finished.’

  He was flirting with her! Bramble smiled again. She could play that game, too.

  ‘That depends,’ she said, being deliberately mysterious.

  Piers sounded interested. ‘On what exactly?’

  ‘On whether you behave...’

  She glanced at Katie, who’d flopped on to the bed and was now lying there, eyes closed, limbs spread-eagled, looking for all the world as if she were ready for a nice long snooze.

  ‘That’s if we ever actually do finish. Which looks a bit doubtful at the moment.’

  She thought that she could hear a voice in the background and a woman’s laugh. She would have liked to ask who she was and where Piers was heading, but she didn’t want to appear nosy. He could have been going anywhere, after all, and it was very good of him to call.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got some information for you,’ he shouted over the roar of the engine. ‘That artist fellow in the cottage – he’s not paying any rent. No wonder Lord Penrose was skint. He was giving the place away!’

  Bramble frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ It sounded highly unlikely, but Piers confirmed that Fergus had indeed been ‘freeloading’, as he put it, for nearly five years.

  ‘The earl was fully aware; it wasn’t a mistake,’ he went on. ‘I’ve seen the contract, signed by them both, giving him permission to live there gratis. The good news is, now the earl’s dead the contract’s null and void, so you’ve got every right to demand proper rent or kick him out. I’ll do it for you with pleasure. I can go and see him first thing tomorrow if you like.’

  Bramble hesitated. She wasn’t running a charity and needed every penny she could lay her hands on. There again, Fergus had twice got her out of trouble and there was the little boy to consider, too. Her tenant might be bad-tempered, but she wasn’t heartless. The cottage was his home, and she wouldn’t threaten to turf him out until he’d found somewhere else to live.

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll do it,’ she replied, thinking that however kind she tried to be, there was no getting away from the fact that it wouldn’t be a pleasant job.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Piers seemed doubtful. ‘You don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Bramble insisted, sounding more confident than she felt. ‘He won’t bite.’

  The woman in the background said something and there was another loud burst of laughter. Bramble thought that Piers would probably hang up, but then he mentioned that he’d found someone to fix the leaks in the manor roof.

  ‘Remember Anatole?’

  How could she forget? Those turquoise Speedos, that hairy body – and the girlfriend, come to that. She listened closely while Piers explained that his friend was ‘getting into property’, buying places on the cheap and doing them up, and that he had a team of excellent builders.

  ‘He doesn’t normally do repairs – he’s into the bigger picture – but because it’s you, he said he’d be willing to help. If you’re nice to him, he might even do some other jobs for you. Play your cards right and you could find him very useful.’

  Bramble was immensely grateful, but had to remind Piers that she didn’t have the money to pay anyone right now, not until she’d managed to sell some of her land. He, however, brushed her concerns away.

  ‘Anatole’s a reasonable chap. I should know; we’ve been friends for years. He’ll be quite happy to wait for payment till your cash comes through. It’s not as if he’s short of a bob or two. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of him before.’

  It sounded like a very good offer and she was anxious to fix the leaks, but the prospect of spending money that she didn’t yet have was scary.

  ‘How long do you reckon it will it take to find buyers for the land?’ she wanted to know. ‘I mean, what progress have you made so far? Are we talking weeks or months?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Piers reassured her. ‘It’s all in hand.’ Then he announced that he had to go. ‘More clients to see. No rest for the wicked.’

  She was about to ask where the clients lived and what the job entailed, but he cut her short.

  ‘Sorry, gotta fly. Anatole’s guys will arrive soon. He’ll give you a bell first. Byee!’

  After that it required a great deal of energy to persuade Katie to get up and continue painting, and Bramble felt that it would be prudent not to mention the builders just now. After all, Katie hadn’t exactly been taken with Anatole. In fact, she’d positively taken against him.

  When at last they’d completed the ceiling, Bramble agreed to call it a day and resume work in the morning, not least because Katie was doing another shift at The Hole in the Wall tonight and had already announced that she’d need time to get ready. A lot of time, Bramble mused wryly, remembering Danny. Hair, nails, make-up, outfit – they’d all require careful thought and extensive planning.

  She set off on her own at about four p.m. for Fergus’s cottage, leaving Katie to begin her preparations. It was the first time that Bramble had been out for hours, and the ground had completely dried after yesterday’s thunderstorm and the air felt fresh and clean.

  She had already resolved to try to avoid confrontation at all costs by putting Fergus fully in the picture about her tricky financial situation, something that she was sure he’d understand. Even so, her heart sank as she left the cover of the wood and the stone cottage came into view. The fact that it looked extra-homely today, with the door and windows flung wide open and a child’s bike lying on its side on the path, only seemed to make matters worse.

  A couple of hens and a very handsome red and black cockerel were pecking about on the lawn and a line of coloured washing spun merrily on a rotary airer. It would have been a picture of perfect domesticity were the house not perched so precariously on the edge of the cliff with just a small strip of garden between it and the roaring waves. As she walked tentatively towards the gate, Bramble found herself thinking that no normal person would choose to live in such an exposed spot; she wouldn’t fancy it.

  She called hello a few times at the door, and when there was no reply she stepped inside. There was a faint smell of cooking and she peeked curiously into the square kitchen to her right, noticing a scrubbed wooden table in the centre, grey flagstones on the floor and an old cream Aga. No one was there, however, so she ventured into the living room on the opposite side, taking in the furniture: a squashy green sofa, one armchair, a chrome standard lamp and a small TV. It might have seem
ed sparse but for the fact that the walls were covered in bold abstract paintings.

  As far as she could tell, most of the pictures related to the sea and boats, but her eye was caught by one large-ish portrait of a nude, sinewy woman with thick black hair, her body painted greenish-blue. She was reclining on a blue-grey surface and beside her, nestling in the crook of her arm, was an almost identical child, a mini-me. Their skin tones were so alike, their limbs so soft and fluid, that they seemed almost to blend into each other as well as the background, making it difficult to tell where one finished and the other began.

  It was, in some ways, a beautiful image, yet both faces were devoid of features, as if eyes, noses and mouths had been washed away casually with a brush or cloth that had erased parts of the shoulders, too. Bramble got the strange impression that soon other bits would start to vanish, too, so that the figures would eventually blur into nothing more than a series of messy smudges, as if their creator had grown bored with his work and decided to destroy it.

  She heard a noise and started guiltily, aware that she was trespassing. Stepping quickly into the hallway once more, she called out hello again, and this time a thud of feet told her that someone was running downstairs. Soon Fergus’s son appeared, clutching a half-finished model in one hand and pieces of Lego in the other.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, not impolitely. ‘My daddy’s in his studio.’

  ‘Is he? I’m Bramble by the way,’ she answered. ‘I live in the manor.’ She gestured in the general direction.

  ‘I know. You and your friend got stuck on the cliff and we had to rescue you,’ the little boy replied matter-of-factly, fixing a bit of Lego on to the side of his model.

  Wincing slightly, Bramble was tempted to challenge the boy’s interpretation of events but decided against it. Best not to engage in an argument unless you had truth firmly on your side.

  ‘My name’s Wilf,’ said the lad, before thrusting out the Lego toy to show her. ‘Look what I’m making. I’ve nearly finished.’