by Anne Doughty
‘Do you really think he has another woman?’ he asked, as he went back to his coffee.
‘No, not for one moment,’ Clare replied, ‘but the alternative is actually worse.’
‘What on earth do you mean, love? Surely Harry having another woman is bad enough. The situation last night was grim.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Clare sighed. ‘But this is like the way she behaved before James was born. If Harry hasn’t got someone else and she insists he has, then it’s far harder to do anything about it.’
‘I never thought of that,’ said Andrew bleakly. ‘What you mean is that she’s being paranoid.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, though I may not have known the word four or five years ago,’ she said sadly. ‘We might be able to do something if it is an affair, but I don’t think it is. In fact, I’m sure it’s not,’ she added, as she carried their breakfast dishes to the sink.
‘Oh well, you’ll find out soon enough,’ he said philosophically, as he stood up. ‘Can you just remind me why we’re clearing out the stable today. Are you expecting a horse?’
He was pleased when she managed a laugh. After doing his best last evening to help her keep up appearances, with Jessie either sharp or actively silent, he couldn’t wait to get to work and forget about the whole thing.
‘No, dear. I am not planning to practice for next year’s point to point in my spare time, but I have bought a second-hand freezer. Dobsons are replacing theirs in all their retail outlets with newer models and the old ones are going at a very good price. The electrician is coming tomorrow. We need a level space. No dust, straw, or cobwebs, and clear access to the garage for a new cable,’ she explained. ‘Failing that, it’s a trench from the kitchen which will be more expensive and make a horrible mess.’
‘For ice-cream?’ he asked curiously, for Dobsons were one of the leading producers in the province.
‘Yes, we can keep some ice-cream,’ she agreed, knowing his weakness for raspberry ripple. ‘But I’m more concerned with scones, cakes and sandwiches. If we have a run of birthdays we can stockpile and not be so hard pressed on the day. That sort of stuff defrosts very well, I’m told, but we’ll have to experiment. I can’t see defrosted sandwiches being as good as freshly made, can you?’ she asked, as they pulled on their old anoraks and made for the stable.
The high-pitched whine of a power drill next morning told her the electrician had got started. Given he was a friend of John Wiley, and would come to her if he had a problem, she could forget about him until Harry appeared and concentrate on the paperwork that had accumulated during their week off.
There were invoices to deal with, a pile of post and an end-of-month Bank Statement. She knew how preoccupied she was when she found she’d annotated the statement, then filed it in the wrong binder. She spoke severely to herself, tried not to think about Jessie and Harry and kept glancing out of the window for the first sight of his BMW as it rounded the curve of the drive.
When a rather battered, small yellow car appeared just before eleven o’clock, she failed to recognize it until Harry unwound himself from the driving seat and strode up the steps.
‘Harry, how lovely, it’s stopped raining just for you,’ she said, as she led the way back into Headquarters, a bright fire burning on the hearth to greet him. ‘Come and sit down,’ she added, picking up the phone and dialling zero. ‘Coffee’ll be here in a minute or two.’
‘Clare, I’m sorry about Saturday,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Jessie excelled herself, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, it was bad, wasn’t it? But it’s not the first time she’s been like that, is it?’ she said steadily, pausing to smile up at Bronagh, who placed the coffee tray neatly between them and disappeared without a sound.
‘Before we go any further, Harry, there’s something I have to ask you,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want you to be cross with me, but is there another woman in your life?’
‘Apart from you?’ he asked, looking bemused.
‘Apart from Jessie,’ she replied, relief already flowing over her.
‘What?’ he asked, looking amazed. ‘What are you talking about?’
Clare smiled and shook her head. ‘I had to ask, even though I thought the chances were remote. Jessie told me you had another woman.’
‘Oh, not you as well?’ he sighed, dropping his head in his hands. ‘She’s made heavy hints to my mother and told our doctor it’s one of the girls at the Gallery,’ he went on. ‘There isn’t anyone, Clare. I’m not sure I’d even have time these days.’
‘I must admit I’d thought that myself,’ Clare said, grinning cheerfully. ‘Now, come on, eat up your nice warm scone and let’s see what sense we can make of it. This isn’t the first time Jessie has given you and me a bad headache, now is it?’
‘No, it certainly isn’t. Do you remember when she was carrying James and she thought she was going to die? I had to ask you to come home from Paris to help me out.’
Clare laughed aloud. ‘Oh Harry, forgive me laughing, but have you forgotten that if I hadn’t come to try to help you, I would not now be sitting here? That’s when Andrew and I met up again and fairly, I have to say, I think Jessie had a hand in that. I’ll swear she sent Andrew that message to go out to Drumsollen to meet you when she knew you’d dropped me here to spend the morning with June.’
‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ he said, beginning to look a little easier. ‘These scones really are very good,’ he said, managing to sound almost like his normal self.
‘Specialite de la maison,’ she said grinning. ‘Now, I need to know more, Harry. Don’t spoil your coffee, but tell me when you think it got going and anything that’s made it worse. I’m no psychologist, but I probably know more about Jessie than anyone except you.’
Harry did his best, but Clare knew that inevitably he missed just the details that might help her because he was seeing with a man’s eyes. He told her of all the things he’d done to try to please her, making the house as comfortable as possible and seeing she had proper domestic help. He’d wanted her to have an au pair to help her with Fiona and James, but she’d said she didn’t want any foreign girl messing up her children.
As more and more detail emerged, Clare’s heart sank. There was no doubt Jessie was rejecting all Harry’s offers and ignoring his very existence when she could.
‘I do feel so sorry I haven’t been able to see her, Harry,’ Clare said, when he’d told her all he could think of. ‘That may be part of the problem. I do phone her nearly every week, but she doesn’t phone me. Jessie’s never been much use talking except face-to-face. Can you pinpoint any event at all that might mark the beginning of all this discontent?’
‘She got very cross about the work I wanted to do on the house,’ he said, casting around for an answer.
‘Change,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that’s part of it, Harry. Jessie’s always avoided making decisions. She tends to go along with things and then, suddenly, she’s had enough and pulls back and looks around for someone, or something to blame.’
Harry brightened visibly, said he felt she’d put her finger on what they were looking for. They talked for an hour or more, gathering together all they’d learnt from that earlier episode when Jessie had failed to cope so dramatically, had taken to her bed and frightened the life out of Harry who thought he was going to lose her. At least this time she was more angry than depressed, which might make changing things much more possible.
‘Clare dear, you’ve been great, as always, and I’ve taken it all in, but I must get back to town,’ he said, at last. ‘I’ve an important meeting this afternoon. Is it all right if I phone you during the day from the Gallery, so we can talk properly?’ he added. ‘Then I can let you know how things are going. I’ll see about the gynaecologist chappie and enquire about that man who was so good with Ginny. Which do you think would be quickest way back to Belfast, bus from Armagh or train from Portadown? Are you very busy or can you give me a lift?’ he w
ent on, as he stood up.
‘Lift, Harry?’ she asked. ‘You did come by car, remember?’ she added, laughing. ‘Is your car out of action?’
‘No, no. Mine’s fine. Jessie wanted me to bring you hers. You remember she said on Saturday night, she didn’t need it anymore and you could have it. It was when you were telling us about the sandwich delivery scheme,’ he added, seeing the blank look on her face.
‘I thought she was just being unpleasant and dismissive,’ Clare replied honestly. ‘I certainly didn’t think she meant it. But what about her, Harry? Giving up her car is the last thing we ought to let her do. That would be very bad news?’ she said anxiously.
‘No problem there, Clare,’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘I’d promised her a new car. It’s on order. That one is too small. It has got a decent boot, but she needs something with a hatchback for the children and all their stuff. It would do for sandwiches though, wouldn’t it? She thought it would. She said if you had it you might come up to Belfast more often . . .’
‘Harry! Did she say THAT?’
‘Yes. Yesterday morning, when she asked how soon could I take it up to you,’ he replied, looking baffled.
Clare shook her head and threw up her hands. ‘Harry, that’s the best news yet. It means she knows she’s in a mess and she expects me to sort her out. Come on, I’ll drive you to Portadown. It’ll be quicker for you by train. Give me a moment to have a word with June and Bronagh.’
As she walked on to the platform with him a short time later, he turned to her and said simply, ‘Clare, what would I do without you?’
‘You’ve helped me out more than once, don’t forget that. It’s what friends are for,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like even a nominal sum for Jessie’s car? I could manage that.’
‘Definitely not,’ he said firmly. ‘I was about to ask you to let me pay for some bodywork repairs and a respray. Jessie can be a bit careless, though she’s a perfectly good driver,’ he added, as they heard the Enterprise from Dublin signalling its eminent arrival.
‘Definitely not,’ she repeated, laughing and hugging him quickly. ‘Jessie might get the wrong idea. Not to speak of Andrew. Take care, Harry. It’ll be all right if we can stick it out. Give her my love,’ she added, as he closed the carriage door. She waved as she watched the express departed with a farewell serenade, satisfied that between them, once more, they’d bring Jessie back to herself.
Clare had to laugh as she watched John Wiley inspecting Jessie’s battered motor car. There was nothing he enjoyed more than mending something that was broken, or upgrading something that was not looking its best. Knowing perfectly well what he was thinking, she suggested he do the job on a time and materials basis and insisted he charge her the going rate. He went off happy, knowing he could do a good job for far less than any garage.
So, a trim little dark blue car joined the team at Drumsollen. In it, Clare and Bronagh did the sandwich run five days a week. She drove, while Bronagh hopped out and delivered to an increasing number of offices who ordered regularly, not only sandwiches for lunch, but cakes for an office party, or a treat to take home on a Friday.
Mercifully, the winter was mild and February broke all previous records for dryness, with not a trace of snow in the whole of the month. Clare was able to get up to Belfast regularly and by the time the daffodils bloomed, she had persuaded Jessie to return her visits and to start work on a series of watercolours of the house and gardens to replace the faded prints in the guest bedrooms.
The political climate seemed milder as well. Prime Minister O’Neill entertained his opposite number from Dublin to a lunch preceded by champagne and, according to a Stormont friend of Charles, a main course accompanied by Châteauneuf-du-Pape. This gave rise to a story brought home by Andrew from the Law Courts. Apparently, some member of the very select lunch party had looked at the label before pouring the wine and said: ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell Paisley.’
Whatever the comings and goings in high places, life at Drumsollen proceeded quietly. Clare had more time to herself and was grateful for the car, realizing as she drove off on some expedition or other just how housebound she’d become. She enjoyed her drives to Belfast and as spring moved towards summer she was heartened by the change in Jessie. She has now much less discontent, had begun to lose weight and was looking forward to a Mediterranean cruise Harry had booked as a surprise. She’d delighted him when she told him she’d always wanted to visit Florence and then asked if he’d mind traipsing round the galleries with her.
As June proceeded and Clare herself began to think of their holiday in Norfolk, she began putting together the figures for the end of the month so there wouldn’t be a last minute rush before they set off for the Liverpool car ferry. With only scattered bookings in the second and third weeks of the month and Bronagh now well able to cope with callers, guest, or work person, or delivery, she shut the door of Headquarters and set out on a review of the last two years trading, summer 1963 to summer 1965.
It was a long job because she decided on a full assessment, conducted as meticulously as the team from her French bank would have done, reviewing the status and potential of a business coming to them for funds.
The picture was bleak. They were not insolvent, but they had been running to stand still. Despite their low rates of pay and their own unpaid labour, the turnover of the business simply could not generate a profit in the context of as expensive a piece of property as Drumsollen, with its unavoidably high maintenance costs. Of course, she must tell Andrew. But should she tell him now or after they’d had their holiday? In the end, she decided they should enjoy what they could, before they faced what would have to be done, and done soon.
‘What are those little fellows down by the water’s edge?’ she asked, gazing out over the smooth, empty beach to the calm, shimmering blue sea beyond. ‘The ones that run like clockwork toys,’ she added, when he let his binoculars drop on his chest and gazed at her abstractedly.
‘Oh those,’ he said, coming back to earth, having been totally absorbed by the kamikaze dives of terns hunting along the seaward shore of Blakeney Point. ‘Dunlin,’ he went on. ‘Lovely little fellows. Do you want to look through the glasses?’
‘No thanks. I can’t bear to put anything between me and them, or between me and the sky, or me and the sea. I feel as if I’ve been let out into the light and I never want to go back in again. What is it about the light in Norfolk? Am I imagining it, or is it only because of the sunshine and the blue sky?’
‘No, you’re not imagining it,’ he said, moving closer on the warm sand of a hollow in the dunes. ‘Think of Gainsborough, though he is actually Suffolk. But it is different. You’ll see it in all the painting and watercolours from this area. There’s an exhibition of East Anglian painters in Norwich next week. We could go when we visit the cathedral,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘Not sure you’ll be able to drag me away from the coast,’ she said, laughing. ‘For a real landlubber I seem to have taken a great liking to the North Sea. Maybe it’s because it looks more like the Mediterranean than the Atlantic,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Don’t let it fool you,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve been here in January when the waves pounded the shore so fiercely the beach was inches deep in foam. Looked like the Fire Brigade were out on an exercise.’
‘And there were dreadful storms here in 1953, weren’t there?’
‘When Aunt Bee had to hang out her top window with a lantern to attract a passing lifeboat,’ he added, picking up his binoculars again.
Clare laughed gaily. ‘Now that I’ve met her younger sister, the story is even better,’ she responded, shaking her head. ‘I expect they both acquired the same ladylike accent when they went to Cheltenham Ladies College. Joan told me they say “gels” instead of “girls” and are taught to be very polite. I can just imagine Bee hailing the boat and courteously enquiring if they could possibly fit in one more.’
‘Has Joan lapsed into broad Norfolk yet?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I thought, given how long it takes the pair of you to wash up, or do anything else for that matter, she’d have displayed her talents by now. When she does, get her to tell you about singing the hymns in the local dialect one Christmas Eve in Cley, when she was sitting beside some very posh people from London who’d come down to visit the Lascelles.’
‘What were you looking at this time?’ she enquired, as he put his binoculars down again.
‘A seal,’ he replied promptly. ‘If we were to go down and walk out along the beach, he or she would probably follow us. They are noted for their curiosity.’
‘I’ve never seen a seal, not a live one.’
‘Come on then, I’ll take you to a favourite place of mine. We can leave our stuff here, there’s not a soul within miles to pinch it. Besides, they don’t in Norfolk. You won’t need shoes,’ he continued, pulling off his own and stuffing them into his rucksack.
They tramped off hand in hand to the water’s edge and then paddled along in the shallow water where the sand was firmer. A few yards away, the dark head of the seal bobbed up and down, watching them out of great, soft, liquid eyes. As they moved along the beach it followed, never taking its eyes off them. Only when Andrew turned right along what appeared to be a low sandbank did their companion disappear.
‘You are now walking on what will be the end of Blakeney Spit in a few years’ time. It’s all right, we can’t be cut off by the tide, it’s falling. Besides, I want you to see the point where West meets East,’ he added, as he strode on ahead of her.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing down at her bare feet a few minutes later.
To her great surprise she saw that tiny wavelets were flowing over her feet from different directions, the ripples intersecting in a herringbone pattern which glinted and sparkled in the strong sunlight.
‘That’s how the whole spit was formed,’ he explained, sounding totally delighted. ‘The opposing currents cancel each other out and the waves deposit the beach materials they’re carrying to form new land.’