She was stopped in her tracks. ‘I – I – I…’
Marnie came through from the kitchen with the tray of tea and this gave Celeste time to gather her wits. She was too stunned at Spencer’s audacity to think straight. It was so unlike him to do a thing like this. Marnie led the way into the sitting room and Celeste followed with David fast on her heels.
‘Would you mind pouring the tea, Marnie, please?’ Celeste said, smiling to reassure her, then giving David a tart look; she had just gone through another swift change of mood and was full of indignation. She would not talk to David alone.
‘I won’t have my life ruled for me in this way. How dare Spencer interfere with my life! What gave him the right? And you can’t just turn up here like this, David, and think you can throw your weight around.’
Marnie thought she shouldn’t be hearing this but she couldn’t leave while she was pouring out the tea. Miss Cunningham had been different on this visit to her holiday home, quieter and subdued, not given to so much outrageous laughter. She had not drunk any wine or smoked any cigarettes. She had talked about fresh air and wholesome food and took delight in simple everyday things that she hadn’t seemed to notice before. Could this smart amiable-looking gentleman have anything to do with the changes? Probably not if Miss Cunningham’s first reaction and her attitude towards him now were anything to go by. However, Marnie pinned back her ears; there was something very interesting going on here.
Knowing how stubborn and strong-willed Celeste could be, David included Marnie in his next statement, drawing on her presence for moral support. There was only one thing to do – plunge in. ‘I came here to tell you that I love you, Celeste.’
Marnie made a little sucking noise and blushed while handing David his tea. She lowered her gaze as she held the sugar bowl for him and he fixed his eyes on Celeste as he used the little tongs to put two lumps in his tea.
Celeste sat down again. If what David had so blatantly declared was true, it was the most wonderful thing she could possibly hear. But she knew David was a man of honour. She didn’t want to be another woman who had merely had the decent thing done by her.
‘You don’t have to commit yourself… because of… because I’m…’
‘You mean more to me than that, darling,’ he said quickly.
Marnie had seen too many modern films to be left in any doubt about what exactly was going on now. So that was why Miss Cunningham had put on so much weight. The couple had jumped the gun a bit and he had turned up to put things right. It was all very romantic. Her chubby features broke into their habitual smile and she said, ‘Well, I think it’s time I got on with the luncheon.’ She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow at the visitor. ‘You will be staying to eat, Mr David?’
‘You may depend upon it,’ he replied stoutly.
‘You may not, Marnie!’ Celeste snapped. She was desperate to stay in control of the situation.
‘You may, Marnie,’ David said, and he stuck out his hand to the bemused woman. ‘I’m David Millington, by the way. Miss Cunningham’s fiancé.’ He added on a whisper, ‘Although I might have a bit of persuading to do yet.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir.’ Marnie left the room tittering.
Celeste folded her arms, muttering archly, ‘You have more to do than a little persuading, David Millington.’
‘Don’t be like that, darling,’ he said breezily. He walked around the room, drinking his tea, gazing at the glorious panorama out of the window. ‘I can see why you came here. It’s a perfect place to give birth to our baby. I hope you haven’t decided on any names yet. I’d rather like to have a say. Something traditional would be nice. Elizabeth or Edward perhaps.’
The only response he got was a stiff-faced silence. But beneath her starched demeanour Celeste’s heart was thumping.
Draining his cup, David placed it on the tray. Then he couldn’t keep up his forced cheerfulness any longer. He knew that convincing Celeste that he really did love her might be harder than attempting a safe landing after a heavy wartime night of flak from a flight over Germany. He would argue with everything he could dredge up and play on her every emotion.
‘Damn it, Celeste, when you sent me packing I thought you’d had enough of me. I wanted to come after you but you were so adamant it was all over between us I thought I had no option but to honour your feelings.’ He swept his hand through his thick shock of hair and gulped loudly. ‘You left me utterly miserable. You didn’t know that, did you? I sank myself into the family estate and rarely set foot off it. I’d assumed you were doing the season as usual. It wasn’t until Spencer Jeffries rang me that I truly knew how the land lay. Then I could have kicked myself for not coming after you. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.’
A little devious distress turned into pleading. ‘Celeste, darling, I love you. I’ve loved you for ages. You have to believe me. I want you to marry me. Come back to Buckinghamshire with me and we’ll start the next generation of Millingtons. I’ve told Mother all about us and she is delighted. With three sisters, I’m the only hope for the name to continue.’
Now it was emotional blackmail. ‘Look here, if you won’t marry me then I’ll throw myself into the blessed lake and you’ll have my death on your conscience. You wouldn’t want that, would you? What would you say to our child? Come on, darling, say something. Don’t just stare at me with those gorgeous green eyes. Do you believe that I love you or not? Will you marry me or not?’
Celeste could see the love in David’s eyes and more. He had all the courage and daring of a warrior and the innocent appeal of a small boy. And somehow she pictured Alfie standing behind him, peering round his side with a flying helmet on his head and his cheekiest expression on his freckled face.
She said, with emotion, ‘David, I know someone whom I would very much like you to meet.’
Twenty minutes later Celeste was on the telephone to Cornwall.
‘Laura. Hello, darling, how are you and the family?’
‘We’re fine, thank, you, Celeste. You sound jolly. You’ve settled in all right then?’
‘I have. Guess what?’
‘What?’ Laura sensed something momentous had happened. ‘Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.’
‘By the end of the week I shall be on my honeymoon. David turned up here a short while ago and proposed. We’re getting a special licence and we’re off to the Riviera and then we’re going to settle down on his family estate.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful news! I’m so excited. So you had second thoughts and got in touch with him? You must be so thrilled. Celeste? Celeste? Are you still there?’
‘Sorry, darling. David was kissing me. Listen, I must say cheerio now. I’ve got heaps to do, not least rushing out and buying a wedding dress. Hope you have a wonderful day at Polzeath on Sunday. Write to me, tell me all about it. Oh, and if you want to know all about me and David, ask Spencer. ’Bye, Laura, ’bye.’
* * *
Laura was in Ince’s old room, mentally planning what changes she would make if she could copy Celeste’s labour of love and turn it into a nursery. She heard a familiar tread on the stairs and she ran from the room and threw her arms round Spencer’s neck.
‘Well, what have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, looking hungrily at her lips and pulling her intimately close against him.
‘I had a phone call from Celeste this morning. She was on cloud nine.’ Laura put a peck on his lips. ‘You can probably guess what it was about.’
He grinned smugly. ‘So David came up trumps, did he?’
‘Yes, he did. They’re getting married by special licence. Why didn’t you tell me you’d got in touch with David?’
‘And risk you telling Celeste and ruining things? Besides,’ he whispered huskily, ‘I would have missed out on this.’
He ran his lips down her neck, finding the special places that made her tingle with pleasure.
‘Fancy you doing a thing like that. I didn’t realise you could be so kind and sensiti
ve,’ she murmured, deliciously aware that he was loosening her clothes. She nuzzled the base of his neck. That drove him wild.
‘Well, I thought it was a shame to let things drift on with them both being unhappy when they obviously loved each other.’ He pulled her gently and firmly towards their bedroom door. ‘Vicki’s with Pawley. We’re not expecting anyone. Why don’t we go in here for a while so I can practise again at making that baby?’
* * *
Bert Miller was out on the moor. He had no idea how long he had been trudging across it. He wasn’t sure where he was right now, there was no familiar tor or rock formation in sight. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. Nothing at all.
For five days he had existed on rage and disbelief and a turbulent desire to kill Bruce Tamblyn that became so strong it bordered on madness. Emotion had surged and convulsed through him every tormented waking moment, filling him with savage and desperate thoughts. He didn’t care about the circumstances in which he’d heard the news about him being cuckolded, that practically all the village had heard and it would be the juiciest piece of gossip for a long time to come. He didn’t care that he was probably the last one to find out about it. As a man who had loved and adored his wife, all that mattered was that Joy had been unfaithful to him, that she had behaved like a whore and placed so little importance on him and their children.
When Mike Penhaligon had escorted him home the day after the fight, he had found that Joy had packed the four children off to stay with her mother. Pale as ashes, red and puffy-eyed from constant crying, she had jabbered at him the moment he’d got inside the door, hoping to get a few words in before he stormed at her or threw her out of their home.
‘P-please, Bert,’ she sobbed, ‘I want to talk. I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘What do you bleddy mean, you don’t know what came over you?’ he roared, forcing her to scurry back against the kitchen cupboards. ‘You knew full well what you were doing all right. You knew it was wrong. I can see it all now. The minute that bloke set foot in the village you were getting yourself all dolled up. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was for me. I thought you wanted to look nice like Laura and Celeste Cunningham. I thought you wanted to show the kids that it was good to look after your appearance and make something of yourself, that you wanted your poor wretched family to be proud of you. But all the time you were thirsting after that big-headed bastard like a bitch on heat!’ He raised his hand. ‘You filthy bitch. I could beat your brains out.’
Joy flinched and ducked her head. Tears ran down her face. She whimpered, ‘G-go on then, Bert. If it makes you feel any better. I deserve it.’
Instead, Bert smashed his fist on the table, making the dishes on it jump about. Frightened, Joy screamed. He said harshly, ‘You know I’m not that sort of man. I’ve never raised a hand to you in my life. I’ve rarely smacked the kids.’ Then all his bitterness came pouring out like the froth that gathers and runs on top of a cesspit. ‘It would make you feel better, not me, you heartless Jezebel! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Going round the village showing off a black eye, getting people’s sympathy, hoping they’d say, well, she’s learned her lesson, had her punishment, now ’tis all best forgotten and put in the past. You want to be a bloody heroine, don’t you? Go round in sackcloth and ashes. You want people to say Tamblyn dazzled you, and no wonder. Look at that shambling fat sod of a husband she’s got. He’s got no skills, no money, no posh ways. He looks like a pathetic great ox, he’s ugly and boring and stupid.’
As he let off steam, he banged his fists on the table, louder, harder, fiercer. The dishes danced about crazily. One slid onto the floor and broke, the pieces scattering. He banged harder. Another dish fell, broke into smithereens, then a cup, then a jug. He pushed off a plate and watched it smash on the lino. Next, the salt cellar, then the pepper pot. He swiped at the rest, sending them flying in all directions, littering the floor with broken crockery, until the table was covered only with its new floral oilcloth, bought with Joy’s wages. Sweating, breathing heavily, Bert picked up the oilcloth and ripped and tore at it, shredding it. When the last scrap hit the floor, he broke down in a fit of demented crying.
‘Y-you’ve ruined my life. I’ve nothing left. I hate you, hate you, hate you.’ The words were almost unintelligible.
‘There’s still the kids, Bert. Think of them,’ Joy pleaded.
But Bert’s heartache was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t stand the sight of his wife a moment longer. After picking up a cushion he hurled it at her with a cry of anguish, then he ran upstairs and barricaded himself into their bedroom.
For two days Joy had tried to coax Bert out of their room. She had talked for hours on the landing but got no reply. Sometimes he hurled something at the door and she retreated. She left food and drink outside the door but he did not take the tray inside. She tried to get him to come out by telling him Andrew Macarthur and the vicar were there, wanting a word with him. But Bert didn’t want to speak to his boss or spiritual comforter.
Finally admitting defeat, believing he would never come out of his self-made prison, that there could be no chance of repairing their marriage while she stayed in the house, she put on her coat and left. She couldn’t get at her clothes with Bert refusing to let her in the bedroom, so with just the little money in her purse, she caught the bus and went to join the children at her mother’s. All she could hope was that Bert would come round on his own, read the letter she had left him on the kitchen table, and one day soon come and fetch her.
There was no thought of reconciliation and forgiveness in Bert’s mind. It was another day before he realised that the house had gone quiet and Joy had left. He didn’t feel hungry but thirst drove him downstairs. He drank a pint of water. Dirty, sweaty, unshaven, he ambled round the house, numb with grief, not fully comprehending why he was in this state. Then he saw Joy’s letter and it brought all his heartbreak back, hammering and thundering into his foggy brain. He didn’t want her apologies, her pleas for understanding. She had gone and he never wanted to see her again. She mentioned the children. They seemed distant and unreal to him now. He felt he hardly knew them.
Suddenly he could take the pain and despair no longer. He went to the cupboards and took out two items. Stuffing them in the pockets of his coat, weak from lack of food and sleep, he stumbled outside. He hardly took in that people were speaking to him as he shambled through the village. One person tried to take his arm and lead him somewhere but he pushed the well-wisher away. He didn’t know who it was. He had not recognised anyone.
He could not recall how and when he had got onto the moor. He could not tell what the weather was like, whether he was hot or cold. He did not hear or feel the cold wind tugging at his clothes, buffeting his face. It did not register if it was night or day. He had stumbled many times, tripped over boulders and grassy tussocks, fallen into brambles. This time he slid all the way down a steep incline. When he hit the bottom, he had no breath left. He lay on his back, stared at the colourless sky, unaware of the gurglings of a stream nearby. When he could breathe a little easier, he sat up.
He had no feelings, no emotions, just one overwhelming desire. He wanted to be alone, for ever. To get away from everyone and everything, to never know another sensation.
He sat up. He pulled a half bottle of whisky and a full bottle of aspirins out of his pockets. He swallowed the contents of both bottles. Then he lay down again and waited for the darkness.
Chapter 27
A convoy of vehicles, four cars, two motorbikes, one with a sidecar, and two horse and carts left Kilgarthen for Polzeath beach the following Sunday afternoon. The horse and carts had left a good time before the motorised vehicles and Harry’s sedan overtook them as they neared the beach. Alfie and his four brothers waved excitedly out of the windows to their fellow beach-goers, including Laura, Spencer and Vicki, Ince and Johnny.
‘That was brilliant, Mr Lean,’ Alfie enthused as Harry brought
the car to a swerving stop close to the green in front of the beach. ‘Can we go faster on the way home?’
‘’Fraid not, old son,’ Harry laughed, taking off his sunglasses, adding in a mock sombre tone that made the boys squeal with glee, ‘I promised the old fuddy-duddies I’d drive like an old maid with you lot in the car.’
Nevertheless, Harry had driven reasonably fast on the stretches of open road to show off the car’s speed. He had enjoyed Alfie’s outrageous banter on the journey and had promised the boy he would find him a job in the stables so he could earn a few bob. As he waited for the rest of the party to catch up, Harry unloaded the overflowing picnic hamper Mrs Biddley had packed for him and allowed the older boys to wander off the short distance to the beach and take off their shoes and socks and play in the sand. With Rodney needing more supervision, being only two years old, and because he was limp and droopy from being car sick, Harry held him in his arms and the forlorn little boy watched from Harry’s shoulder as his brothers marked out shapes with sticks. Harry had picked Rodney up gingerly but the boy smelled clean and fresh.
‘You have to ask him often if he wants a wee,’ Alfie said, his red hair mischievously lifted by the strong breeze, squinting in the sun.
Harry’s insides recoiled in horror. He was about to say Alfie could take charge of his brother’s toilet habits, but seeing the older boy in carefree mood and remembering that this was what the excursion was all about, he made a submissive expression. ‘All right, but he won’t do it while I’m holding him, will he?’
Rosemerryn Page 31