“I’d no idea it rained so much,” they’d say disconsolately. “I thought Devon was supposed to be a sunny place.” Or, discontentedly, “Wish we’d gone abroad again, at least you get the weather there,” as if rain and mist weren’t weather but some kind of scourge especially reserved for Devonians. To Brigid, who’d spent many sleepless nights and anxious days wondering if the cottages were up to the necessary standard, these remarks seemed to strike to her heart as personal criticism.
“My dearest girl,” Humphrey had said, putting his’arms about her, “even you are not able to control the weather. Let them go back to the Mediterranean, or wherever, next year if they don’t like it here. Things will settle down and we’ll start getting regulars, people who really love the place, coming back year after year.”
He’d been right, yet she still felt a huge sense of relief when the sun shone on the first day of each visitor’s holiday. Not that she needed to worry about Louise. Louise had Brigid’s own kind of passion for the place and accepted the rain as part of the package. She was almost a member of the family. A great many of Brigid’s visitors had become-Mends; they sent Christmas cards and she’d watched their children grow, year by year, so that the couples who’d been the first to stay were now grandparents as she and Humphrey were. Most of them were seeking peace and quiet, enjoyed walking and exploring, and fitted in quite naturally, making few demands. With some of them a closer relationship had developed: a supper together, or a trip to the Church House Inn in Holne; a showing of photographs—a wedding or a christening—over a cream tea or a barbecue. It was only with Louise, however, that Brigid had really let down the barriers; only Louise who had pierced the guard of Brigid’s privacy.
It had been hard to tell these annual visitors that one of the cottages would no longer be available. It meant that some of them were booking holidays earlier in the spring or later in the autumn but Louise had been one of the favoured few who had been privileged to retain her usual fortnight twice a year. Since she’d always booked late May and mid-September there were fewer contenders but, even if there had been more, Brigid would have still kept those weeks sacrosanct.
“One can’t help having favourites,” she’d said, almost defensively, “and I just have this feeling that it’s more important for Louise than it is for lots of the others.”
“I think you’re right.” Humphrey had smiled at her. “You don’t have to try to convince me, you know.”
“I know.” She’d laughed at herself but had shaken her head, frustrated. “It’s so difficult having to refuse people we’ve known for so long …” She hadn’t added, “and all because of my wretched mother,” but he’d understood.
“We didn’t have any choice,” he’d said gently. “We couldn’t leave her in some depressing boarding house.”
“She left me” Brigid had cried hotly, resentfully, before she could help herself, and had turned away so that he might not see her tears.
“But not alone and amongst strangers,” he’d said, just as gently. “It’s hell but if we hadn’t taken her in you’d be riddled with guilt. It’s a Catch 22 situation.”
“I know.” She’d blown her nose, smiling at him gratefully. “Sorry.”
“What for? We both know what it’s like to have a selfish parent. At least we had one good one each.”
Breaking the dead heads from her geraniums, refilling the Aga kettle, pottering quietly, Brigid wondered why she should fear Humphrey’s retirement so much. He was so kind, so stable, and he could always cheer her out of any depression or anxiety; she missed him, looked forward to his weekends at home and his leaves, so why feel so anxious? He’d had several shore jobs during his career but a shore job wasn’t the same as having him at home all the time. Would he be hurt by her requirement for periods of solitude? How would they manage being permanently together who had been so much apart? Eighteen years ago the prospect of the holiday cottages providing income so that Humphrey could take early retirement had seemed wonderful but now, as the time drew closer, she’d been assailed by this terrible anxiety. Humphrey was looking forward to it; he liked meeting the visitors, chatting to them, getting to know them. Did she imagine that his friendliness might inevitably lead to a breakdown of her carefully preserved privacy? Both conversions had been designed so that no window looked across the courtyard to the longhouse. The visitors, in the main, needed very litde assistance but it was possible that Humphrey’s extrovert tendencies might change the balance—or maybe something worse…? Quickly she pushed this unnamed terror aside.
“I’m an introvert,” she said to Blot, “that’s my problem.”
He watched her with sad, loving eyes, tail gently thumping, and she crouched to pat him. His curly black coat was soft and warm and she tickled his nose with one of his long ears. The telephone rang and she rose reluctantly.
“Lovely evening, darling. I did enjoy myself.” Frummie sounded as fresh as paint. “I was just wondering. If you’re taking Louise to pick up her car perhaps I could cadge a lift. I need a few things from Ashburton and it seems silly to take two cars.”
“Of course you can.” Brigid was convinced that since her stroke, minor though it had been, Frummie shouldn’t be driving at all. “Half an hour OK?”
“Perfect. Oh, by the way, Jem will be over later for lunch and we’re going to the pub to make up for last night We wondered if you’d like to join ns?”
Brigid was silent for a moment. Frummie usually preferred to keep her outings with Jemima very private and this invitation was the olive branch complete with dove. “That’s nice of you,” she said at last. “The thing is, Thea’s coming to fetch Oscar and I don’t quite know when she’ll be here. She said ‘sometime after lunch,’ which isn’t very helpful.”
“Well, we shan’t be late back. And, after all, it won’t hurt her to wait for a few minutes. Anyway, she probably won’t arrive until tea-time and then you’ll have missed a nice lunch. Now don’t be stuffy, darling.”
“No. OK. I’ll see if I can catch Thea and suggest tea-time.”
“You do that”
She hung up abruptly and Brigid replaced the receiver. “Well,” she said to Blot, “there’s a turn-up for the books. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn into a slanging match.”
She glanced into the mirror and grimaced, wishing she’d washed her hair, and then shrugged philosophically and sat down at the table to write a shopping list.
ACROSS THE courtyard, Louise had already made her list and was now standing at the open door in the sunshine, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. She’d been glad to wake from a troubled sleep to the clear, radiant dawn. It had rained heavily in the night and, beyond the open window, she’d seen the doves circling and wheeling, their wings shiningly, dazzlingly white against the delicate purity of the clean-rinsed sky. She’d leaned out, bundling back her springing, curling dark hair, breathing in the fresh, cool air, needing to be part of this sparkling magic scene. Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, pausing only to swallow down a glassful of orange juice, she’d laced on her walking boots and had made her way down to the river. She’d been rewarded by the magnificent sight of the tumbling, racing water, thundering towards its clamorous meeting with the East Dart further down the valley. This morning it was as if it could hardly wait for its union, so eagerly and noisily did it roar in its rocky bed. The birdsong was rendered inaudible by its rushing and the overhanging branches of the willows were drowned in its tumultuous passing.
Louise, overawed by so much passion, presendy left the river at Week Ford and followed the footpath to Saddle Bridge where the O Brook was making its more sedate way beside the rowan trees. Leaning on the stone bridge, she’d watched two stonechats flirting in a gorse bush whilst the sun rose higher, until hunger compelled her to walk back to Foxhole along the deserted road. A litde later, sitting at the table eating brown toast and honey, she’d made a note of the stonechats and recorded one or two other things of interest—the gorse in flower and the hawthorn tree blos
soming on the rocky river bank—before settling to the more mundane business of making a shopping list.
Now, standing in the sunshine, drinking her tea, she examined her feelings cautiously. She’d embarked on her holiday with a suspicion casting a shadow over her normally sunny anticipation. This suspicion—that Martin was having an affair—had grown out of intangible sensations, subtle changes which could not easily be defined. There was nothing so positive as the telephone call cut short, no notes found in pockets, no sudden late night meetings at the office. No, her suspicion was centred in Martin himself. There was a brightness about him, a kind of shiny expansiveness which manifested itself in bursts of generosity—oh, nothing so vulgar or obvious as presents; there was nothing guilty about his demeanour—rather as if his new-found joy could not be contained, must be expressed, even to her who was not the cause of it and might have every reason to resent it Even here, however, nothing was clear-cut. Martin had always been a warmly generous, thoughtful companion. It was his awareness and quick compassion, after all, which had drawn her to him in the first place; his cheerful, positive approach which had caught her in its undertow and been impossible to resist She’d met his expartner, an attractive woman with a sour smile and cynicism in her eyes. “Don’t be taken in,” she’d advised. “Martin loves everyone. But everyone. And everyone loves Martin but you have to remain a challenge for him. He’s the original Mr. Fixit and he needs his fix.” Louise had mumbled some inadequate reply, embarrassed and confused, and they hadn’t met again. Louise never mentioned this conversation to Martin: she’d needed his happiness, his scope for enjoyment, his army of acquaintances far too much. For three years she’d bobbed in his wake, involved with his friends, busy with the social life he loved, entertaining clients from the advertising agency when necessary. There had been no dissensions or quarrels, no deviation from the usual routines, yet this doubt had crept into her consciousness and she was unable to explain it. Impossible to confront Martin with such implausible suspicions, yet she’d become wary. It was the man on the train who had given her a clue, conducting his affair with the aid of his mobile telephone. Martin always carried his mobile with him, never left it about, refusing to let her borrow it when she’d had to travel suddenly to Scotland by train—“You’d never understand how it works, sweetie. There will be a phone on the train if you need it“—yet it never rang when he was with her. Text messages?
Louise sipped her tea thoughtfully. Odd, too, that whilst she’d been on the train, watching him, wondering, she’d seen the woman and the child, so that the memories, which she’d thought were so safely buried, had come sliding back through cracks in her consciousness made by suspicion and fear.
“Good morning. And what a lovely one.” Frummie was hanging clothes on the rotary washing line in the corner of her small paved garden. “Did you sleep well?”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Yes, quite well, thank you. It takes time to get used to the silence after London.”
Frummie pulled a face. “It’s a myth that the countryside is peaceful. It’s full of sex and violence. Terrible.”
Louise laughed, glad to be distracted. “So is the city.”
“At least city-dwellers are honest about it. All that harvest home and roses round the door—Helen Allingham should have been drowned at birth.”
She snapped the last peg in place and disappeared indoors. Louise was still trying to place Helen Allingham when Brigid appeared.
“Are you ready? Great. I’m bringing Blot with me but I’ll just go and shut Oscar in the lean-to. Could you give Mummie a call? Thanks.”
Louise rinsed her mug under the tap, picked up her bag and came out again into the sunshine. Frummie appeared, shrugging herself into a coat, and Brigid drove out on to the track and stopped so that they could climb into the car. Louise settled herself comfortably, looking forward to the drive across the moor, resolutely banishing darker thoughts and fears.
Later, sitting in the Cafe Green Ginger, having coffee with Brigid whilst Frummie finished her shopping, Louise asked casually, “Who’s Helen Allingham?”
Brigid looked surprised, frowned a litde. “Wasn’t she the Victorian artist who painted those rather idealised studies of country cottages and small children? Very pretty but rather sentimental. Why?”
“Oh, nothing, really,” said Louise. “I just wondered.”
CHAPTER 5
In possession of her hired car, and with Brigid and Frummie on their way to their lunch with Jemima, Louise felt a sudden surge of independence. Alone, free to go where she chose, the holiday was now truly begun. It was not until she found herself on a quiet road, however, that she stopped the car and started to make it her own. She and Martin agreed that it was unnecessary to have two cars in London, that it was sensible to hire a small economical car whilst she was in Devon. Nevertheless she needed to feel at home in this small Citroen. Rootling in her big carpet bag, she put her road map on the passenger seat, filled the cassette holder with her favourite music and found her sunhat, dark specs and a small plastic pot which contained change for car-park machines. Later she’d put her walking boots, a light rucksack and a rug in the small boot but, just for now, the car had already assumed a more personal look.
Settling herself behind the wheel Louise paused, luxuriating in a moment’s escapism. For a brief tune nothing mattered but this holiday mood. The warm May day unrolled gently before her and she sat quiedy, the sun pouring through the car window, deciding what she might do. Unlike Brigid, Louise was not a cat who liked to walk by herself—although she chose her close companions with care. However, she totally sympathised with Brigid’s need to commune with nature and understood her disappointment in Humphrey’s utter lack of observation: his unawareness of the minutiae, his indifference to the majesty and grandeur amongst which they lived. For choice, Louise would have preferred a companion who was empathic, who could rejoice over a butterfly sunning itself on a patch of bell heather or would pause at the summit of a hill to gaze with silent reverence at some new vista. During that first holiday, walking with Brigid, it had needed only a touch on the arm, a nod of the head, to transport them both into some delight caused by a new foal, leggy and uncertain, nuzzling its mother, a dipper bobbing on a rock in turbulent white water, a crow riding insouciantly on a sheep’s back. Their pleasure was communicated silendy and conversation was kept to a minimum. Such companions were very rare and if one could not find them then it was better to be alone. When it came to eating or shopping, however, Louise preferred to go to shops and hostelries where she was known. She liked to see a welcoming smile, to hear a friendly greeting: “Hul/0. Nice to see you back again. Well, doesn’t time fly…?”
So where to go first? She wouldn’t venture too far a field, not on the first day, especially as she had to go back to Foxhole first to unload her shopping and collect her walking boots; she’d stay on the moor. So where to go? Not to the Church House Inn at Holne; not with the family foregathering there. The Ring o’ Bells at Chagford? Perhaps a litde too far to be comfortably in time for lunch. The Roundhouse at Buckland? It was always fun to see the Perrymans: to share in the warmth of their boisterous family life, to be teased by Margaret—who worked with them—and have a chat with Mary in the gift shop. Yes, the Roundhouse would make a good starting point and, after lunch, she’d walk up to the Beacon so as to ravish herself with the glorious view and examine the broken tablets of stone which were graven with the Ten Commandments.
Her decision made, filled with a sense of anticipation, Louise switched on die engine and set off towards Foxhole. It was odd that, though it was less than twenty-four hours since she’d passed this way with Brigid, she now felt subtly different; driving in her own car, listening to her own music, she was no longer a visitor, a guest, but part of the landscape. She drove over Saddle Bridge, up the hill and turned the car on to the track which bumped unevenly down to the house.
As she parked beside her little cottage and climbed out of the car, a woman and
a child came out of the courtyard. Louise stopped, still holding the car door, staring. The tall, sweet-faced mother looked like the woman she’d seen yesterday, but the child was older, too big to be carried, at least six years old. The little girl reached her first; big eyes gazing up at her, long red-gold hair, the colour of ripe corn with the sun on it.
“We’ve come to fetch our dog,” she said trustfully, distressfully. “Only we can’t get in. I can see him through the window. I’m Hermione.”
Hermione? Louise stared down at her, stiff and unresponsive, still clutching the car door.
“Darling,” her mother sounded apologetic, “just wait a moment. I’m so sorry,” she said to Louise. “Only she’s been missing him, you see. There was a message on the machine this morning but there’s some kind of fault and it crackles terribly. I thought it was Brigid’s voice saying something about picking Oscar up before lunch but I think I’ve got it quite wrong. I’m Thea Lampeter.”
Louise took the outstretched hand unwillingly. Thea was much about her own age, a few years older, perhaps, with her daughter’s red-gold colouring. Holding the warm, firm hand, staring into amber-brown eyes, Louise had the strangest experience that she was falling, tumbling through space whilst this tall, strong woman held her from harm. She clung to her madly, dimly aware that the child was talking again.
“But we can’t leave him now that he’s seen us,” she was saying. “We simply can’t. What are we going to do?”
“If necessary we’ll wait until Brigid comes back.” Thea sounded quite resigned, even contented with this plan. “We’ll camp outside the window so that he can see us ”
“He’ll get upset,” warned the child. “He’ll bark and jump at the door.”
A Summer in the Country Page 4