Jemima stirred. She’d hoped that, now that she was living near Brigid for the first time in their lives, she’d at last achieve the loving relationship with her sister for which she’d always yearned. She’d missed her father terribly when her mother had left him and she’d always imagined that Brigid would be able to share those feelings. Instead she’d been met with a smooth, ungraspable barrier. Occasionally it would be tantalisingly lowered and she’d see the warmth and humour for which she longed but, just when she’d believed that they were moving closer, she’d found that the barrier had been reerected. She could understand why Brigid found her irritating, foolish, weak, but she still hoped that one day she might be loved for herself.
The telephone buzzed and Jemima hurried back through the window and picked up her mobile.
“I just thought I’d tell you,” he said, “that I shall be joining the A38 soon so it’s my last chance to ask if you’re still quite sure about Tuesday.”
She smiled, happy and secure in the distance between them, able to comfort him.
“Quite sure,” she said, teasingly, “unless, of course, you might be able to arrive a bit later. Stay the night, perhaps?” She rarely encouraged this but she was feeling a little sorrier for him now that she could remember those lovely straight legs but not the sulky expression. “I’m sure Louise won’t stay late.”
“Louise?” His voice was alert, more cheerful.
“Why yes.” She pretended surprise. “She’s staying with my sister. Who did you think it was?’
“How should I know?” he grumbled. He could allow jealousy at this distance, not fearing a scene on the telephone. “I might be able to stay …”
“Think about it,” she said lightly. “Must go. ‘Bye.”
Good humour and confidence restored, she bent to sweep MagnifiCat into her arms, burying her face in his fur.
“Supper,” she said. “You can share my sushi. What do you say to that?”
She put him down again, groaning at his weight, and he followed her on short stocky legs into the kitchen.
“IT’S RATHER nice here, Fred!” Margot Spelman stretched her sturdy legs out in the sunshine. “You were damned lucky, you know, to have a daughter with a bit of property.”
“You’ve got your granny flat.” Frummie set down the tea-tray. It was odd, now, to be called Fred; odd but nice. It made her feel young again, careless and happy—especially as poor old Margot was showing her age.
“Mmm.” Margot raised a ravaged face to the warmth. “But one feels so terribly de trop. Harry’s a darling, of course, but Barbara …” She shuddered artistically. “Daughters-in-law are hell, Fred. You should give thanks, fasting, that you have daughters.”
“Rubbish.” Frummie sat down in the deckchair opposite. “The simple truth of it is, my dear Margot, that you are a cow to your daughters-in-law. Ginny had the sense to cart David away to furthest Cornwall but I’m amazed that Barbara lets you anywhere near her dear little granny flat. I bet she never gets a wink of sleep wondering what you’ll be up to next.”
“And what about you?” Margot remained unruffled at such accusations. “I think Brigid’s a saint to have you here after you went off and left her as a small child. To be honest, I’m surprised anyone would agree to have you living within ten miles of them but then I’ve known you for a very long time.”
Frummie grinned maliciously. “First day at boarding school, wasn’t it? Thirteen years old—well, I wasn’t quite thirteen, you’re older than I am—and who was the one blubbing?”
“Oh, shut up and pour the tea. So how’s Jemima?”
“Doing very well. Living in the most perfect flat in Salcombe. Right on the waterfront”
“Goodness.” Margot sat up, alert. “Don’t tell me Richard left you some money.”
Frummie hoisted a disdainful shoulder. “He didn’t leave me anything. But he left a tiny bit to Jem.”
“I have to say, Fred,” Margot accepted her tea with a nod of thanks, “that you were the most god-awful picker of men. Whatever did you see in them? Of course, Diarmid was rather gorgeous in a kind of untidy, absent sort of way. That tall, lean, fair look. Terrific legs. Brigid is just like him.”
“Diarmid was different” Frummie sipped dreamily, her sharp face softened by memories. “I’d never known anyone like him before. And I was young and impressionable.”
“Impressionable?” Margot raised her eyebrows. “You? Well, I suppose that’s one way of describing it. And Richard?”
“Well, Richard was fun. And I was tired of competing with Bronze Age circles and Neolithic man. I went up to London one day and somehow just never came back.” Silence. “Oh, don’t do that disapproving thing again,” said Frummie irritably. “I didn’t just consciously walk away without a backward glance, you know. It was just too impossible to come back. And as the days passed it became more impossible. I wrote to Diarmid and told him I couldn’t face it and he agreed that it hadn’t been easy, and that I must do what was right for me, but that he was keeping Brigid. What could I do? I could hardly come down and kidnap her.”
’1 can see his point” Margot glanced at her old friend, not unsympathetically. “At least he could give her security. Richard wasn’t what you might call the reliable type, was he?”
“You don’t run off with reliable types, do you?”
“You don’t,” observed Margot Knntedly. “If I remember rightly, William—William was number three, wasn’t he?— played in a jazz band?”
“Only occasionally,” replied Frummie with dignity. “He was a stockbroker:”
“Oh, honestly…“’
“He was very clever with money—”
“As long as it was other people’s. The truth of it is you shouldn’t have been let out alone, Fred. For one so cynical you were an absolute pushover when it came to con men.”
“Did you come all this way simply to be unpleasant?”
“No. I came all this way to see you. You haven’t been too easy to track down lately and—”
“And now I’m rather conveniently placed between Salisbury and Cornwall,” finished Frummie sweetly. “A useful stopping place, wouldn’t you say?”
“Better than the Little Chef at Buckfast,” agreed Margot, unruffled. “I hope you do as good a breakfast.”
“Since when did you eat breakfast? A cigarette and cup of’ black coffee shouldn’t be too challenging for me.”
A car drove up the track and pulled in beside the other cottage. Louise’climbed out, waved to Frummie and disappeared inside.
“Who’s that?” Margot peered after her. “Pretty girl.”
“She’s one of Brigid’s regulars. Comes twice a year while her husband plays golf.”
“Really?” Margot sounded sceptical.
“Quite. My reaction exactly. But you never know. I suppose some husbands are faithful…”
“Name three,” suggested Margot idly. “If you can. You could certainly name three who weren’t, of course, but Diarmid was pretty loyal.”
“Oh, don’t start on that again,” said Frummie wearily. “You’re getting dull in your old age. What about supper at the pub this evening?”
“What pub?” Margot sounded interested.
’Ten minutes away. You can drive us.”
“I think we’ll stay here.” Margot settled herself comfortably. “I’ve got a rather nice malt whisky with me. Darling Harry always makes sure I’m looked after. Poor Barbara suffers agonies of embarrassment taking the empties to the bottle bank. So tell me about Jemima. What’s she up to?”
The two women bent closer over the teacups, heads together.
CHAPTER 7
Louise, coming back to collect some belongings from the car, thought that there was an almost sinister air about diem as they huddled together.
She thought: You’re imagining things again. Seeing shadows …
The card was behind die door: a big square of white, pushed into the corner when she’d thrust the door open earlier.
She left it lying there and went to dump her bags in the living room, emptying flasks, putting uneaten fruit away, taking off her walking hoots, before going back into the small hall. The envelope had been delivered by hand with just the name “Louise Parry” written on it; no address, no stamp. She stood staring down at it, every instinct alert and warning her against picking it up and opening it.
“Will Daddy be at my party?” “No, darling. He’s a long way away. He’s left a present for you, though.” “I’d rather Daddy was here.”
She opened her eyes and allowed her tightly clenched fingers to stretch, relax, to pick up the card. Putting it on the table she filled the ketde and switched it on, forcing her mind to other things: supper with Jemima tomorrow, a day at Bigbury and lunch on Burgh Island… but the formula was no longer working. Her defence mechanism was faulty and the past was pressing in; she held it away desperately. Singing to herself—learning the words of songs, of poetry, was another protection against memories—she made tea, fetched milk, opened the window. Putting the mug of tea at the end of the big, square table, she sat down and pulled her notebook and tiny paintbox towards her, intent on bringing her diary up to date. The distant music of the West Dart drifted up to her, mingling with the lazy cooing of the doves in the courtyard, but today this quiet peacefulness was full of danger. Her attention was caught by the bright white square, lying just beyond reach, and she picked up her mug hastily, concentrating on the things that she had seen on her walk: hawthorn blossom and cuckoopint in the springtime beauty of Hembury woods; house martins wheeling and circling above her head whilst she was having coffee at the Forge Caf6 in Holne; a peacock butterfly warming itself on a mossy stone at Dean Ford. She wrote quickly, making the tiny sketches, painting in the delicate hues. The voices were quite quiet, barely audible, murmuring quietly together.
“Can I do painting like Mummy? ” “I should stick with the crayons. Less messy.” “I could be very careful.” “Tell you what. Let’s do this one together first and then we’ll see…”
Louise rinsed her paintbrush carefully and laid it down. Her face bleak, mouth grimly compressed, she reached for the card. It was not just a card, it was too bulky, and with a sense of dread she slit the envelope and drew out its contents. A card first: a clever cartoon of a Newfoundland, ears pricked, staring through the window of what was clearly Brigid’s lean-to, beyond which a car waited. All his anxiety and suspense informed the animal’s tense posture, yet there was something comic about the scene.
“Thanks so much,” Thea had written inside. “Do please come and have tea with us. Would you like to have a word with Brigid about it? We should love to see you again.”
Louise stared at the cartoon, something familiar about the style focusing her attention. Presently she picked up the folded sheet of paper and opened it out. The tide “Oscar” was printed carefully, though in an uneven hand, the letter S a great deal taller than the O. The dog-shape had been crayoned in black with a large pink tongue.
“This is Oscar saying thank you. Please come to tea. Love Hermione.”
The writing sloped alarmingly, slipping off the page, and die name was drawn in alternate blue and red crayon. Hermione. Louise was still staring at it when she heard the knock at the door. It opened an inch or two.
“May I come in?” called Brigid.
Only a lifetime’s habit of good manners made it possible for her to answer. She was still sitting at the table when Brigid came into the living room. Louise forced herself to smile at her, trying to summon the control needed to rise, offer tea.
“I see you found it.” Brigid nodded towards the card. “She sent it to me and I dropped it in earlier. I’m going over to see them later in the week and she seems anxious that you should come too. Would you like to, d’you think?”
“It’s …” Louise swallowed in a dry throat, “… it’s very kind. There’s no need at all.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s politeness. Thea’s a darling but she’s not conventional. I think she simply liked you. And Hermione—”
“The thing is,” interrupted Louise, quickly, “trying to fit everything in. A fortnight isn’t long.”
“I quite understand that. And there’s no reason at all why you should go …”
She fell silent and, through her own fear, Louise dimly noticed that Brigid was looking very drawn.
She thought: I can’t deal with this.
“Well then.” Brigid smiled awkwardly, made as if to go. She looked as if, in some way, she had been recently hurt.
“Have some tea.” Louise heard her own voice with surprise and cursed herself. “I’ve only just made some and I’m old-fashioned enough to make it in a pot. Can’t bear the mess of squashed teabags in the sink.” She spoke randomly, getting up, taking a mug from the dresser, whilst all the time an echo inside her head was saying: I can’t do this. I can’t
Brigid placed her hands about the mug, as if they were cold, and gazed into the tea. Louise sat down again and stared at her.
“Are you OK?” She spoke quite gendy.
Brigid’s eyes were wide and blank with fright. “Yes, of course. Just a few things on my mind.” She smiled a quick, automatic smile. “So then. What about Thea?”
“Maybe. Later on. Shall we see how things… you know… pan out?”
“Yes. Right. You’d love the Old Station House. And the girls. You’ve met Hermione, of course, and Julia and Amelia are gorgeous. And there’s Percy, of course. Thea’s famous. She writes and illustrates children’s books and there was the show on the television. Not that you’d know if you don’t have children. It was an absolute cult a few years ago—T-shirts and mugs and toys …”
’Toys?”
“Percy the Parrot. He was gorgeous. Unfortunately, my boys were too old for him but we always watched the programme. It was a huge success. Anyway, have a think about it and let me know. Thanks for the tea.”
The front door closed. In the silence which was left behind her Louise trembled, clammy hands knotted together. It was as if a huge wall of black water stood above her; building, rising, towering, threatening to engulf her. She could hear it roaring and then realised that the noise was inside her head. Dizzily she stumbled towards the table and sank into her chair, dropping her forehead on her arms, but, even now, she could not cry.
BRIGID, BACK in her own home, roamed resdessly. Her usual sense of peace, of sanctuary, was destroyed by her fear. What was Jenny coming to tell her? She’d telephoned several times but Jenny’s answerphone was permanendy switched on and she’d been unable to make contact What could be wrong? It was three years now since Brigid had agreed to let one of her cottages stand security for the new business which Jenny, her oldest, closest friend, was planning with her husband and a partner. The proposal was to set up a sailing school on the Fal, an industry in which Bryn— Jenny’s husband—had already had some experience, whilst the partner was a quite famous young man who had sailed the Atlantic single-handed. The business plan was submitted and approved by the Bank, hopes were high, interest intense, everything positive. It was merely a matter of form and Brigid’s lawyer had seen no real danger in underwriting the fifteen thousand pounds. The little cottage was worth much more and, anyway, Jenny had assured her that Bryn had plenty of other ways of raising the cash if it should come to it—but the Bank wanted something solid. It was such a perfect opportunity and Brigid would get an annual payment, not much to begin with, but a surety of their confidence.
Jenny had been so happy, glowing with the idea of the school, the opportunities ahead, the new joy in her relationship with Bryn after her disastrous divorce from her first husband, Peter.
“Only don’t tell Humphrey,” she’d begged. “Please don’t. He and Peter are still good friends and I can’t bear him knowing all the details. Peter, I mean. You don’t have to, do you, Brigid? I mean, Foxhole’s yours, isn’t it?”
“Well, it is,” Brigid had answered, unhappy at the idea of subterfuge, yet longing to help he
r friend. “But we’ve mortgaged the longhouse so as to renovate the barns, and the mortgage is in our joint names. It’s not a very big one but it’s there and Hurtiphrey is the one who pays it.”
“But the cottages are unencumbered?”
“Yes,” she’d said slowly. “The cottages are still in my name.”
“Well, one of them would be enough. It’s not much. Bryn and I are putting some in and Iain’s got a bit. It’s just to get started. We need a building so that we can get dormitories in, and things like that, and some sailing dinghies. It’s going to be great. Could you help us, Brigid? It’s just on paper but the Banks are funny after the recession.”
“I don’t like not telling Humphrey.”
“Dear old Brigid,” Jenny had smiled at her affectionately, “you were always so strait-laced. Even at school you made me feel naughty just by looking at me.”
Strange how certain words and phrases had the power to hurt. “Brigid won’t She’s strait-laced like her papa. Not into nicknames; much too silly.”
“It’s not that,” she’d said quickly, defensively. “I just don’t like secrets between husbands and wives. It’s dangerous.”
“Join the real world,” Jenny had sighed. “Lucky you, that’s all I can say. I don’t think Peter ever told me the truth in fifteen years of marriage.”
“Oh, Jenny.” Brigid’s heart had been wrung with compassion. It was true that she’d been badly deceived and ultimately humiliated.
“If she’d ever stopped talking and started listening she might have noticed a few things,” Humphrey had said un-sympathetically. “It’s not all Peter’s fault.”
’Trust you men to stick together,” Brigid had answered, hurt and upset for Jenny. “Did you know he’s been having an affair with that Wren for years?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Humphrey had smiled, not unkindly. “Need-to-know basis, that’s my motto.”
Afterwards, she’d been glad that Humphrey had been so guarded. She’d been able to say, with absolute truth, that she knew nothing of Peter’s affairs, and her own friendship with Jenny had remained intact. This was why she’d reluctantly agreed to keep the arrangement secret from Humphrey. It was, she told herself, the same need-to-know basis. It would be difficult for Humphrey, whilst he and Peter still worked together, not to let some information slip—and so she’d had the whole scheme checked out and put up one of her cottages as security. For the first two years she’d had her payment from the business and had heard good reports. Could something have gone wrong? But why should it? Why should this be anything more than a friendly visit?
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