A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “Don’t go all London on me,” Brigid had begged. “Remember that I haven’t been further east than Exeter for years.”

  “With your height and figure you’d look terrific in a sugar sack,” she’d replied. “Are you absolutely sure that you want me to come to supper with Humphrey only home for a few days?”

  “Quite certain.” Brigid was looking rather strained. “He’s asked me to ask you specially. You know he loves to see you and, anyway, we’re hardly newlyweds. Mummie’s coming too. Margot left this morning and she’s feeling a bit flat. Humphrey was hoping to barbecue but it’s turned too cold. See you about eight.”

  Louise glanced at her watch. Five to eight. She leaned on her elbows, frowning a little. A card, posted the day before, had finally arrived from Martin: a cheerful, uninformative scrawl. It was the usual kind of postcard and message she received from him on these occasions but its lateness alerted her. Her senses were working overtime now, and she was thinking of reasons for its delay. She’d very nearly convinced herself that the card had been written in advance and posted by one of Martin’s cronies. Perhaps he’d forgotten it—or perhaps he was waiting for Martin to arrive safely at his own destination. Embarrassing if he should have an accident miles away from the place in which he’d supposedly arrived quite safely.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She stood up abruptly, disgusted with her suspicions, slightly shocked at how devious her thoughts had become. Pushing her feet into black suede loafers, picking up a black shawl splashed with gold and scarlet flowers, she let herself out into a swirling mist The lights from the longhouse shone out into the courtyard and she hurried towards them, passing into the hall with a call of greeting. Humphrey came out of the kitchen to meet her and hugged her warmly. He was a big man, strongly built, with a short, black beard, and, each time she saw him, she pictured him in some firelit medieval hall, eating ravenously and flinging the bones to large, lean wolfhounds who rose out of the shadows behind him.

  “You’re looking wonderful,” he said, holding her at arms’ length. “Nearly as good as Brigid’s supper. Come on in and have a drink.”

  She followed him into the kitchen, smiled at Brigid and stooped to pat Blot and fondle his long, soft ears.

  “I haven’t brought anything,” she said repentantly. “I was hoping to drive into Ashburton to buy some special chocolates but the mist was so thick I lost my nerve.”

  “Don’t give it a thought” Brigid, busy at the Aga, shook her head, dismissing such a notion. “Have some wine and sit down. Don’t give Blot any more Pringles, Humphrey, or he’ll slobber on Louise.”

  “You wouldn’t do diat, would you, old chap?” Humphrey passed Louise her glass and paused to fill Brigid’s to the top. “Drink up, love,” he said, “but don’t stop the good work.”

  “I was telling him about Oscar,” said Brigid, frying small pieces of bacon, “and how you had to come and get the key.”

  Louise sat down at the table, keeping Blot beside her. Good manners fought with a desperate desire to change the subject but she could think of nothing to say.

  “So what did you think of our Thea?” asked Humphrey. “One of the nicer sorts of nutter, I think. Don’t you?”

  Louise smiled politely, vaguely, while Brigid said, “Honesdy, darling, you are so rude,” and Humphrey topped up his own glass.

  “Quite potty,” he insisted. “But fun. We were all dumbfounded when George married her. He was having an affair with another woman, you know, and then, all of a sudden, he ups and marries Thea.”

  “Really?” murmured Louise, busy with Blot.

  “Poor Felicity,” said Brigid, suddenly serious. “How awful all that was. Still, Thea’s made George very happy.”

  “Felicity was terrifying,” said Humphrey cheerfully. “An absolute harpy. Thea may be potty but she’s terribly sweet with it. The little girls are delightful but Hermione particularly is just like her. I hear that you met Hermione too. She’s a sweetie, isn’t she?”

  “That smells wonderful, Brigid,” said Louise desperately. “I’m absolutely starving.”

  “Oh, good.” Brigid transferred the pieces of crispy bacon on to plates containing slices of avocado sprinkled with tiny spinach leaves. “Do you think you could get Mummie, Humphrey? She’s probably forgotten the time… Ah,” as they heard a yodelling in the hall, “that’s probably her.”

  “Good evening, everyone. Oh, good. I’m so glad you didn’t wait for me, Brigid. Sorry I’m late.”

  “That’ll do,” said Humphrey good-naturedly, accepting her kiss, whilst Brigid floundered between excuse and apology. “No needling the cook or you’ll be out on your ear.”

  She grinned at him wickedly. “Did you finish the crossword this morning?”

  “Naturally. Bet you didn’t get the ‘Soviet privileged class’ clue.”

  She made a face like a naughty child and he roared with laughter, pulling out a chair for her, pouring some wine, whilst she quizzed him on the other clues. Louise, gasping with relief, gave Blot a final pat and sat up straight As Brigid put a plate before her, she saw that the thin hand was trembling slightly and she glanced up at her quickly. The huge, violet eyes were darkly shadowed, the thin lips compressed. For a moment Louise forgot her own problems and touched the older woman lightly on the arm.

  “That looks good,” she said warmly. Brigid smiled quickly, almost nervously, and Louise felt a huge suige of affection for her. “Your sugar sack looks pretty good too.”

  Brigid’s face relaxed and she chuckled, looking down at her linen overshirt and narrow moleskin jeans. “I really must do something about clothes. Perhaps we could go to Exeter and have a session. But you wouldn’t want to waste time in a city, not when you’re on your hols.”

  “I should love it,” answered Louise firmly.

  Humphrey gave a great shout of laughter, which almost drowned Frummie’s malicious cackle, and Brigid rolled her eyes with humorous despair as she turned away to give Frummie her plate.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said sweetly. “What a clever child it is. So delicious. I’ve invited Margot to stay for a few weeks in the autumn and then I’ll do a return match.”

  “But I shan’t be here in the autumn,” complained Humphrey. “I shall be stuck in the Bahamas.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” said Brigid sarcastically. “How you’ll miss the rain and the storms. All that sea and sunshine. However will you manage?”

  “With great difficulty,” said Humphrey comfortably, “but I’ll be home for Christmas.”

  Brigid thought: What a Christmas, if I have to tell him we owe thousands of pounds!

  She sat down and stared at her plate, reached for her glass, caught Humphrey’s eye. He raised his glass to her and she saw again that compassionate, anxious look. Was it possible—her gut twisted at the thought—that he’d heard some rumour about Jenny’s disaster and, not knowing how she herself was implicated, was feeling sympathetic? She grinned at him, swallowing down fear, raising her glass in return.

  “So what is it, exactly,” asked Louise, picking up her fork, “that you’ll be doing in the Bahamas?”

  LATER, WHEN their guests had gone and they were washing up together, Brigid gathered up her courage.

  “Is everything OK, darling?” she asked.

  Humphrey turned from the sink and dried his hands on the towel.

  “Oh, love,” he said, “no, it isn’t. I’ve been wondering how to’ break the news. I’ve had a letter from my father. You remember Agneta died last year? Well, he’s coming back to England and he’s asked if we can put him up for a few months. I simply didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “NIGHTCAP?” ASKED Frummie invitingly, pausing by the gate. “Just a quick one?”

  A cool breeze had sprung up, tweaking at the mist so that stars could be seen in the darkening sky, and carrying with it the music of the river, faint but insistent in the valley below. Frummie gave a tiny squawk as a bat swooped over her head and as Louise
caught at her arm they both staggered, a litde off balance. Humphrey had been very generous with the wine.

  “That would be lovely.” She was aware of Frummie’s loneliness, her sense of isolation in these wild, empty spaces of the moor, and felt a tremor of empathy. Tonight, she had no desire to be alone either.

  The living room was warm, mysterious; the scarlet flames flickering behind the glass door of the wood-burner sent long shadows dancing up the walls and gleamed on polished wood. Frummie switched on a lamp and the room settled abruptly into normality; no ghosts here. Louise sat down, still clasping her shawl about her, and, without thinking or asking permission, opened the door of the stove.

  “Put a log on,” Frummie advised. “Stir it up a bit“.

  “I love open fires,” said Louise dreamily. “We don’t have one in London. Martin says it’s too much mess and it never seems worth it when I’m here. It’s just too early or too late. It seems luxurious to light a fire in May.”

  “Oh, I can’t be doing with all that nonsense.” Frummie gave her a well-filled glass and sat opposite. “If it’s cold, it’s cold. Doesn’t matter whether it’s January or July. It’s bone-chilling up here, dank and damp and miserable. You need fires to keep the houses habitable.”

  “You don’t really like Dartmoor, do you?” asked Louise lightly.

  Frummie leaned her head back against a cushion and crossed her pointed, bony knees.

  “I hate the country,” she said. “Hate it, simply.”

  Louise remained silent. To sympathise farther might sound like inquisitiveness, so she sat, surprised by an unfamiliar sensation of peace. Frummie seemed quite content to let the silence continue and they stayed like this for a while, sipping occasionally, relaxing, watching the flames. Without looking at her, Louise was aware of an odd companionship with the older woman, a natural ease and comfort, which seemed to flow from some distant point in time past where women grouped together, working, sharing, supporting: laughter and tears, joys and tragedies, all these would have been contained, worked through, borne communally. Such problems as hers would have been understood; she would have received advice, comfort, nourishment…

  Her head jerked and her eyes flew open. She’d been nearly asleep, lulled by the warmth without and within. Frummie remained quite still, lying almost horizontally in her chair, her glass—now half empty—supported on her chest; her eyes glinted, a liquid blue gleam in the firelight.

  “Frummie.” Louise still felt sleepy, her voice was slow and heavy. “How can you tell if someone’s having an affair?”

  Frummie displayed no undue surprise at this question. Her eyes swivelled towards her guest and the corners of her mouth turned down in its characteristic smile.

  “You mean if your husband’s having an affair/’ she amended drily.

  Louise frowned thoughtfully. She’d drunk a great deal of her whisky and she wasn’t used to it. “No,” she said, quite kindly. “No, I don’t mean that. I’m not married to Martin.”

  “Not?” With an effort Frummie dragged herself into a less supine position. “Not married to him? But you said you married him because you were dreary, respectable and middle class.”

  Louise looked at her with undisguised admiration. “Fancy you remembering that.”

  “I’m not senile yet,” she answered with a great deal of dignity. “So you’re not married?”

  Louise thought about it. “Not to Martin,” she answered at last.

  “Well!” Frummie raised her eyebrows—and her glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid. So …” She seemed to lose her grip on the subject for a moment. “What was the question?”

  “I think Martin’s having an affair but I’m not sure.”

  Frummie frowned, concentrating. “What’s made you suspicious?”

  “He’s all bright and shiny. Nothing gets him down. He’s … he’s ebullient.” She said the word with care.

  “Presents?” asked Frummie immediately—but Louise shook her head.

  “Not presents. But he’s very … solicitous.” She was surprised at how many sibilants the word contained and she repeated it quietly to herself:

  “Ah.” Frummie looked like a knowing old bird, head on one side, eyes bright, nose sharp. “Does he mention anyone in particular?”

  “No. At least, not like you mean. There’s a woman in marketing but she drives him mad. He goes on about how inefficient and bossy she is. And she’s a dyed blonde. Martin hates that.”

  Exhausted by such an effort, Louise rested her head against the back of the chair, her eyes closing.

  “It’ll be her.” Frummie sounded quite confident.

  Louise forced her eyes open. “No. He can’t stand her. I told you.”

  “You’ll see.” Frummie sounded almost triumphant, pleased by such a ready solution to the problem. “You look tired, child. Bed-timer’

  “But I’m so comfortable.” Louise found that Frummie was standing beside her chair and she caught her hand with sudden desperation. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Frummie sounded infinitely sad, “which of us does? Margot’s bed’s still made up. Could you cope with her sheets?”

  “Yes,” said Louise, thankfully. “Oh yes, please.”

  She stumbled behind Frummie into the bedroom and, kicking off her shoes, collapsed into the bed.

  Frummie pulled the quilt over her and stood for a moment, staring down at her.

  “You have to have a strong head for malt whisky,” she murmured kindly. “Not married. Well, well, well.”

  She wandered unsteadily from the room, visited the bathroom, sat for a moment on the side of her bed. The moon peered, not quite full, staring in at the window. She stared back belligerently, rocking a litde.

  “Bugger off!” she said distinctly and, turning her back, she pulled her blanket over her head and fell into instant slumber.

  CHAPTER 11

  “I’ve never even met him,” said Brigid wretchedly, for the third or fourth time. Sleep seemed out of the question and, although they were now upstairs, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed whilst Humphrey lay stretched out, ankles crossed, his arms folded behind his head. “I know you’ve told me things but, let’s face it, your stories about him have hardly endeared him to me.”

  Humphrey was silent. It would be specious, at this late stage, to attempt to gloss over the negative aspects of his father’s character; nor would Brigid be taken in by such an attempt. He thought of one or two remarks but realised that each of them was open to criticism. The obvious retort was “It’s OK for you. You’ll be in the Bahamas.” He could point out that they’d already taken her mother in for the rest of her life, whilst his father only asked for a few months’ sanctuary, but he was waiting for Brigid to think of that one for herself. Meanwhile, Humphrey remained carefully silent.

  Brigid looked at him. “And what about our autumn visitors? Do I tell them they can’t come?”

  “I was wondering,” said Humphrey, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, “whether he could use the stable wing. If either of the boys comes home they’ll have to muck in together.”

  “You’re joking?” Brigid’s voice was laced with panic. “I don’t want him in the house with me. He’d have to use the kitchen, you know that. That’s why we had to give Mummie the cottage. The wing isn’t self-contained.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason,” said Humphrey gently, “was it? The thing is that Frummie is a… long-term proposition. Father’s asking for three months with us before he moves into his other place.”

  Brigid thought: Three months with me. With me, not with you. You won’t be here!

  She drew up her knees, her long arms locked around them, and rocked herself, resting her head on her knees.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice muffled. “You’re thinking three months isn’t much to ask since we’ve allowed my mother to have the other cottage with no strings attached. I know all that. It’s simply that I don’t know yo
ur father and… you won’t be here.”

  Humphrey uncrossed his legs and pressed one of them against her thigh. It was a loving gesture, showing a kind of solidarity, an understanding. She wasn’t accusing him even if she might be thinking it. Brigid was too fair-minded for that; she was just stating the case.

  “It seems he has nowhere else to go,” he said after a moment “Well, he has one or two friends who could fit him in for short bursts but it would mean being shunted about like a parcel. He’s a bit old for that sort of thing.”

  Brigid raised her head. “I’m surprised you should care after the way he behaved to your mother,” she said protestingly.

  Humphrey shifted a little. “Are you? You shouldn’t be.”

  “Oh, I know all that,” she cried. “I know it’s the same with me and Mummie. It’s just… too much.” She feared that she might suddenly burst into tears and caught herself back from the edge of such self-indulgence. She longed to tell him about Jenny, to share her fears with him, but was even more afraid of his reaction. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s just a bit of a shock. The thought of having both of them here is… slightly overwhelming. But I can’t have him with me in the house for three months, Humphrey. I simply can’t.”

  “OK.” He sounded quite calm. “That’s perfecdy reasonable. In that case, it’ll have to be the cottage. Have you got any October bookings yet?”

  She shook her head. “The Davisons aren’t coming this year. He’s had a slight stroke and they’ve cancelled. Louise’s down for the middle of September and that’s it, at the moment.”

  “Right. So I’ll write and tell him that he can be here from the last week in September. He’ll have to find somewhere else for the first two weeks. It seems he needs somewhere from early September until the end of November but I don’t think it’s too much to ask if he has to stay with one of his friends for a week or so to begin with. We might lose a bit of income for those three months but I expect we can live with that. Thank God he doesn’t need a permanent home or my retirement plans would be right up the spout. We can’t afford to lose another cottage.”