A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  Brigid’s stomach contracted with terror. “I suppose we’d manage,” she muttered. “You’ll have your pension and your gratuity.”

  “We shall need it,” he prophesied cheerfully. “I’m very expensive. Anyway, we want to make up for lost time, don’t we? We’re going to have lots of fun together.”

  He was trying to cheer her up, to help her to look beyond the temporary problem of his father, but his words struck her like blows. How could she possibly tell him that there might be no cottage or that the mortgage would have to be substantially increased to deal with Jenny’s disaster?

  “Of course we are.” She struggled to sound convincing.

  “Well, then. Come and give us a cuddle.”

  She crawled up the bed and surrendered herself to his warm embrace.

  “I shall miss you,” she mumbled—and realised that it was terribly true; that she couldn’t bear the thought of six long months without his reassuring bulk and steady cheerfulness. Her arms tightened about him and he held her closely, entwining his legs with hers.

  “Home for Christmas,” he reminded her, longing to reassure her, angry to have to leave her in such a predicament but wise enough to know that railing at fate was pointless and exhausted one’s mental resources. “What shall I bring you back from the Bahamas?”

  She laughed, comforted by his presence, momentarily resigned, filled with a kind of desperate carelessness. “A coral necklace,” she said. “Beautiful enough to drive all my friends wild with envy.”

  “Done!” he said—and bent to kiss her.

  TOWARDS DAWN, Louise woke with a dry mouth and pounding head. She lay for some moments, frowning, until she remembered—somewhat fuzzily—the events of the preceding evening. Stiff with embarrassment she tried to remember exactly how much she had told Frummie, wondered how much the older woman would recall. They’d both had far too much to drink but she suspected that Frummie’s capacity for alcohol was much greater than her own and could only trust that she’d have too much tact to mention Louise’s indiscretions.

  Groaning quietly she sat up, clutching her head, realising that she was still fully dressed. Slipping her feet into her shoes, picking up her shawl as she passed through the living room, she let herself out into the cool, fresh morning. The soft, clean air washed over her like water and the familiar distant sound of the river calmed her troubled spirit. In her own kitchen, she poured a tumbler of orange juice, gulped it back greedily and refilled the glass. Sipping more slowly now, she climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom to switch on the shower. She stripped, dropping her crumpled clothes in a pile, and stood, head bowed, beneath the hot jets of water, letting them stab and prickle on the back of her neck. Gradually, weariness, stiffness, the patina of sticky grubbiness were slowly washed away, gurgling with the water, down the plughole.

  Dressed again in clean jeans and a warm, fleecy shirt, she stood at the living-room window, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the sunrise. Rosy light, streaming from the east, touched the world alive; reaching with long bright fingers into valleys and combes; smoothing rough, stony tors with gold; caressing dark, massed woodland into fiery, leafy filigree. The doves whirled up, their wings dazzlingly white against the pure tender blue of the sky, swooping and wheeling in an aerial dance of delight.

  The voice, behind her, seemed to drift in from the hall, plaintive, anxious. “I’ve lost Percy, Mummy. Have you seen him anywhere?”

  Louise closed her eyes against the brightness of the doves’ wings, against her own hot tears. Tired, confused, she felt quite weak with a sudden onslaught of despair.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice shook. “So terribly sorry.”

  She turned, staring round the empty room, into the deserted hall beyond, and then with trembling hands switched on her radio and made some coffee.

  She thought: I’m going mad. What shall I do?

  Flight was the only solution: flight into busyness, planning, doing; escape through exhaustion so that there was no time to think about the past. Only it wasn’t working any more; her carefully built defence mechanism was crumbling. Why? Why now?

  She thought: It’s because of Martin. The shock of it has unbalanced me. Concentrate on Martin. It can’t be Carol. Frummie’s wrong. He can’t stand her. It can’t be… she’s so obvious. Everything he loathes.

  Gradually, by sheer willpower, she drew away again from the abyss of that other, darker fear, and began to make some breakfast. Singing with the radio, talking to herself, she drove back the haunting echoes, back behind the wall which had contained them for so long.

  “I KNOW it’s early,” said Jemima ruthlessly, “but you’ve got a long way to go. And I have my reputation to think about”

  He stared up at her blinkingly, his face creased with puzzled, unwilling irritation. “What time is it?”

  ’Time you were gone. Coffee’s ready.”

  “Can’t you bring it in here?”

  “No,” she said—and went away.

  He dropped back, face down in the pillow, but he was already mentally alert, considering. He’d broken one of his rules but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it and he was wondering how much further he might go. Not just one night—but two. He felt a clutch of self-preservation which he immediately combated with bravado. So what? He was down in the West Country on business for three days—nothing odd about that—and he’d carefully covered his tracks but it was still a great risk. He rolled over, stood up and, dragging his bathrobe round him, wandered out into the passage. The sitting room was swimming in bright watery light and he frowned against it as he tied the towelling belt around his narrow waist The cat with the outlandish name was sitting in a basket chair staring at him with an inimical gaze.

  “I don’t like you either, Buster,” he muttered. ‘Why don’t you go catch a mouse? Be useful, why not?”

  Jemima came in from the balcony and raised her eyebrows. “Not dressed yet? Well, have some coffee now you’re here.”

  He tried to catch her as she passed but she eluded him so naturally that he wondered if she’d even noticed his attempt. He sat down, a slight dissatisfaction tingeing his sense of physical wellbeing.

  “You seem to be in a hurry to get rid of me.”

  Jemima smiled, poured some coffee and realised quite suddenly that she was bored with him. She was possessed by a great need to be alone. It might have been that conversation with Louise which had spoiled her contentment in his company but, whatever it was, the magic was gone. It had coloured that first evening and she’d been edgy when he’d arrived, unable to respond quite so readily. He’d been suspicious, disappointed, and she’d felt guilty enough to agree to a second night, but now she was regretting it. The familiar requirement to be here, in her own place, in solitude, was pressing in and she could hardly bear to sit across the table watching him drink his coffee. She was visited with an urgent desire to snatch his cup from him, propel him out of the door and throw his belongings out after him. It was such a ridiculous notion that she chuckled and then choked on her coffee.

  “What’s so funny?”

  His touchiness amused her even more and she was aware of that up thrust of joy, the reminder of wholeness: she was still free of any emotion which might bind her to him; she remained unaffected by his moods, uninvolved in his needs. He was not her responsibility and he had no power to render her happy or miserable. This being the case, she should leave him alone.

  “Nothing, really.” She answered his question, smiling at him. “An old joke. Not worth repeating. Do you want anything to eat? It’s quite a way down to Truro, so you mustn’t hang around or you’ll be late for your meeting.”

  “I was wondering—no, nothing to eat, thanks—whether I might drop in on my way back, tonight.”

  ’Tonight? Not possible.” She shook her head, giving him what she hoped was a regretful smile. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

  “All night?” The light, casual query did not quite hide his annoyance—and something more th
an that.

  “Maybe.” She made herself look directly at him. “I thought you didn’t do sleepovers?”

  “I don’t, not usually. You’re special.”

  She thought: Rats! So what do I do now?

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’s… nice. But it doesn’t change the situation tonight.”

  He thought: There’s something wrong. Is she backing off or playing hard to get? I don’t want to lose her but staying two nights has given her a lever. Watch it!

  “That’s a pity,” he said. “I might not be down for a while.”

  Jemima very nearly shrugged but stopped herself in time and he felt his irritation grow at her lack of response.

  “Well, then.” He pushed back his chair. “Better get dressed, I suppose.”

  She made no attempt to follow him, giving him no opportunity for any physical persuasion, and when he came back she was out on the balcony again. The cat gazed at him un-blinkingly and he stared at it with dislike.

  “All ready?” Jemima was watching him from the doorway and he forced a smile.

  “All ready. Thanks for… everything.”

  “It was a pleasure ” Was there mockery in her smile? He couldn’t tell. “Drive carefully.”

  “I shall.” She was already opening the door and he could only kiss her quickly, his bag knocking uncomfortably between them, before he was out on the stairs alone.

  “That was mean of me.” She scooped MagnifiCat into her arms and laid her cheek against his fur. “Oh, I know you don’t like him but I was a bit of a cow, throwing him out like that I’m such rubbish at relationships. I get it wrong: feel the right thing at an inappropriate moment, and vice versa, and then get panicky. Oh hell! Let’s have some breakfast.”

  She carried MagnifiCat into the kitchen and dumped him in a chair where he spread comfortably, soft and boneless as an old cushion. Whilst she put bread in the toaster and reached for some of Brigid’s home-made marmalade, she continued to wonder why none of her relationships ever quite gelled. So far and no further, seemed to be her motto. She thought of Brigid, her stable relationship with Humphrey and commitment to her children, and sighed sadly.

  “It’s not for me,” she told MagnifiCat. “Anyway, I only get married men. Perhaps they can tell that I’m a natural-born mistress.”

  She wished that Louise’s remarks had not made such an impression on her and wondered if Martin was actually having an affair or if Louise were simply imagining it Either way, it had certainly affected the last two nights. She glanced at the diary hanging on the wall and her spirits rose: lunch in The Wardroom with Mandy and Ness, who owned the Cove’s Quay Gallery.

  “I’ll bring you back a sardine,” she said teasingly to MagnifiCat—and went away to dress.

  FRUMMIE WOKE clear-headed and refreshed, and lay for a moment, gazing at the ceiling.

  “Not married,” she murmured. “Extraordinary.”

  She hopped out of bed, paused on the landing to see that the spare room bed was empty, and pattered downstairs.

  “Coffee,” she told herself, cheerfully. “Hot black coffee. Oh, poor Louise. She’ll be trying to remember exactly what she told me. You need a strong head for malt whisky,” and, humming aloud, she switched on the radio for her morning fix of Terry Wogan.

  CHAPTER 12

  “I’ll write to him then,” said Humphrey, as they washed up together after breakfast. “If you’re really sure. I’m sorry, love, I really am, but I think it’s the right thing to do. Which is very easy for me to say when I shall be thousands of miles away.”

  “It’s only difficult,” said Brigid slowly, “because of knowing how you feel about him. It’s like… being disloyal, if you see what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” he answered at once. “Don’t you think I feel the same way about Frummie? It drives me mad when she comes in here and starts winding you up. I long to smack her hard and sometimes I can barely keep my temper;”

  “It’s the unfairness of it,” agreed Brigid. “She behaves very badly and I feel guilty if I react to it Just because she’s old…”

  “It’s not simply that, though, is it? It’s because, when all’s said and done, she is your mother and some genetic instinct keeps you tied to her. Even now, something deep inside you still longs for her approval.”

  Brigid stared at him, shocked. “Is it so obvious?”

  Humphrey sighed. “Don’t you see that it’s because I feel exactly the same about the old man? I was furious with him when he remarried so quickly after Mother died. It was so heartless and it was clear as daylight that he’d been having an affair with Agneta for years. I shall never know if Mother knew. She was so loyal and gentle and devoted, and she was hardly buried before he was off. I know I wasn’t a child, I was at Dartmouth, but even so, twenty-one’s not very old. He couldn’t wait to be shot of me. Yet I still feel I owe him something. It’s like you and Frummie. We can’t just wash our hands of them the way they washed theirs of us.”

  “I know.” Brigid was saddened by the look on his face. “I wish I’d met your mother. Look, it’ll be OK. I doubt he’ll want to spend much time with me, anyway.”

  Humphrey gave a crack of laughter. “Frummie can deal with him,” he said, as he dried his hands. “They were made for each other.”

  Brigid grinned unwillingly. “That would solve all our problems. Where is he actually moving to, when he leaves here?”

  “Some village in the north, I think he said. The Scottish Borders. Perhaps he has friends there. Anyway, a nice, long way off. He can take Frummie with him and leave us in peace. Now, let’s forget both of them and decide what we’ll do today. Shall we go off somewhere and have lunch? Tor-cross? Dartmouth? Exeter?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said at once, hanging the damp cloth over the Aga rail. “Let’s go off on our own for the day. I don’t really mind where as long as we’re together.”

  He smiled, reaching out for her, hugging her. “We’ll take it as it comes. Let’s head for the coast and see what happens. Blot can come along and we’ll give him a walk at Start Point. It should be wonderful up on the cliffs today. How about that?”

  “Great,” she said, holding him tightly for a moment, refusing to think about anything but the few hours ahead. “Let’s get organised and creep away before anyone sees us.”

  FRUMMIE WATCHED them go. Unlike Brigid she took no great pleasure in her own company and viewed the day ahead with a lowering of spirits. Anyway, she was missing Margot. What fun it had been, remembering times past, gossiping, shredding their mutual friends’ reputations to pieces. Returning to her breakfast, Frummie reflected that there was nothing mealy-mouthed about Margot; no finer feelings hindered her outspoken views. In sixty years she’d barely changed. Of course, she was looking her age, poor dear—Frummie smiled her down-turned smile—and her legs were a terrible sight. Not that she’d ever had good legs. No, Frummie shook her head regretfully, even when Margot was a girl, her legs wouldn’t have looked out of place supporting a piano and the varicose veins certainly added to the problem. Now if only she were wise enough to lower her hems just a little— well, several inches—and why not? Perfectly fashionable and attractive—it would be a great deal better for everyone. And it was a mistake to be quite so determined in maintaining the original colour of her hair. If you were naturally very dark it was probably more sensible to go gracefully grey. Of course—Frummie patted her own hair absent-mindedly—it was simply good luck to be born blonde so that one’s hair gently faded into a kind of pretty, soft, fair colour but, in other cases, dyeing often did more harm than good, aesthetically speaking. It was certainly so in Margot’s case. Her poor old face, surrounded by those unnaturally bright chestnut locks, looked so … well, “haggard” was the word which came to mind. The contrast was so cruel: all that lovely young-looking hair and those terrible lines round the eyes. “Craggy” was putting it kindly—and unfortunately make-up was no substitute for a smooth skin. Now if only dear old Margot could
be persuaded not to ladle the foundation cream on—it positively congealed in those furrows which ploughed between her nose and chin; Polyfilla just wasn’t in it—she’d look so much better. But she wouldn’t listen. And as for that quite startling eye-shadow. Impossible to explain that her eyes were no longer that extraordinary green—if they ever had been. Actually, as far as she could remember, Margot’s eyes had always had a brownish tinge, rather muddy-looking, in fact, rather like her skin, and darling old Nanny had often remarked that Margot’s diet had a lot to answer for…

  As for the chin … Frummie shuddered sympathetically as she refilled her coffee cup. Of course, bones were all a question of luck and there was no doubt that, as one grew older, saggy jowls didn’t actually help— she smoothed her own sharp jawline reflectively—but it was sad that her dear old friend had such a bulldog look. One was reminded of darling Winston—though without question, it was much more acceptable in a man—but poor Margot’s cheeks simply swagged about when she laughed, no two ways about it. And it would be much more sensible if she simply accepted the fact that she was as blind as a bat and wore her spectacles all the time, instead of pretending that she didn’t need them except for driving and the television. Really, one got the least bit weary of reading the menus to her in pubs and watching her trying to focus on things only a few feet away. There were plenty of very attractive spectacles about these days and it was extremely unusual to reach the mid-seventies without needing them—she, Frummie, happened to be one of the lucky exceptions—but, really, why not face facts?

  Frummie shook her head and began to clear the table. Funny old Margot, what an old chum she was; it would be good to have her to stay in the autumn. She glanced at her watch: a bit too early to put on a video, perhaps. Sighing a little, feeling rather at a loose end, she decided that she’d strip Margot’s bed and wash the sheets. It was a gloriously sunny, warm day; a good drying day.