A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  As she climbed the stairs, she thought about Louise again. “Not married,” she murmured. “Well, well well.”

  Louise passed through the wicket gate and stood quite still, transfixed by an incredulous joy. The waters of the reservoir, polished and level as a metal shelf, mirrored the heavenly blue of the sky; dark reflections of tall pines striking across its surface, clear and sharp as paper cutouts. The soft, bright green needles of the larch shimmered, delicately luminous in the sunshine, whilst, somewhere out of sight, the cuckoo called. His evocative cry echoed in the woods and across the lake; speaking of other springs, of May mornings belonging to some distant past, and touching the melancholic, restless, plangent chords of undefined longing which vibrated in her heart.

  The song ceased abrupdy and with it her unearthly moment of ecstatic joy, although the restlessness remained. Concentrating carefully, determinedly, on the beauty of this magic place she set off around the reservoir. The path was well defined, gravelly, and running, for the most pit, at the water’s edge. To her left, beneath the pines, delicate white wood anemones flowered palely on the dense, fibrous, springy carpet of brown needles. It was warm, here, in the shelter of the trees, and presently she stopped at one of the benches, taking a Thermos from her rucksack. She sat staring out across the water, drinking her coffee, a resolution beginning to form at the back of her mind. It was important to make some kind of gesture, to be proactive, before she was engulfed by the rising tide of fear. Already it had breached the strong wall of her defences and now it lapped at the edges of her reason. Who knows what might happen if she simply allowed herself to be swamped, rendered helpless and floundering? This tide of fear, sucking and swallowing at the solid footholds of her security, was already uncovering her weaknesses, her terrors and her guilt.

  It was anxiety about Martin which had fractured her confidence, allowing the first trickle of unease to seep into the locked, defended fortress of her mind. In addressing the fear of his infidelity, she might shore up the crumbling wall again. Sitting on the bench, the wood, rough and splintery beneath her fingers, her eyes on the water, which washed gently, demurely, against the tiny semi-circle of gritty beach, she hardened the resolve, steeling herself to it. The hot coffee was a stimulant, giving courage, and now she swung her rucksack on her back with a lighter heart and stepped out more courageously.

  Back at the car park, she changed her walking boots for Timberlands, took off her fleece and climbed into the car. It was hot, almost airless, and she wound down the window whilst she fiddled for a tape. She needed something in keeping with this new decisive mood and chose her Alison Moyet tape, which she sang to, defiantly, until she reached Ashburton and parked again.

  In the telephone box, she took out her BT chargecard and gave the operator the number of Martin’s mobile telephone. He answered immediately, his voice slightly wary.

  “It’s me,” she said, trying hard to sound as she usually did. “Surprise!”

  “It is indeed, sweetie.” His voice was warm now, quite in control. “I wondered if it could be, although I didn’t recognise the number.”

  “Recognise…?”

  “It comes up in the litde box.” He sounded amused. “You really will have to move into the twenty-first century one of these days, my sweet. What’s the problem?”

  “Problem? Why should there be a problem? Can’t I telephone you without there being a problem?”

  “Well, of course.” He sounded very slightly nonplussed. “It’s just that we don’t usually—do we?—on our holidays. Not that I can telephone you, anyway, immured in the fastnesses of Dartmoor. Is everything OK?”

  “Yes.” She deliberately drew the word out, implying doubt. “It’s just that… I’m missing you.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” his laughter was forced, “that’s nice.”

  “Is it?”

  “How do you mean?” The least, the very least tinge of irritation coloured his question.

  “I just wondered if it really is nice. To be missed, I mean. I was thinking that I might come home early.”

  “Early?” sharply. “How early?”

  “I don’t really know. A few days. How about you?”

  “Me? Well, to be honest, Louise, it would be damned difficult. After all, it’s not quite that simple, is it?”

  His extravagant use of endearments was habitual and she noted both the sudden and unusual demotion from “sweetie” and also the annoyance which he was now making very little effort to mask but reminded herself that both could be perfectly reasonable, that there was nothing necessarily suspicious about his reaction.

  “How are the boys?”

  ’The…? Oh, fine. Absolutely fine. But that’s the point I can’t just chuck it in and go home, can I?”

  “Can you only play golf in foursomes?”

  “Sweetie, please. I’m not being unsympathetic but what is this all about?”

  Quite suddenly she remembered the man in the train: the impatience echoing beneath his careful question; his endearment almost an insult.

  “Oh, I’m just feeling a bit low. I know it’s not the norm but there we are.” She hesitated. “By the way, Martin, what’s the name of the hotel? I might telephone again this evening.”

  A silence. When he spoke his voice was cool.

  “I’ve told you a million times, sweetie, haven’t I? Do what you’ve just done and telephone the mobile. It worked, didn’t it? We don’t want people chasing all over, looking for me. I might be in the bar, or in the dining room, or anywhere. The boys often like to go on somewhere else for a pint after dinner. I promise you, it’s the safest thing to do.”

  “Oh, I was thinking of later than that. Much later.”

  “Not too late, I hope,” His jocular tone was unconvincing. “I get pretty knackered with all the fresh air. We walk a fair few miles, most days, you know. Anyway, whatever time it is the answer’s still the same. Use the mobile. It’s cheaper than hotel rates and I imagine you’re using your charge-card.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. But where are you, Martin? I know you’re touring some of the golf courses in the northwest, aren’t you? What are they like?”

  “Pretty good.” His anxiety was palpable. “Look, I know it’s not your scene, sweetie, is it, a blow-by-blow of the golf courses of the British Isles? Not really? So why this fit of the glooms, d’you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She could understand how infuriating she must sound, noted his unsubtle change of direction. “It’s just not working very well for me this time, for some reason. I’m not feeling too well, which doesn’t help.”

  “In what way ‘not well’?”

  There was none of that caressing, loving anxiety which had so characterised their early relationship. It had been his chief attraction and oh! how she had needed that tender, caring awareness. Now the authentic note was missing; she was a tiresome appendage who could not, however, be brushed aside too lightly.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m OK, really.” Her voice was much more cheerful, deliberately light. “Forget it. I’m being an idiot. Sorry, darling. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “That’s very sweet of you.” His relief, his gratitude at being let off the hook, blossomed into an unnatural excess of warmth. “Honestly, honey, I’m missing you too. Well, of course I am. But I can’t simply walk out on the boys, can I?” He appealed to her now with confidence in her response, chuckling a litde, luscious with thankfulness. “Now look, sweetie. Have a word with a pharmacist or something, if you’re a bit off colour. Could you do that?”

  “Oh, it’s not that important. Just the wrong time of the month. You know?”

  “Ah, I seeV He was completely reassured. “Well, if you’re certain…?”

  “Quite certain. I suppose I’d better let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing. I hope I haven’t disturbed anything; put anyone off their stroke.”

  “Of course not. But if you’re absolutely sure, perhaps I ought to be catching up with the bo
ys.”

  “Positive. How’s Alec’s ankle?”

  “Alec’s…?”

  “He sprained his ankle, didn’t he? I thought there was some question as to whether it would hold up?”

  “Oh, his ankle. Sorry. I lost my signal there for a moment. Thought you said his uncle. He’s fine. Fine. The walking’s doing it good. Well, sweetie …”

  “Sure. Off you go. Enjoy. I might phone again sometime.”

  She hung up. It was odd that she’d almost enjoyed the contest; that during the brief battle of wits she’d been able to ignore the gnawing, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She crossed the road and walked back to the car park, pausing, as she always did, to look at the books displayed in the window of the Dartmoor Bookshop. Usually there was nothing she enjoyed more than a browse amongst the tantalising selection of second-hand books, and a chat with Barbara or Anne, but now she felt unequal to any social intercourse, however friendly. She felt suddenly tired, depressed, and she needed time alone, to think, to sift her information, weigh shades of expression, consider his words. Yet in her heart she already knew the truth of it.

  What would she do without Martin? How would she manage without him, standing, as he did, between her and the past? She simply mustn’t think about it Fear plucked in her throat, scraped along her veins, squeezed her heart Trembling and confused she delved for her keys and unlocked the door. Getting into the car, she sat for a few moments. Where should she go? To whom should she turn? Brigid was her first thought: but Brigid was sharing precious time with Humphrey and it was impossible to imagine a scenario which included taking Humphrey into her confidence; anyway, it was clear that at present Brigid had her own problems.

  Louise shook her head, resisting weak tears. She longed to rest, to stop the clamouring of memories in her head. In her mind’s eye she saw a bright, airy room full of watery reflections; a cat asleep in a chair. She remembered an atmosphere of warm, comforting friendliness. Switching on the engine she drove out of the town, heading towards the coast.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jemima sat staring at the computer screen, checking dates, noting which cottages would need cleaning on Saturday morning. She hated changeover day: harrying recalcitrant holidaymakers, who had no desire to go home, so as to make all fresh and clean for those who were already on their way to the West Country. She’d compiled her list and was about to telephone—in order of reliability—the various members of her team of assistants when the doorbell buzzed.

  “Rats!” she muttered, replacing the receiver, glancing at her watch. She left her litde office and crossed the hall to the front door. Louise was standing outside. She looked tired and desperate, in a muted kind of way, as if she were holding herself under strict control.

  “What a lovely surprise. Come on in.” Jemima stood aside, smiling warmly but feeling anxious. Their last meeting had ended somewhat inconclusively. “I can’t tell you what good timing this is.”

  “Is it?” Louise sounded relieved, although her smile was slipping a little, and she looked about her as though puzzled to find herself in Jemima’s flat. “It was … I just thought… I was driving about, you see…”

  “Oh, I know just what you mean.” Jemima took charge, herding her towards the sitting room. “That feeling of being at a loose end and being quite incapable of deciding what you should do next.”

  “That’s it.” Louise looked at her, pleased with such ready understanding. “I just couldn’t think straight and then I found myself here.”

  “Brilliant.” Jemima scooped MagnifiCat from the sofa and almost pushed Louise down in his place. “I have a wonderful excuse now to stop and make some tea. Work is very dull sometimes, isn’t it, and it’s always great to have an excuse to stop. Sit there in the sun while I switch the kettle on.”

  She hurried away to the kitchen, almost afraid to leave her. There was a strange blankness in Louise’s eyes which made Jemima feel nervous. Whilst the kettle began to boil, and in between preparing the tray, Jemima ran back to the door several times just to check up; but Louise was sitting quite still, staring at nothing. Her hand lay on Magnificat’s back but she seemed utterly unaware of his presence. Jemima’s own hand shook a little as she poured boiling water into the teapot. She had a horrid premonition that Louise’s state of mind might be in some way related to their conversation about infidelity and she felt unqualified to deal with the possible result. She decided to keep the conversation casual if she could.

  “So how’s everyone at Foxhole?” She put the tray on the low glass table. “Is Humphrey still there?”

  Louise frowned a litde, almost as if she were wondering who Humphrey might be, and Jemima felt another frisson of anxiety.

  “Yes. Yes, he’s there.” Louise took her cup. “Sorry. We all had dinner together last night, and drank rather a lot. It was very late by the time we got to bed and I was up at dawn. My head feels as if it’s full of cotton wool.”

  “Oh, that’s more or less standard for me,” said Jemima cheerfully. “I’m a Bear of very little Brain. Dear old Humphrey has a generous hand with the wine, hasn’t he? Brigid will miss him when he goes off to the Bahamas. It’s a long way off and six months is a long time.” And ten out of ten for banality, she jeered silently to herself. “Of course, she’s used to it,” she added desperately, when Louise made no attempt to respond.

  There was a short silence.

  “I telephoned Martin earlier.” Louise seemed unaware that Jemima had spoken. “He didn’t want to tell me where he’s staying. Don’t you think that’s odd? Suspicious, I mean?”

  Jemima stared at her. She thought: Help me, someone.

  Louise sipped her tea, frowning again. “It’s the little things,” she murmured, after a moment, rather as though she were talking aloud to herself. “Tiny things give you away. It wasn’t Alec’s ankle that was sprained, you see. It was Steve’s. It was a test question.”

  “Right.” Jemima nodded, swallowed some tea, smiled anxiously.

  “But he didn’t pick it up. He’d forgotten.” Louise shook her head. “Unlikely, don’t you think, if he’s playing golf with him every day?”

  “Absolutely!” Jemima’s response was so enthusiastic that Louise glanced at her, jolted momentarily from her preoccupation. “Pretty difficult to forget,” sheer nerves moved Jemima to elaborate, “if they’re together all the time.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Louise set her cup in its saucer and yawned suddenly. “Sorry.” She pushed back the cloud of dark, curly hair and closed her eyes for a second. “I am just so tired. I can’t think straight.”

  Jemima forgot her own fear at the sight of the strained, pinched face. “You look exhausted,” she said gently. “Don’t talk for a bit. Just relax in the sun.”

  “It’s a bit rude.” Louise tried to smile but the effort was too great and, for one appalling moment, Jemima thought that she was going to weep. Her face crumpled, her lips trembling, her brow furrowing as if in protest at some internal pain, but she was too tired for any emotional outburst and her face smoothed into a kind of weary indifference. “Sorry,” she murmured again.

  “Please.” Jemima moved the tray away. “It’s not a problem. You just need some rest. Sleep, if you can, while I make a few telephone calls and then we’ll have another chat. You could stay for supper.”

  “Thanks. That’s so … kind.”

  Her eyes were almost closed; her head rolled sideways. Standing, the tray in her hands, Jemima looked down at her.

  She thought: It’s almost as if she’s too unhappy to be able to care. It’s like something’s given way. Finding out that she’s right about Martin, I suppose.

  She edged quietly from the room, pulled the door so that it was not quite shut and, having dumped the tray in the kitchen, she hurried into her study, closing the door behind her. She dialled quickly, one ear straining towards the sitting room, but there was no reply from the telephone at Foxhole and she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After
a moment, she made the few calls necessary to her work and stood up. Going out quietly into the hall, creeping up to the door, she peered into the sitting room. Louise was soundly asleep; relaxed into the deep cushions, bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, MagnifiCat curled beside her. Jemima stood watching her for a few moments and then went into the kitchen and poured herself some more tea. She sipped at the hot liquid, her face thoughtful, and then, taking her cup with her, she went back to her study to try to telephone Brigid again.

  FRUMMIE COULD hear the telephone ringing as she stood watching the doves. Sometimes, when she knew that Brigid had gone off in the car, she went into the courtyard to sit on the bench in the sunshine and look at the flowers in the big wooden tubs. Her own small patch of garden faced south too, but it was open to the hills and moorland and Frummie felt more at home here, flanked by stone walls. She preferred this enclosed, ordered space, the neat round cobbles, the bright flowers in terracotta pots and painted tubs. Up here, on the moor, summer arrived a little later than in the valleys and coastal villagesbut Brigid always managed some clever arrangement, some warm splash of colour, in this sheltered corner. In January and February, snowdrops and winter aconites grew in a container fixed to a wooden post over which ivy trailed, making a charming varicoloured backdrop to the white and yellow blooms; in March purpley-blue, wineglass-shaped crocuses blossomed in the terracotta crocus-pot whilst dwarf narcissi and puschkinias filled the painted tubs, and daffodils nodded in long troughs against the walls.

  Now, in May, the tulips, tall and elegant in their stone bowls edged with pansies and hyacinthus, were almost over but, as she sat on the bench, listening to the cooing of the doves in the sunshine, Frummie inhaled the wallflowers’ heady scent and was transported back forty years in time. Even then, before people had begun to do such clever things with tubs and containers, wallflowers had grown in the narrow border beneath the windows. There had been a bench too— not this elegant affair of wood and cast iron but a simple rough bench, brought from one of the stables and placed in the angle of the wall to catch the sunshine. It was here that she’d read the letter from Richard, inviting her back to London for some party or social gathering; a light-hearted, amusing letter but underpinned with a deeper emotion. The postman, bumping down the track in his van, pausing for a chat, could have had no idea that he’d delivered such a momentous package.