“Oh, Martin.” She shivered a litde, responding almost unconsciously to his sympathy. “It’s so hard, this going back.”
“My poor girl.” He sat beside her, putting an arm about her, rocking her slightly.
She leaned into him, comforted by his warmth and strength. At this moment it seemed that it might be easy to let it all go again, to turn blindly into this protection; to cocoon herself from the painful, prising fingers of memory. He too might be drawn back to her, his love roused again by her new dilemma. Sitting there together, she knew that they were both aware of the faint frissons of passion which speeded her breathing and tightened his embrace. She longed, suddenly, for the simple, uncomplicated release of tension which love-making would bring: the insistent, thought-denying excitement and the peaceful aftermath of spent emotion. Yet, even as she imagined it, she knew that it was no longer an option. This moment of tenderness between them was only possible because each of them had tacitly withdrawn: they were both emotionally free and so could now meet in this uncomplicated atmosphere of affection. They could not go back and any future relationship they might forge must remain uncomplicated by physical attraction.
She leaned away so as to be able to look up at him. “It must have been very difficult for you, Martin, at the beginning. Yet you handled it all so well. How did you know what to do for me? No one else did. Not even my own mother.”
He was distracted from his growing sexual need by the question, releasing her, moving away slightly as he considered it.
“The one thing that was clear to me,” he said, “was that you needed time. The shock was cataclysmic. People with horrific physical injuries are given plenty of time for their bodies to recover and it seemed that you needed the time for your emotional and spiritual side to heal. I think that it was probably wrong of me to encourage you to ignore it so completely but then I wasn’t certain what was happening inside your head, you see. I never quite knew whether you were coming to terms with it in your own way but I felt that you needed to be given the chance to be quiet.”
“Dear Martin. I did need space. I couldn’t …couldn’t bear to think of it. Of Hermione. I was mad, Martin, mad with grief and guilt and… I couldn’t bear the emptiness. The reason for living had gone and the world was … just nothing. If Rory had been there … No.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean that. Not that it was his fault. I’ve done that bit too: blaming him for not being there. I mean that if he had been there, so that we’d been dealing with it together, then it might not have felt so empty and I might have thought I could go on living for him. But he wasn’t there. For three weeks I was all alone with this terrible aching emptiness and when he got back it was too late. I was set in despair. Rock hard. Impermeable. He couldn’t get through to me. My mother could see that I was simply destroying everything around me and she was terribly angry. I can see why she was so desperate but she and I never could communicate properly.”
“She was … not particularly wise or tactful.”
Louise gave a short laugh. “No. Tact was never her strong suit but she was upset too, so I suppose we mustn’t be too harsh.”
“I could never quite understand why she simply left you at Faslane alone after the funeral.” He looked at her quickly. “Can you talk about this now?”
She nodded. “I think so. You have to grasp the fact that we just didn’t get on. She desperately wanted a son, you see. It was years before she conceived and then, after all the excitement, I was a girl. Later she had a miscarriage. It was a boy and I think she never quite forgave me for living whilst he had died. My father died in his forties and she and I simply drifted apart once I went to university. It was very sad but we had nothing in common. Not until I met Rory. She adored Rory. In her eyes he could do no wrong and he was very sweet to her but she was disappointed that Hermione was a girl. ‘A man like Rory needs a son,’ she said, as if I’d done it on purpose to thwart him—or her—and she never really cared much for Hermione. When we moved up north to Faslane it was a long trip for her to make and, since Rory was at sea so much as well, we hardly ever saw her. She came to the funeral, of course. ‘You can have more children,’ she said, and I knew she was still hoping that one day I would produce a grandson for her. You can understand her fury when it seemed that she would lose Rory. He was the nearest she’d ever got to a son of her own.”
“I have to admit,” said Martin, after a short silence, “that I never really took to your mother.”
Louise smiled. “I think the feeling was mutual,” she said.
“So what happened, down there in Devon, to bring all this to a head?”
“I met a child,” she said slowly, “a little girl called Hermione.” She felt him stiffen beside her. “I think that the floodgates were already beginning to give way and she was the weak part in my defences. Through her, everything else came flooding back.”
“And the final breakdown? I thought it was me. That awful telephone call—”
“No,” she said quickly. “It was a part of the process, I suppose, but it wasn’t that simple, Martin. What happened was that Hermione became ill. The symptoms sounded just like meningitis and quite suddenly it was like history replaying itself. It was the last straw.”
He was staring at her with horror. “She didn’t…?”
“No,” she said. “No, she didn’t die. I warned Thea who called a doctor and Hermione was taken to hospital. It was just a virus, not meningitis after all. She didn’t have septicaemia like … like my Hermione …”
He put his arm about her whilst she wept, holding her closely until she sat up straight, pushing back wisps of escaping hair, smiling at him.
“I am better,” she reassured him, “but I still get bad moments. It’s right for us to part, isn’t it?”
A long silence.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I think it is. If we stay together you won’t grow out of it.”
She was touched by his wisdom. “It’s not that I don’t care about you.” She needed to reassure him. “You do understand that, don’t you?”
He touched her cheek with his finger. “Sweetie,” he said gently, “I know you needed me and you are still very fond of me but you never really loved me, you know.”
She stared at him, shocked. For a brief moment she wondered if he might be protecting himself against any subsequent accusations regarding Carol but the next minute she had exonerated him. They were beyond that tit-for-tat small-mindedness.
“Of course I loved you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s Rory that you love. Then, now, and all the time between. I knew it but there was nothing to be done about it. You couldn’t have stayed together. Not then. It was a tragedy but it couldn’t be helped.”
“Don’t. Don’t say that. Don’t you think I feel guilty enough already?”
“It’s not your fault. The whole thing was like some ghasdy explosion, shattering your lives, and you and Rory were victims, damaged by the fallout.”
Rory. She saw him so vividly it was as if he stood beside her; heard his warm, flexible voice.
“So that’s that. Now! Where were we ? ”
“I daren’t think about Rory.” She was seized by panic. “I’m simply not ready yet. I can’t bear to think about how much I hurt him. I haven’t got that far. Talk to me, Martin. Tell me your news while I drink my tea.”
Her hand trembled on the cup but she was able to banish her fear and control the uprush of misery whilst his voice flowed gently, drifting somewhere above her head, calming and soothing her as it had done so often in the past.
CHAPTER 21
When the letter finally arrived it lay on the kitchen table for most of the day before Brigid read it. Her visitors were slow to pack up and vacate the cottage, leaving her barely enough time to clean and dust and polish, find the clean linen, put milk in the fridge, before the incoming holidaymakers were bumping down the track. These were regulars, old friends, so it was necessary to pause, to welcome them and make
them some tea, before leaving them to unpack and settle in.
“I must say, you earn your money,” observed Frummie, who was ostensibly reading a book in a deckchair in her garden but actually watching the proceedings with amused irritation. She was missing Louise; feeling edgy and at a loose end. “Making them tea and chatting for hours. More like arriving at a hotel than a holiday let.”
“I’ve known them for years.” Brigid paused, annoyed by the instinctive need to justify and explain. She knew very well that Frummie was making an oblique reference to the well-worn theme that her daughter had no time for her. “They’ve just driven all the way from Carlisle.”
Frummie shrugged. “There are tea shops on the way, I imagine.”
Brigid suppressed an urge to smack her hard. “I’m sure there are but they’ve become friends over the years. It seems the natural thing to do.”
“Oh well, that’s all right then. It’s just seeing you so tired, dashing about all day preparing for them, it seems rather a lot for you to have to entertain them too.”
“Well, it’s part of the job, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s all done now and I can relax. I thought I might go and have a drink before I think about supper.”
“Is that an invitation?”
Brigid’s heart sank. She was longing for the absolute quiet and privacy of her kitchen—or the sunny peacefulness of the courtyard—but she knew very well that it was a test: if she could do it for these visitors, she-could do it for her mother.
“Would you like a drink?” She tried to make the unexpected possibility of Frummie’s company sound like a pleasant surprise. “I’ve got some rather nice Australian Chardonnay Humphrey bought before he went away. I put a bottle in the fridge this morning so it should be just right. We could have it in the courtyard. It’s too hot to be indoors.”
“That would be very nice,” Frummie was feeling very slightly ashamed of herself. “If you’re absolutely sure?”
“Of course. I’ll go and get it See you in a minute.”
In the cool dimness of the hall she closed her eyes in frustration and swore beneath her breath. She longed to sit in a chair, with her shoes off, her head on a soft pillow, and simply sleep. If only she could sleep. In the kitchen, Blot’s tail thumped on the cold flagstones but he did not move. He lay on his tummy with his legs stretched fore and aft, a spreading, inky puddle on the grey slate, and she massaged him lightly with her foot, too weary even to crouch down to stroke him.
“Glasses,” she murmured to herself. “Bottle opener. God, I am so tired.”
She glanced at the letters, lying on the table where she had tossed them earlier, and fear trickled icily into her heart She moved the topmost envelope carefully aside so that she could see the letter from the Bank more clearly and stood quite still, staring at it. For this brief moment nothing existed outside this warm, shadowy kitchen: the clock’s measured tick, striking like blows upon her undefended head; the dog stirring about, seeking a colder space; the white envelope, sharp and clear upon the grainy wood. The whole of time and space seemed to be pressing down upon her, a weighty inverted triangle, and she was pinned by it, unmoving, immobile with fear.
“Don’t open it.” This was her first reaction; her instinctive instruction to herself. Could she read it and still sit in the courtyard with her mother, acting as if nothing had happened? Dread gathered in her heart and churned in her gut. Might it not be worse, though, if she were to be simply guessing at the contents? After all, it might not be as bad as she feared. Without further thought she picked up the envelope and ripped it open. Edging the letter out, she glanced at the first few lines and quickly refolded it.
… and I regret to inform you that it might be necessary to call in your guarantee …
She stood holding the folded sheet, staring at nothing in particular … Might be necessary. Only might be necessary. She shook the paper out and read it quickly, as if by hurrying over the words she could render them less frightening.
… The partners are attempting to sell the sailing school and, should they succeed, the outstanding debt might be met out of the proceeds. However, it is only fair to warn you …
“Are you there, darling?”
Frummie’s voice echoed in the hall and Brigid quickly folded the sheet, sliding it beneath the other envelopes.
“In the kitchen,” she called. “I seem to have mislaid the bottle opener.”
By the time her mother appeared in the doorway, she was standing at the dresser drawer, smiling ruefully, bottle opener in hand.
“Stupid of me,” she said, marvelling at the cheerful tone which sounded so unforced. “I think I’m losing my marbles.”
“As long as that’s all.” Frummie smiled her down-turned smile. “Better than losing the corkscrew.”
“Could you take the glasses?” For some reason it was terribly important to get her out of the kitchen. It was necessary to be outside, in the fresh air and the sunlight. “I’ll bring the bottle.”
“Splendid. I nipped back to collect some rather nice new nibbles I found in the deli in Ashburton. You must try them.”
Brigid took the wine from the fridge, holding the icy,. slippery bottle tightly in her cold, trembling hands, and followed her mother out into the courtyard.
DRIVING THROUGH the narrow lanes, singing to her Saturday Night Fever tape, Jemima was tingling with happiness. The warm air, laden with late summer scents—rich red earth, pale lemon honeysuckle, sweet dried grasses—carried a languorous, end-of-season fullness which drugged the senses. Tall rosebay willowherb grew beneath the hedgerows where the prickly arching brambles still displayed delicate pink blooms. Soon black, luscious fruit would hang there and the willowherb would be a mass of downy, plumy fluff. Autumn was only a week or two away.
Singing loudly “… uh, uh, uh, uh, staying alive, staying alive …” Jemima gave a delicious shudder as she drove towards their rendezvous.
“I’m not going to like going back,” he’d said. “Not one bit.”
Afraid to give herself away too much she’d made no answer, although she’d wanted to cry, “Don’t go, then. Stay here. Stay with me.” She’d learned that he played his cards very close to his chest and she’d tried hard not to pry. Apart from any other reason she’d seen that her nonpredatory approach appealed to him. This was fairly normal behaviour for Jemima. So far she’d compartmentalised her life very satisfactorily and, usually, it was her partners who pressed her to become more involved. She’d been quick to see that her independence appealed to him; a show of indifference excited him.
Jemima frowned a little. Such games were fine for a while but it was difficult to sustain a constant awareness and soon it might become wearisome. If this were a mere holiday flirtation then these rules would be perfectly acceptable but already she was wanting something more.
“For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, “it’s only three weeks. Twenty-two days to be exact,” but she knew that it had taken hardly more than two meetings to fall in love. The real thing. What did it mean, after all, this longing and burning, the twist of the gut, the need to be with him? She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t eat. When he telephoned, her heartbeat crashed in her ears and strangled the voice in her diroat, yet she was loving every minute of it; even the terror and the uncertainty made her feel vitally, painfully alive.
She made a face, grinning at her thoughts. What a drama queen! She stretched back from the wheel, loving the whole sensation of this warm, drowsy, sunny early evening: liking the cool, crisp scrape of her cream linen overshirt against her skin, the sleeves rolled back over her firm, brown arms, the glinting gold of her bangles, her hands confident on the steering wheel. Her cotton capris were honey-yellow, her bare feet thrust into tan leather dekkies. She felt strong, attractive, positive.
He was waiting for her; the door to the cottage open. The development was built about a courtyard, which shared its parking facility with all four converted barns, but each unit had a small private garden, looking out o
ver plumply curving fields which sloped away to the invisible sea. Latticed, wooden fencing ensured visual privacy for each attractively paved area which was carefully designed to keep noise interaction to a minimum. These apartments were expensive and generally booked by young couples with no children or older retired people. She parked next to his convertible and climbed out, trying to swallow down a sudden attack of nervousness.
“You look great,” he said. “I like your hair like that.”
“Thanks.” Would he give her a hug; kiss her? “It’s been too hot to wear it loose.”
She slipped past him, not waiting for longer than a second or two for the hoped-for touch. This was the rule she had made for herself, knowing that if she once gave way she would betray her feelings utterly. He was so spare; so economic in his movements, his speech, his emotions; but she could match him. She guessed that Annabel had been very contained, very private, very controlled—and he’d liked it. Very well. She wouldn’t be an Annabel clone but she would adapt a little, just a little: cool with unexpected displays of warmth; casual with tempting hints of passion.
He followed her out on to the paved area, where some wrought-iron chairs were placed about a matching table with an umbrella set in its centre. There was white wine in an ice bucket and smoked salmon, curled into thin rolls of brown bread and butter.
“Well!” She raised her eyebrows. “So you can cook as well.”
“As well as what?”
“As well as looking gorgeous,” she answered lightly, enjoying the role reversal element.
He chuckled, lifting the bottle. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
She looked at him swiftly. “So I should hope,” she said challengingly—and smiled secretly at the slight, very slight, surprise in his eyes.
“Had a good day?” He recovered quickly, pouring the wine.
“Pretty good. I’ve taken on a bungalow near Thurlestone. The owner has died and the son lives in London. He wants to let it but doesn’t want the hassle although he wants to keep it for his own use for a month each year. The good thing is that he came direct to me. Heard of me from a neighbour I look after who does much the same thing. My boss will be pleased about that. Lots of lovely Brownie points.”
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