A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “Something to celebrate then.” He raised his glass to her. “I suppose, outside farming and the tourist trade, there aren’t that many jobs down here?”

  She sipped slowly, hiding the quick upbeat of hope. “It depends what field you’re in, I suppose. The West Country needs doctors, teachers, lawyers, just like any other part of the country.”

  During the short ensuing silence, Jemima congratulated herself on her calm, almost indifferent response.

  ’Well, that must be true,” he said at last. “Naturally. But what about IT, for instance?”

  “Oh, Devonians can use the Internet too,” she said lightly. “Just about. Or did you think computer literacy stops at Bristol?”

  “Of course not.” He frowned impatiently. “I didn’t mean to sound patronising but I suspect that it would be difficult to find the kind of work I do down here.”

  She thought: How do I handle this one?

  “Of course, I don’t quite know what you do.” She smiled at him, a friendly, open look. “Are you thinking of moving?”

  He held her gaze with his own; a thoughtful, level glance.

  “I have to say it’s crossed my mind once or twice during the last few days.”

  She wanted to laugh madly, jump up, fling her arms wide. “Ah. Well, I really couldn’t say. I suppose you’d need to make a few enquiries? Find a few contacts?”

  “I suppose I would.” He was smiling at her, amused by her calm reaction. “I might need to come down for a few weekends whilst I was … checking things out.”

  She shook her head. “That could be tricky at this time of the year. Devon’s pretty busy until the end of September.”

  “You think I might find it difficult to find a bed?”

  “You might be lucky. With a little help from your friends.”

  “Or one particular friend?”

  She thought: Ohmigod! This is it. Go for it.

  “You’re just after my view,” she said. “Admit it!”

  “That and a few other things,” he said—and stretched out a hand to her.

  She waited a second or two and then took it in her own. “I’ll give it some consideration,” she said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Travelling back to Devon, Louise was aware of a sense of disorientation, switching between happiness and despair. In these last few agonising months she’d learned that die past could not be simply tidied away and forgotten but now, for the first time for years, she felt that the future could be approached with a measure of confidence, even with hope. She was no longer in hiding, in denial, but trying to confront her life truthfully, as a whole. Hermione, Rory and Martin were a part of that life, yet she had lost them all and she must learn how to come to terms with it. As she drove back to Foxhole, memories slid in and out of her consciousness. She let them come: walking through the woods amongst the banks of flowering rhododendrons; watching Hermione, long fair hair in bunches, playing on Rhu Spit with the other naval children; the view across the Gare Loch; going to the Royal Northern Yacht Club with Rory. They’d been locked away for so long, these memories, that they came with a new freshness that surprised, filling her with wonder whilst they stabbed her to the heart. Hermione. Singing breathlessly to herself as she played with Percy; gabbling unintelligibly on her toy telephone; riding her tricycle in small circles round and round the kitchen. Tiny feet with curling toes, chubby wrists and starfish fingers, pearly teeth in a rosy face. Oh, the pain of it; the terrible finality of death.

  “What will you do?” Martin had asked anxiously. “Where will you live?”

  “With Frummie,” she’d answered, “until I can find a little place to rent. I shall need a job first.”

  “Will you… go back?”

  She’d smiled at his wariness. “To teaching? What else could I do?”

  “Can you cope, d’you think? For heaven’s sake, sweetie, don’t try to take things too fast.”

  She’d been a nursery teacher before she’d married Rory; she’d always adored small children, longing for a family of her own.

  “I think I could,” she’d answered. “I have to start again, Martin. I have to become independent.”

  “I know. I can see that, but don’t try to do it all at once. I shan’t stop your allowance just yet.”

  “Dear Martin. But it would be quite impossible now to be dependent on you. I shall be grateful for it for a little while longer but I shall look upon what I take from you now as a loan. Anything else would be quite wrong.”

  “Fine. That’s fine. But you might…” He’d hesitated, unwilling to be pessimistic, anxious lest she should be hurt or worried by the implication, yet feeling the need to warn her. “You might have the occasional setback.”

  “I’ve accepted that. Don’t worry. I know I’m not out of the wood just yet. That’s why I shall stay with Frummie for a bit. Apart from anything else I know she likes having me there. She hates being alone, poor old soul. She’s got her old friend Margot coming to stay in October so it’s like a cut-off point for me. I hope I can settle myself by then.”

  “Well, you can always count on me, you know.”

  She’d grinned at him. “You think Carol would be pleased to see me back again?”

  He’d smiled too, refusing to rise to the bait. “We’re friends. Whatever happens.”

  She’d hugged him thankfully. “Bless you. It’s so important to me. You’re giving me space and it’s what I need. I’m truly grateful, Martin.”

  “Forget it. But I insist that we get you a little car. You can’t afford to hire one indefinitely and you’ll need wheels of your own. No, nothing over the top,” he forestalled her protest, “just something small, reliable and economic. A little parting present. Shall you continue to call yourself Parry? I know we agreed that it was the simplest arrangement three years ago but how do you feel now?”

  “For a bit longer, if that’s OK.” She’d felt oddly nervous at the thought of so definite a change.

  ’Take all the time you need,” he’d said, “but just stay in touch.”

  It made it easier knowing that Martin loved to be needed; that in allowing him to help her she was also giving him pleasure. He was certainly right, however, regarding setbacks. At present she had to struggle against panic attacks and periods of melancholy juxtaposed with a growing sense of freedom and waves of relief. Soon, she hoped, the latter would outweigh the former until she found herself oh a solid footing; yet she needed to test herself. She wondered if it would be possible to find a job in a nursery or pre-prep school, part time to begin with, so that she could see how strong she was. Perhaps it might be necessary to admit to her past and her more recent breakdown and, if that were so, would anyone be prepared to let her work with small children? Perhaps she should be thinking of some other kind of career? The creeping shadows of depression and anxiety curled about her mind and she tried to thrust them away, concentrating on the more immediate future: Foxhole, with Brigid and Frummie looking forward to her return.

  “I’m so glad that you’re coming home,” Brigid had said with warm, characteristic generosity. “As long as you can cope with Mummie…?”

  “Of course I can. I can’t tell you how I’m missing you all.”

  “Well, she’ll be delighted to have you back again, I can tell you. She’s missed you dreadfully.”

  Louise had felt a glow of comfort and confidence at these words. How lucky she was to have these kind friends, to be allowed this necessary space of time to heal and recover.

  “Tell her I’m on my way. I should be there just after lunch.” Foxhole: her stony sanctuary with Brigid and Frummie, and Blot, waiting for her. This was all she needed to concentrate on; all that was required of her at present. Gendy, slowly, the shadows receded, panic subsided and balance was restored, yet she sensed their presence, waiting, watching.

  “One day at a time,” she hummed to herself, caught behind a large motor-caravan which was negotiating the narrow lanes with caution. “One day at a time.”
>
  It was still necessary to fall back on devices to distract the mind, although no longer from the reality of the past. Now it was a means to prevent panic and fear wrestling her into despair. Well, she had plenty of experience here. She began to recite aloud:

  “The Centipede was happy quite,

  Until the Toad in fun,

  Said, ‘Pray which leg goes after which?’

  And worked her mind to such a pitch,

  She lay distracted in the ditch

  Considering how to run.”

  The motor-caravan slowed, flashed its rear trafficator and trundled heavily into the car park at Venford Reservoir. Louise sighed with relief and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, her attention fully concentrated on Foxhole and her home-coming.

  BRIGID HAD had a trying morning. Waking with the now-familiar panic attack in the early dawn, she’d made herself some tea which she’d taken back to bed and then fallen into a heavy slumber, waking with a violent start at twenty to ten. She’d dressed hastily and hurried down to release Blot into the outside world. He’d gone off looking faintly reproachful, despite her promises of walks later, and she’d made more tea, yawning heavily, pushing her short blonde hair behind her ears as she examined the morning post. The Dartmoor News had arrived and, discarding the other letters as unimportant, she setded at the corner of the table, turning to Kate Van Der Kiste’s article on letterboxing with her golden retriever, Rex. Amused, temporarily distracted from her worries, she gave a groan of irritation at Frummie’s familiar tapping on the front door, going reluctandy to open it, turning the enormous ancient key, trying to smile.

  “You’re late this morning.” Frummie nipped past her, bright and shiny as new enamel. “I came over earlier but I couldn’t get any reply. You used to be such an early bird.”

  Brigid followed her into the kitchen, biting back a sharp retort. “I’ve just made some tea. Would you like some?”

  ’Tea? At this hour? No thank you, darling. Coffee wouldn’t go amiss, though. I’ve been making a cake for Louise and I was hoping that you might have some cream.”

  “Yes, I’ve got some cream.” She took out her small cafetiere, knowing that Frummie liked fresh coffee and t:ould rarely afford it for herself. “She’s very grateful to you for letting her come back.”

  “Hasn’t too many options, from what I can gather.” Frummie perched at the table, watching her make the coffee. “She needs more time. I know what it’slike to need a bolt hole.”

  Brigid glanced at her quickly, defensively. “You’ve always been welcome with me and Humphrey.”

  Frummie smiled her down-turned smile. “That’s what I mean. I’ve been lucky. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  Embarrassed, Brigid shrugged. “It’s good of you to have her. I’d be horrified at the thought of a guest staying for an indefinite time. I’m very fond of Louise but even so …”

  “Ah, but you are happy alone,” said Frummie. “So is Jem. I’m not, you see. You have to like yourself a little to be able to spend time alone. I’ve never liked myself very much.”

  There was a short silence.

  “I… I haven’t really thought about it.” Brigid pushed the cafetiere across the table, reached down a mug from the dresser. “I suppose I haven’t had much choice, with Humphrey being in the Navy.”

  “There are always choices. In your case you’ve chosen to accept the separation cheerfully, making the best of it. But you could have chosen to make everyone’s life hell whilst making a martyr of yourself or you could have chosen to manipulate him so that he gave it up. Or you could have chosen to get out. I’m sure you know naval wives who have exercised each of those choices.”

  Brigid stared at her. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Now you mention it, I do.”

  Frummie shrugged. “Mind, it’s not always that simple.” She pressed the plunger down slowly with obvious satisfaction, and poured the hot black liquid. “Do you worry how you’ll manage when Humphrey retires?”

  Brigid sat down again and picked up her mug of tea. “Yes,” she said, refusing to give her instinctive need for self-preservation time to prevent such an admission. “Yes, I do. It’s going to be a big learning curve for both of us. He’s looking forward to it.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I didn’t mean it to sound quite like that.” She glanced at Frummie. “I’ve just got used to doing things my way. When Humphrey’s home, it’s great. He’s fun to have around and we enjoy being together but it’s as if it’s not quite real. It’s because it’s always a holiday, I think. We have this lovely time and then he goes away again. I don’t know what it’s like just to live with him—day after day, month in, month out. We’ve never done it. Now, suddenly, it’s going to be like that. Twenty-four-hours-a-day stuff. It frightens me.”

  Frummie sipped her coffee appreciatively. “Delicious.” A pause. “Won’t he get a job?” she asked.

  Brigid hesitated. They were moving on to sensitive ground. “He hoped the cottages would bring in enough income for him not to have to get a full-time job. There are some charity things he wants to do—the Barn Owl Trust and things like that—but he’ll probably get bored very quickly and need something more time-consuming.”

  “And I’ve buggered up the system by taking one of the cottages.”

  “No,” said Brigid quickly. “No, honestly. Anyway, you pay rent…”

  Frummie laughed. “But not nearly the amount that you’d get by letting it out to visitors.”

  “Please, Mummie. Don’t let’s go into all that again. You know that we’re very happy to have you here.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  ’That my bolt hole has now become Louise’s bolt hole.”

  “Yes. I suppose it is. She… doesn’t expect you to support her, does she?”

  “No, no. Don’t worry about that Martin is going to help her out until she can get back on her feet.”

  ’That’s nice of him.”

  “Well, it suits him too, doesn’t it?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “He wants shot of her so that he. can concentrate on this new woman. So he helps her to go. Of course, she wants out too. Their choices are complementary, if you see what I mean. Lucky, isn’t it?”

  “You’re such a cynic.”

  “Possibly.” Frummie swallowed the last of her coffee and stood up. “That was perfectly delicious. By the way, have you read the paper yet? There’s been another murder, Plymouth this time. This is the third and no suggestion that the police have any clues at all. Another woman on her own, walking her dog. Shocking, isn’t it? Ah, and here’s the cream. I must get back to my cooking. Thanks, darling. For my coffee and for the cream. I’ll buy you some when I go out later.”

  “There’s no need, honestly.”

  She stood up to see her out just as the telephone rang. Frummie disappeared and Brigid picked up the receiver.

  “Hi.” Jemima’s voice bubbled with wellbeing. “How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “I was wondering if I could buy you lunch? I’m coming over to Totnes, which is a kind of halfway house between us. How about it?”

  For the second time that morning, Brigid denied her instinctive reaction. “I’d love it,” she said.

  “Great!” Jemima sounded truly delighted. “Where shall we meet? What about Effings?’ Gorgeous food and lots of lovely treats to buy afterwards to take home.”

  “Fine. What time. One o’clock?”

  “Make it earlier if you can. It’ll be crowded by one and we won’t get a table.”

  “Half twelve?”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Brigid replaced the receiver and glanced at her watch; just time to take Blot for a walk, shower and change. She went through to the lean-to and called to Blot as she pulled on her boots. Moments later they were crossing the field to the river.

  EFFINGS WAS busy. Squeezing past the customers at the
delicatessen counter, breathing in the exciting scents of delicious food, Brigid was relieved to see Jemima sitting at one of the tables. She waved cheerfully, smiling as Brigid finally came to rest opposite.

  “Bank Holiday weekend and market day all rolled into one,” said Jemima, almost apologetically. “I only thought about it after I’d set out.”

  “I’ve had to park down on Steamer Quay and walk up,” said Brigid, somewhat breathlessly. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

  “It’s not a problem. I wanted to see Gus Mallory at Studio Graphics about a brochure and I was here in plenty of time. Have a glass of wine while you think about what you want to eat”

  “That would be nice,” said Brigid gratefully. “Something cold and white and some water as well. Thanks.” She looked around her, liking the atmosphere which was a mixture of delicatessen and French bistro: shelves packed with preserves and hand-made chocolates; the cold counter with its array of cheeses and fruit tarts. The three other tables were full and she looked with a sudden pang of real hunger at a neighbour’s plate of bresaola and his companion’s bowl of steaming, herb-scented soup.

  “So,” she said, when the order had been dealt with, “how are things with you? You’re looking fantastic.”

  Jemima glanced at her in surprise. She was not used to such unqualified praise from her sister. “I’m feeling pretty good.” She thought: Be careful. We’ve been here before. It’s like Tom Tiddler’s Ground. One false step and we’ll both be back to square one.

  Brigid thought: Puddle-duck. Will I ever really be able to call her that with true affection? I wish I could.

  She felt an overwhelming need to confide in Jemima, to tell her about Jenny’s disaster and her own terrors, but the deep-seated prejudice made it impossible to frame the words.

  “You’re looking tired.” Jemima was watching her, concern on her face. “Are you OK? Has all that business with Louise been getting you down?”