A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “It has a bit.” Brigid grasped thankfully at this ready-made reason. “It’s been rather scary. And, of course, Mummie insisted on trying to cope without a doctor or any sensible advice.”

  “But she’s OK? Louise, I mean.”

  “Yes.” Brigid admitted it almost reluctantly. “She’s certainly over the worst. She’s coming back this afternoon. Mummie’s putting her up for a while until she finds her feet. I think it’s pretty good of her, actually.”

  “But she loves it, doesn’t she? Anything rather than be alone, although she’s very fond of Louise, of course.”

  Brigid looked at her sister curiously. “Would you feel like that?”

  Jemima’s eyes widened with a kind of horror. “You must be kidding. I couldn’t do it Not for any real length of time. A few days, perhaps. A week. Not indefinitely. Not unless it was someone terribly close to me. I need my space.”

  “That’s how I feel.” Brigid frowned. “She makes me feel inadequate. Guilty, almost.”

  Jemima chuckled. “Why? Frummie’s a terribly lonely person. She hates being on her own. She’d rather have someone she actually dislikes with her than be alone. I hear she’s got Margot coming back for a while in the autumn. They’ll drive each other mad, Frummie knows that, but it’s better than being alone.”

  Brigid looked shocked. “But that’s terrible. Anyway, I’m just across the courtyard.” She laughed a little, bitterly. “Of course, I’ve never been enough for her.”

  Jemima watched her compassionately. “It’s not quite that, is it?” she suggested gently. “The point is, you have your own life: your children and their families and Humphrey. You’ve got your work and the cottage to see to and your own friends. Frummie hasn’t got anyone of her own—no one who shares her life with her, her very own person to do things with or sit about with or cook for. Other people are kind but if you haven’t got your own person it’s simply not the same. You have to depend on other people asking you and then you feel beholden.”

  “Do you feel like that?”

  “No.” Jemima shook her head. “But I’m like you. I like my own company. Frummie doesn’t. That’s why she tries to get out as much as she does. Driving into Ashburton so as to have a chat with Meg in the gift shop or joshing with Anne and Bar in the second-hand bookshop. Sitting for hours in the Caf6 Green Ginger. Anything to be out amongst people. She can start up conversations and be part of the human race. She needs the buzz, the contact. It’s how she feels alive.”

  “You know that she shouldn’t be driving?”

  Jemima bit her lip. “I know you’re cross with me for paying her car tax and insurance but she was so desperate at the thought of being stranded.”

  “With me at Foxhole.”

  “No, Brigid. Don’t be like that. It’s not you or Foxhole. It’s the whole scene. Frummie is a totally urban animal. She loathes the countryside; she hates the quiet emptiness of the moor. She likes bustle and noise and lights. Imagine if you had to live in a noisy city all the time, even if you had Humphrey with you. How would you feel?”

  The wine arrived and Brigid was spared the necessity of answering. She smiled her thanks and took the menu automatically.

  “Have a look at the chef’s specials,” said Jemima, indicating the blackboard on the wall behind her. “His antipasto is very good. Or the home-made pâté. The difficulty is knowing what to choose. Oh, and you must try some of the French lemon tart afterwards so leave a bit of space.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Brigid said, when they’d ordered and were alone together again, “why she ever married Daddy.”

  “Novelty?” offered Jemima. “He was different from anyone she’d ever met And Foxhole out in the wilds of Dartmoor. Real Wuthering Heights stuff. There was something romantic about it all. But when the chips were down she simply couldn’t cope.”

  “She left me,” said Brigid angrily. “How can you leave your own child?”

  “We don’t know the whole circumstances.” Jemima was shocked by the expression on her sister’s face. She thought: Help me, someone. I can’t do this. Oh hell. I wanted this to be fun. To bond with her. Shit!

  Brigid said, “She didn’t leave you when she bolted.”

  “No,” said Jemima gently. “But the difference was that your father wanted you. Mine didn’t put up a fight for me so she took me along with her.”

  The sisters stared at each other.

  “I missed him terribly.” Jemima’s lip trembled. “He was such fun and I loved him so much but, in the end, they used to row all the time. I tried to stop them, to make them laugh. You know? To lighten things up and stuff? But it never really worked. What really hurt was that he never made much effort afterwards to see me. Frummie wouldn’t have stopped him but he couldn’t be bothered. God, it hurt! It still does. I think it’s why I’ve been so cautious about relationships. I don’t seem to be too good at them. It’s probably because I’m always waiting for things to go wrong so it’s easier not to get too involved.”

  She thought: Until now. Oh, God! Until now. Shall I tell her? Dare I? Will she knock it?

  “I was lucky to have Humphrey.” Brigid, in her compassion for her sister, felt the need to justify her good luck. “He was so kind to me and he made up for it, if you know what I mean.”

  “But not completely.”

  “No,” said Brigid, after a moment. “Not completely. I suppose nothing ever truly makes up for it. You have this uncertainty deep down. Like you said just now, there’s that fear that something might go wrong.”

  “I didn’t realise,” said Jemima carefully, “that you felt it. You seem so complete, so in control. There’s nothing muddly about your life. Not like me.”

  Brigid thought: I could tell her about Jenny and the mess I’m in but I suppose I ought tell Humphrey first. Shall I tell her?

  She hesitated, sitting back in her chair as Mike arrived carrying platefuls of mouth-watering food, and, by the time everything had been sorted out, the moment had passed:*

  CHAPTER 23

  It was odd to come jolting down the drive and see a car parked outside “her” cottage; odd to park opposite, remembering that she was not on holiday but beginning a whole new life. This was for real. Her stomach turned in terror and excitement and she sat for a moment, assailed again by familiar fears, unable to move. Now that the need to concentrate on driving was over, the world slid gently out of focus; distorted, frightening. Recovery and achievement seemed impossibilities conceived by a much stronger will than she possessed. She held on to the wheel, fighting down this crawling, paralysing impotency, wishing she’d stayed with Martin. How could she have imagined that she could conquer guilt and loneliness and loss?

  Frummie came out of her garden through the litde gate, passed along beside the low stone wall and bent to look in at her. Louise stared at her blankly, panic bubbling in her throat. Frummie, who knew a great deal about these enemies to mental health, reached to grasp the hand still clenched upon the steering wheel.

  “I thought you’d be late,” she said. “There’s been another murder and I watched the local news at lunchtime to see if they’ve managed to catch the murderer. I saw the queues on the M5. Lucky you made an early start. You’ve missed the worst of it and you’re still in time for tea.”

  Tea. There was comfort in the word: warmth, peace, familiarity. Somehow she could not quite release the wheel but hung on to it grimly, feeling that without it she might fall, disintegrate. Frummie’s thin hand was warm, tough. She stared at it.

  “I can’t do it,” she said, her eyes fixed on the two joined hands, hers and Frummie’s. “I can’t…”

  “Yes.” Frummie’s voice was calm, unemotional. “Yes, you can do it. Let go of the wheel, Louise, and hold my hand.”

  Slowly, very slowly, she released the wheel, holding on instead to Frummie’s hand, easing herself out of the driving seat until she was standing upright. She trembled, shaking with reaction.

  “I thought I was better,” she cri
ed angrily, near to tears.

  Frummie smiled. “And so you are,” she said. “Much better. You’ve driven yourself to London, had a gruelling session with your ex-lover, made a commitment to the future and driven back again. For God’s sake, girl! Be proud of what you’ve done and don’t be wanting the impossible. Could you have managed all that a month ago?”

  “It takes me by surprise,” she mumbled, allowing Frummie to lead her through the garden. “I’m feeling fine… and then it hits me.”

  “It’s the next step,” said Frummie, settling her on the sofa. “You’ve stopped denying the existence of the past but now you’ve got to let it become part of your memory and your life. It’s painful and frightening but you have to learn to accept it. Don’t try to fight depression and fear with violent physical or mental exercise. But don’t give in to them either. Just think. Oh, here they are again, and look past them, as if you were looking over someone’s shoulder at something beyond. Fix your mind on what’s beyond.”

  “But how do you do that?” Louise stared at her in perplexity, longing for some kind of formula, but confused and pessimistic. “How can you see past something so… so huge!”

  “You have to practise it. You mustn’t let them be important, you see, or you simply feed their power. Don’t pretend they’re not there by flinging yourself into some manic busyness, they’ll simply reappear when you’re exhausted, but just look past them as you might look past a tall person sitting in front of you at the theatre. You know he’s there but he doesn’t prevent you from watching the action. Have something positive to look at—your next possible achievement, for instance, or something as simple as a cup of coffee. Something cheerful but attainable.”

  “Does it really work?”

  “It works in so far as it makes it possible to exist with personal tragedy and still achieve and make a worthwhile contribution.”

  “But hpw do you know?”

  Frummie thought: Shall I tell her the truth? That I went through something similar when it sunk in that I’d lost Brigid. Or might it spoil her sense of security here at Foxhole? Better not.

  She said, “At the end of the war, there were an awful lot of people who were suffering just like you are. Reacting from the shock of loss, grief, guilt and the future stretching emptily ahead. I had one or two very close friends who had breakdowns and suffered from clinical depression. It’s a tried-and-trusted remedy, I promise you.”

  “And you think it would work for me?”

  Frummie smiled at her. “Try it and see. Ready for that tea now?”

  “Oh, yes.” Louise sighed, settling back against the cushions, relaxing a litde. “I’d love a cup of tea. I stopped twice but die motorway cafés were heaving so I just grabbed a can of something and drank it in the car park.”

  ’Terrible places. I’ll put the ketde on and then you can tell me all about Martin. If you feel you want to, that is.”

  “He’s been so kind.” She shook her head rather sadly. “He always was, really. The problem is that he only feels fully alive when he’s mending someone. I think I’d become unrewarding so he looked about for a new challenge.”

  “I should have thought that you were something of a challenge, just at present,” observed Frummie drily.

  Louise chuckled, recovering rapidly from her attack of terror now, strengthened by Frummie’s stringent presence. “He was tempted,” she admitted. “We both were. I remembered how comforting he was just as he was beginning to wonder if I might be interesting again.”

  “And what happened?” asked Frummie curiously.

  “Martin said that if I stayed with him I’d never grow out of it. He’s right, of course. I knew it-—but I was tempted.”

  “He’s very wise,” said Frummie after a moment or two. “I have to say that he’s gone up in my estimation.”

  “He’s a good mail,” agreed Louise. “He’s funding me until I can support myself. I’ll pay him back, of course. I’ve got to think where to live and whether I can go back to teaching.”

  “Well,” said Frummie, “lots there to plan for and to keep the blues at bay.”

  “Yes,” said Louise. “Yes, there is, isn’t there? Oh, Frummie. It’s good to be hojne. But what’s this about another murder?”

  “A woman in Plymouth.” Frummie frowned anxiously. “Rather too close for comfort. It’s the same pattern as the other two but in broad daylight this time, and the police say that the murderer is getting overconfident. Still…”

  “It’s horrid.” Louise shivered. “I’m glad I’m staying with you.”

  Frummie decided that it would be unwise to unsettle her further; she needed to be confident and cheerful. “I expect we’re all quite safe here,” she said. “Let’s have that tea.

  JEMIMA SAT on her sofa, MagnifiCat curled beside her, listening to the rain drumming on the balcony, watching the drops pocking the smooth surface of the water. The silvery, shining curtain almost obscured the further shore and the sudden cloudburst had sent holidaymakers hurrying from the beach to seek cover. The sun was already breaking through the stormy purple clouds, shafts of shining light glancing to the sodden earth, so that the still falling rain gleamed and sparkled whilst a rainbow arched above the harbour.

  “September tomorrow,” she murmured, smoothing his soft coat. “Summer’s nearly over.”

  She could feel his deeply contented reverberations beneath her hand and, for a brief moment, she felt an echo of her old Contentment and that serenity of spirit which she’d taken for granted—before love had taken her by surprise. Since then, anxiety gnawed at her peace of mind.

  “Can you really imagine settling here?” she’d asked him, playing devil’s advocate and cursing her foolishness even as she did so. “It can be pretty dull in the winter, you know?”

  “Can it?” He’d arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it depend on one’s company?”

  She’d been flustered but determined to make her point. “I didn’t quite mean that. The South Hams can be rather different when the holidaymakers have gone home and it rains for weeks on end. It’s a big change from London. No cinemas or theatres a tube-ride away.”

  “There are other forms of entertainment.” He’d refused to take her too seriously.

  “That’s true but, to be honest, I’m surprised that you came down here on holiday in the first place. From what you’ve told me about Annabel, it sounds as if the Maldives would be more her scene.”

  His expression had changed slightly, as if some inner retrospection were taking place, and she’d felt a pang of fear. How stupid to encourage him to think about Annabel, to dwell on the past!

  “I have to say that you’re right,” he’d admitted. “The truth is we went skiing for a few days at Easter and Annabel caught some kind of virus. It really pulled her down. And then there was a lot of pressure at work so she was offered some extra leave. We decided to keep it really simple and try Devon. Neither of us had been here before and the brochure was quite impressive. We knew that in July it would be terribly hot in Europe and we didn’t want to make arduous journeys so we picked this very quiet place where we could just chill out.” He’d shrugged. “I wonder, now, if she ever really intended to come with me at all. I’d been doing a lot of overtime so I was able to squeeze an extra week and we were really looking forward to an extended break.” A pause. “At least,/was.”

  “I’m sorry,” she’d said wretchedly. “I didn’t mean to drag it all up again.”

  “Oh, forget it. I feel a bit sensitive because she made such a complete fool of me. I really had no idea that she was having it with this other guy. It’s because I wasn’t in control, I suppose. I felt so helpless. She just came in that evening and said, ‘Oh, by the way, about the holiday …’ and I was just utterly gutted. I pleaded with her, you know? Crawled and begged.” He’d shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth grim and hard with self-contempt. “I really wish I hadn’t done that.”

  She’d thought: So do I. I wish you hadn’t cared tha
t much. But you did. Do you still? That’s the big one.

  Now, feeling Magnificat’s soft warm fur under her fingers, the rhythm of his deep, quiet breathing, she tried to regain her own sense of peace. Quite suddenly she remembered Brigid’s expression when she’d said “She left me!” and remembered her own shock at the pain and the bewilderment on her sister’s face. It had never occurred to her that Brigid had harboured resentment all these years because she had been abandoned, an unwanted child. Terrible though the disclosure had been, she felt that some vitally important first step had been taken and that she and Brigid might at last be able to develop a real relationship. She’d put herself out on a limb, telling of the heartbreak of her father’s indifference, but she’d learned that it was necessary, sometimes, to display one’s own weaknesses, to put weapons into other people’s hands, in an attempt to give courage, to engender a sense of sharing. Sometimes she’d been badly hurt when they’d been used against her but some deep conviction persuaded her that she must be prepared to sacrifice her pride for future good. This had been one of those occasions. She’d described her own hurt at her father’s betrayal and how it coloured her approach to relationships. She wished now that she’d gone further but her confidence had deserted her. Nevertheless it had been a start; a foundation laid on which the future might build. She’d had the feeling that Brigid, too, was withholding something; some problem which she could not share. Yet what could it be? She was so secure; so sure. Had it simply been the strain of seeing Louise through her breakdown whiqh gave her that fine-drawn, rather gaunt look? Perhaps it was the anxiety of Humphrey’s father’s proposed visit? Brigid valued her privacy and it would be hard, coping with her father-in-law, along with Frummie.

  “Put them together,” she’d advised, trying to make Brigid laugh whilst they sat comfortably over their coffee in Effings, ‘Tair them off and wash your hands of them.”

  “If only I could,” Brigid had answered. “Mummie’s been too preoccupied with Louise to make overmuch of it but she’s hinted that it’s rather high-handed of Humphrey to leave his father to us whilst he lives it up in the Bahamas. She can’t say too much, of course.”