“She sounds rather scary,” he said lightly. “A pity you couldn’t stay with her a bit longer.”
“Martin told you?”
“He kept me in the picture.”
The awkwardness was creeping back but the brittle coolness between them had melted with their laughter. They had not regained their former intimacy but a different, friendlier atmosphere had been achieved.
“It was probably right for me to go,” Louise said. “I was too dependent on her. She was fantastic when I… had the breakdown. She seemed to truly understand how I felt. But it was time to move on. So.” She shrugged, looking about her. “Here I am.”
“And making a very good job of it.” He smiled. “It’s a nice little cottage. How did you find it?”
“It’s a long story,” she said cautiously.
“I’ve got a long weekend.”
“Yes.” Suddenly her crippling shyness was back. “Yes, you have.”
“Well.” He put his cup down, pushing his chair back a little. “I’m hoping you might have dinner with me. If you think it’s a good idea? I could pick you up but you might prefer to drive yourself over.” He was giving her space to manoeuvre; trying not to crowd her.
“Yes,” she said. “That would be… good.”
“Great.” She could almost feel his relief. He explained where the hotel was, how to get to it, and stood up. “I’ll let you get on, then,” he said. “See you later.”
He paused, as if wondering how he should take leave of her, and, when she made no move, simply smiled at her and went out, shuttingthe door gently behind him.
CHAPTER 39
On Saturday morning, as she drove back from Holne, Brigid overtook Alexander on Saddle Bridge. She stopped, leaning over to wind down the window, smiling at him.
“Had a good walk?”
“I’ve been along the O Brook.” He bent to look in at her. “Such an odd name, isn’t it? Are you offering me a lift home?”
“If you’d like one.” She reached to open the door for him. “I never quite know when to offer lifts. Sometimes people need to be alone. Not that you’ve much further to go. Were you escaping, by any chance?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smile as he settled himself in the passenger’s seat.
“Like you I need moments of solitude.”
“Lucky for you that none of your near neighbours are good walkers.” She grinned. “Frummie and Margot certainly aren’t, anyway. Is Gregory?”
“Good grief, no! A brisk walk to the Tube is all he can cope with, not by nature a countryman at all. He’s managing very well under the circumstances but I’m very glad that the two girls are so sociable. He’s loving it.”
She smiled privately to herself at the idea of Frummie and Margot being referred to as “girls” and made a decision that had been fretting at the back of her mind for some while.
“I was wondering,” she said, trying to sound casual, “whether you might like to meet Michael. And Sarah, of course. But especially Michael. I thought it might be rather… nice,” she brought the word out rather awkwardly, “for you to get to know each other.”
“Did you?”
“Well, he is your grandson.” She tried not to sound defensive—or hurt. “They don’t get down much but I’m sure we could arrange something.”
“And what does Michael say about it?”
Brigid was silent for a moment. “What makes you think I’ve asked him?” she countered.
“Haven’t you?”
Brigid swung the car off the road, on to the track, braked and then sat quite still, her hands on the wheel as if holding on to it for support, staring across to Believer and Laughter Tor.
“Must I meet him?” Michael had asked, slightly irritated. “After all, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Just thinking he can wander into our lives at this late date. Dad never got on with him, did he? Don’t you think it would all be a bit difficult?”
Alexander was watching her. “I imagine he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic,” he suggested gently.
She looked at him. “Not terribly,” she agreed honestly, “but it’s such a shame.”
“But why should you think that either of us would add anything to each other’s lives simply because we are related?’
She wanted to cry, “But you’ve added to miner but was unable to speak the words aloud. She clung to the wheel, her mouth set stubbornly.
“You don’t know that you wouldn’t,” she said at last.
He reached out and covered her thin, brown hand with his own. ‘We’ve been very lucky,” he said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it would work for anyone else. This kind of blessing isn’t interchangeable simply by will.”
“But you’ll meet them some time.” She looked at him pleadingly. “I was hoping that you might come for Christmas.”
“And do you think that would be wise?”
“Why not?”
Alexander took a deep, slow breath, looking out at the wild beauty of the autumn landscape. “Have you told Humphrey that it was my idea that he should take over the school?”
“No.” She frowned at what she perceived to be a change of subject. “No, I haven’t. Anyway you told me not to.”
“And would you have told him? If I hadn’t advised you not to?”
She looked away from him, staring ahead down the track to the roofs below. “No,” she said, after a moment. “Proba-blynot”
“Why not?”
“Because … he might not have been too pleased at…” She paused, searching for a word.
“At my interference,” he finished for her. “He would have resented—and quite rightiy—my appearing after all these years and giving him advice on what to do with his life.”
“Something like that,” she mumbled.
“And have you told him how much we like each other? How well we get along?”
She shook her head, watching the cloud shadows fleeing across Yar Tor.
“Is that because you think he would be hurt, knowing how he feels about me, that you have made me your friend?”
“Probably.” She pushed her fine fair hair back, twisting it into a knot and then letting it fall on to her neck. “It seems…”
“Disloyal?”
She nodded again, her lips turned down as though she might cry, her eyes angry.
“It’s so silly,” she burst out. “It’s such a waste!”
“But you are assuming that Humphrey and I would respond to each other as you and I have done. If that were the case, don’t you think it would have happened years ago, when we lived together for nearly twenty years? Can you imagine how you might begin bringing us together?”
Brigid sat silently, her long legs drawn up, her shoulders hunched. It was true that she’d tried to mentally compose a script for just this occasion but each time she’d come up against the wall of Humphrey’s feelings: the irritation— “How long have you known him?” sarcastically—and the hurt—“But surely you remember how he treated Mother and me?” plaintively—and had given it up. It was especially difficult, now that she needed to keep their own relationship on an even keel. Humphrey had been so generous about her secret dealings with Jenny that it would be unthinkable to be in any way disloyal to him again.
“Do you really think it would work,” he asked, “with Humphrey just home after six months away, wanting you to himself, and with all the excitement and problems of his new career to be discussed? Do you think that’s the moment to effect a reconciliation? Try to imagine it with the real protagonists in action, not just as a theoretical consummation devoutly to be wished. Willing something isn’t enough. It might not even be right.”
“But you will meet him, won’t you?” she asked miserably. “And the boys? Sometime, even if not at Christmas? I agree that Christmas might not be the right timing with Humphrey just back, although you’d feel it should be. It’s a family time, after all.”
“You’re being sentimental,” he said gently. �
��There is no reason why Humphrey should like me better on the twenty-fifth of December than on any other day of the year.”
“You’re such a cynic,” she said wearily.
“So you keep telling me,” he said. “I prefer the word ‘realist.’”
“But you make it sound as if people never grow or change. Frummie and I are getting on better than we ever have before. Why shouldn’t you and Humphrey?”
“There needs to be desire on both parts. We both have to want it enough to work at it; to truly want to forgive and love each other.”
“And don’t you want that?” She stared at him, almost accusingly.
He smiled sadly. “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? We both might think we do but, even if it were true, that doesn’t mean that the transformation would be instantaneous. Remember that the pain and resentment is on Humphrey’s side, not mine. He has not injured me.”
“But you haven’t injured him. Not really. You simply encouraged him to be independent.”
“That is how I saw it at the time. It is not how he sees it. There are years of received teaching, of very natural resentment, to work through. You have been generous enough to try to understand it from my point of view and to forgive me but you are not the injured party.”
“But don’t you mind that he’s misunderstanding you?” she cried. “He’s your son!”
He sighed. “I think you place too much importance on the blood tie,” he said. “Any man might be my biological son. Any man might be Humphrey’s biological father. The accident of the night doesn’t guarantee love, or affection or loyalty. You’ve seen that for yourself. The vital thing is that Humphrey stops resenting me. He’ll probably be able to do that now.”
“Why? Why now?” She was baffled, angry, frustrated.
“Because he has helped me,” he answered. “He has sheltered me, offered me sanctuary when I was in need, and so, deep down, has forgiven me. That is so good, so important. Much more important than outward shows of family solidarity for form’s sake. It’s possible that all his resentment will drain away, diluted and rendered harmless by this single tremendous act of generosity and kindness. Don’t let’s endanger it by trying to play Happy Families.”
Brigid shook her head, still confused but with some intuitive sense that he was right.
“Later, then,” she said, refusing to give up entirely for, after all, how could she bear to lose him now? “We’ll think about it later when everything has calmed down.”
“Forgive me, Brigid dear,” he said quietly.
She turned to look at him. “There’s nothing to forgive you for,” she said. “It’s just… I love you.”
She looked surprised at herself, at the words which had come so naturally, and he leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
“And I you,” he answered. “Thank you.”
She saw that there were tears in his eyes so she started the engine, lest he should feel embarrassed, and drove gently down the track to Foxhole.
“I THINK it must be a nursing home,” said Margot. “I asked Gregory but he’s almost as much an oyster as Alexander. He agrees with me, though, that we can’t quite see Alexander all amongst the fleshpots. There’s something just the least bit austere about him, isn’t there? He seems so disciplined and he doesn’t drink too much. He’s terrific fun, though. A very nice nursing home, we thought—the sort of place where he’s well looked after but retains his independence. You know the kind of thing? He’s going to stay with Gregory in London when he leaves here, apparently. By the way, do you know where he goes when he disappears? Two or three times a week he drives off. Always about the same time too: half-past eleven. Odd, isn’t it? Gregory told me that he says he’s going to do some shopping.”
“That’s probably because he’s going to do some shopping,” said Frummie drily, irritated by the fact that she’d never noticed Alexander’s habits for herself. “Why not?”
“But don’t you think it’s peculiar that he always goes at the same time?” persisted Margot. She patted her hair, which seemed to grow more aggressively chestnut-coloured each week, and frowned thoughtfully. “I told Gregory that he should go along for the ride but he seemed quite shocked at the suggestion. The trouble with men is that they have no natural curiosity.”
“They leave that to us, dear.” Frummie swallowed her pride and asked for information. ‘Talking of curiosity, what did you find out about Gregory? I saw you giving him the third degree when Alexander and I were making the coffee last night. Does he live alone?”
“Quite alone. His wife died four or five years ago, poor soul. Two daughters but he doesn’t see too much of them. They live in the country—Gloucestershire and Yorkshire. They sound rather bound up in their own lives, which can be a blessing, after all, though I’m sure they’re quite delightful. He’s got a dear little house in Fulham—but I told you that, didn’t I?—and quite a social life. Well, I suppose he would have. They’ve lived there for twenty years or so. He does make me laugh.” She looked slyly at her dear old chum. “I’m very glad you decided which of them we should pan-off with, Fred. Gregory and I suit very well. Alexander’s a bit too direct for my taste.”
“He’s a very unusual man,” said Frummie, implying that one needed to be rather special to appreciate him and that she’d made her decision on these grounds. “He’s not shallow.”
“Well, if being devious is necessary to appreciate his finer qualities, then you’ve certainly got what it takes,” observed Margot waspishly. “I’m a simple soul, myself.”
“Well, we all know that, dear,” agreed Frummie brightly. “And so you’re planning to move to Fulham, then?”
“Well.” Margot drew in her chin, bridling a little at such a blunt attack. “Not immediately, of course. It’s a very big step to take.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Frummie readily, “but you seem to be getting on so well.” She paused, looking solicitous, ready to be sympathetic. “Or isn’t he ready for another commitment?”
“Oh, I think he is,” said Margot quickly. “Did he say anything to you yesterday in Dartmouth? We rather got separated up, didn’t we? I just wondered if… you know… he mentioned me… or anything?”
“I got the impression that he was rather lonely“—“I’ve felt that too,” interjected Margot quickly—“and that he’s a man,” Frummie smiled reminiscendy, as if at some private joke, “who appreciates female company.”
Margot frowned, not quite liking such an ambiguous observation. “He has very good manners,” she said sharply. “And he’s very charming. Of course, some women always misunderstand the well-bred man’s social politeness as something more personal. So stupid.”
“Oh, I do agree,” said Frummie at once. “I think there’s something so insecure about that kind of thing. Nothing irritates me more than the sort of woman who imagines a man’s in love with her when he’s simply being good-mannered.”
“Quite,” said Margot, a little uncertainly. “Well, then. So he didn’t say anything … particular.”
“He’s very fond of you,” said Frummie. “That’s terribly clear.” She sounded just the least bit wistful.
Margot brightened visibly; she almost smirked. “Well, that’s nice.” She appeared, briefly, to be lost for words.
“Any of that delicious whisky left?” asked Frummie casually. “That malt which darling Harry sent? I think we need a drink, don’t we?” She raised her eyebrows naughtily, encouragingly. “A little celebration you could say?”
“I think we do.” Looking gratified, Margot hurried away.
Frummie sighed deeply, licking her lips in absent anticipation, reflecting on the conversation, her mind busy.
CHAPTER 40
Louise finished washing down the walls of the boxroom, gathered up the cloths and the bowl of dirty water and made her way carefully down the narrow twisting stairs. Her back and arms ached and she was looking forward to stripping off her grubby working clothes and luxuriating in a hot showe
r. She tipped the water carefully away, rinsed and wrung out the cloths and stood for a moment, looking through to the conservatory, watching the sun on the wall. Tiny ferns grew in the crevices, with ivy-leaved toadflax and stonecrop clinging to cracks in the crumbling stone.
“In Devon,” Rory had said, “even the walls burst into flower.”
She could still hardly believe that he’d been here with her. The combination of familiarity and the unknown was disturbing. For whole periods at a time they’d found themselves plunged back into intimacy, only to be suddenly shocked forwards into the present: cautious again, fearful and withdrawn. Dinner at the hotel had been an extraordinary affair.
“Do you still like duck?” he’d asked easily, casually, as he considered the menu. “It’s very good here, so I’m told.”
“Yes,” she’d said, deeply affected by this tiny evidence of remembrance. “Yes, I do. Sounds great.”
She’d watched him whilst holding her own menu up before her, studying him, looking for clues of suffering. He’d hardly changed. His fair hair was as thick as ever, rather dry and unruly. “You’ve been thatched,” she used to tease him. “Your straw needs hedging.” His face was more finely drawn, however, and she didn’t remember the two lines that were now lightly etched from nose to the mouth which curled slightly, ready to smile.
She thought: Well, he’s thirty-seven. And I’m thirty-three.
She was gripped by a sudden aching grief for the three years they’d lost, for die waste of it all, and realised that he was now watching her, a tiny frown between his fair, feathery brows. She’d smiled automatically, wondering if he’d spoken, feeling confused and frightened.
“Duck, then,” he’d said cheerfully. “I’ll have it too. So tell me again. Frummie is Brigid’s mother? And who is Alexander? Sounds like a commune.”
She’d grasped this lifeline gratefully, explaining the inhabitants of Foxhole, telling him about Jemima and MagnifiCat. They’d laughed together over his ignominious departure once Frummie had set up the hue and cry until it nearly— very nearly—began to take on the aspect of some holiday she’d been taking whilst he was at sea. She’d found that she was relating her experiences at Foxhole as some amusing story—except that there were gaps: big gaps, torn and painful gaps, where Hermione belonged and where they could not yet go. He’d helped her along, offering her gentle, unthreatening questions which might be laid like planks across the blanks in her narrative, over which she could step, oh, so carefully, on to the firmer ground beyond.
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