At Brendon they stop for a pint and a sandwich at The Staghunters, and she tells him of the pony fair held here each October, and afterwards he must take her to Oare church again so that she might show him the narrow Gothic window, just west of the screen, through which the wicked Carver shot at Lorna in her dress of ‘pure white, clouded with faint lavender’. He teases her for living in her books, she calls him her ‘Penfriend from Porlock’, and, when he kisses her, those innocently imagined love scenes with Ralph Hingston or Edward Rochester are washed clean from her mind for ever.
Once he returns to Oxford, Nest wishes that she had allowed him to meet Mina and Mama. She sees now that it was childish and, more importantly, it means that there can be no letters or telephone calls. Even Mina would be shocked – or more probably hurt – to think that Nest has been deceiving them for nearly two weeks. If only he’d met them she could now be having the comfort of his letters and the bliss of hearing his voice. As it is, they have had to part in a deeply unsatisfactory manner.
Yet, as she sits on the beach on ‘his’ rock, watching the sun setting into the glowing west, tall cliffs carved black against the streaming banners of flame, the sea burnished with a liquid gold, she cannot quite regret it. How could such magic be part of the humdrum world? It is precisely because it is the stuff of fairy-tales that it has no place in the ordinariness of daily life. Nest relives each moment of their meeting. She reinvests each glance and word of his with her own ardour, reclothing him with all the characteristics with which those paper lovers were endowed whilst clinging to her memories of this flesh-and-blood male. Later, standing at her bedroom window, watching the cleave fill with moonlight, listening to the nightjar, her heart is brimming with joyful hope. Something must occur to make this a true story; with all her youthful confidence she wills this to come to pass. Miracles, happy endings, do happen and it is on such people as her and Connor, who believe that they can, that the grace falls.
So she is not surprised, on her return to school, when she is invited by a friend to stay for half-term. It is not the first time that she and Laura have visited each other’s homes but, this time, Nest is suddenly aware of other opportunities. Mina responds positively to her request: Mama is better but low in spirits and needs to convalesce. It will be nice for Nest to be with young people for a few days and, after all, adds Mina, anxious lest Nest should feel unwanted, the summer holidays are not far away. She will be home soon.
The school is strict: visitors have to be vetted, letters are checked. Even if Nest said that Connor was her cousin there would have to be a telephone call to Mama to verify this, just as her permission would be sought if Connor asked to take Nest out for the afternoon. The headmistress is quite au fait with the wiles of young women and she takes no chances; she is, after all, in loco parentis. Going home with Laura for half-term with Mina’s permission, however, is quite acceptable and Nest sees that, if she wants to make the most of this opportunity, she must take Laura into her confidence.
Laura is thrilled: it is simply so romantic. A letter is smuggled out to Connor and a reply awaits her when she arrives at Laura’s home on the outskirts of Gloucester. A meeting is arranged. It is easy for the girls to travel into the city together where Laura will shop, have some lunch, go to the cinema matinée, and then meet up with Nest again for the journey back.
‘Good job it’s Brief Encounter,’ says Nest, on the train. ‘I’ve already seen it. Just in case your mother asks questions about it, I mean. It’s a wonderful film and Celia Johnson is just heavenly. It’s terribly sad, though: you’ll cry buckets. I hope you’ve got masses of handkerchiefs.’
Laura feels Nest’s arm, pressed against her own, trembling with excitement and looks at her with sympathy and envy.
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she says.
Nest stares from the train window, biting her lip. This has been the condition of Laura’s being party to the deception (‘Mummy would kill me if she found out’) and Nest hopes that Connor won’t mind. He has been less than fulsome about the plan and she is alternately beset with nerves and possessed by a fierce, wild excitement. Now that it is actually happening and she will see him in a few minutes, the terror exceeds the joy and she shivers as she contemplates her actions and imagines her mother’s face if she were to find out. Presently, however, courage and high spirits flow back; after all, what can it harm if Laura meets him? Soon Nest will be free of school, in six weeks she will be eighteen, an adult, and this foolish need for secrecy will be over. So she tells herself as the train rattles into the town, forgetting that she has ever thought that she and Connor could never be part of the humdrum world: that they were separate and apart from dull reality. It is all about her, here in the carriage: the tired woman with the heavy shopping basket; a man, frowning as he reads a newspaper; a young mother crooning to her child as it wriggles on her lap. Beyond the train window she sees cars, offices, factories and, beside her, Laura’s warm body presses against her own as they sway and jolt along. All this is real enough.
They pass through the barrier into the sunshine outside the station – and he is there; leaning against the car, legs crossed at the ankles, waiting.
‘Golly gosh!’ murmurs Laura, awed by the impact of a mature male – he certainly makes her brother’s friends look raw by comparison – and Nest feels an uprush of pride.
When he stretches a hand to her, however, her pale skin is suddenly stained blood-bright, but he kisses her lightly on the cheek and shakes Laura’s hand with a blend of natural courtesy and wicked deference that makes her his slave for ever. She watches them drive away, her envious smile still lingering about her lips, and then turns away, contemplating the long, lonely day ahead.
Once they are alone, Nest’s shyness continues to rob her of speech. She steals sidelong glances at him, trying to relearn him as he weaves his way competently through the traffic. The casual holiday clothes are replaced with a tweed sports coat and flannels, the sand-shoes by polished brogues. He looks older, more serious: very real indeed. Nest swallows in a dry throat and he glances across at her, his eyes crinkling into a smile. Instantly, the flame of confidence is reignited and she settles more comfortably, content to wait until they arrive at wherever it is he has ordained that they should spend the day.
When he stops the car, in a quiet spot at the edge of a hill overlooking rolling farmland, and turns to her, however, shyness returns and she stares ahead through the windscreen, unable to meet his eyes.
‘Do you not think that this is a bit rash?’ he asks gently. ‘Not that I’m not delighted to see you, of course.’
She glances at him quickly, made fearful by his question, so clearly anxious for reassurance that he takes her face between his hands and kisses her until the blood hammers in her ears and she clings to him. Gently he takes her hands in his own, folding them quietly together.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ he tells her, his voice deliberately light, ‘made of all the right stuff, believe me, or as near as I could get to what you’d consider suitable for such an occasion. Though nectar was in short demand and they were fresh out of lotus . . .’
She is laughing, adoring him, but he hasn’t finished with her.
‘We’ll have a perfect day,’ he tells her, more seriously, ‘but this is the last one, lady, until I meet your family. You don’t do this to me again.’
She promises, too happy and relieved to protest, but even though the picnic is delicious and the sunshine blesses them with its warmth, there is some difference that she cannot quite define. The ease they shared is gone, the holiday magic slightly tarnished, as reality presses in on their idyll. The invisible cloak that seemed to contain and protect them on Exmoor seems to be slipping and, when she suggests that they find somewhere to have some tea, he is not too keen. In the little tea-shop he withdraws even further: the intimacy vanishes; his tone is light, social, amused. She feels that she is still a schoolgirl being given a treat by an older member of her family, a cousin perhaps
, and, going to the cloakroom, she peers into the tiny mirror, stares down at the shirtwaister dress, wondering if she looks too young beside his elegant, confident maturity. When she returns she sees too the look the waitress gives him, knowing and complicit, and she wonders, with a new terror gripping her heart, whether in her absence Connor has been flirting with her. Their invisible cloak has been torn away indeed; oh, how distant, now, the beach and the moor; how natural and easy their love was, then.
‘So,’ says Connor, back in the car, unaware of her churning gut and destroyed confidence, ‘will you give me an address or a telephone number so that I can meet this family of yours?’
She nods miserably and he puts a finger under her chin and turns her face towards his own.
‘If you still want to,’ she mutters – and he laughs and kisses her.
‘For my sins,’ he says, ‘I do. So now which of them do I drop in on? You have sisters in London, isn’t that the way of it?’
‘No, it ought to be Mama and Mina.’ She feels better now, sitting straighter, thrusting away her unworthy fears, ashamed of herself: he wants it to be above board and she has been so ready to misjudge him. ‘But they’re such a long way away.’
‘I’m going down to Porlock again for a weekend. I’ll drop in.’
‘What will you say?’ She stares at him, fascinated by his insouciance.
‘Oh, that’s not a problem. I shall say that I met you through your friend Laura at a party, and you told me to call on them when I was down next. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds wonderful.’ She is renewed again, full of delight. ‘They’ll love you, of course.’
He smiles drily. ‘Of course. And you could be writing them a letter, just to say you’ve met this chap who might be passing through. Mention Porlock but keep it light; a coincidence, that kind of thing. But no contact between us until I’ve done it. Now, do you promise me that?’
‘Oh, yes, I promise. Only how—’
‘No questions. Just leave it to me. Don’t you trust me, woman?’
‘Of course I do.’ She melts towards him, yearning for his embrace, weak with longing.
‘I’m taking you back,’ he says at last, ‘and you’ll never know what it’s costing me. It’s a medal I should be getting for it. Comb your hair and make yourself ready to meet that pop-eyed friend of yours. That’s good. Give me a last kiss now. We’ll say our goodbyes here, not in public at the station . . .’
‘I love you,’ murmurs Nest, trying the words for the first time, but he is busy reversing the car out of the parking space and doesn’t hear her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was Friday evening before Lyddie summoned up the courage to speak to Liam about her idea for installing central heating. Just as on Saturday evenings The Place had a special atmosphere, so on Friday evenings it tended to let down its hair and a merry, end-of-week jollity pervaded it. When she arrived, there was already a crush at the bar but Joe waved to her cheerfully and several regulars stopped the Bosun to make much of him, exclaiming at his size and asking her questions about his diet and how much exercise he required. To her surprise, Liam was already installed in the snug and he stretched out an arm to pull her down beside him.
‘What a racket!’ he said. ‘We’re getting quite a rowdy element in here on Friday evenings. I’ll have to put the prices up.’
‘I like it,’ Lyddie said, kissing him. ‘It’s fun, although it seems busier than usual. Were you waiting for me?’
‘I was,’ he answered. ‘Someone’s having a birthday and I think we’ll get our order in before they want to eat. That way I can give Joe a bit of a break later on.’
‘That’s fine by me.’ She let him help her out of her coat. ‘We’ve had a very long walk and I’m starving.’
‘I feel guilty about giving you that animal,’ he said, leaning to stroke the Bosun, who had settled in his usual place at the end of the table. ‘All this walking you have to do!’
‘I need it.’ Lyddie folded the coat and put it with her bag on the opposite bench. ‘I sit down all day, remember. A long walk in the morning and then again in the evening is good for me – as well as him. Anyway, if I didn’t he’d be impossible. He’s still a very young dog. If I didn’t wear him out before I started work he’d be an absolute pain. Luckily, he’s very placid and he’s big. He’s glad to have a good long rest during the day.’
She saw that he was distracted, looking towards the bar, and glanced in the same direction. A pretty blonde girl was working beside Joe and, as they watched, he smiled reassuringly down at her and she pulled a face at him, clowning terror.
‘Who’s that?’ Lyddie turned to Liam, surprised.
‘That’s our new girl, Zoë. She’s done the work before and she’s keen but this is her first night so we’re keeping an eye on her.’
‘Rosie’s replacement?’
He nodded, watching Zoë serve a customer. ‘She seems to be on the ball all right, but it’s early days.’
Lyddie bit back the impulse to say, ‘I didn’t know you’d replaced Rosie already,’ and saw Joe give Zoë an approving nod. She asked a question and he bent to show her something below the bar, their heads close together.
‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘perhaps she’ll be taking Rosie’s place in more ways than one.’
Liam smiled. ‘Always the romantic. And why not? So what are you going to eat?’
They sat together, companionably, sometimes talking, sometimes watching the ever-changing scene beyond the snug. After they’d eaten, Liam went to relieve Joe at the bar so that he could have some supper.
‘How’s Zoë doing?’ she asked him, once he was settled on the bench opposite. ‘She looks very competent.’
‘She’s good. She knows the job, it’s just a question of finding out where things are, getting the hang of the layout, that kind of thing.’
She looked at him as he forked fettuccini into his mouth, longing to ask how he really was; wondering if he’d heard from Rosie. He glanced up, caught her expression and smiled at her.
‘Are you OK?’ She smiled back at him. ‘You look tired.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s new? I am tired. Tired of working fourteen hours a day.’
‘But no hope of a bar manager yet?’
He shook his head at her warningly. ‘I’m not going down that road. I don’t like being caught in the crossfire between a husband and wife. It’ll happen one day.’
‘I suppose so.’ She glanced towards the bar, watching Liam sharing a joke with one of the regulars. They roared with laughter, happy and at ease, and Lyddie sighed. ‘The thing is that Liam actually never seems to be tired. On the contrary, he seems to thrive on his work; the more he does the more it seems to energize him. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘There are lots of people like Liam,’ he answered. ‘It’s a kind of genetic instruction. A driving force. If they stop, they die.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said. ‘I don’t want us to be like this for the rest of our lives. I want us to spend some time together occasionally, have a holiday, start a family, that kind of thing. Like ordinary people do.’
He looked at her compassionately. ‘But Liam’s not an ordinary person,’ he said gently. ‘Something drives him. You must know that by now.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know that.’
When Liam came to sit with her again, and Joe disappeared, carrying his plate into the kitchen, his vitality licked over him like a flame; even his hair seemed to tingle with it. He kissed her, glossy with goodwill, slipping an arm about her shoulders, and Joe grinned at them as he came back through the kitchen swing-door.
‘You two ought to have a curtain across, sometimes,’ he said. ‘It’s indecent the way you carry on in public,’ and they laughed back at him as Liam bent to kiss her again.
‘The atmosphere here goes to your head,’ she told him.
‘And not just the atmosphere,’ he answered. ‘Did I tell you that you look b
eautiful tonight?’
Mickey brought them some coffee and they sat quietly together, drinking companionably.
‘I had an idea earlier,’ she said at last, ‘about putting in some central heating. You’re right about my room getting cold. I know I could use the electric radiator but it’s terribly expensive. What about biting the bullet and putting in proper heating? It would increase the value of the house, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would.’ He was staring down at his coffee, stirring it thoughtfully. ‘But have you any idea of the cost?’
‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘but we could get an estimate.’ A pause. ‘I could use the money from the house for it. What do you think?’
Another pause. She glanced at him; he was still stirring his coffee, the spoon moving round and round, and she had the impression that he wasn’t listening to her at all, that his whole attention was somewhere else. Part of her was relieved that he hadn’t immediately vetoed the idea or lost his temper; part of her was puzzled. He spoke, however, before she could repeat the question.
‘It’s a thought,’ he said. He took a draught of the coffee and leaned back, stretching, a smile touching his lips. ‘Definitely a thought.’
She drew a long breath, feeling herself relax. ‘Good,’ she said.
‘And I must go and talk to the punters,’ he said and chuckled suddenly. ‘What did you call it? My royal walk-about?’ He swallowed some more coffee and stood up. Squeezing past, he smiled down at her, sending her a little wink. ‘I’ll be back.’
She settled comfortably, quite weak now that the moment was over, still astonished at his amiability. After pouring some more coffee, she sat quietly, watching him as he moved amongst his customers; a nod here, a pat on the shoulder there, a compliment to a pretty woman, a longer conversation with some favoured regulars. After a moment she was aware of someone watching her and, glancing across to the bar, she saw Joe looking at her with an odd expression of mingled affection and compassion.
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