Voices In Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  He took a deep breath. He said, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shrugged, her thin shoulders hunched. ‘I just heard you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Erica said, ‘I’ve just told Daddy about the school, Gabriel. He doesn’t want you to go, because he thinks you’re too young.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’ Alec asked gently.

  Gabriel went on fiddling with the doorknob.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said at last.

  He knew that she would say anything to stop them quarrelling; and it occurred to him then, as anger died and sadness took its place, that he had two alternatives. Either he had to make an issue of the situation, which would inevitably involve Gabriel in the subsequent recriminations, or else he had to let the whole thing ride and go quietly along with it. Whatever he decided he knew that Gabriel was going to be the loser.

  Later, after he had had a bath and changed, he went along to Gabriel’s room to say good-night to her. She was in her nightdress and bedroom slippers, kneeling in the twilight gloom and watching television. He sat on the bed and watched her face, her profile lifted to the screen, her features illuminated by its light. At ten she was neither as pretty as she had been or as beautiful as she would become, but to Alec she seemed so precious, so vulnerable, that his heart turned over at the thought of what might lie ahead for her.

  After the programme ended, she got up and switched off the television, then turned on her bedside light and went to draw the curtains. She was an extremely orderly child. When she had done this, he reached out and took her by the arm and drew her gently towards him, holding her between his knees. He kissed her. He said, ‘The quarrel’s over. I’m sorry. We had no right to make so much noise. I hope you aren’t upset.’

  She laid her head against his shoulder. He took his hand and touched her hair.

  She said, ‘Most people go to boarding school sooner or later.’

  ‘Will you mind?’

  ‘Will you come and see me?’

  ‘Of course. Whenever I’m allowed. And there’ll be half-terms and things. And holidays.’

  ‘Mummy took me to see the school.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘It smelled of polish. But the headmistress had a kind face. And she’s quite young. And she doesn’t mind if you take teddies and things.’

  ‘Look—if you really don’t want to go…’

  She drew away from him and shrugged. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said again.

  It was all he could do. He kissed her and left her and went downstairs.

  So once again Erica had won, and three weeks later, Gabriel, wearing a grey school uniform and clutching her teddy, entered her new school. Leaving her was like leaving part of himself, and it took some time to get used to returning home to an empty house.

  For now the pattern of life was totally changed. Freed from the responsibility of Gabriel, Erica found endless excuses not to come to London, but to stay on her own in the country. There was a new horse to be schooled, some coming event to train for, a Pony Club gymkhana to organize. After a little, it seemed to Alec that they were never together. Sometimes, if there was a party on in London, or she needed to go to the hairdresser or buy some new clothes, she would drive up to town in the middle of the week, and he would get back to the house in Islington to find it full of the fresh flowers she had brought with her from Deepbrook, and smelling of her scent. He would see her fur coat tossed over the banister, hear her voice talking to some girlfriend—probably Daphne—over the telephone.

  ‘Just for a day or two. Are you going to the Ramseys’ this evening? Well, let’s lunch tomorrow. The Caprice? All right. About one o’clock. I’ll book a table.’

  When she was not there, Mrs Abney agreed to keep an eye on Alec. Heavy-footed she would tread up from the basement and produce a shepherd’s pie or a stew from the oven. And in the evenings he often sat alone, with a whisky and soda at hand, watching television or reading the paper.

  If only for Gabriel’s sake, however, it was important to keep up the façade of a sound and lasting marriage. Perhaps the charade convinced no person but himself, but if Alec was in London—for his overseas commitments now were more pressing than ever—he would dutifully drive himself down to Deepbrook on Friday evenings.

  But here again things were no longer the same, for lately Erica had taken to filling the house with weekend guests. It was as though she were setting up some sort of a defence against Alec, as though she were reluctant even to spend a few hours alone with him. No sooner had he climbed tiredly out of his car than, it seemed, he was welcoming new arrivals, carrying suitcases, pouring drinks, opening wine. In the old days he had enjoyed the therapy of a little amateur gardening: trimming a hedge or mowing the lawn. There had been time to potter, plant bulbs or prune the roses, saw up a few logs, mend a sagging gate.

  But now there were so many people to be taken care of that he never had a moment to himself, and he was too conscientious and courteous a host ever to lose his patience with these demanding hordes and tell them to drive themselves to the Point-to-Point; to find their own way to the National Trust Garden; to fetch their own garden chairs and pour their own bloody drinks.

  * * *

  One Friday evening at the beginning of September, in that blistering summer of 1976, Alec climbed into his car, slammed the door, and set off for Deepbrook. He loved London, it was his home, and like Samuel Pepys, he never tired of it. But for once he felt nothing but relief at the prospect of getting away from the city. The relentless heat, the drought, the dust, and the dirt had become enemies. The parks, usually so green, wilted, dry as deserts. Trodden grass lay dead and brown, and here and there sprouted sinister, unknown weeds, never seen before. The very air was stale and used, doors stood open to the breezeless evening, and the sinking sun, orange in the hazy sky, promised nothing but another scorcher the next day.

  Driving, he deliberately put the problems of the week away into the back of his mind. His responsibilities were now so great that he had a long time ago schooled himself to do this, and had discovered that the discipline was a worthwhile one, for when he returned to the office on Monday morning his brain was clear and refreshed, and very often his subconscious mind was ready and waiting to present him with a solution or an idea that previously had eluded him.

  Instead, heading south through the sweltering suburbs, he thought about the two days that lay ahead. He did not dread this particular weekend. On the contrary, he was actually looking forward to it. For once, there would not be a houseful of strangers. They had returned, only a month previously, from Glenshandra, and Erica had planned the weekend then, inviting the Ansteys and the Boulderstones to stay.

  ‘We’ll have a lovely time,’ she told them, ‘talking about Glenshandra and exchanging fishing stories.’

  As well, Gabriel was home. She was thirteen now. This summer, Alec had bought her a little trout rod of her own, and she had had a happy time with Jamie Rudd, the ghillie, learning to use this new toy. The school about which Alec had had such heart-searching reservations had proved, maddeningly enough, to be a success. Erica was not a fool and had gone to some trouble to find an establishment that would match up to Gabriel’s needs, and after a term or so of homesickness, Gabriel seemed to have shaken down quite happily and made friends for herself. Having the Boulderstones and the Anstey’s was like having family to stay—they had been so often, they knew how to take care of themselves. Alec would maybe take Gabriel off by himself one afternoon. Perhaps they would go swimming. The very idea filled him with pleasure. The traffic was thinning. He had reached the motorway and was able to pick up speed, to change up into overdrive. The powerful car surged forward.

  In the New Forest it was just as hot, but now it was country heat. Deepbrook drowsed. The shadow of the cedar tree lay black across the lawn, and full-blown roses scented the cooling evening air. The awning was up over the terrace, shading a group of garden chairs, and indoor
s Erica, for coolness, had drawn all the curtains. This gave the house a blank look, as though the windows were the eyes of a sightless man.

  He parked the car beneath the dappled shade of a young silver birch and got out, glad to stretch his legs and get the sweaty cramp out of his shoulders. As he stood there, he heard Gabriel calling him. ‘Daddy!’ and saw her coming up the lawn towards him. She wore only the skimpiest of bikinis and an old pair of rubber sandals, and she had tied her hair up in a bundle on the top of her head. For some reason this made her look very grown up. In her hand she carried a bunch of yellow flowers.

  ‘Look,’ she said, holding them out to show him. ‘Kingcups.’

  ‘Where did you find those?’

  ‘Down by the brook. Mummy said she wanted some flowers for her dinner table and everything in the garden’s wilting away, because we’re not allowed to water anything. Every now and then of course we cheat, and do, but there’s not much to pick. How are you?’ She reached up, and he stooped down and they kissed. ‘Isn’t it boiling? Isn’t it absolutely boiling?’

  He agreed that it was boiling. He opened the car door and pulled his suitcase off the back seat, and together they walked slowly across the gravel and into the house.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asked, following her into the kitchen.

  ‘She’s up at the stables, I think.’ She filled a mug with water and put the kingcups into it. Alec opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of fresh orange juice. ‘She asked me to lay the table for her because she said she wouldn’t have time. The others haven’t come yet. I mean the Boulderstones and the Ansteys. Come and see the dinner table and tell me if you think it’s all right. Mummy’s so fussy, she’s bound to say I’ve forgotten something.’

  The dining room, with the curtains drawn, was dim and shadowed, smelling vaguely of other dinner parties, cigars, wine. Gabriel went to draw back the curtains. ‘It’s cooler now, Mummy won’t mind.’ Yellow sunlight poured through the windows in dust-moted shafts, glancing off polished silver, crystal, and glass. He looked at the table and said he thought it looked perfect, which it did. Gabriel had used white linen mats and pale yellow napkins. The candles, in their ornate silver candlesticks, were yellow as well. ‘That’s why I thought of the kingcups, to go with everything else.… I thought if I put them in a silver bowl they’d look all right.… Mummy’s so good at doing flowers.…’ She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Alec frowned. ‘You’ve laid for eight. I thought there were only six of us.’

  ‘Seven with me. I’m coming down for dinner. And a man called Strickland Whiteside.’

  ‘Strickland Whiteside?’ He almost laughed at the absurdity of the name. ‘Who on earth is … Strickland Whiteside?’ But even as he repeated himself, a chord of familiarity rang like an echo in the back of his mind somewhere. He had heard that man’s name before.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, he’s Mummy’s new chum, and he’s terribly famous. He’s a frightfully rich American from Virginia and he rides.’

  Memory struck. Alec clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it. I knew I’d heard of him. There was an article in The Field about him and his horses. There’s one horse in particular. A great beast the height of an elephant.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s called White Samba.’

  ‘What does he do when he isn’t riding?’

  ‘He doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t go to an office or anything like that. He just rides. He’s got an enormous house on the James River and acres of land—he showed me some photographs—and he wins show jumping events all over America, and now he’s come over here to train for some of ours.’

  ‘He sounds fairly formidable.’

  Gabriel giggled. ‘You know Mummy’s horsey friends. But actually he’s quite nice … in a rather overwhelming sort of way.’

  ‘Is he staying?’

  ‘Oh, no, he doesn’t have to stay, because he’s taken a house over at Tickleigh.’

  Alec was intrigued. ‘Where did Mummy meet him?’

  ‘At the Alverton Horse Show, I think. I’m not quite sure. Look, have I got the right wineglasses? I always get in a muddle with sherry and port.’

  ‘No. Yes, it’s fine. You’ve got it quite right.’ He began to smile. ‘Do we have to call him Strickland? If I have to call him Strickland, I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep a straight face.’

  ‘Everybody calls him Strick.’

  ‘That’s even worse.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not so bad. And just think what fun Daphne Boulderstone will have making eyes at him. There’s nothing she likes more than a new man. It’ll make a lovely change from boring old George Anstey.’

  ‘How about boring old me?’

  Gabriel put her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest.

  ‘Never boring old you. Just super, gorgeous, kind you.’ She pulled away, responsible and busy. ‘Now I must go and do something about the kingcups.’

  * * *

  He was in a cold bath when he heard Erica come upstairs and into their bedroom. He called her name, and she appeared in the open doorway, her arms crossed, a shoulder propped against the wall. She was looking very tanned, very hot, and rather tired. She had tied back her dark hair with a cotton handkerchief and wore old, dirty jeans, riding boots, and a shirt that had once belonged to him. He thought of these as her horse-fangling clothes.

  He said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello there. You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’

  ‘I wanted to freshen up before the others get here.’

  ‘How was London?’

  ‘Like an oven.’

  ‘It’s been hot here too. We’re short of water.’

  ‘I hear we have a new acquaintance coming for dinner tonight.’

  She met his gaze and smiled. ‘Gabriel tell you?’

  ‘He sounds interesting.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ll find him particularly interesting, but I thought it would be friendly to ask him along this evening to meet you all.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. Perhaps I shall find that we have American friends in common, and we’ll be able to gas about them. What are we eating?’

  ‘Smoked salmon and then grouse.’

  ‘Very smart. White wine or red?’

  ‘I think some bottles of both, don’t you? Don’t be too long, will you, Alec? I’d like to have a bath myself and it’s too hot to hurry.’ And she turned and went back into the bedroom. He heard her opening the sliding mirrored doors of her wardrobe. Imagined her standing there, trying to decide what she would put on. Thoughtfully, he squeezed dry the sponge and reached for his towel.

  * * *

  Alec, with his guests and his wife already seated, moved around the table pouring the wine. The windows of the dining room were wide open. Outside, it was still light, and very warm. There was not the faintest breeze and the garden drowsed in the scented evening air. On the table the candle flames glowed palely, striking soft reflections on crystal and silver. The kingcups, brilliant butter yellow, seemed to shine with a light all their own.

  He put the bottle of wine back on the sideboard and went to take his place at the head of the table.

  ‘… of course, you would probably think it was terribly boring after fishing in those wilderness rivers in the United States, but there is something very special about Glenshandra. We all adore it … we’re like children there.’

  That was Daphne, in full cry, monopolizing all conversation.

  Strickland, Strick—Alec couldn’t decide which was worse—assumed a modest expression. ‘I’m not actually much of a fisherman myself.’

  ‘No, of course you aren’t, how silly of me, you wouldn’t have time.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he have time?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Well, darling, of course he wouldn’t have time if he’s in training for some world-shaking equestrian event.’

  ‘Equestrian.’ That was George. ‘Daphne, I never realized you knew such long words.’<
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  She pouted at him, and Alec was reminded of the young girl she no longer was.

  ‘But it is the right word, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Strickland. ‘It’s the right word.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. You are sweet to be on my side.’ She picked up her fork and speared a delicate sliver of rosy-pink smoked salmon.

  Erica had placed her guests as she normally did when there were eight people present. Alec was in his normal chair, at the head of the table, but Erica had moved around to the side and relinquished her place to Strickland Whiteside, in his capacity as guest of honor, so that he and Alec faced each other down the length of the table. In fact, although they sat thus they didn’t have a particularly good view of each other because the tall silver candelabra got in the way. When Erica was sitting there, Alec sometimes found this irritating, because if he wanted to say something to her, or to catch her eye, it involved some manoeuvring, but this evening he decided that it was probably a good thing.

  He wanted to enjoy his dinner without being conscious the whole time of Strickland Whiteside’s disconcertingly pale blue eyes.

  Daphne and Erica sat on either side of Strickland and Marjorie Anstey and Gabriel on either side of Alec. Tom and George faced each other across the middle of the table.

  Strickland Whiteside also took up his fork. ‘Do you ride?’ he asked Marjorie.

  ‘Oh, heavens no. I never rode, even at school. I was always far too terrified.’

  ‘She doesn’t know a horse’s arse from its elbow,’ said George, and his wife said ‘George’ in tones of extreme disapproval, and glanced towards Gabriel.

  ‘Sorry, Gabriel, forgot you were there.’

  Gabriel looked embarrassed, but Erica put back her head and laughed, as much at George’s discomfort as at his joke.

  Watching her, Alec decided that the time spent pondering over her wardrobe had not been wasted. She wore a caftan of the palest blue Thai silk, with the earrings he had once given her for some long-forgotten birthday and gold bracelets on her slender brown wrists. She looked amazingly young this evening. He face still beautiful, her jawline firm, her hair without a thread of grey. Of all of them, he decided, she had aged and changed the least. Because, although not old, not even middle-aged, they, who had been young together, no longer were.