Voices In Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Abigail Crescent had not changed. A few more houses had had their faces cleaned, a neighbour had added a dormer window to his roof. That was all. The house where she had spent her childhood looked exactly as it always had, which was comforting, but her father’s private parking space stood empty, which was not so comforting. Perhaps, although it was only half past eight in the morning, he had already gone to work.

  She went up the steps and rang the bell. Inside the house, she heard it ringing, but no one came to the door. After a little she put her hand to her neck and drew from beneath her sweater a long silver chain, from which hung a latchkey. Long ago, when she was still at day school in London, her father had given her the key … in case of emergencies, he had said, but she had never had to use it, because there was always somebody there when she got home.

  She used it now, turning the lock. The door opened, and as it did, Gabriel saw a figure making its slow way up the basement stairs towards her.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The voice was shrill and sharp, even a little agitated.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Abney,’ said Gabriel. ‘It’s only me.’

  Mrs. Abney did all the things people are meant to do if they have turns or heart attacks. She stopped dead, gasped as if for air, placed her hand on her chest, clutched the banister.

  ‘Gabriel!’

  ‘I’m sorry, did I frighten you?’

  ‘You certainly did!’

  ‘I didn’t think anyone was in.…’

  ‘I was in all right and heard the bell, but I can’t get up the stairs like a dose of salts, can I?’

  Gabriel lugged the kit bag into the hall and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Where have you sprung from?’ asked Mrs. Abney.

  ‘From the West Indies. I’ve been flying since…’ It was too long ago to remember and, with time changes and jet lag, too complicated to try to explain. ‘… oh, forever. Where’s my father?’

  ‘He’s away. He didn’t say anything about you coming.’

  ‘He didn’t know I was coming. I suppose he’s in Scotland.’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s been to Scotland. Got back Wednesday … yesterday, that is. And flew off again yesterday evening.’

  ‘Flew off?’ Gabriel’s heart sank. ‘Where to?’

  ‘New York. A business trip. With Mr. and Mrs. Boulderstone.’

  ‘Oh…’ Gabriel’s legs felt suddenly weak. She sat at the bottom of the stairs and bowed her head, pushing her fingers through her hair. He’d gone to New York. She’d missed him by only a few hours. Their planes must have crossed in the night, both of them travelling in the wrong direction.

  Mrs. Abney, seeing her wilt with tiredness and disappointment, became motherly.

  ‘There’s nothing in the kitchen, because the house is empty. But why don’t you come downstairs with me and I’ll make you a cup of tea.… It’ll seem like old times, having you there. Remember how I used to give you your tea after school when your mum was out? Just like old times.’

  Mrs. Abney’s basement was another of the things that hadn’t changed, dim and cosy as a badger’s holt, with lace curtains shutting off what light seeped in from the area, and her little range, even in August, hot as a ship’s boiler.

  While Mrs. Abney put on a kettle and collected cups and saucers, Gabriel pulled out a chair and sat at the table. She looked around her, seeing familiar photographs, the framed calender of bluebells in a wood, the china dogs at either end of the mantelshelf.

  She said. ‘Where’s Dicky?’

  ‘Oh, my little Dicky, he died. About a year ago. My nephew wanted to give me a budgie, but I hadn’t the heart.’ She made the tea. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  ‘No, just tea would be fine.’

  ‘You sure? When did you last have a meal?’

  Gabriel couldn’t remember. ‘Oh, sometime.’

  ‘I could do a bit of bread and butter.’

  ‘No, really.’

  Mrs. Abney sat facing her and poured the tea. She said, ‘I shall want to hear all your news. And about your mother. Mother’s all right, is she? That’s good. My goodness, it seems a long time since you went … must be nearly six years now. How old are you now? Nineteen? Yes, I thought you must be just about nineteen. You haven’t changed that much. Recognized you at once. Except your hair’s short. And you’ve dyed it blond.’

  ‘No, I didn’t dye it. It just bleached itself with West Indian sunshine and chlorinated swimming pools.’

  ‘You look like a boy. That’s what I thought when I saw you standing there. That’s why I got such a scare. Some nasty boys around the place these days … I have to take good care of the house when your father’s away.’

  Gabriel took a mouthful of the tea, which was dark and sweet and strong, the way Mrs Abney had always liked it.

  ‘And his new wife … has she gone to New York too?’

  ‘No. I told you, just the Boulderstones. No, the new Mrs Haverstock’s gone to Cornwall. She’s been there for a bit.’ Mrs Abney dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Had to have this little operation. You know, dear. Insides.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Mrs Abney continued in her normal tones, ‘the doctor wouldn’t let her go to Scotland, so she went to Cornwall instead.’ She took another sip of tea and laid the cup down in the saucer. ‘To get better.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No, I don’t know where. Mr Haverstock didn’t give me her address. Just to some relation of his, in Cornwall.’

  ‘There are dozens of Haverstocks in Devon and Cornwall. She could be anywhere.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know where she is … except … a letter came yesterday evening. I think it came from Cornwall. Just wait and I’ll get it.’ She got to her feet and went over to her sideboard and opened a drawer. ‘Your father’s secretary drops by each morning and picks up all the mail, and deals with it in the office. But she hasn’t come yet, and this is all I’ve got to give her.’

  She handed the envelope to Gabriel. A plain brown envelope with her father’s name and the address apparently printed on, as though it had been done with a rubber stamp. The postmark was Truro, Cornwall, and in the opposite corner someone had written, in felt pen, Urgent, and underlined it.

  ‘What an extraordinary-looking letter.’

  ‘It might be from Mrs Haverstock. The new Mrs Haverstock, that is,’ she added tactfully.

  ‘I can’t open it.’ She looked at Mrs Abney. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, dear. It’s up to you. If you want to get hold of Mrs Haverstock and the address is in the letter, then I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a peep. Though I must say, it’s a funny way to write the address. Must have taken hours.’

  Gabriel laid down the envelope and then picked it up again.

  She said, ‘I really have to know where she is, Mrs Abney. If I can’t see my father, I have to see her.’

  ‘Then open it,’ said Mrs Abney. ‘After all, “Urgent” doesn’t mean private.’

  Gabriel put her thumb beneath the flap and slit the envelope. She drew out a sheet of pale pink writing paper and unfolded it. Lined paper, headed by a stamp-size picture of a fairy. The lines of black, uneven print shouted at her like a bad-news headline.

  YOur WiFe aT TreMEnhEeRe iS

  HaViNG AN AFfaIR wITh IvAN

  AShbY. ThOUgHt yOu shOUld KnoW

  A WEll-wisHEr.

  Her heart was hammering. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  ‘Any use?’ asked Mrs Abney, craning her neck to peer.

  Gabriel quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope before Mrs Abney should see.

  ‘No. Yes. It’s … not from her. Just a note from somebody else. But she’s at a place called Tremenheere.’

  ‘There you are! Now you know.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone deathly pale.’

  ‘Yes, I am all right, but I’m tired.’ She pushed the horribl
e envelope into the pocket of her jeans. ‘I haven’t slept for hours. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and lie down.’

  ‘You do that. Your bed’s not made up, but it’s been aired. You can get in under the blankets. Have a bit of shut-eye.’

  ‘Yes. You are kind, Mrs Abney. I’m sorry I suddenly burst in on you, surprised you.’

  ‘It’s nice to have you here again. Nice to have a bit of company with everyone away. Your dad’ll be pleased when he knows you’re back.’

  Gabriel went upstairs and into the sitting room. Picked up the telephone and dialled a number. A man answered. ‘Directory enquiries.’

  ‘I want a number in Cornwall, please. The name is Haverstock. I’m afraid I don’t know the initial. And the address is Tremenheere.’

  ‘Hold on a mo.’

  She held on. He was a cheerful man, singing at his work. ‘Oh, when e’er the darkest cloud is in the sky, You mustn’t sigh. And you mustn’t cry.…’

  The sitting room was much as she remembered it. The same curtains, the same covers on the chairs. The cushions that her mother had chosen. Some new ornaments, another picture or two …

  ‘Tremenheere. Here we are. Penvarloe two three eight.’

  Gabriel, ready with a pencil, wrote it down.

  ‘And it’s Mist…?’

  ‘No, not Mister. Admiral, Admiral G. J. Haverstock.’

  She said, ‘Penvarloe,’ and then, sounding helpless, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘I’ve got to get there by train. I wonder which would be the nearest railway station.’

  ‘I can tell you that.’ And he did so.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The wife and I were down there for our summer holidays last year.’

  ‘How amazing.’

  ‘Amazing all right,’ said the cheerful voice. ‘Rained the whole bloody time.’

  She went out of the room, picked up her things, and trailed upstairs. On the first landing, she dropped the kit bag and went into her father’s dressing room. It smelled, as it had always smelled, of Bay Rum. She opened the wardrobe and touched his clothes, lifting the sleeve of a tweed jacket and holding it against her cheek. She saw his salmon rod, in its canvas case, neatly stowed in a corner; his open desk, stuffed with his ordered confusion of papers and cheque stubs and some accounts, waiting to be paid. On the chest of drawers stood a photograph of herself, taken years ago, and a terrible drawing she had once done for him. As well there was a photograph of … Laura? Not a studio portrait but an enlarged snap, informal and laughing. She had a lot of dark hair and dark eyes and a lovely smile. She looked so happy.

  Your wife at Tremenheere is having an affair with Ivan Ashby.

  Gabriel went out through the door and closed it behind her. Dragging the kit bag again, she started up the last flight. Your room will always be there, he had promised her. Waiting for you. She opened the door and went in. Her bed, her books, her bears, her dollhouse. The Beatrix Potter frieze around the walls, the blue-and-white curtains.

  The kit bag fell upon the floor with a soft thud. She kicked off her shoes and pulled back the covers and got into the bed. The blankets felt soft and warm, more comforting than any sheet. She stared at the ceiling, too tired to sleep.

  Your wife at Tremenheere …

  Too tired even to cry. She closed her eyes.

  Later, she got up and had a hot bath and put on some other clothes. Another pair of jeans, another tee shirt, hauled, unironed, from the kit bag, but at least clean. She picked up her shoulder bag and let herself out of the house and walked around the corner to the local bank that her parents had always used. She asked to see the manager, identified herself, and was allowed to cash a cheque. With money to spend, she realized that she was ravenously hungry. She found a delicatessen and bought fresh bread, butter, a carton of milk, some pâté, and half a pound of tomatoes. When she got back to Abigail Crescent, she unloaded all this onto the kitchen table, and there assembled and consumed the impromptu meal. It was now nearly three thirty. She went through to the sitting room and rang Paddington Station and booked herself a sleeper on the night train. After that there wasn’t anything to do except wait.

  * * *

  The station was at the end of the line. For the last mile or so of the journey, the railway ran alongside the sea, and when Gabriel opened the door of the train and stepped down onto the platform, it was to be met by the strong, salty smell of seaweed and fish, while overhead a lot of gulls, screaming into the fresh morning breeze, were flying about.

  The platform clock stood at half past seven. She walked down the platform and out into the station yard. Beyond this was a harbour, filled with fishing boats and small pleasure craft. There was a taxi rank, with two or three cars lined up, so she went to the first and asked the man to take her to Tremenheere. ‘Got any luggage, ’have you?’

  ‘Only this.’

  He opened the door, and she got in and he slung the red kit bag in after her.

  ‘Is it very far?’ she asked him, as he started up the road behind the station and then turned back in the direction from which the train had come.

  ‘No, only a mile or two. Going to stay with the Admiral?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t know ’im. Know of ’im. Lovely ’ouse ’e’s got.’

  ‘I hope it’s not too early for them. I’m not expected.’

  ‘Bound to be someone around.’

  Already, they had left the town behind them, turned up a winding lane, climbing a hill. There were little fields and farms and a lot of wild rhododendrons. Then a village. ‘This ’ere’s Penvarloe,’ and then gates, and a short driveway, and a big and very beautiful stone Elizabethan house was revealed.

  They stopped by the front door, which stood, irrefutably shut, locked against them. At the side of it was a wrought-iron bellpull, but the thought of actually pulling it and waking a houseful of sleeping people was more than Gabriel could face.

  ‘Just drop me here, and I’ll wait.’

  ‘Let’s go round the back and see if there’s anyone there.’

  The taxi moved on cautiously, under an archway and into a courtyard at the back of the house. Still, there was no sign of life. Gabriel got out and heaved her kit bag after her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she told the driver. ‘I’ll be all right now. How much do I owe you?’

  He told her, and she paid him and thanked him. He backed cautiously out of the courtyard, through the archway, and she heard him drive away. As she stood there trying to decide what to do next, the quiet was shattered by the sound of a window opening, and a man’s voice said, ‘Are you looking for somebody?’

  Not the big house, but the small house opposite, on the far side of the square. It had pink pelargoniums in tubs on either side of its door, and from the upper window a man leaned, his forearms resting on the stone ledge. He might have been totally naked, but Gabriel could only see his top half, so she couldn’t be sure.

  She said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Haverstock.’

  ‘You have a choice. We have two Mrs Haverstocks here. Which would you like?’

  ‘Mrs Alec Haverstock.’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said the naked man, ‘and I’ll come down and let you in.’

  Gabriel carried the kit bag across the courtyard and waited. She did not have to wait for long. A moment later, the door of the little house opened—he obviously never locked it—and he reappeared, barelegged and barefooted, but with the rest of him decently wrapped in a blue towel robe, the sash of which he was in the process of knotting around his waist. He was unshaven and his fair hair stood on end.

  He said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m afraid I woke you up.’

  ‘Yes, you did, or at least the taxi did. You’re looking for Laura. She won’t be up yet; none of them ever appear until about nine o’clock.’

  Gabriel looked at her watch. ‘Oh, dear…’r />
  He picked up her kit bag and stood aside, holding the door open. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘But, aren’t you…?’

  ‘Come on, it’s all right. I can’t go back to bed, even if I wanted to. I’ve got to get to work.…’

  Gabriel went through the door, and he closed it behind them. She saw the big room, which appeared to serve all functions; the pleasant clutter of scrubbed pine and blue-and-white china; saucepans neatly ranged over a small electric cooker; a black stove with armchairs drawn up to its comfort. There was a table in the middle of the room, on which stood a brown jug filled with roses. From the ceiling, suspended by a thread, hung a pink-and-red paper bird.

  She said, ‘What a nice room.’

  ‘I like it.’ She turned to face him. ‘Does Laura know you’re coming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Gabriel Haverstock.’ He stared. ‘Alec’s my father.’

  ‘But you’re in America.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m here. It’s my father who’s in America now. He flew to New York on Wednesday evening. Our planes must have crossed in the middle of the night.’

  ‘He didn’t know you were coming, either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘On the night train from Paddington.’

  ‘Well…’ He seemed to be lost for words. ‘This is a turn-up for the books. Are you going to stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. That depends on whether anybody asks me.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Do you know Gerald?’

  ‘My father used to talk about him, but I’ve never met him.’

  ‘So you won’t have met Eve?’

  ‘No, I haven’t met either of them. And I haven’t met Laura.’

  He laughed, scratching the back of his head, the very picture of a man in perplexity. ‘What a jolly time everybody’s going to have, meeting each other. Well, we’ll just have to wait until they all stir their stumps. Would you like some breakfast?’