Voices In Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  He looked for the car and found it. His own dark red BMW, with Rogerson, the office driver, standing alongside. Rogerson was a formal fellow, and although it was Sunday, and officially his day off, he had come to the airport in full rig: peaked cap, leather gloves, and all.

  ‘Morning, Mr Haverstock. Have a good flight?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thank you.’ Although he had not slept at all. ‘Thank you for bringing the car.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir.’ He took Alec’s bag and stowed it in the boot. ‘She’s all filled up—you shouldn’t have to stop for a bit.’

  ‘How are you getting back to town?’

  ‘I’ll take the tube, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to put you to so much trouble on a Sunday. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Anytime, sir.’ His gloved hand received Alec’s grateful fiver discreetly. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  * * *

  He drove, and the morning lightened all about him. On either side of the motorway small villages slowly came to life. By the time he was in Devon, church bells had started to ring. By the time he crossed the bridge over the Tamar, the sun was high in the sky and the roads were filling with aimless Sunday traffic.

  The miles flashed by. Now it was sixty, now fifty, now forty to Tremenheere. He crested a rise, and the road ran downhill to the northern estuaries, and sand dunes, and the sea. He could see the small hills, crested with monoliths and cairns of granite that had stood there since before the very beginning of time. The road swung south, into the sun. He saw the other sea, shimmering with sun pennies. There were yachts out—some small regatta, perhaps—and the narrow beaches were lined with screaming, happy holiday-makers.

  Penvarloe. He turned up the hill and into the familiar, quiet lanes and was through the village and out the other side in the same moment, turning in through the remembered gates.

  It was half past twelve.

  He saw her at once. She was sitting on the front doorstep of Tremenheere, with her knees drawn up to her chin, waiting for him. He wondered how long she had been there. As he drew up and stopped the engine, she rose slowly to her feet.

  He unlatched his safety belt and got out of the car, and stood by the open door looking at her. Across the small distance that separated them he saw the beautiful grey eyes, the best thing that she could have inherited from her mother. She had grown tall and long-legged, but she hadn’t changed. Once, her hair had been long and dark, and now it was short and bleached the colour of straw. But she hadn’t changed.

  She said, ‘You took your time,’ but the tough words were belied by the shake in her voice. He slammed the car door shut and held out his arms, and his daughter said, ‘Oh, Daddy!’ and burst into tears, and catapulted herself into his embrace, all at one and the same time.

  * * *

  Later, he went upstairs in search of his wife. He found her in their bedroom, sitting at the dressing table, brushing her hair. The room was neat and airy, the bed made. Lucy’s basket was gone. In the mirror, their eyes met.

  ‘Darling.’

  She dropped the brush and turned into his arms. He pulled her to her feet, and for a long moment they embraced, her slenderness held so close that he could feel the beating of her heart. He kissed the top of her clean, sweet-smelling head, touched her hair with his hand.

  ‘Darling Laura.’

  She said, into his shoulder, the words sounding muffled, ‘I didn’t come down because I wanted you to see Gabriel first. I wanted her to be the first one to see you.’

  ‘She was waiting.’ He said, ‘I’m sorry about Lucy.’

  He felt her shake her head, wordless, not wanting to talk about the tragedy, not trusting herself to speak.

  He did not say, ‘I’ll buy you another,’ because that would be like telling a bereaved mother that you would buy her another child. For Laura, there could never be another. A new puppy, perhaps, in time, but never another Lucy.

  After a little, he held her gently away from him and stared down into her face. She looked brown and marvellously better, but dreadfully sad. He put his hands on either side of her head, with his thumbs touching the dark smudges beneath her eyes as though they were marks that he could rub away.

  She said, ‘Did you speak to Gabriel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About the baby?’ He nodded. She said, ‘She came home to you, Alec. That’s why she came home. To be with you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She can stay with us.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She’s had a bad time.’

  ‘She’s survived it.’

  ‘She’s a lovely person.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s what she said about you.’

  ‘You would never speak about her, Alec. Why would you never speak about Gabriel to me?’

  ‘Did that worry you so much?’

  ‘Yes. It made me feel so dreadfully inadequate, as though you thought I didn’t love you enough. As though I hadn’t enough love for you to let Gabriel be part of our life together.’

  He thought that over. He said, ‘It sounds complicated. I think we’d better sit down.…’ Taking Laura’s hand, he led her to the old sofa that stood in front of the window. He sank into the corner of this, drawing her down beside him, still holding her hands within his own.

  He said, ‘You have to listen. I didn’t talk about Gabriel, partly because I didn’t think it was fair to you. My life with Erica was over years ago, and Gabriel physically left me then. In truth, by the time I married you, I’d given up all hopes of ever seeing her again. As well, I couldn’t talk about her. It was as simple as that. Losing her, seeing her go, was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Over the years, I shut the memory away, like something shut in a box, with the lid tightly closed. That was the only way I could live with it.’

  ‘But now you can open the box.’

  ‘Gabriel’s opened it herself. Escaped. Free. She’s come home.’

  ‘Oh, Alec.’

  He kissed her. He said, ‘You know, I’ve missed you so much. Without you with me, Glenshandra lost its magic. I kept wanting the holiday to be over, so that I could get home to you. And in New York, I kept thinking that I saw you, in restaurants and on sidewalks, and I’d look and the girl would turn round, and I’d see that she didn’t look in the least like you, and my imagination had been playing me tricks.’

  ‘Did it matter very much, leaving New York in the middle of your business and coming back? When … Lucy died, I told Gerald that I wanted you, but I never thought he’d go to all that trouble to get you here.’

  ‘Tom’s still there. He’s quite capable of handling things on his own.’

  ‘Did you get my letter?’

  He shook his head. ‘Did you write?’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have got to you. It was only to say how sorry I was about not coming with you.’

  ‘I understood.’

  ‘I hate telephones.’

  ‘So do I. I use them all the time, but they’re impossible instruments if you’re trying to get close to someone.’

  ‘Alec, it wasn’t just that I didn’t want to fly, or that I was still feeling ill. It was just that … I couldn’t…’ She hesitated, and then it all came out in a rush ‘… I couldn’t face a week in New York with Daphne Boulderstone.’

  For a second Alec was silenced into blank astonishment. And then he started to laugh. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something horrendous.’

  ‘Isn’t that horrendous?’

  ‘What, being driven around the twist by Daphne Boulderstone? My darling, we all are, constantly. Even her husband. She’s the most maddening woman in the world.…’

  ‘Oh, Alec, it isn’t just that. It’s that … she always … well, she makes me feel an idiot. As though I don’t know anything. That day she came to see me, she went on about Erica, and Erica’s curtains and things, and how she’d been Erica’s best f
riend, and nothing was the same after Deepbrook was sold, and how she’d been your friend before she even met Tom, and how important first loves were, and…’

  Alec laid his hand over her mouth. She looked up and saw his eyes sympathetic, but still, dancing with amusement.

  He said, ‘That’s the most garbled sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.’ He took his hand away. ‘But I do understand.’ He kissed her mouth. ‘And I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to even imagine you’d have wanted to spend a week with Daphne. It was just that I wanted you so much to be with me.’

  ‘They’re like a club, the Boulderstones and the Ansteys. One that I can never belong to…’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve been very unperceptive. Sometimes I forget how much older we all are than you. I’ve been involved with them so long that sometimes I lose track of the real essentials.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Like having a beautiful wife. And a beautiful daughter.’

  ‘And a beautiful grandchild.’

  He smiled. ‘That too.’

  ‘We’ll be a bit of a squash in Abigail Crescent.’

  ‘I think I’ve lived in Abigail Crescent long enough. When we get back to London, we’ll look for a bigger house. One with a garden. And there, no doubt, we shall all live happily ever after.’

  ‘When do we have to leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  She said, ‘I want to go home. Eve and Gerald have been unbelievably kind, but I want to go home.’

  ‘That reminds me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I had a word with them before I came to find you. Lunch is at half past one. Are you feeling hungry?’

  ‘I think I’m too happy to be hungry.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Alec. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘Look at me. And I can’t wait to get my teeth into Eve’s cold roast beef and new potatoes.’

  * * *

  ‘… so that’s the situation. After Silvia received that first letter, we were all, reluctantly, pretty sure that poor old May was responsible. Had composed it in a moment of total lunacy. In her old age, she behaves very oddly every now and again, and it seemed at the time a reasonable explanation. But when Gabriel produced that second letter, the one that was addressed to you, Ivan suggested that it could possibly be Drusilla who was writing them, the girl who lives in the cottage. She’s apparently quite a nice creature, but as Ivan pointed out, a complete mystery to all of us. She came here to live because she had nowhere else to go. And I think, probably, she rather fancied Ivan.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Alec. I really don’t know.’

  ‘And then Lucy!’

  ‘Yes. And this horror leaves me without explanations at all. Even if she was stark staring bonkers, May could never, would never, do such a thing. And Drusilla’s a sort of earth-mother type. I simply can’t see her taking life.’

  ‘You’re sure the dog was poisoned?’

  ‘Absolutely no doubt. That’s why you had to come back from New York. As soon as I saw the dog I was filled with fears for Laura.’

  It was now three o’clock in the afternoon, and they had been closeted together in Gerald’s study since lunchtime. Finally, they seemed to have come to the end of the road. The letter and its envelope lay on the desk between them, and Alec now took it up and read it yet again. The black, uneven words were burned into his memory, as though his brain had taken a sharp, clear-edged photograph, but still he felt compelled to read them, just once more.

  ‘We haven’t got the first letter?’

  ‘No, Silvia has it. She wouldn’t let me take it. I told her not to destroy it.’

  ‘Perhaps, before we make any further decisions, I’d better see it. Anyway, if we do have to take … further steps … we’ll need it for evidence. Perhaps I’d better go down and see Silvia. Do you think she’ll be there?’

  ‘Give her a ring,’ said Gerald. He picked up his telephone, dialled the number, and handed the receiver across to Alec. He heard the ringing tone. After a moment, ‘Hello’ came Silvia’s cheerful, husky voice.

  ‘Silvia, it’s Alec.’

  ‘Alec.’ She sounded delighted. ‘Hello! You’re back?’

  ‘I wondered, are you going to be around for the next hour?’

  ‘Heavens, yes. I’m always around.’

  ‘Thought I might walk down. Come and see you.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll be in the garden, but I’ll leave the front door open. Just walk through. See you.’

  Out of doors, the warmth of the slumberous Sunday afternoon was tempered by a cool breeze, blowing off the sea. It was very quiet, and for once Tremenheere was deserted. Ivan had taken Gabriel off in his car, with a vacuum flask of tea and their swimming things packed into a haversack. Eve and Laura, both looking exhausted, had been persuaded by their husbands to take to their beds and rest.

  Even Drusilla and Joshua were gone. During the morning, observed by Ivan, a very small, old, open car had rattled into the courtyard, driven by one of Drusilla’s mysterious friends, a large man with a biblical beard. On the back seat of the car was parked, like an upright passenger, an enormous black ’cello case. There had been a discussion with Drusilla, and presently they had all driven off together, Drusilla with Joshua on her knee. As well, she had taken her flute, so presumably some unimaginable musical occasion was planned. Ivan had watched them drive away and reported all this to the others over lunch.

  Eve became quite excited. ‘Perhaps this is a new romance for Drusilla.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Ivan. ‘They looked quite bizarre, but very sedate, setting off. I’m sure they’re just going to make beautiful music together, but not the kind you envisage.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I shouldn’t push it, if I were you. I should think the last thing Gerald needs right now is a bearded cellist moving in to Tremenheere.’

  So much for Drusilla. So much for everybody. Alec walked through the gate and down the road towards the village. There was no traffic in the shady lane, but somewhere from across the valley came the barking of a dog. Above him, the topmost branches of the trees shivered in the wind.

  He found Silvia, as she had said that he would, in her garden. She was working in her rosebed, and as he walked across the garden towards her, it occurred to him that, with her slender figure, her brown arms, and her curly mop of grey hair, she looked like an advertisement for some life insurance company. Invest with us and your retirement will be carefree. All that was missing was the handsome, white-haired husband, snipping away at the dead heads and smiling because he had no financial worries.

  All that was missing. He remembered Tom, but Tom had not been handsome and white-haired. Tom, the last time Alec had seen him, had become shambling and shifty-eyed, with a beetroot-coloured face and hands that shook unless they were firmly clasped around a glass.

  ‘Silvia.’

  She turned her face towards him. She was wearing sunglasses, so that he could not see her eyes, but at once she smiled, appearing delighted to see him.

  ‘Alec!’ She edged herself out from among her roses and came to meet him. He kissed her.

  ‘This is a lovely surprise. I didn’t know you were back from New York. And I hardly had a glimpse of you when you were here before, leaving Laura.’

  ‘I was just thinking about Tom. I don’t think I ever wrote to you when he died. And there wasn’t time that other evening to say anything. But I was sorry.’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Poor old Tom. It was strange without him at first, but I suppose I’m getting used to it now.’

  ‘Your garden’s looking fantastic, as it always does.’ There were tools lying on the grass. A rake and a hoe, a pair of scissors, a small fork. A wheelbarrow was filled with weeds and dead rose heads and prunings. ‘You must work like a beaver.’

  ‘It keeps me busy. Gives me something to do. But I’m going to stop now and talk to you. I’ll just go and wash my hands first. Would you like a cup of tea? Or a drink?’


  ‘No, I’m fine. What about all this stuff? Would you like me to put them away?’

  ‘Oh, you are an angel. They live in the potting shed.’ She started towards the house. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

  He gathered up the things and carried them to the small garden shed that stood in a corner of the garden, discreetly disguised by a trellis, smothered in clematis. Behind the shed was a compost heap and the remains of a bonfire, where Silvia had been burning garden rubbish. Alec went back for the wheelbarrow and dealt with that as well, tipping its contents onto the top of the compost heap and then setting the barrow neatly against the back wall of the shed.

  There was earth on his hands. He took out his handkerchief and wiped them. As he did this, he glanced down and saw that on her bonfire, Silvia had disposed of not only rubbish from her garden, but also old newspapers, cardboard packets, letters. Half-burned scraps of paper, inevitably, had survived, littered around the blackened ash. Scraps of paper. His hands were still. After a bit, he put his handkerchief away and stooped to pick up one of these. A corner—a triangle, charred along its longest edge.

  He went back into the garden shed. It was neatly kept and very orderly. Long-handled tools leaned against one wall, small tools hung from a pegboard. There were stacks of earthenware flowerpots, a box of white plastic labels. At eye level was a shelf, ranged with packets and bottles. Grass seed, rose food, a bottle of methylated spirits. A can of engine oil, some fly repellent. A packet of Garotta for the compost heap. His eye moved down the shelf. A large green bottle with a white cap. Gordon’s gin. Thinking of poor old Tom, he lifted it down and read the label. The bottle was still half full. Thoughtfully, he set it back in its place, stepped out of the shed, and walked slowly back towards the house.

  As he went into the living room, Silvia appeared through the other door, rubbing cream into her hands. She had not taken off her dark glasses, but had combed her hair and doused herself in perfume. The room was heavy with its musky fragrance.

  She said, ‘It’s so lovely to see you again.’

  ‘It’s not actually a social visit, Silvia. It’s about that letter you got.’

  ‘That letter?’

  ‘The poison-pen letter. You see, I got one too.’