Kitty turns away from the looking-glass, that firm jaw set pugnaciously. She’s not about to give in over this one. No more camping, no more renovations: this is to be the last one. She might just consider a terraced house in Bristol, for students’ use, perhaps, which Rupert can oversee perfectly well from this comfortable sunny flat.
Sally’s right: it’s time to make a stand.
When Rupert arrives Kitty’s waiting for him. She studies him closely but can see no signs of anything out of the ordinary: he’s cheerful, affectionate and clearly quite happy with his life. Somehow this irritates her.
‘You look on good form,’ she says: it’s almost an accusation. He agrees readily.
‘Tired, though,’ he adds quickly as though he’s given away a point. ‘Bushed, actually. I’ve been working very hard this last couple of weeks.’
‘Well,’ she can’t resist such an opportunity, though instinct warns her against it, ‘what have I been saying about slowing down?’
‘Oh, come on, love,’ he says, half laughing, half impatient, dropping his overnight bag on the floor. ‘Let me get in the door before you start.’
Immediately she feels aggrieved and some of her good intentions vanish. ‘I’m not starting anything,’ she snaps. ‘Do you want some lunch?’
‘That’s usually the form at this time of day,’ he murmurs sarcastically – and she suddenly wants to shout at him, to kick his bag in a childish fit of anger, but the cleaner puts her head round the kitchen door and says, ‘Can I have a word, Mrs French?’ and Kitty quickly rearranges her face and tries to smile. Rupert is greeting the cleaner as if she is some dear old chum, and the cleaner is beaming and bridling, and Kitty is able to grab her temper and calm down.
But the weekend is not off to a good start.
* * *
Two days later, Rupert parks the Volvo outside the cottage, climbs out and stands in the afternoon sunshine. He feels quite limp with the relief at being back again. Without taking his bag out of the car, he walks onto the little lawn and looks about him with delight; listening to the water’s clear ringing song mingling with the soft insistent murmurings of an unseen dove. He breathes deeply, aware of the thick sweet scent of the honeysuckle that winds its intricate clinging way over the thorny hedge. This, this is where he is most at home; most himself. And once Kitty would have felt the same, he tells himself. She professed to love the tranquillity: the slow, inexorable rhythm of the quiet places. He can imagine her here: eating breakfast at the picnic table, still in her pyjamas, watching for the dipper bobbing on his midstream boulder, listening to the robin’s cheerful song. Or in the long midsummer evenings: sitting with a glass of wine, waiting for the full moon to rise above the trees’ leafy canopy and hearing the owl’s shrill scream down in the woods below.
He broached the prospect of buying another property to restore but she prevaricated and he grew impatient. His cheerful mood was disseminated into the chill and brittle atmosphere that he was beginning to know and dread, and which lasted right through Sunday.
Surely she must see that he can’t simply give up his work and sit in a flat in Bristol whilst someone else runs his business. Even though he could afford to retire he would feel miserable with no projects and no challenges: surely, knowing him as she does, she can understand this.
Standing in the hot sunshine, he thinks suddenly about Dossie: cooking, planning, dashing about in her little car. She understands how he feels. He needs someone to chat to about the day’s work, about suppliers’ incompetence and the idiosyncrasies of his clients. Dossie understands and sympathizes about all these things and it is good to share a meal, have a pint together, and simply relax with her. It’s a bit tricky that she seems to think that his wife has died. Possibly Chris at Penharrow is unwittingly responsible for that, having heard some rumour and muddled the fact that Kitty went back to Bristol to look after her mother when her father was taken suddenly ill and died. He doesn’t know Chris very well, and they’ve never discussed anything of a personal or private nature. Anyway, it’s too late to go into it now with Dossie. He has no intention at the moment of rocking the boat by telling her the truth. He works on the ‘need-to-know’ basis with women.
As he gets his bag from the car and unlocks the cottage door he is acknowledging to himself that it would be good to see Dossie; really wishing he hadn’t been quite so edgy during that last meeting when she’d taken him by surprise. He glances at his watch: twenty past four. He’ll send her a text.
He drops his bag in the hall and goes into the kitchen. There are a few things, one of Kitty’s scarves and some fashion magazines and a pair of her walking shoes, that he feared Dossie might see – and ask about – when she turned up unexpectedly. Luckily, there was no need for her to go into the cottage but he reminds himself that he’ll have to be much more careful. Taking his mobile phone out of his pocket he goes back outside to the picnic table where the signal is strongest and begins to text, wondering where she is.
She is on the beach at Peneglos with Jakey. A few local families are grouped about in the narrow cove whilst seagulls perch on black spiny rocks and watch them with yellow-glass eyes. The tide had turned and the sea retreats placidly, sending little white-fringed wavelets across the smooth yellow sand where three children play at the water’s edge. Even now, on this hot afternoon in late June, the sea is icy cold and Jakey is happier paddling in one of the sun-warmed rock pools whilst Dossie wanders close at hand, keeping a lookout for pebbles or larger stones that might do for Janna’s collection. Jakey’s big red plastic bucket stands nearby containing a few selected pebbles and Stripey Bunny, whose long legs hang over the edge of the bucket.
Jakey lies down in the shallow water and splashes and kicks and pretends that he is swimming.
‘Look at me,’ he shouts. ‘Look, I’m nearly swimming, Dossie,’ and she laughs and claps her hands and holds up Stripey Bunny so that he can see too.
Jakey comes out all in a rush and a scatter of water, and stands before her; his warm sun-browned skin glitters wetly in the sunlight. He shakes himself like a dog and drops of water fly around him, bright as a rainbow.
‘Is it time for the picnic now?’ he asks hopefully. ‘Stripey Bunny’s hungry.’
She picks up the big soft towel and wraps him in it, rubbing him dry and hugging him at the same time, and his narrow blue-brown eyes sparkle as he wriggles and protests and chuckles as she tickles him. She pulls his navy-blue hooded towelling jersey over his head and puts the towel on a rock to dry in the sunshine.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Honey sandwiches, I think. And some rice cakes and some grapes. And there’s a Fruit Shoot.’
‘No chocolate?’
She shakes her head: ‘This is one of Daddy’s healthy picnics,’ she says, and puts two small sandwiches on a little paper plate beside him on the rug. Just now, sitting cross-legged, his gilt-blond hair ruffled by the breeze, he is so exactly like Clem was at the same age that she is transported back across the years to the beach at Rock, and she and Clem picnicking in just this same way. Even as a tiny stab of nostalgia and sadness pierces her heart, her mobile makes its little bleeping sound that signifies the arrival of a text.
She opens her bag and lifts it out, heartbeat quickening, eyes narrowing against the bright light as she tilts the phone to read the message.
Back home. All well with bank and mother. Hope u ok.
Dossie takes a deep relieved breath: all is well. He is home and all is well. Ever since she last saw him, some deep-down anxiety has troubled her and she’s regretted that sudden impulse that took her down to see him unannounced. A tiny voice tells her that she has every right to take the initiative occasionally but she smothers it with sympathetic considerations for his situation: she must give him space and time to recover from his grief. She doesn’t want their relationship to be haunted by ghosts of his former life. Because it is never discussed between them she is free to be herself and to approach him happily
without sighs and sad looks for his loss. One day it will be right to speak of it, but not yet.
She hesitates, rereading the message, and then decides not to answer it immediately. It is better to stay cool; not to look too keen.
‘Who is it, Dossie?’ Jakey has finished his sandwiches and is watching her. ‘Is it Daddy?’
She shakes her head, reaching for the wipes and rubbing the honey from his fingers. ‘Just a friend. Tell you what, why don’t we build a lovely sandcastle and have some more picnic afterwards? What d’you think?’
Jakey considers and then nods. He scrambles up and goes to fetch his spade whilst she takes Stripey Bunny and the pebbles out of his bucket and puts them together on the rug. As she watches Jakey digging, busy and preoccupied with his task, she remembers that kiss. She smiles inwardly and happiness expands her heart. Suddenly, dispensing with caution, she fishes her mobile out again and taps out a short message. Glad all is well. Same here.
She hesitates, wondering whether to add something more encouraging, but decides against it. It’s up to Rupert to make the next move. She sends the message, tucks her mobile away and kneels down on the sand to help with the sandcastle.
Waiting patiently, sitting at the little picnic table, Rupert reads the message with relief: all is well. He considers the week ahead and decides to take a chance. He texts quickly: Meet here coffee on wed? Lunch at pub?
While he waits for her reply, he scrolls down to the Bristol number. Kitty answers at once.
‘Hello? Are you back? How was the journey?’
‘It was a good one. No hold-ups.’
He notes that her voice is bright, willing him to be cheerful, and he responds to it readily. It is as if he’s come to some kind of decision and it is important now for her to be reassured. She’s chattering on, telling him about some plan she’s got for the theatre when he comes back again.
‘But not this weekend,’ he reminds her. ‘The plumber’s coming in on Saturday morning …’
‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I remember you told me about it, but the weekend after that, perhaps? Look, I’ll phone and check the ticket situation and let you know. We can have dinner afterwards.’
It is very clear that there has been no change of heart on her part. She isn’t missing him that much and is determined to pretend that their only life together is in Bristol.
‘Sounds fine,’ he says lightly. ‘Look, I’d better unpack and get some supper sorted.’
‘Take care, then,’ she says.
She hesitates, as if she might say something more, and her voice is suddenly slightly anxious but he presses the button quickly and sits quite still for a moment, staring out over the little stream. It is as if some kind of Rubicon has been crossed but he doesn’t quite know why or how. He feels elated, excited, free. His mobile beeps and he scrolls quickly to Dossie’s answer.
Love to. C u 11-ish Wed.
He sighs with relief and pleasure, puts the mobile in his pocket, and goes into the cottage.
It is very hot. The dogs lay stretched at full length on the cool flagstones in the boot-room; Pa walks them early and late in the cool of the day. In between he watches Wimbledon, where people are passing out with the heat and there is no requirement, none at all – he repeats with enormous satisfaction – for the new roof.
‘Pa is such a Luddite,’ Dossie says. ‘He hates change.’
‘Roofs,’ he snorts with contempt. ‘The whole point of Wimbledon was that the weather sorted out the men from the boys.’
Mo watches too, but her mind is elsewhere. It is too hot to work at anything. In the little parlour, with the windows wide open, there is no breath of air. The garden lies drenched in heat and there is no birdsong now: no thrush to waken her at dawn. As she watches white-clad figures racing hither and thither over the balding tennis court she broods on the conversation they had with Dossie, remembering her surprise, almost shock, when Pa told her that they want her to have The Court.
‘But what about Adam?’ she asked. ‘What will he have? How does that work?’
‘We’ve thought about it carefully,’ he answered, ‘and Mo and I aren’t particularly happy to think of Adam having this house and simply leaving it to Natasha and those girls.’
‘No, no. I can see that,’ she said, ‘but surely the fair thing to do is to leave it between us.’ She looked from one to the other, frowning a little. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily fair,’ Mo put in quickly. ‘The point is that your work has helped to keep us all going here, especially once the B and B-ers stopped. I know Pa’s pension is very important but we wouldn’t be managing here without you, Dossie. And we think that you look on it as your home in a way Adam never has. We’d like you to go on being able to do that, if you want to. And Clem and Jakey, too.’
Mo recalls Dossie’s expression: she looked shocked and touched and fearful, all at the same time.
‘It’s true, Doss,’ Pa said. ‘You’ve made it possible in many different ways for us to go on here. We all know that.’
‘But if you leave it to me, won’t Adam contest the will? I mean, it’s a big thing, isn’t it? He’ll be … well,’ she looked alarmed, clearly imagining Adam’s reaction, ‘he’ll be incandescent. And, to be fair, I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘It’s quite fair.’ Pa was stern. ‘Adam has never cared about the place. You have. He has no children of his own to inherit it. You have. He has a home of his own with Natasha. You haven’t a home other than this one.’
Mo, remembering, saw Dossie struggling with this, thinking out the weaknesses.
‘The thing is,’ she said at last, ‘that I don’t know how I’d manage to keep it running all on my own. And I can’t guarantee that Clem or Jakey would ever be able to, either. Look, don’t think I don’t want it – I love this house and it would be very sad to leave it – but I can’t promise anything. And then how would Adam feel if I had to sell it anyway?’
She gazed at them anxiously and Mo felt compassion for her, and fear. Pa was ready for that one, though.
‘We were thinking, Mo and I, that there might come a time when you’d want to give up all this dashing about the country and settle down a bit. And we wondered, didn’t we, Mo, whether you’d consider going back to the B and B-ing.’
Now, recalling Dossie’s expression, Mo almost laughs aloud.
‘B and B-ing.’ Her lips framed the words but she made no sound. After the first shock her eyes held an inward, considering look. Slowly, very slowly, she began to smile.
‘Do you know,’ she said carefully, ‘that’s not as mad as it sounds.’
Pa was so relieved and delighted that she didn’t simply laugh in his face that he made no protest about the suggestion being mad. Instead, he waited with hopeful, anguished patience whilst Dossie considered it.
‘May I think about this?’ she asked at last. ‘Don’t be hurt that I’m not grasping it with both hands, but I’d be the one left facing Adam and I’d want to be confident that I could deal with him.’
‘Of course you must think about it,’ Mo said quickly, before Pa could exert any pressure. ‘We quite understand that you need notice to consider it from all angles. We just want you to know how we feel.’
‘But you’ll think about the B and B-ers?’ Pa added quickly.
Dossie laughed; she still looked almost shell-shocked, but excited too. ‘I promise,’ she said, and Mo nudged Pa’s foot with her own to warn him to leave well alone.
Now, watching Federer’s graceful, athletic performance, Mo wonders what Dossie is up to. She’s still made no mention of any new relationship though it is clear that something is going on. Yet she seems to think that her future might be at The Court. Perhaps this new fellow, whoever he is, might move in with them. Mo tries to imagine it, how Pa might react and how it would work, and shakes her head. It is impossible to speculate on such a prospect. Meanwhile they must wait for what Dossie will say. Pa seems content, now he’s spoken out, to wait for Dossie�
�s decision – and, anyway, he’s absorbed as usual with Wimbledon.
Mo stirs restlessly. She’s never been as committed to the tennis as Pa is. Glancing about for her book she sees a leaflet advertising the St Endellion’s Summer Festival lying on her small bureau: there will be concerts and music and events to go to in the little collegiate church, and it is time that she booked tickets. She hopes that the swine flu scare – ‘bacon fever,’ Pa calls it – won’t affect it. Reaching for the leaflet and her spectacles, Mo settles down to study it.
Her eyes widen with delight. The festival opens with a wonderful Choral Evensong including music by Mendelssohn and Holst and then, on Sunday morning, a Eucharist sung to Haydn’s Missa Brevis. There is to be a performance of Britten’s Death in Venice with James Bowman, a chamber music concert with pieces by Tchaikovsky and Mozart, and the festival ends with a performance of Twelfth Night on the rectory lawn.
Mo begins to mark certain events with a pencil. Presently she dozes.
A few days later Clem and Janna sit facing each other across the caravan’s little table. They can hear the whisper of soft rain falling beyond the open door where the drenched banties peck disconsolately. A gang of squirrels marauder in the apple trees, and delicate sweet peas flower under the window.
‘You’ve made up your mind then.’ she says. ‘I can tell. You look really happy.’
And he does. His eyes gleam their narrow smile at her and his lips are pressed tightly together as if he fears that he might smile too much and give away a secret. Jakey looks like this sometimes when he brings her a stone and says, ‘Close your eyes and put out your hand … Now you can look,’ and when she opens her eyes he’ll be watching her with just this same expression.
The Christmas Angel Page 16