It was six years now, since he had gone into the silent land, but he still lived on in her memory and in John. And in Jack.
Nell dried the cups and saucers and put them away. John would be home soon and tonight she really must make an effort about food.
Two
HENRY MORLEY, SITTING AT his paper-strewn desk and wrestling half-heartedly with some accounts, was marvelling at the good fortune which had brought him Gillian who, by this time tomorrow, would be his wife. Although Henry loved Nethercombe, gave his every waking thought to its well-being and spent all his income on its upkeep, he couldn’t believe that she was marrying him for his worldly goods. Even he, blinded by love and familiarity, could see that the gracious Georgian house needed vast sums to put it in order and the grounds needed much more time than he and Mr Ridley – his handyman and general factotum – could give to it. Yet Henry loved Nethercombe with all his heart and his whole will was bent on keeping it running as an estate, if now a very small one, and holding what was left of it intact – if dilapidated.
So what did she see in him? Running his hands through his thick brown hair, Henry shook his head, grimaced ruefully and glanced around the small, rather dark study where he dealt with the paperwork and business of the estate, trying to see it through Gillian’s eyes. For himself, he wasn’t too bothered about things like damp or mice. The drawing room was still fairly respectable – although Henry tended to live in the library, a cosy, panelled room, comfortably furnished – and he ate in the cheerful little breakfast room which had windows looking east and French doors that opened on to the terrace. His bedroom was so austere, cold in summer and winter alike, that Mrs Ridley had prepared the big double chamber his parents had once occupied for the young couple’s return from honeymoon.
The Ridleys lived rent-free in the Lodge at the end of the avenue and Mrs Ridley cooked and cleaned and cared for Henry and the house generally. Henry paid them as much as he could and the three of them lived very happily and undemandingly together. If the Ridleys were concerned at the thought of a new mistress they were keeping it to themselves.
Henry gulped at a cup of lukewarm tea, placed by Mrs Ridley on his desk some time earlier, pushed back his chair and wandered over to the window. Digging his hands into the pockets of his disreputable old moleskin trousers he gazed out at the side lawns and the rhododendron bushes, now in full, magnificent flower.
It had been a strange courtship. He’d first met Gillian in a friend’s house at a party to which he went hoping to meet a young architect called Simon Spaders. Simon lived and had his practice in Exeter but his reputation was beginning to be widely known and Henry wanted to meet him. The small, slender, blonde girl with Simon had a lively mind and a witty tongue and Henry was rather taken with her. He talked to them about his dream of developing some of his old stable buildings set round a courtyard and she made some very sensible observations. Simon agreed to come and have a look. Rather shyly Henry suggested that Gillian, for this was her name, might like to come along too. It had been a lovely afternoon and Henry enjoyed showing them both round and telling them his hopes and plans. Mrs Ridley brought them tea on the terrace and they sat in the warm September sunshine, looking out across the roofs of the stables below them to the stream and the woodland that bordered Nethercombe to the south.
‘Must be worth a fortune,’ remarked Simon as he and Gillian drove away. ‘On paper, anyway. He ought to sell the whole lot. It’s a property developer’s dream. Old Henry would be a millionaire overnight. Just needs the right person to give him a push.’
Henry was surprised and flattered to receive a telephone call from Gillian a few weeks later asking him if he would accompany her to a charity ball. Henry was charmed and enjoyed the evening enormously. During the next few months, encouraged unobtrusively by Gillian, he found himself taking the initiative, asking her out, accompanying her to parties, even taking her to the theatre in Plymouth. Never had Henry been so social. Even now, he thought, as Mr Ridley – seated on the lawn mower – passed across his line of vision, even now he could not quite remember how the proposal had taken place. Somehow something had been said, certainly not planned or intended, and Gillian, to his surprise, had thrown her arms around him and kissed him and accepted what she had taken to be an offer of marriage. He had been too delighted, too taken aback by his good fortune, to disillusion her. It would have taken him years to work himself up to a formal proposal. And instead, not much more than seven months after meeting her, here he was about to be married to her. Henry shook his head, glanced at his watch and gave a low cry of dismay. Swallowing the last of the now cold tea, he seized his car keys from the untidy desk and hurried out. He’d been daydreaming and now he would have to hurry to be in time for the train.
GILLIAN STOOD AT THE bedroom window and watched her mother and godmother walking on the lawn. She was grateful to her godmother for letting her be married from her home and for footing the bill. It was many years now since Gillian’s father had left her mother and set up another home and a whole new family. Her improvident, extravagant mother – who had never saved in her life and refused to contemplate the thought of working to supplement the allowance her ex-husband made her – was quite unable to meet the bills for the sort of wedding Gillian had in mind. Her father, who had suffered too long Gillian’s outspoken animadversions on his character and behaviour, ignored his daughter’s rather curt suggestion that it was his duty to pay, informed her that he would be out of the country for the wedding and sent her a cheque for two hundred pounds. Gillian paid the cheque into her account and allowed her father’s character to be blackened further by letting it be known that he had not only refused to attend his daughter’s wedding but would not assist in any way financially. Her mother had immediately telephoned her oldest friend and plaintively poured out her problems. How, asked Lydia, could Angus be so unfatherly as to refuse to give his daughter away and how could she do anything from a small flat in Exeter and on the pitiful pittance that Angus allowed her? If only to cut short the well-worn recital of the prodigal and unnecessary amounts of money his new wife and progeny spent, Elizabeth Merrick took the whole responsibility to herself and privately cursed the day, twenty-three years before, when she had stood in the church with the baby Gillian in her arms and had neglected to seize the opportunity of drowning the infant in the stone bowl of the font. This, now, was to be her last act of duty and she intended to do it generously and with style, even going to the lengths of persuading her old friend and accountant, who had known Gillian all her life, to perform Angus’s role at the ceremony.
Gillian turned back into the room and returned to the pleasurable task of looking over her new wardrobe, a small part of it by courtesy of her father’s cheque. She had given up her job at the wine bar, vacated the room in the flat she shared with two other girls and, having deposited her very few belongings at Nethercombe, she and Lydia had come to stay with Elizabeth for the last two weeks of her single state. She was enjoying herself. Whilst she would have been perfectly happy to have moved in with Henry before marrying him – it had never occurred to Henry to suggest it – she was delighted to have this big sendoff for which no expense had been spared. She felt that Nethercombe deserved it and that none of Henry’s friends would be able to say that she was marrying him for his money or his land. For, in this instance, Henry was quite wrong. Gillian was one of those people who, despite outward and visible evidence to the contrary, believed that anyone who lived on an estate like Nethercombe must, ipso facto, have money hidden away somewhere. Simon’s remarks had been more than enough to make her feel that Henry was well worth cultivating and, though she had sometimes despaired of ever bringing him to the point, she felt as though her hands were at last on the ropes and the things that she had longed for were within her grasp. She didn’t love Henry and was quite shrewd enough not to mistake his feelings for her as the authentic fire. Henry was not at all the sort of man to be the victim of a grand passion but he would be affectionate,
caring, loyal – and he owned Nethercombe. Gillian was quite happy to settle for this and knew that she was experienced enough for Henry never to suspect that she didn’t love him. She intended to play fair according to her own rules.
Her mother’s voice could be heard calling her down to tea and, with a little satisfied nod at her lovely new clothes, Gillian went out and shut the door behind her.
GUSSIE, STEPPING CAREFULLY FROM the train, saw Henry before he saw her. She smiled as she watched him anxiously scanning the opening doors and decided, as she always did, that he looked exactly like his father had at that age: stocky, broad-shouldered, with his straight hair flopping. She was almost up to him before he turned and his brown face creased into a delighted smile of welcome and relief. He took her case and she had to stoop a little – for Gussie was a tall woman and Henry was only of average height – to exchange a formal kiss.
‘Henry dear. This is so exciting. I’m so looking forward to meeting Gillian. Many congratulations.’
She followed him out to the battered Peugeot estate car, whose back seats were all folded down so as to accommodate various agricultural requirements, and he opened the door for her.
‘So glad you could come,’ he told her, when he was settled behind the wheel. ‘I shall like to feel that you’re there behind me. In the church. Not many of the family left now, you know.’
They exchanged news as he drove out of Totnes station, waited for the traffic lights to change and turned left up the hill.
‘It’s lovely to be back,’ said Gussie looking up at the castle and noticing some new buildings on the edge of the town. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing Nethercombe.’
Henry gave her an anxious sideways glance. Her tone had been particularly heartfelt and she looked rather thinner and more finedrawn since he had seen her last. Of course, she was getting older … Henry felt a pang of guilt. He ought to ask her down much more often than he did. He remembered that Gussie had always loved Nethercombe and his heart warmed to her anew. She should come and stay now that he would have a wife to make the place more comfortable. He would invite her for holidays. Perhaps for Christmas …
Gussie, unaware of Henry’s plans for her, gave a sigh of pleasure and settled back to watch the familiar countryside. It was wonderful to be back in the country again and the weekend stretched deliciously ahead. As they drove through Avonwick and crossed the A38, Gussie could see the high tors of Dartmoor in the distance. Nethercombe was set just within the National Park and its fields, farmed by Henry’s two tenant farmers, led up on to the foothills of the moor. The house itself, however, was sheltered within its wooded valley ana Gussie sat up as they turned into the narrow lane from which the drive led. Henry no longer used the main avenue to the house but drove in, past the stables which he hoped to develop, up between the stretches of lawn and rhododendrons, and round beside the house. He switched off the engine and smiled at her.
‘Home,’ he said. ‘Welcome back.’
THE MORNING OF THE wedding dawned dry and mild, if overcast, and Gussie and Henry drove to the church together with the Ridleys sitting rather shyly – but very proudly – in the back of the newly polished hatchback which Mr Ridley would drive back to Nethercombe when Henry and Gillian were taken to the airport by the best man. Gussie smoothed the paisley skirt, adjusted Nell’s straw hat and cast sideways glances at Henry who hummed ‘Time was when Love and I were well acquainted’ in an attempt to calm his nerves.
The small granite church was dim and cool, the flowers making bright soft pools of colour. The Ridleys slipped determinedly into the very back pew but Gussie, chin high, shoulders back – ‘soldier’s daughter, soldier’s sister’ – followed the usher to the pew behind the one in which Henry and his best man would sit when they’d finished being photographed in the porch. Henry had told her that he would like to know that she was there behind him in the church and that was where she intended to be. She gave a little nod—a nice blend of regal friendliness – to the bride’s family and slipped forward on to her knees to pray, aware of the rustlings and excitement all around her.
‘DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE gathered together here in the sight of God …’
She’s made it! thought Simon Spaders, who had decided to count himself a friend of the bridegroom now that Henry had approached him to draw up plans for his courtyard development. He looked at Henry’s firm chin, etched against the white of the vicar’s surplice, and wondered whether things were going to be quite as easy as Gillian imagined. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and let his gaze wander over the two grown-up bridesmaids. Lucy’s looking very serious. That strange greeny-blue colour suits her. I could fancy Lucy. Perhaps with Gillian otherwise engaged …
‘ … to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites …’
Doesn’t sound much like Henry, thought Lydia, who had become very fond of her future son-in-law over the past weeks. He’s not that type at all. I think Gillian’s going to be rather disappointed in that direction. I do hope that she knows what she’s doing. Oh dear … Her thoughts roamed distractedly and she eyed Elizabeth’s beautifully cut outfit enviously. Perhaps I should have worn the blue silk …
‘ … First, It was ordained for the procreation of children …’
Yes, well he can forget all about that, thought Gillian, keeping an expression of gentle sweetness on her face which was turned up to the vicar, and thanking God for the pill. Damned if I’m going to tie myself down …
‘ … for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity …’
How nice that sounds, thought Henry. How wonderful to have someone to share Nethercombe. He imagined he and Gillian tucked up in the library on a winter’s evening, listening to his Gilbert and Sullivan recordings and talking over the business of the day. He slipped a glance sideways and was struck by the radiant expression on his bride’s face …
‘ … Therefore if any man can shew any just cause …”
And the trouble is, Lord, thought Gussie, who frequently had informal chats with the Almighty upon whom she looked as an ever-present spiritual friend and advisor, if I were to stand forward now and say, ‘This is all wrong,’ no one would understand. But it is all wrong, just as much as if Henry were a Mr Rochester and had a wife locked in the attic at Nethercombe. I can’t put my finger on it but it’s all simply wrong …
‘ … I Henry, take thee Gillian …’
But will you be able to keep her? wondered Elizabeth, looking at the slim straight back of her goddaughter. Gillian’s never stuck to anything yet and,‘frankly, I can’t see her as a landowner’s wife. Well, it’s simply not my problem. As Lydia took out a delicate lace-edged handkerchief and began to exhibit signs of motherly emotion, Elizabeth stiffened a little and exchanged a tiny smile with the tall distinguished man who stood on her right. How kind of Richard to agree to give her away. I’m glad he’s coming back with the others to the reception. How beautiful the flowers are …
‘With this Ring I thee wed …’
And good luck to her, thought Lucy, the chief bridesmaid, Gillian’s old schoolfriend and erstwhile flatmate. And now she can jolly well cough up that back rent she owes. He’s rather sweet really in a brotherly sort of way. Not Gilly’s sort at all, even with that big house. I should have thought that Simon was much more her type and she was so keen on him. The best man looks rather fun …
‘ … I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together …’
Three
NELL PUT DOWN HER book, glanced at the clock and went to put the fish pie in the oven. She was very proud of her fish pie. Gussie had given her the recipe, stood over her whilst she prepared it, and had been delighted to hear that John had enjoyed it enormously. Nell, amazed at her ability to provide something that John really liked to eat, had served it up at regular intervals thereafter and if John was heartily sick of fish pie he hadn’t said so. To be honest, Nell wondered if John noticed what he was eating. During the summer he
had been so excited by the success of his partnership with Martin that everything else had paled into insignificance. At last things were going right for him and Nell had agreed that it seemed as if his luck had turned. People were still putting their money into property and, since he had joined with Martin, house prices had increased by thirty per cent.
John was jubilant and Nell was beginning to believe that perhaps he had been right to leave the Navy and start a new career. Soon, he promised her, they would be able to buy a home of their own. Nell hoped so. Roomy though the flat was, it had seemed small with Jack home for the summer holidays. She had taken him to the zoo and for walks over the Downs but the high spot was the visit to Porlock Weir and the cottage. John was too busy to go with them but Nell was used to doing the trip without him and it was wonderful to be out of the city, to be surrounded instead by the smells and noises of the countryside and to watch the sea breaking against the North Somerset shore. John hurried down for a long weekend and urged her to stay for as long as she wanted. Despite the evidence that their future looked secure, John still felt guilty that his decision to come outside had meant a reduced standard of living for Nell and guessed that she found the flat restrictive. He knew of her need for solitude and peace and how much the little cottage meant to her. Although he missed her, it soothed his conscience to know that she was happy there with Jack and, after all, he really was very busy. Martin was always ready to have a pint with him in the evening or to share a Chinese takeaway back at the flat. He was estranged from his wife and small daughter, both of whom he missed quite desperately, and was only too pleased to help John pass a lonely evening. Generally, however, they worked until quite late and through most weekends and the summer passed quickly.
The Courtyard Page 2