‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Henry said surprisingly. ‘I’ve been discussing it with Simon. Have to be careful, of course, in a house of this age. We’ll see what profits we make out of the Courtyard. We might manage to run heating to some of the rooms. Not all, of course. The drawing room and the library perhaps. And our bedroom.’
Gillian breathed heavily through her nose. ‘How exciting,’ she said bitingly. ‘I can hardly wait.’
Henry went to her and put his arm round her. ‘Poor Gillian,’ he said. ‘The thing is that I’m used to it, I suppose. I know it’s shabby but it’s been like this ever since I can remember and it’s … well, it’s home.’
‘But it’s my home too, now,’ cried Gillian, moving away from him. ‘You make me feel like a permanent guest with no rights or say in how it should look or be run. How can I feel that it’s my home when you and Mrs Ridley have the last word about everything?’
Henry looked at her in consternation. He hadn’t realised that she felt so strongly.
‘I’m sure that Mrs Ridley would be more than happy for you to take over some of the running of the house,’ he said, unerringly picking the one aspect of Gillian’s complaint which had no truth in it. ‘It’s such a big place and she’s not as young as she was.’
Gillian bit her lip and turned swiftly back to him. ‘Honestly, Henry. You haven’t got a clue. She’d hate it if I interfered. She’s been in charge all these years and she’d loathe it if I muscled in and started to tell her how to do things. A bit like you not wanting to change how it all looks. It’s not my fault if I feel left out in the cold.’
Henry stood, irresolute. It was perfectly possible that Mrs Ridley may not care for interference on Gillian’s part and, to be perfectly honest, he couldn’t seriously imagine Gillian wanting to take over the responsibilities of housekeeping, nevertheless …
Gillian watched him. ‘I just want to feel it’s my home, too,’ she said, with just the right amount of pathos in her voice. ‘You know, a few things of my own, as well as all the lovely things that belonged to your family.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not that I’m asking for much, after all. Some new curtains in the bedroom …’ Her voice trailed away. Her smooth blonde head drooped a little.
‘Oh, darling.’ Henry went to her and took her in his arms. ‘I’m sure we could afford some new curtains.’ Could they? Still, it was a bit unfair on her. ‘Tell you what. Suppose you go to Exeter and price a few things. Get an idea of the things that would make you feel more at home. I want you to be happy.’ He stared down at her anxiously.
‘Oh, Henry.’ She smiled mistily up at him. ‘How sweet of you. It would make such a difference.’ She slipped her arms around him and he bent his head to hers.
‘Dinner’s in! Gettin’ cold!’ Mrs Ridley stood at the door watching them.
‘Coming, Mrs Ridley.’ Gillian held firmly on to Henry as he attempted to break away from her.
The two women’s eyes met and looked for a moment and then Mrs Ridley whisked out. Gillian gave Henry another kiss and they went into the breakfast room together, arm in arm.
JOHN SAT IN THE corner of the bar, his pint barely touched on the table before him. Despite Martin’s assurances that there was no need to panic, John could feel his newly found confidence ebbing gently away from him. The boom was over, the winds of change were blowing and, outside the comforting structure of the Navy, John felt vulnerable. Even within the safety of his partnership with Martin, in the middle of the excitement of rising prices and big profits, he had seen that life outside was very different to everything he’d known. Going straight from school to Dartmouth he had merely exchanged one establishment’s set of rules and regulations for another’s and civilian life ran on very different lines. John no longer had the rings on his sleeve to show people at a glance where he belonged and what attitude they should adopt towards him. Nor could he read the signals in reverse. Categorising people into upper and lower deck, junior or senior officers had got him into a lot of trouble. Had he not been able to go straight into a partnership with Martin it was doubtful that he would actually ever have left the Navy. Once outside he realised that a partnership wasn’t like being the captain of a submarine. Nobody was terribly impressed: the most unlikely people seemed to own companies, run enterprises. The glory that had eluded him within the service seemed still beyond his grasp in civilian life and John missed the privileges of rank, the shared language, the feeling of camaraderie. He was good with the clients but, apart from Martin, found it difficult to make friends. None of this would have mattered if business had stayed at the same level, fast, exciting, profitable.
But supposing things went wrong? John took a long swallow at his beer and summoned his common sense. Because the boom was over didn’t mean that they couldn’t make a perfectly adequate living. Perhaps they had been unwise to move the office to larger more expensive premises. The purchase of the lease had taken every penny but there seemed to be plenty more to come. Supposing … ? John finished his drink and stood up. He mustn’t brood; that way madness lay. He must get home to Nell.
Nell. At the mere thought of her his heart sank again. She had been so against it all and now it seemed unlikely that they would be able to buy their own place. Not that she ever mentioned it. As long as she had the cottage at Porlock Weir she seemed happy enough, although the holidays were difficult. Jack was growing fast. He had needed new uniform this term and next year the fees would have to be found. The fund that Nell had insisted on for the two years would be finished. John felt his stomach tighten. Supposing … ? He picked up his glass and went to the bar.
‘Same again, please.’
GUISSIE WATCHED THE APPROACH of autumn with fear in her heart. Her mind turned this way and that, seeking new ways of making economies, of keeping warm, of paying the rent. The money simply wouldn’t stretch. The summer visit to Nethercombe had been a mad extravagance, paid for by the sale of her last remaining pieces. The trouble was that buyers recognised the look and smell of poverty and she knew that she should have got much more. In the end she was grateful for what they gave her. It bought her a return ticket to Totnes and left her a tiny sum against the depredations of winter. Perhaps now was the time to leave her flat and move to a bedsit. Gussie put her thin, age-mottled hands over her eyes and shook her head. Whilst she could move from her bedroom to this sitting room, tiny though it was, and have a separate kitchen and bathroom, life still held a shred of dignity. But to live, eat, cook, sleep all in one room … Gussie took her hands from her eyes and straightened her thin shoulders. ‘Soldier’s daughter, soldier’s sister,’ she murmured but the mantra was beginning to lose a little of its power and she turned to a more reliable and infinite source of support.
‘The thing is, Lord,’ she sighed, getting to her feet and wondering whether a mid-morning cup of coffee was too much of a luxury to be considered, ‘where one lives really shouldn’t matter, I know that. But it does. Pride’s a terrible thing but it does help to keep one going, but I know that You, Lord, will help me to bear whatever may come. And I have dear Nell who is such a comfort.’ She opened the fridge door and stared bleakly at the small quantity of milk in the bottle. Her experienced eye assessed it: two more cups of tea or coffee, three at the most. One after lunch and one at tea-time and just enough for an early morning cup before the milkman arrived. She could only afford one pint every other day. Or she could have a late night cup of tea, so comforting and warming at bedtime, and hope that she didn’t wake too early …
‘I’m afraid not this morning,’ she said, turning from the emptiness of the fridge. ‘Why is it, dear Lord, that we always crave most for what we can’t have? We all drink far too much tea and coffee. All the same – ’
The telephone’s cry interrupted her communication with the Almighty and she hastened to lift the receiver.
‘Gussie?’ Nell’s voice was clear and cheerful. ‘How are you?’
‘Nell, my dear. Very well. And you?’
‘Fi
ne. We’re all fine. Listen. Jack and I want to take you out to lunch. No. No excuses. He’s off to school next week and he wants to say goodbye to you. And it’s to thank you for babysitting. All right, Jack.’ Gussie could hear Jack’s voice in the background, uplifted in protest. ‘I know you’re not a baby. OK. For Jack-sitting, then. Sorry, Gussie. Please come. How about today? It’s such a perfect day. We thought that we’d head out into the country. Are you busy?’
‘No.’ Gussie felt an unusual and unwelcome suspicion of moisture about her eyes. ‘No. Not busy at all. I should like to very much.’
‘That’s wonderful. We’ll pick you up in about half an hour. Oh, hang on, Jack’s saying something about a book. You were going to write down the title and author for him. Something about the Romans?’
‘Oh yes. I did promise him. He’s doing it in History next term. But I wasn’t certain if he really wanted it.’
‘He certainly does. He’s nodding madly. If you could then. We’ll have some coffee somewhere on the way. See you soon.’
The line went dead and Gussie replaced the receiver. Her lips trembled a little and she swallowed once or twice. Nell and Jack made her feel needed, important to their well-being. Loved even? She shook her head fiercely.
‘What a fool I am, Lord,’ she muttered. ‘But thank you. Now. Where did I put that piece of paper?’
Five
GILLIAN TORE OPEN THE envelope containing her Barclaycard statement, stared with dismay at the amount required for the minimum payment and opened her eyes even wider in disbelief at the balance owing. Surely there must be some mistake? It had been rather exciting to find that, when she received her new card in her married name, the credit limit had been raised quite substantially but surely she couldn’t have used it all up and even exceeded it? She checked the list of names: Dingles, Russell and Bromley, Laura Ashley. Gillian groaned and, picking up the rest of her post, hurried out of the breakfast room and up the stairs.
Mrs Ridley, coming through from the kitchen with a tray, watched her go. Gillian made no effort to help with the running of the house and it was only Mrs Ridley’s affection for Henry and her loyalty to him that prevented her from making Gillian’s life at Nethercombe a great deal more uncomfortable than she found it already. In her opinion, Henry had been taken in. Of course, Mr Ridley was all for making allowances, thought that his wife’s judgements were a bit harsh, but then he was hardly ever in the front of the house and Gillian was young and pretty. Mrs Ridley sniffed contemptuously, waddled across the hall and went into the breakfast room. Her stout short figure was wrapped in an overall which was tied firmly round her middle, giving her the appearance of an untidily packed parcel. She put the tray on the table and started to clear away the breakfast things.
Upstairs Gillian gazed out of her bedroom window, across the roofs of the Courtyard to the woods beyond, where the first tender haze of green was beginning to show. The early spring sunshine, the thin, pale, washed-out blue of the sky, heralded a break at last from the long wet winter months but Gillian barely saw the glory of the day. Hands clenched into fists, arms folded beneath her breasts, her view was inward. How on earth was she to pay? Henry had made it quite clear that he couldn’t afford any more at present. She had completely done over their bedroom and the paying of the bills had left him rather quiet. When they got married he’d opened a joint bank account and given her a cheque book along with a clear idea of the sum usually at their disposal. Gillian also kept her own account, unknown to Henry, into which she siphoned small amounts of money against a personal emergency. Well, this was a personal emergency but she knew very well that her own account was overdrawn and she’d been politely but firmly warned that no further cheques would be honoured until funds had been paid in. If she paid her Barclaycard out of the joint account, Henry would know. He always checked the statements when they arrived and Gillian was only too aware that Henry didn’t approve of credit cards. He was quite gullible enough to believe that her new clothes and shoes were merely ones he hadn’t seen before but he would certainly want to know what such a large cheque had been spent on and then he would probably want to see the Barclaycard account.
Gillian’s heart gave a little tock of fear. There was nothing menacing or chauvinistic about Henry. He simply had a strong sense of right and wrong. She knew very well that he couldn’t afford the amount she’d spent on the bedroom but he gave it generously, was delighted with the result – Gillian had a remarkably sensitive eye for period and quality – and made it fairly clear that this must be all for the time being. She’d agreed quite willingly whilst taken up by the excitement of the choosing and buying and rearranging but the novelty had quickly worn off and other temptations presented themselves. And it was so easy with credit cards; not like using real money at all. Not until it came to paying the bill. That was real money all right! And where on earth was she going to get it? She considered and rejected several possibilities and then, tucking the statement into her shoulder bag, ran downstairs and into the study. She dialled quickly and then spoke.
‘Hello, Elizabeth. It’s Gillian … Yes, it is isn’t it? I seem to keep missing you … Oh, are you? Just bad timing then. I was wondering if I were to pop in later this morning you’d be around? … Great … Yes. Lunch would be super … OK then. About half an hour.’
She replaced the receiver, went to get her things together and presently put her head round the kitchen door.
‘I’m off out, Mrs Ridley. I’m having lunch with my godmother. Could you tell Mr Morley?’
‘Dare say I c’n manage that.’
Mrs Ridley didn’t look round from the washing up and, after a moment, Gillian pulled a face at the unresponsive back and went out. A little later, her small car was turning into the drive of her godmother’s grounds. The delightful Georgian house, a miniature gentleman’s residence, looked well cared for and welcoming and Gillian, switching off the engine, wondered if Elizabeth was going to leave it to her in her will. After all, she had no other living relative. As she gazed, her godmother opened the front door and stood looking at her.
‘Hello there!’ Gillian had the horrid feeling that Elizabeth knew exactly what she was thinking. She scrambled out of the car, seizing the bunch of early daffodils that she had bought in Ashburton en route. ‘How are you? Looking glamorous as ever. How on earth do you do it?’
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows as she bent to receive the kiss and the flowers.
‘The best butter,’ she murmured and drew back.
‘Not a bit,’ protested Gillian. ‘Simply the truth. You look younger all the time. Drives Mum mad.’
‘Well, it’ll certainly get you a drink. Let me just put these into some water. I’ll arrange them later. How pretty they are.’ In the spotless kitchen she filled a bowl and put the daffodils’ feet in it. ‘There. That will do for now.’ Elizabeth led the way into her small, perfect drawing room. She disliked spending time in the kitchen unless it was in the preparation of food. ‘What would you like? Gin and tonic? Some wine?’
‘I’ll stick with wine since I’m driving.’ Gillian sat down in a deep, squashy armchair and stretched her legs to the bright log fire. ‘How lovely this room is. It seems so, well, so organised, after Nethercombe. ’
Elizabeth frowned a little as she poured the cold dry wine. ‘Organised? ’
‘Yes. You know. The paint’s all sparkling instead of peeling and the chair covers don’t look as if they’ve been dogs’ beds for centuries.’
Elizabeth chuckled a little. ‘Nethercombe’s not that bad. Just needs a bit of a face-lift. I must admit I wish I could get my hands on it.’
‘I wish you could, too,’ said Gillian feelingly. ‘It’s just so sad. It’s such a wonderful old place. Actually …’ She paused, staring into the flames.
Elizabeth stood quite still, looking down at her goddaughter’s blonde head. Her eyes were narrowed a little, as if she waited for something. Gillian gave a quick sigh and glanced round and Elizabeth gave her the
glass and sat down opposite. She crossed her long elegant legs and laced her fingers round the bowl of her own glass.
‘Actually what?’
Gillian gave her a little look of well-simulated surprise. What? Oh. Yes. Well, it’s got me into a bit of trouble actually.’ She gave a little grimace, hoping that Elizabeth would help her along, ask her what she meant. But Elizabeth sat quite still, watching her, her face thoughtful. Gillian gave a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘I felt I simply must do one or two things. Not much. The poor old place needs so much attention. I know you’ll sympathise. But the thing is, you see, although Henry gave me some idea as to what to spend I think we got our wires crossed a bit. Anyway,’ she made another face, ‘I put some of it on my credit card and I haven’t got enough to pay the bill.’ She glanced quickly at Elizabeth and took a sip of her wine.
‘What does Henry say?’
‘Well.’ Gillian swallowed and smiled. ‘I haven’t told him. You see, he simply hasn’t any idea what these things cost and when I realised the sum he had in mind …’ Gillian shook her head. ‘Honestly. It’s ridiculous really.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s on my mind a bit, that’s all. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bore you with it.’
Gillian gave Elizabeth another quick glance and saw that she was smiling a little. It wasn’t a very comforting smile.
‘How much?’
Gillian wondered whether to pretend not to understand but abruptly abandoned subterfuge. ‘Sixty-three pounds.’
‘That’s the total amount owing?’
Gillian hesitated.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Elizabeth impatiently. ‘No lies. What is the amount outstanding?’
Gillian told her. Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment and Gillian took another hasty gulp at her wine.
The Courtyard Page 4