The Courtyard

by Marcia Willett

  Sam, who had been praying that John could be deflected from consulting his own solicitor, shrugged, shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder. He knew a desperate man when he saw one and a desperate man who was also a mug was a gift from the gods.

  ‘I’ve also drawn up a trading agreement,’ he said, taking some more papers from the file. ‘You mustn’t give away large sums without being properly protected. What if I got run over by a bus? Or dropped down dead with a heart attack? Read it carefully and you’ll see that I’ve been as fair as I can be. There are two copies. You keep the one I’ve signed and I’ll take the other when you’ve signed it. Assuming you approve.’

  He watched as John read the document, signed it and wrote the cheque out to ‘Whittaker Developments’. He was prepared to take an oath that John didn’t understand half of what he’d read.

  ‘So what does your wife think about all this?’ he asked as he tucked the cheque into his wallet.

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ said John at once. ‘I think it’s best for the moment. She didn’t want me to sell the house, you see, so I want everything to be up and running before I tell her. I want it to be a surprise.’

  ‘It’ll certainly be that, old boy.’ Sam laughed and John laughed with him. ‘Come on. This calls for a celebration. Got a good pub round the corner? I’m taking you out for a drink.’

  Later, back in Exeter, he telephoned Gillian.

  ‘Who’s a clever girl?’ he asked. ‘When do you want to collect your commission?’

  While he waited for her Sam thought long and hard. It had been fun having her around and the idea of being on his own again seemed strangely unattractive. She was amusing company, fun in bed and had proved to be an excellent accomplice. She would lend an air of respectability to meetings with married clients and her availability would solve the tiresome problem of picking up women when he felt the physical need to relax. By the time Gillian had arrived, he’d made up his mind. He made love to her and when it was over, he wrapped her in a rug, sat her on the sofa in front of the fire and brought her a drink.

  ‘So it all went well?’ She sipped, cuddling herself into the warm soft wool.

  ‘It went wonderfully well. Now listen, I’m thinking of going over to France for a while. I’ve got a little business out there as well as my cottage. A bit of development and so on and I help Brits to buy properties without being rooked. You know the sort of thing. How would you like to come?’

  Gillian, whose heart had plummeted at the announcement of his departure, stared at him and tried to gauge his meaning.

  ‘For a holiday, d’you mean?’

  ‘No, sweetheart.’ Sam chuckled at her expression. ‘Not for a holiday. I’m going for longer than that. It means that you’d have to leave Henry and Nethercombe and settle for my little cottage in the sun. What d’you say?’

  ‘Leave Henry … ?’

  ‘Don’t say you’d never thought of it. You know you should never have married him in the first place. Talk about chalk and cheese. I have a feeling that you’d be a tremendous asset to me – as well as …’ He stretched out his hand, pushing aside the rug, and touched her breasts with his fingers.

  She stared at him, breathing quickly, her eyes growing wide and dark. He leaned forward, took her glass from her, stood it on the floor and began to kiss her. She relaxed in his arms, her eyes closed and he smiled to himself.

  ‘Think,’ he whispered, as his lips brushed her cheek, her lips, her eyelids, ‘just think of having to waste all that lovely commission paying off your Barclaycard and the bank and your Dingles account. Wouldn’t it be a terrible shame?’ His lips moved to her breasts and she groaned. ‘I need you, Gillian,’ he whispered. ‘What d’you say?’

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ she pressed him closer, ‘I don’t know. When?’

  Sam raised his head. ‘Next week,’ he said.

  ‘Next week!’ Gillian’s eyes flew open and she stared at him. ‘But I couldn’t possibly … Next week?’

  Sam sat up and retrieved their glasses. He passed hers and took a drink from his own.

  ‘Why not? What have you got to do? Pack a few clothes and we’re off. Everything’s out there waiting for us. You can buy anything you need when you get there. What’s there to wait for?’

  ‘Won’t John think it odd if you dash off now?’ Gillian hugged the rug round her. She was trembling violently.

  ‘Why should he?’ Sam stood up and moved away a little. ‘I’m not going to build the development myself. Simon can keep an eye on things and I can come over when necessary. He can telephone if there’s an emergency. Don’t worry about that. It’ll all be taken care of but I don’t see any point sitting through another cold Devon winter while it’s happening. Well.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. I shall go at the end of the week and I shall be delighted to take you along with me. On the other hand I can see your difficulty. It’s easier for me, not being married. Although nobody need know we’re not married, of course, and obviously I hope we will be in due course …’

  ‘Will we?’ Gillian threw the rug aside and crossed with swift feet into his arms. ‘Oh, Sam, I couldn’t bear to lose you.’

  Sam hid his smile at her conventionality in her hair and hugged her close.

  ‘You don’t have to lose me if you don’t want to,’ he whispered. ‘It’s up to you,’ and picking her up he carried her back to the bedroom.

  IT WAS GUSSIE WHO made her way down the drive and into the Courtyard to welcome the latest arrival. She tried very hard not to usurp Gillian’s position as mistress of Nethercombe but although Gillian had been quieter, less abrasive, of late, she showed no interest in the workings of the estate or in the happenings in the Courtyard. Anyway, Gussie had a personal interest in Mrs Henderson. It was she who had met her on that first occasion and showed her round the cottage and during their subsequent meetings – for Mrs Henderson had been back several times – it had been Gussie who had unlocked the cottage and let her in, suggested that she might like to potter on her own to get the feel of it and invited her up to the house afterwards for a cup of tea. Gussie had taken an instant liking to her, helped on by the fact that Mrs Henderson had an Army background. For a moment, the old mantra reasserted itself and Gussie felt her spine straightening – ‘soldier’s daughter, soldier’s sister’ – as they exchanged memories and experiences over tea and Mrs Ridley’s excellent scones.

  ‘But my husband’s Navy,’ said Mrs Henderson, reaching for a second scone and heaping on jam and cream with a liberal hand. ‘Quite different in many ways. And now he’s left me and shacked up with a Wren.’

  Gussie, who had been watching with a tolerant eye, choked on a crumb and had a coughing fit into her handkerchief. Mrs Henderson rolled an amused eye in her direction. She was a natural, outspoken woman who believed in a direct approach and had already decided that it would be foolish to prevaricate with Gussie who was obviously one of the old school. If she bought the cottage in the Courtyard then it would be best all round if everyone knew the truth of her situation and accepted her for the sort of person she was. Gussie, who liked to preserve her privacy, took a hurried sip at her tea.

  ‘Better?’ asked Mrs Henderson affably. ‘Good. You mustn’t mind me. It’s living with sailors that does it. Blissful scones.’

  Now, as Gussie passed between the tall banks of rhododendrons that sheltered the lawns, she was able to smile at her momentary pang of discomfiture. It was important, she thought, to keep up with the young and keep abreast of the times. Living with Gillian had certainly developed her qualities of tolerance and broad-mindedness and her friendship with Nell had given her an insight into things which she had never experienced. The point was that Gussie liked young people and enjoyed their company and the thought of this little community growing up within the grounds filled her with pleasure and excitement and she wanted to share in it and be part of it. If that meant a loosening of her strait-laced views and developing a more openminded approach then she was prepared to try.
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br />   She paused for a moment under the stone archway which was the entrance to the Courtyard. The stone cottages with their slate roofs took up three sides of the cobbled courtyard; the barns on the fourth side had been made into garages with wooden doors opening out on to the drive. The erstwhile barns, all of different sizes and shapes and washed with a warm cream, had a distinctly Mediterranean appearance. One had a flight of steps leading up sideways to a raised front door: another had two wooden doors, half glazed and big enough to admit a horse and cart: the small one in the far corner had a huge stone trough outside a stable door. Just inside to the left of the archway, Mr Ridley had dug a trench at the foot of the wall which backed on to the garages and had trained a Nelly Moser clematis up its blank side. Even on this chill January day the Courtyard was a charming scene.

  Gussie made her way over the cobbles to the far corner and knocked on the stable door which was opened instantly by Mrs Henderson, who had seen her approach.

  ‘How nice of you to come and see me,’ she said warmly. ‘It makes me feel at home. Come on in. And please don’t ask if I’ve settled in. I’m in complete chaos.’

  Glancing round, Gussie could see that the question would, indeed, be quite unnecessary. Cardboard boxes were piled in the tiny hallway and tea chests appeared to fill the sitting room beyond.

  ‘I wondered how you were getting on,’ said Gussie, somewhat awed by disorder on such a grand scale, ‘and whether you’d like to come back for some lunch. I know that it’s so easy to neglect oneself during these occasions.’

  ‘That’s extraordinarily kind of you.’ Mrs Henderson grimaced comically. ‘I haven’t found my way to the shops yet and I’ve been living on black coffee and cigarettes.’

  Gussie, who would normally have been shocked at such a statement, found herself beaming back. She realised that she found Mrs Henderson an enormously attractive woman although, technically, she was not beautiful or even pretty. Her face was long and thin, her short brown hair was streaked generously with grey and her figure was almost as angular as Gussie’s own. Her attraction was in the mobility of her expressions, the warmth of her voice and a strange feeling that one had known her for years.

  ‘I should have spoken to the milkman,’ said Gussie, feeling that she had neglected her duties. ‘At least you could have had milk and eggs. I’ll leave a note for him.’

  ‘No need,’ said Mrs Henderson cheerfully. ‘I cornered the young man in the cottage by the archway. I saw him coming home last night and I dashed out and accosted him. He’s agreed to give the milkman a message.’

  ‘That’s Guy,’ said Gussie. ‘Guy Webster. There’s just the two of you at the moment. The Beresfords only come down for holidays at present. Guy strikes me as a rather shy person but he’s very pleasant when you get to know him.’

  ‘I must admit he looked rather nervous,’ said Mrs Henderson reflectively, lighting a cigarette, ‘when he saw me come leaping at him out of the dark.’

  ‘I can’t blame him,’ said Gussie to her own surprise, ‘if you were dressed like that.’

  Mrs Henderson opened her eyes wide and stared down at herself. She wore a pair of ancient cords, a large jersey topped by a ragged sheepskin waistcoat and her head was wrapped in a multicoloured turban. Their eyes met and they both began to laugh.

  ‘I simply didn’t think,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘I haven’t got the heating sorted out yet and unpacking is such a filthy job. He soon pulled himself together. Anyway, he accepted an invitation to come in for a drink tonight so it couldn’t have been too bad.’

  ‘Perhaps he was afraid to refuse,’ said Gussie and they both laughed again.

  ‘You know I’m going to take you up on your offer, Miss Merton,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘I’ve just realised that I’m very hungry. I really must do some shopping this afternoon.’

  ‘You’ll find everything you need in South Brent,’ said Gussie as they went out into the courtyard. ‘By the way, my name’s Augusta but everyone calls me Gussie. I wish you would too.’

  ‘And I’m Phoebe,’ said Mrs Henderson as they passed through the archway and up the drive. ‘So now that’s over and we can get down to the nitty-gritty. Who’s the good-looking chap I’ve seen you showing round Number Three?’

  Fifteen

  IT WAS THE LONGEST week Gillian had ever known; and the shortest. Thrust between terror and trembling excitement, between guilt and passion, the minutes stretched into infinity and yet the day for her departure from Nethercombe sped towards her. And never had Nethercombe looked more beautiful nor the quiet charm of its daily round been more appealing. The weather which had dripped and wept and howled and raged its way through Christmas and into January suddenly put away its depression and its tantrums and began to smile and sparkle. Several severe frosts hardened the sodden earth and rimed the bare branches with silver. By day the sky was clear, arching serene and cloudless above the frozen land. At night, after a sunset that washed the earth red, the cold white moon rode above tall pine trees etched darker black against the sky and blue smoke rose straight in the chill breathless air from the chimneys of the cottages grouped below. The blunt pale shape of the owl drifted noiselessly across the meadow, his eerie cry haunting the frosty silence.

  Gillian, standing at her bedroom window, wondered how she could bring herself to leave at all. She loved Nethercombe more than she knew but, as she turned back into the bedroom, she was confronted by Henry sitting up in bed in his much-loved ancient striped flannel pyjamas, spectacles perched on the end of his nose as he read an article in the Field, and her heart yearned away again to Sam; tall, strong, passionate. She gave a tiny gasp of confusion and despair and Henry looked up, concerned.

  ‘Do come and get in,’ he begged, throwing back the covers on her side of the bed. ‘It’s much too cold to stand out there. You’re shivering.’ He wrapped her up tenderly.

  ‘I was watching the owl.’ Gillian’s teeth were chattering but not from cold.

  ‘Dear old fellow,’ said Henry, returning to his article. ‘He’s probably starving, poor old boy.’

  Gillian huddled beneath the quilt surrounded by hot-water bottles – Henry couldn’t bear electric blankets – and closed her eyes, shutting out the bedroom at Nethercombe. Sam would never cover her up, wrap her in things, as though she were an old woman. He would strip off her clothes, throw back the quilt, revelling in every inch of her smooth skin and lissom body. She rolled on to her side away from Henry, arms folded across her breasts, fists clenched. If only he had been given a passionate nature! Gillian screwed her eyes up tight at the unfairness of it all. If only Sam owned Nethercombe! A traitorous voice whispered that, if he had, there wouldn’t be much left of it now but it was a faint sickly voice that was easily smothered under a wave of longing for his hard strong body that crushed and took and satisfied. Gillian groaned and Henry, mistaking it for a protest, a desire for sleep, took off his spectacles, dropped the Field and turned out his bedside light. He slid beneath the quilt, inserting an arm under Gillian’s neck and, wrapping the other closely round her, pulled her into the curve of his body, tucking her cold feet between his calves.

  Gillian lay rigid, silent, feeling his breath warm on her neck, the familiarity of his body at her back. If only he might be moved to desire, drag her over, blot out the temptations, satisfy her need, then, even now, her resolve might be weakened. Henry’s hands moved, drawing her nearer still.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know why you wear this silly thing.’ Gillian’s breath was momentarily suspended. ‘You ought to buy a good sensible warm one.’

  He tucked the quilt more firmly around her, settled himself and slid almost instantly into sleep. Gillian stared resentfully, frustratedly, into the darkness but Henry’s body warmth and his regular breathing imperceptibly soothed and relaxed her and presently she slept.

  In the morning she went to see Lydia who, fresh from a skirmish with her ex-husband, was delighted to welcome her.

  ‘Whate
ver possessed me to marry him in the first place,’ she cried, clashing coffee mugs and spoons, ‘I shall never know. What a fool I was!’

  Gillian couldn’t have wished for a better opening.

  ‘Oh, Mum, I know just how you feel,’ she said plaintively.

  Lydia’s indignant hands were stilled and she glanced at Gillian warily.

  ‘What do you mean, darling? You can’t possibly mean to compare Henry with Angus. Henry’s so thoughtful and kind. Angus was always insensitive and selfish.’

  ‘Then why did you marry him?’ asked Gillian cunningly.

  ‘Oh, you know what it’s like,’ said the unthinking Lydia. ‘One gets carried away by things when one’s young. Girls are so foolish. And of course he wormed his way in with the family. Grannie and Grandpa adored him; he saw to that, of course. I was swept off my feet by all the wrong things.’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ cried Gillian, seizing her chance. ‘So was I! I was bowled over by Nethercombe and all that. Country living. You know? Henry’s sweet but he’s just so … Well.’ Gillian shrugged. ‘He’s boring,’ she said flatly, at last.

  Lydia put down the jar of coffee that she had been unconsciously crushing to her breast.

  ‘Oh, but darling, what man isn’t?’

  ‘Mum! Honestly! Of course they’re not all boring.’

  Lydia turned back to her coffee-making with a sceptical lift of her brows.

  ‘They’re not!’ Gillian felt compelled to protest. ‘I know lots that aren’t boring.’

  ‘Name twenty,’ said Lydia provocatively. ‘Bet you can’t.’

  ‘That’s silly.’ Gillian, cross at being deflected from the particular to the general, threw caution to the winds. ‘Anyway, I’m leaving Henry.’

  ‘Gillian! Oh no, darling. You mustn’t! What’s brought this on? Look, come and sit down and tell me all about it.’ She pushed Gillian into a chair and put her coffee beside her. ‘You simply mustn’t do anything foolish in a fit of temper.’