The Courtyard

by Marcia Willett

‘It’s out of the question,’ said John. ‘It’s a ridiculous offer.’

  ‘It’s a cash offer.’ The voice sounded even wearier. ‘My advice would be to bite his hand off. It’s the first person we’ve had to view it in three months. The first cash buyer since last autumn.’

  John hesitated. Seventy thousand. It wouldn’t even cover his debts. And then what? Where would they go? What could they do? He must get more, much more.

  ‘Tell him I’ll drop to ninety-five.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Even the laugh was weary. ‘He’s got the choice of a dozen good properties, none over seventy-five. He’s only offering on yours because his wife likes the garden.’

  John’s eye fell on the sheaf of letters with their demands and threats. Fear curdled in his belly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I simply can’t. Ninety-five’s the bottom line.’

  ‘Right.’

  The line went dead. John stood up and walked about again. He was light-headed with hunger and fear. He’d felt too sick to eat any breakfast and had no money to buy any lunch. When the telephone rang in the middle of the afternoon, he took the receiver up with a calm born of desperation. It was the bank.

  John closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His heart beat so fast, he thought it would choke him.

  ‘How … ?’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did it go?’

  The bank sounded so cheerful that his spirits soared up. The miracle must have happened. Oh, thank God! Thank God!

  … And so, the bank was telling him, there would probably be as much as three thousand to come to him. Of course, it would take a little time …

  ‘Three thousand? Three …’

  The bank felt everyone had come out quite well, all things considered, and it continued to drone on for some moments in a selfcongratulatory vein. In the middle of it, John put the receiver down. He sat quite still and it was some time later that he remembered the offer on the house in Bournemouth. Suddenly he was galvanised into action, opening drawers, searching among his papers for the telephone number.

  The weary voice answered.

  ‘It’s John Woodward. You phoned this morning about an offer on the house. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take it.’

  ‘He’s offered on another property, I’m afraid. It’s been accepted.’

  ‘Phone him,’ shouted John. ‘Please! Tell him I’ll take seventy. Try, please!’

  ‘OK.’ The voice sounded resigned. ‘If you say so. I’ll come back to you.’

  John stood taut and still beside the desk. Why the devil hadn’t he grabbed the offer? At least most of the debts would have been paid off. Now, starting with nothing looked positively wonderful compared with the vision that stretched before him. The bell had hardly trilled before he’d snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Woodward. He’s sticking with it. He’s got a very good deal, I’m afraid. The vendor knows how lucky he is and went for it.’ The weary voice was reproachful. ‘It’s too late now. Bad luck.’

  John turned away from his desk and went into the lavatory. He stood for some moments wondering what he was doing there. He leaned against the wall, and, after a moment, it seemed easier to slide down the wall and sit, knees drawn up, beside the loo. He sat thus as the time passed, hardly knowing who he was and wishing that somebody would come and tell him. Presently, when no one came and it grew dark, he lowered his forehead onto his knees and began to weep.

  Nineteen

  PHOEBE’S PARTY WAS A great success. The lights from her window and hall shone out into the Courtyard, guiding her guests across the cobbles to the front door which stood wide open to welcome them. Guy watched the procession of partygoers and listened to the shouts of greetings for some while before he eventually joined them. He hated parties and had never seen the point of drinking too much and generally behaving foolishly amongst a group of people he didn’t want to meet and hoped never to see again.

  He slipped in unobtrusively and was in the act of putting a bottle of wine on the kitchen table when Phoebe appeared behind him.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How nice of you to bring a bottle. I wondered whether you’d turn up. I thought the shrieks might deter you. Don’t worry, it won’t be that bad. You might even enjoy it!’

  Guy wondered if he’d find life easier if smiling came more naturally to him. His countenance was naturally serious, almost forbidding, and he knew that socially it was a great disadvantage. He watched people beaming, grinning, smiling and wondered how they managed it with apparently so little effort. He was extraordinarily irritated by being continually asked if he was OK, advised to cheer up and receiving assurances that it might never happen. Phoebe regarded him thoughtfully and, as usual, he felt that she knew just what he was thinking. It was very disconcerting, not to say annoying.

  ‘Sounds great fun,’ he said, hoping to throw her off the scent. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  She grinned at him and he knew he hadn’t deceived her.

  ‘Gussie’s here,’ she said. ‘Come and help her out. I think she finds my friends a little overwhelming. Henry couldn’t come. He’s got some parish meeting or something and Gillian’s away.’

  Gussie certainly didn’t look overwhelmed. To Guy’s jaundiced eye she seemed to be enjoying herself perfectly well without his assistance, nevertheless he made his way through the throng and greeted her. Before she could answer, a young dark girl stepped in front of him and smiled up at him.

  ‘Hello, Guy. Remember me?’

  It was the type of conversational opening that Guy dreaded but when she smiled a memory clicked into place.

  ‘Sophie. How could I possibly forget you?’ returned Guy with awkward gallantry. ‘Although I must say that there have been changes. No more plaits, I see. And … well, we won’t go into the other improvements. ’

  The girl who looked like the young Audrey Hepburn made a little face at him.

  ‘You’ve hardly changed at all,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because I’d already grown up when we last met. It must be at least three years ago. At the Wivenhoes’ barbecue, wasn’t it? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m with Mum.’ Sophie waved her hand towards the thin dark woman who was talking to Gussie and Guy saw that it was Annabel Hope-Latymer. ‘She’s an old friend of Phoebe’s,’ said Sophie as Annabel and Gussie moved across to join them.

  Annabel kissed him lightly whilst explaining the connection to Gussie and Sophie studied Guy from beneath her lashes.

  ‘So what’s your cottage like?’ she asked him.

  ‘Very small,’ Guy told her, ‘but just right for me. I’m delighted with it.’ He hesitated for a moment and she looked up at him with huge grey eyes in her small pointed face. ‘You must come over and see it,’ he said recklessly and her face lit up.

  ‘What fun!’ she said. ‘When?’

  Annabel burst out laughing. ‘Get out of that one,’ she said to Guy and he smiled unwillingly.

  ‘When would be a good time?’ he asked, his heart sinking, and including Annabel in the invitation.

  ‘Oh, don’t look at me,’ she said at once. ‘You won’t want oldies.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ agreed Sophie at once, although she grinned at her mother. ‘Just me and Gemma. You’d like to see Gemma again, wouldn’t you, Guy? She can drive us over. I haven’t passed my test yet but she has and her mum lets her drive her car. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Guy, his heart sinking even further. Now his Sunday would be ruined by two giggling, chattering girls.

  ‘Great! We’ll come about midday. Is that OK? You can take us to the Church House Inn at Rattery for lunch. I love it there.’

  ‘Sophie!’ Annabel shook her head and grimaced at Guy. ‘As you see, she hasn’t changed.’

  Sophie made a face and looked at Guy with a mischievous pleading smile.

  ‘I often go to the Church House on Sundays,’ he said to reassure Annabel and smiled at Sophie. ‘Midday it i
s.’

  He glanced at Gussie wondering if she might be expecting an invitation too but, although her expression was benevolent, her eyes looked as though her thoughts were in some distant place.

  ‘Pity that Henry and Gillian aren’t here,’ observed Annabel and Gussie started and looked wary.

  ‘Yes,’ she began. ‘Yes …’ She hesitated and looked tremendously relieved as Phoebe poked her head between Sophie and Annabel.

  ‘Anyone for a top up?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gussie firmly rather to Guy’s surprise. He hadn’t imagined her to be much of a drinker. ‘How nice. Yes please.’

  Annabel looked thoughtfully into her half-full glass and Sophie held out her empty one hopefully.

  ‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Phoebe. ‘Guy isn’t looking after you very well, is he?’ She grinned at Guy’s irritated expression. ‘Come on,’ she said to him. ‘You’d better come and collect a bottle. You’ll need it for this lot.

  ‘So what do you think of my surprise?’ she asked him when they were in the kitchen and she was sorting through bottles.

  ‘Which particular surprise do you have in mind?’ asked Guy grimly. ‘Pointing out that I’m a butler and not a guest, after all?’

  ‘No, not that one,’ said Phoebe, undismayed by his expression. ‘Producing your childhood friend for you. When Abby said that Sophie was home for the weekend, I thought you might enjoy seeing her. Pretty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very.’ Guy’s tone would have frozen a lesser person but Phoebe laughed.

  ‘OK. No more butlering, no more procuring. I can take a hint.’

  ‘Promise?’ asked Guy coldly and taking the bottle he made his way back to Sophie.

  HENRY, HOME FROM HIS meeting, debated whether to go down and join the end of Phoebe’s party or to stay put by the fire in the library. Knowing that questions may be asked regarding Gillian’s whereabouts he decided to stay put. He knew that Gussie would be able to field that sort of thing far better than he could. He poured himself a whisky and went to sit by the fire, thinking about Gillian. He had been delighted – if astounded – to receive another letter from her. Despite its guarded tone and brevity, Henry felt quite certain that he was right to keep in touch. His own letters were written in a chatty, light, easy style; he talked about Nethercombe, the new lambs, the gale that brought down some trees along the avenue, as well as the goings-on in the Courtyard. He wrote as he might to a friend and wisely left himself out of it, concentrating on the small, day-to-day of life.

  Gillian, reading these letters in Sam’s small stone house and isolated by her inability to speak French, felt homesick for all the things that she had once despised. Perhaps, if Sam had been around more or if she could have made friends, things might have been different for, physically, Sam still held her. The villagers, however, were all elderly and, in her opinion, viewed her with suspicion and although Sam assured her that they all believed that he and Gillian were married, her own knowledge made her feel insecure. She thought longingly of her chats with Lucy and her jollies with Lydia and the days seemed long with Sam away on his mysterious business. When he returned she was able to forget everything once she was in his arms in the saggy double bed but when she begged to go with him on his trips he refused, saying that she’d be bored waiting around for him. He suggested that she spend her time learning French and bought her some books but languages had never come easily to Gillian and she laid the books aside and wandered out into the village. This was situated inland in the arid maze of scrub-covered hills rather than on the heavily populated strip along the coast so that Gillian’s dream of basking in a subtropical temperature remained a dream and, when the mistral struck, she wondered why she’d ever complained about Devon’s climate.

  Reading Henry’s letters she realised that she was more English than she had imagined and often caught herself remembering small details of Nethercombe: the great white candle-like flowers of the chestnut trees along the avenue, the tender green of the new beech leaves, the emerald sweep of the lawns and the sound of the river after heavy rain. She recalled frosty nights, echoing with the bark of the vixen and the cry of the owl hunting in the woods, and lazy hot mornings on the sunny terrace with the smell of new-mown grass in her nostrils. When she made the occasional sortie into the little local store – where she struggled to make herself understood by gestures and a few badly pronounced words – she thought of Val and Brian at the mini-market in South Brent with their good-humoured friendliness and remembered her jokes with Patsy at the post office. Even the much-vaunted French bread wasn’t as good as Mary’s at the bakery near the church.

  She was so delighted to see Sam when he returned – always bringing presents of some kind or another – that he didn’t guess at her loneliness and his physical power over her was still enough – as yet – to make her think that everything was worth it. The letters, however, from Henry, from Lydia, even a short one from Lucy, reinforced the invisible threads that bound her to her own country and to Devon in particular and, as she waited for Sam to fulfil his promises of a life together, she read and reread them.

  Henry could only guess at the effect and continued to work as his instinct guided him. He knew that he loved Gillian and he wanted her back and a regular, though unpressured, communication seemed to be the only means he had of bringing it about.

  WHEN THE GIRLS ARRIVED on Sunday – Gemma driving her mother’s hatchback – Guy, who had been alert for the sound of an engine, went out through the arch to greet them. A parking place for visitors’ cars had been created under the trees at the edge of the drive and at his direction Gemma pulled in and switched off the engine. She jumped out with a quick smooth movement and, before he could react, gave him a big hug.

  ‘Like hugging an ironing board,’ she said to Sophie afterwards who was torn between jealousy and admiration at Gemma’s daring.

  ‘Goodness!’ Guy, unable to respond with such open friendliness, couldn’t resist teasing her a little. ‘Aren’t you too big now to go round hugging strange men?’

  ‘Oh, you’re not that strange, Guy,’ she said provocatively. ‘And I’m not that big.’

  ‘Well …’ He pretended to let his eye run over her curves and she thumped him on the arm. ‘Ouch!’

  Sophie came round to their side of the car, not too pleased at this rapid resumption of friendship.

  ‘I’d kill for some coffee,’ she said. ‘I missed breakfast. Any chance?’

  ‘Everything’s ready,’ said Guy airily, taken aback at the feeling of warmth that was spreading around his heart. It was, after all, great fun to see them both. ‘Come on in.’

  They followed him through the arch, exclaiming in pleasure and pointing things out to each other, and then fell on their knees to embrace Bertie who had followed Guy out and was greeting them cautiously.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he sweet!’ Sophie crouched beside him.

  ‘He’s just like Gus.’ Gemma looked up from fondling the silky ears. ‘D’you remember Gus, Guy? Your mother bred him, didn’t she?’

  Guy made coffee while the girls explored and admired the cottage which he’d cleaned and tidied earlier and they drank it in his sitting room. One window opened on to the Courtyard, the other looked over the lawns behind the cottage and up to the banks of rhododendron bushes below the swimming pool.

  ‘Swimming pool!’ Gemma made big eyes. ‘We’ll know where to come in the summer, Sophie. Pool parties! What fun!’

  ‘We’ll have a wander round after lunch, if you like,’ suggested Guy. ‘But we ought to be getting off to the pub. Gets a bit crowded on a Sunday.’

  ‘I’ll drive if you like,’ offered Gemma. ‘Then you can have more than half a pint. Or don’t you care about the drink and drive regulations?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said Guy at once. ‘I can’t afford to lose my licence.

  ‘Well then. We’ll take Ma’s car. I’m not bothered if I don’t drink.’ Gemma slipped her arm through Guy’s as they walked to the car. ‘It’
s the company I get high on!’ She rolled her eyes at him and he laughed back at her, infected by her lighthearted fun.

  ‘What about Bertie?’ Sophie was feeling left out again, very much aware of Gemma’s year of seniority and experience and not having the close long relationship with the Websters that the Wivenhoes had to fall back on. ‘Is he allowed in the pub?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Guy lifted the rear door and Bertie hopped in. ‘He’s got several friends at the pub. The landlord’s got a golden called Shandy and there’s a regular with another one called Duke. He always has a good time at the Church House. I’ll sit in the front so that I can show you the way.’

  Sophie slipped into the back seat wondering whether it had been such a good idea to bring Gemma over. But how could she have come otherwise? She brooded in the back while Guy and Gemma chatted easily in the front, talking of Gemma’s brothers, Oliver and Saul, and of Guy’s twin, Giles, and of mutual friends. She watched the back of Guy’s head and his profile as he turned his face to Gemma.

  He’s really nice, she thought and her heart thumped.

  The ten-year age-gap only helped to make him more desirable. Beside the boys of her own age he was a man and, as such, a challenge. She looked at Gemma – driving easily and well, relaxed, chatting and laughing – and felt another twinge of jealousy. She was so pretty with her long blonde hair and blue eyes; tall and long-legged with a promise of voluptuousness. Nothing could have been more of a contrast to Sophie’s dark, gamine, waif-like charm. On the other hand, Sophie knew quite well that Gemma was easygoing, open and friendly with most people of both sexes; also she had a fairly serious relationship with a naval officer of about Guy’s age. No, Sophie decided, she wasn’t really a threat but it would be nice to attract Guy’s attention seriously. Perhaps in the pub …

  Guy stretched his long legs out and relaxed in his seat. He was enjoying himself. He imagined the raised eyebrows when he went into the Church House with two gorgeous girls and smiled to himself. He often dropped in for a swift half on his way home in the evenings and had quickly become one of the small group of regulars – all male – at the bar. Sometimes he’d stay on for a bite of supper, sitting beside one of the two cheerfully blazing log fires, whilst Bertie watched hopefully for titbits. Sometimes Jill or David – who helped in the bar – teased him about his lack of female company so it would be fun to appear with two girls. And what girls! Guy mentally raised his eyebrows, folded his arms across his chest and stared ahead. Phoebe had done him a good turn after all!