The Kissing Gate

by Susan Sallis

  She looked round, then crouched slightly to peer through a display framework. She heard her mother before she saw her. Zannah had seen someone she knew and was greeting him or her enthusiastically with arms outspread.

  ‘Louis! Darling!’

  Gussie’s heart sank. She remembered the name, Louis Broomfield. The dealer-man. And he was a day early. Typically Gussie ran a list of the contents of the fridge through her head, wondering what sort of meal she could concoct. And then she forgot all that as Zannah clasped someone to her and a head appeared above hers. Gussie stiffened as a man’s face came into focus. Blond as a Viking; predatory like a Viking. It was unmistakably Andrew Bellamy’s head.

  She reached behind her with one hand, feeling for the counter. She intended to run. To disappear. Find the car, perhaps. Mingle with the crowds along the Promenade. Anything.

  And then those intensely blue eyes widened as they met hers between the display shelves. He saw her and recognized her immediately, as she had him. Just for an instant she thought he was going to give his delighted smile and lift a hand from Zannah’s shoulder to hail her, and then something absolutely unexpected happened. His face changed. It was as if it slackened, became pliable, jelly-like. He seemed to cling to Zannah instead of to embrace her. His whole body changed with his face. She stood there, transfixed, holding the counter behind her but no longer wanting to run, watching him disintegrate. The Viking no longer victorious. The Viking, abject.

  Andrew Bellamy was frightened. How foolish of her not to have realized that he ran from Bamaluz Point because he was frightened – terrified, in fact. And he had hidden from her until his greed for money had forced him back to St Ives where he had skirted around the place making sure that he did not bump into her.

  She moved back until the counter supported her waist, then she turned quite naturally and said, ‘Yes, I love the locket. I will take it. Can you gift-wrap it? It’s a very special present from my mother.’ She smiled at the girl and the girl smiled back. She felt a little surge of triumph and did not know why … had she won something? The eye contact with Andrew? Yes, she had definitely won that, but more than that: she had won something within herself. It was almost physical; a sense of her body settling into itself, reordering itself. She hid a grin from the young assistant because she had a ridiculous, cartoon-like flash of lungs nudging heart a millimetre, digestive system glugging freely, the aftermath of her inner shaking settling, relaxing. Just as she had watched Andrew Bellamy’s collapse, so now she watched her own body flow comfortably into itself. Comfortable. She had lost her baby; part of herself. Now, standing in this place sparkling with faceted light, she was whole again. It was wonderful.

  She took the silver-wrapped package from the girl, smiled, thanked her and walked to the door and out into the winter sunshine. Her mother did not call after her; perhaps Andrew – or Louis – was still clinging to her and she was wondering what on earth to do with him. Gussie let her smile grow and grow at the thought. Her mother was more than a match for Andrew Bellamy, just as she had been a match for Louis Broomfield. Two confidence tricksters head to head. Gussie knew already who would win.

  The car, big and black, was waiting in the car park and Gussie had the keys. She got into the driver’s seat and began to sort through her bag, putting her new watch in its shiny wrapping into the glove compartment, checking on her passport and train tickets. She glanced at the watch her grandmother had given her almost ten years ago. Her mother would arrive at any moment, wondering why Gus had left the shop so abruptly. She would be alone, of course, because Andrew was terrified of meeting Gussie. It would be interesting to discover what he had told her – if anything. And what she had told him. Gussie was willing to bet that Zannah had got in first and urged him to meet her daughter, who was leaving for England very early tomorrow morning. In which case he would say nothing. He would turn up at the farmhouse exactly as planned because he wanted this deal to go through.

  At that precise moment in her thoughts, there was a tap on the driver’s window and Zannah was there.

  ‘Darling, where on earth did you get to? Are you all right? I got held up by Louis Broomfield, of all people – didn’t you see us? I thought for a horrid moment he wanted to come back with us, but no, he’s staying with someone from the Guggenheim. Of course.’

  She came round the car and got into the passenger seat. ‘Are you happy to drive, sweetie? Well, I know you drive one of these things over the countryside when you’re working.’

  Gussie started up and manoeuvred carefully into the flow of traffic. She told her mother about the locket and its inner watch. ‘It took so long to wrap I thought you’d already left. And then I saw you with your dealer-man.’

  Zannah chortled. ‘I bet you thought I’d bring him home! He’s staying with some American and arriving at the farm tomorrow as arranged. So you could have joined us and been introduced.’ She chortled again. ‘He wanted to know if he was my only guest. He thinks it will be easier to bring the price down if he has me to himself.’

  ‘We’ll phone the Rivières when we get back. And perhaps Madame Monsoon would stay overnight?’

  ‘To chaperone me? You must be joking, Gus!’

  ‘Zannah. His real name is Andrew Bellamy.’ She took a hand off the wheel and held her mother’s knee. ‘It’s all right. Really. He’s not a murderer. He saw me, recognized me. He was terrified. He’s a man with a plan of action that I could smash instantly. He now thinks I ran away, out of that shop, and I expect he discovered from you that I have been convalescing after the shock of losing my family. So he’s going to go ahead with the deal he has made with you.’ She squeezed her mother’s knee hard. ‘I think he is a weak man. But just in case … you cannot stay in the house with him on your own. You really can’t do that, Zannah. For my sake, if not yours.’

  Zannah ceased trying to interrupt with gasps of furious outrage. There was a silence in the car while Gussie crossed the interchange and started on the country roads. Then Zannah said with a catch in her voice, ‘I’ll kill him.’

  Gussie glanced sideways; her mother’s face was running with tears. She drew into a gateway and stopped the car; enfolded Zannah in her long arms and held her tightly.

  ‘Not before you’ve upped the price and got a cheque in your hands!’ she whispered.

  Zannah choked on a laugh but then sobered. ‘Darling, I am so thankful that you can take it like this. Have you laid that particular spectre, d’you think?’

  ‘Of course. I should have realized … He worked as legal adviser for Albion UK, very reputable landscape designers. When I became his – his – project, he left them and promoted me like mad. And then, well, I suppose he became an independent dealer and worked for whoever was interested. He likes walking a tightrope in the commercial world. I wouldn’t have done for him at all. Too conventional. I’ll never know whether that shove was simply disgust, or an attempt to do away with me. It obviously frightened him more than me!’

  Zannah made a little moan. ‘He conned me, didn’t he? I thought I was on to a good thing. The conner conned!’

  ‘But then, he can’t be certain that we’re not having this conversation. He’ll either disappear – not turn up tomorrow – or he’ll gamble. And just in case he does, I’m going to ring Madame Monsoon.’

  Gus started the car again and they drove several miles before Zannah burst out again, ‘I’ll kill him!’

  Gussie gave a wry smile. ‘He won’t turn up. Too scared.’

  ‘Too scared to settle down with you and lead a quiet life. Not too scared to risk everything on a dodgy deal.’

  ‘We don’t know that his deals are dodgy.’

  ‘I’m willing to put money on it! He’ll turn up tomorrow. And I’ll kill him!’

  Gussie’s smile exploded into a laugh. ‘I’ve danced with you, remember! And watched you painting in the buff! You probably weigh under eight stone.’

  ‘I have a gun, Gus. And I know how to use it.’

  �
��Oh, well then. That’s settled.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m serious. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve been a lousy mother. Here’s a decent chance to put things right. No one else can do it.’

  Again Gussie glanced sideways. Her mother’s face was set.

  Gussie took a deep breath. ‘That scar. Along your hairline. It is recent. And it’s nothing to do with a face-lift. Is it the reason you wanted me to come over and see you?’

  ‘I have always wanted you to come over and see me. You must know that.’

  ‘There was an urgency. Rory kept banging on about it.’

  ‘Losing Mark. Properly losing him. Knowing we would never jump into the sea from the pier and swim to the arches …’

  Gussie knew Zannah was crying again. She said, ‘I’ll do it for both of you. I promise.’ She waited and then said. ‘Was it a tumour? Has it been removed?’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was suddenly strong. ‘It’ll be all right. Of course. There was radio therapy after.’ She laughed brightly. ‘I had to wear a mask. Like the phantom of the bloody opera! I looked quite good, actually.’

  Gussie gripped the wheel hard. Rory must have known all this.

  Zannah said, ‘Don’t worry about the dealer-man, darling. If he turns up, he won’t be staying. Our local gendarme will be coming to discuss a complaint I received – loud music at my last party. He told me off on the phone and thought that would do but I must ring him and ask him to pop up. He looks rather grand in his uniform.’

  Gussie said, ‘We should talk. About the tumour. How will you manage?’

  ‘No. Sorry, darling, but that is something we will not talk about. We have had our lovely time together. Just as I hoped. We lived together as mother and daughter for four weeks.’ She leaned round so that Gussie could see her face; it was alive with laughter. ‘That is as much as I can manage, Gus!’

  Gussie laughed too. They slowed for the first of the bridges in Deux Ponts, and on their left and above them appeared the tall roof of the barn where Zannah’s paint pots still hung from the scaffolding.

  ‘You know I will come if you need me.’

  ‘I did need you. And you came.’

  Gussie was about to call her mother the ultimate drama queen. And then she did not.

  The journey home was long and gave her too much time to worry about Andrew Bellamy’s visit to Glorious Isolation. Gussie told herself that basically he was a coward and would back out of it. But he was also a gambler, and she could not be sure of anything.

  At Marseilles the train was held up for an hour and the dining car ran out of supplies. She missed her connection in Paris but the night ferry had waited for the next train and the passengers filed on at midnight, looking like refugees.

  By the time she had changed trains at London and arrived in Bristol it was mid-afternoon of the next day. Andrew Bellamy had come and gone; or perhaps not come at all. Gussie crawled into one of the taxis outside Temple Meads and arrived at the tall old Briscoe house in Clifton just as darkness crept along the Avon Gorge.

  Aunt Rosemary was pathetically pleased to see her. ‘I’ve been phoning Zannah and there’s been no answer. When I switched on the news at lunchtime I thought you would not be coming home at all. Were you still there when it happened?’

  Gussie stared at her blearily. She felt unreal. Rosemary drew her into the sitting room where a tea trolley was drawn close to the fire. Outside, the street lights snapped on and highlighted the rain.

  ‘It’s raining,’ Gussie said.

  Rosemary said, ‘It’s been raining all day. You must have seen it from the train.’ She pushed one of the armchairs closer to the fire. ‘Come on. Feet in fender, tea in tummy. D’you remember Mummy saying that? No, you wouldn’t. It was always summer when you spent any length of time with her.’

  But Kate had said it. Gussie held out appreciative hands to the fire. ‘I’m all out of kilter, half of me still on that dratted train stuck in Marseilles. The other half back in Deux Ponts with Zannah.’

  Rosemary put a mug of tea in the outstretched hands and started around the room, switching on table lamps. Mark had told her once she was not a restful person and she had asked him tartly whether he could have been restful if he’d lived with Rory Trewyn. He had said nothing. He had, after all, lived with Zannah Scaife for twelve years. Gussie smiled at the memory and Rosemary said briskly, ‘That’s better. I take it you’ve had a dreadful time. And now this. Zannah is quite the most selfish woman I have ever met.’

  ‘I’ve had a good time. A really good time in all ways. And I shall soon orientate myself again, don’t worry.’

  Rosemary came and sat down, her knees almost touching Gussie’s. ‘You don’t know, of course. I thought it might have made the papers this morning. It happened yesterday. In the afternoon. You’d have left by then.’ She put out a hand. ‘It’s all right, she’s fine. And loving the limelight, of course. We’ll watch the news at six, it’s sure to be on again. She’s managed to convince everyone that she’s a heroine. The man she rescued looks like a terrified rabbit. I wouldn’t be surprised if she deliberately pushed him into that river before she dashed along the bank and hauled him out.’

  Rosemary was laughing inordinately by this time and went on to recount similar incidents from Zannah’s time in St Ives when she had jumped from Bamaluz Point and dived off the end of Smeaton’s Pier without a stitch on. ‘Of course, it was still just about the sixties then and people used to do those sorts of things. We’re a little bit more careful now.’

  Gussie stopped staring at her aunt and gazed into the fire, seeing the River Brussac from above, wondering how on earth Zannah had inveigled Andrew to go with her; remembering her adamant intention to kill him.

  She said slowly, ‘She’s got a brain tumour. She’s not selfish, Aunt Ro. Not now. I don’t think she cares about herself any more.’

  ‘Oh my God. Are you sure?’ She looked at Gussie’s face and shook her head from side to side, slowly. ‘Of course. She’ll want to go out with a bang, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gussie continued to stare into the heart of the fire and after a while Rosemary pushed the mug of tea towards her mouth. She drank and at last smiled properly. ‘She’s incorrigible. And indefatigable.’ She made a face at her aunt. ‘She worked most of the time I was with her – one of those huge canvases Grampy Gerald used to love. And if she had planned this … incident … it could not have worked out better. Who knows, she might beat the bloody cancer too.’

  Rosemary lifted her own mug. ‘Here’s to Zannah.’ Carefully they touched mugs.

  Gussie said, ‘I’m glad to be home.’

  Thirteen

  NED LEANED ON the wall, looked out at the harbour and told himself that nothing had changed. It seemed an age since he had leaned here, noted the boats moored alongside Smeaton’s Pier, checked that the lifeboat was still housed, wondered about the weather, then gone into the kitchen to feed the range and make tea. He would do all that now. But when he sat at the big table and drank the tea and ate the toast, he would be on his own. Alone. Every day confirmed it and every day it became less bearable.

  The table would look enormous spread before him with nothing on it except a stack of newspapers, mostly unopened. There was no precious list containing cryptic messages like ‘Flowers for C’ or ‘Ring Ro re bed’. He had kept that particular list and left it on the table for two or three days after Gussie’s departure, then told himself he was a sentimental idiot and thrown it on the range. There was no way he could fool himself that anyone else was living in Zion Cottage. Gussie would not be clanking the gate in the yard as she came in from her morning walk and Jannie was most definitely otherwise engaged.

  Jannie was working like stink at Exeter to produce the best dissertation anyone had done in the history of the University, and Gussie’s last letter had said she would now wait to hear from him with his American address. She had been in France for two weeks. And when she came home there would be no one
here for her either. She would not be arriving at any moment from her morning walk to regale anyone with all the news.

  He almost gave in and let himself cry, then forced a tight grin. It was still murkily dark this grey February day and there would be no ‘news’ unless the lifeboat had been called out – and nobody wanted news like that. As a teenager he had complained about the lack of ‘news’ during the winter and Gussie had said instantly, ‘Don’t worry, little brother. I’ll make up some news for you.’ For a while, until the joke ran out of steam, the Briscoe Morning News had often been the highlight of winter weekends. ‘I do ’ear,’ Gussie always slipped into a broad Cornish accent, ‘as the cauliflowers down Nanceledra way be turning pink when they’re cut. Buyers upcountry are going crazy for ’em. Jem Tregothen is putting that-there cochineal in the rain butts and ’and-watering his lower field. An’ when ’is missis did rinse ’er ’air in the rainwater, she ended up a red’ead!’

  Ned stopped grinning because he also remembered that until the rest of the family had exploded with laughter, he had actually believed in the pink cauliflowers. He had always believed what Gussie told him. From the moment she arrived into his life – on Porthmeor beach when he was five years old – he had believed every word she said. When he realized that the story of the pink cauliflowers was a joke he had found it the funniest joke he had ever heard and had been surprised to find that none of his classmates gave it more than a passing smile. ‘That sister of yours – sounds as mad as a hatter!’ That had come from Maurice Hain, who had then met Gussie just before she went to Cirencester and had fallen in love with her instantly. Everyone did, of course, and she never seemed to see it. Nearly all his friends went on about her dark eyes and her long legs. Maurice had even gone mad about her plait and told Ned he wanted to unplait it and comb it through and through with his fingers. Ned had wanted to smash him in the face.