Second Time Around

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed Mathilda, placing a mug of tea at Isobel’s elbow. ‘I suspect, however, that each composer tends to write about his own experience. Love is a subject which is far too general to pin down to one person’s view of it. It’s as foolish as saying that the Italians are wonderful lovers or that the French are marvellous cooks. It is hardly realistic to generalise about the entire population of any country. I imagine that it is the same with love. We each have a different experience.’

  Isobel sipped her tea gratefully and wondered what Mathilda’s experience had been. Was it some betrayal that had led to her solitary existence in the cove? She knew she could not ask.

  ‘At least you didn’t say, “It all depends what you mean by love”,’ she said rather bitterly.

  Mathilda chuckled a little. ‘I didn’t feel that you were quite in the mood,’ she admitted as she sat down again at the table.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Isobel miserably. ‘Mathilda, what shall we do for Christmas?’

  Hearing the desperation behind the question, Mathilda brought her mind to bear on it. She guessed that it was very important that Isobel should be distracted from whatever was making her so unhappy and given some sort of work or responsibility. She needed, thought Mathilda, to be made use of, to be kept busy. With a tiny inward sigh she prepared to make her own sacrifice.

  ‘If you are going to be free,’ she said, ‘I should like to ask a favour of you. It would be foolish, at my age, to think that I shall live for much longer,’ she held up a thin hand at Isobel’s protest, ‘and I should very much like to see an old friend before I die. Delia is really too elderly to travel to Devon and if you would be prepared to take on the responsibility—and if you think the car can cope—I should very much like to go to Oxford to see her.’

  ‘Really?’ Isobel was staring at her in amazement. ‘You mean you’d leave the cove? Good heavens, Mathilda, I never thought to hear such a thing!’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been known to go visiting occasionally.’ Mathilda watched Isobel thoughtfully, noticing the new interest in her eyes and the colour returning to the pale cheeks. ‘So. Could you manage it, d’you think? It will take some organisation. I’m afraid that my friend is just as hopeless as I am so there will be the travelling to arrange and itineraries and so on. She asks me every year but I have never had the courage to go alone.’

  ‘We’ll go together,’ announced Isobel, ‘that is … will she mind …?’ Her thoughts ranged anxiously over the cost of hotel rooms. ‘It’s just that … ’

  ‘You will be her guest,’ said Mathilda firmly. ‘She has always suggested that I bring a companion. You will incur no costs and seats for the Christmas Eve service at the chapel in St John’s are part of the inducement.’

  ‘It sounds like heaven,’ said Isobel. ‘But aren’t we a bit late? It’s only two weeks to go …’

  ‘Shall we go upstairs and make some telephone calls?’ suggested Mathilda. ‘It’s certainly not too late, but now that we are agreed on it perhaps we should start the ball rolling?’

  Isobel followed Mathilda up the stairs, her heart full of gratitude. It would be such a relief to have something to plan, something to take her mind off her unhappiness and the thought of the empty frightening future. She was suddenly filled with determination that Mathilda should thoroughly enjoy her Christmas and, as she made up the fire in the study whilst Mathilda searched for her address book, she was already considering which route they should take and what presents should be bought. If this friend were anything like Mathilda it might be wise to do a big bake before they set out. She’d need to know all about her before she made any final decisions, of course …

  She piled more logs on to the flames, preparing for a busy evening, her mind turned resolutely away from pictures of Simon and Sally enjoying themselves in the northern hills. Love isn’t lovelier the second time around, she told herself fiercely, though it might be for Sally and Simon …

  ‘I’ve got a strange tone.’ Mathilda’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I must have misdialled. Could you … ?’

  Isobel jumped to her feet and hurried across to the desk. ‘Shall I dial for you?’

  Mathilda passed the receiver over meekly. She could read Delia’s number perfectly clearly but her ploy had proved a useful distraction. She had not cared to see such an expression of despair on Isobel’s face. Mathilda looked about her study sadly. She would hate to leave it but some instinct warned her that the sacrifice was a necessary one—and it would be good to see Nigel’s sister again …

  ‘I’ve got Delia Burrows on the line.’ Isobel’s hand was over the mouthpiece, her eyebrows raised hopefully. ‘Is she … ?’

  Mathilda nodded and took the receiver; the die was cast.

  Seven

  TESSA SPENT CHRISTMAS IN a rather ugly little bungalow on the edge of Dartmoor. Her client, Freddie Spenlow, had been introduced to her through Kate. He, too, liked to spend regular periods with a friend in London and was deeply relieved when Kate assured him that his large Newfoundland, Charlie Custard, would be quite safe with Tessa. Kate had warned Tessa, however, that she might find Freddie’s place rather basic.

  ‘I’ve been over and sorted him out,’ she told Tessa on the telephone a few weeks before she left London for Devon. ‘If you have a problem we’re only fifteen minutes away. Give me a buzz when you’ve settled in.’

  Tessa approached the bungalow with a certain amount of trepidation. She parked the car in the track, noticing that the small garden had a gate leading into an adjoining paddock. At least there should be no problem in exercising this great dog. Kate’s description had prepared her for something between a bear and an elephant and her heart beat a little faster as she rang the doorbell. There was no answering bark but presently the door was opened by a broadly built man in his middle thirties whose smile was so eager and welcoming that Tessa’s nervousness began to fade.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Mr Spenlow? I’m Tessa Rainbird.’

  ‘Hello. Come in. This is wonderful.’ He was attempting to shake hands, lead her in and shut the door all at once and she laughed as they stood together in the narrow hallway. He laughed, too, rumpling his thick brown hair and grimacing at himself. ‘It’s just such a relief,’ he said, taking her coat. ‘I wasn’t planning to go away and then something blew up and poor old Custard … Well, he doesn’t really care for the bright lights and he’s not an easy dog to farm out. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.’

  Tessa followed him into the kitchen. It had nothing of the charm of Kate’s kitchen or the cosiness of the Andersons’, nor did it have the streamlined efficiency she had become used to in the homes of some of her richer clients. It was a simple ordinary room but any detail, for the moment, escaped her. Her whole attention was taken by a huge black dog who was sitting sideways on a shabby old sofa under the window. He leaned heavily against the back of the seat, his back legs stretched forward to their full length, his head resting wearily on a grubby cushion. His eye rolled towards Tessa but he made no move.

  ‘Is that Charlie Custard?’ she asked. She realised that she had lowered her voice, as though she might be in the presence of some great personage. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s exhausted,’ said Freddie, bustling to fill the kettle. ‘Aren’t you, Custard old chap? He’s been to two Christmas parties and he’s absolutely worn out.’

  The dog sighed heavily and shut his eyes. Tessa watched, spellbound.

  ‘Two parties?’ she asked, rather awed by Charlie Custard’s social commitments. ‘Gosh!’

  ‘You know the Lampeters?’ asked Freddie. ‘Well, their Jessie is one of my dogs. Did Kate tell you I bred them? Not any more but there are still a few of mine about. The Barrett-Thompsons? Yes? Know them? Well, Ozzy is Jessie’s litter brother. Custard is their father. We have a get-together every now and again’

  Tessa advanced cautiously upon the sofa. ‘Hello,’ she said, stroking the big black head. ‘Who’s a beautiful boy?’


  Charlie Custard was unmoved by this show of adulation. He sighed again but opened an eye to look at her. Tessa laughed. ‘You’re an old fraud,’ she said. ‘Worn out, indeed. I suspect you’ve been coming the heavy parent with your offspring.’

  Custard’s tail moved languidly once or twice and Freddie chuckled. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Don’t be alarmed at his size. He’s very obedient.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ murmured Tessa, gazing at the dog’s huge bulk and hoping that a clash of wills would not occur.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ declared Freddie confidently. ‘And you don’t need to take him beyond the paddock if you’re not happy about it.’

  It had needed only a day or two with Charlie Custard to give her confidence, however. She was used to the Lampeters’ Jessie—although she saw now that Jessie was quite a small bitch compared with this male of the species—but Custard was a gentleman and, more importantly, a very lazy gentleman. He strolled peaceably at her side and even should a sheep break cover at his very paws or a rabbit hop into his path, he would merely prick up his ears and stare in amazement at such effrontery. In the evening, as she sat before the wood fire in the ugly tiled fireplace in Freddie’s little sitting room, Charlie Custard would come to lean against her legs and the chair would slowly but steadily run backwards under his weight until it came to rest against the wall or some other obstruction.

  She had been deeply touched to find a tiny Christmas tree standing on a table beside the fireplace. It was a small plastic thing, with fairy lights attached to its tinselly branches, and beside it were several gaily wrapped parcels—two for Tessa and two for Custard. The labels bore Freddie’s good wishes and Tessa stared at them, a lump rising in her throat. She had been surprised to find that she was always much in demand over Christmas and the New Year. The elderly went away to visit their families and many couples went skiing. She was relieved not to be spending a quiet Christmas with Cousin Pauline, who spent the festive season watching the James Bond reruns on television and eating chocolates, but it was nevertheless a very lonely time for Tessa.

  However hard she tried she could not help but remember those wonderful holidays with her own parents and her brother and, as she sat alone in some stranger’s house, she would feel all the force of her loneliness. It was while she was fingering the presents beside the little tree and swallowing back her tears that the telephone rang.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked Kate. ‘Custard behaving himself? Good. So what time shall we expect you on Christmas morning?’

  Tessa was quite silent. ‘Christmas morning?’ she asked at last. ‘Of course.’ Kate sounded surprised. ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving David and me in solitary splendour. Guy got himself married last week and he and Gemma are off on honeymoon to some romantic place abroad and Giles is on a photographic job in America and won’t be home till the New Year, so we’re counting on you.’

  ‘Oh, Kate.’ Tessa bit her lip and blinked away her tears. ‘I should love to come. If you’re sure?’

  ‘Don’t be a twit,’ said Kate.

  MATHILDA WAS GLAD TO be back in the cove; glad, too, that she’d made the effort to see Delia. She knew that they would never meet again, in this life, and it had been a comfort to take such a gentle satisfying farewell of Nigel’s sister, who was her oldest friend. After Christmas Isobel had driven them both to visit a mutual friend, now in a nursing home. This was a mistake. The old lady was beyond recognising them or holding any kind of conversation. She sat smiling vacantly, slipping in and out of sleep, waking to make disconnected remarks. Her hair was greyish-white and tufty, like sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire, and there were gravy stains on her cardigan. A television, large as a young film screen, blared in the corner, and relatives and friends sat with desperate smiles attempting to communicate with their unheeding loved ones.

  Mathilda and Delia were silent during the journey home whilst Isobel railed against the system and deplored the loss of the extended family.

  ‘Poor old thing,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s so undignified. What a way to finish, amongst strangers. Hasn’t she any children who could look after her?’

  ‘I’ve always thought that it must be so humiliating to be “looked after” by one’s children,’ mused Delia. ‘One comes full circle. As if one’s life and achievements have gone for nothing. Perhaps it is better to disintegrate in the privacy of a nursing home without inconveniencing one’s family. At least there would be no guilt.’

  ‘Why should there be guilt?’ demanded Isobel, changing gear noisily—the Morris did not take kindly to dramatics—and pulling in outside Delia’s house. ‘The elderly should be treated with love and dignity by their families.’

  ‘Invariably?’ asked Mathilda. ‘As a right? Even if they have been cruel or tyrannical or selfish to their children?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isobel. ‘Well … How d’you mean?’

  ‘I was merely testing your theory.’ Mathilda prepared to alight. ‘If you believe that old age confers such rights automatically then at least your own mother need have no fear for her future.’

  Isobel climbed out thoughtfully, trying to imagine her mother aged and infirm, toothless and incontinent. She saw herself dealing with criticism and chilly silent disapproval, not as she did now with argument and defensive rudeness, but with unstinting; generous, unquestioning love. Mathilda was smiling sweetly at her. Isobel glared back and slammed the car door with more force than was usual—or necessary.

  ‘I am very lucky,’ said Mathilda to Delia as they went up the path together. ‘I have my independence but I also have care and protection. I don’t quite know how I’d manage without Isobel.’

  ‘You are very lucky indeed,’ agreed Delia, fumbling for her key. ‘Long may it last. Just in time for tea, I think. Come along in out of the cold …’

  Isobel locked the car broodingly. Mathilda had taught her that arguing from the particular to the general was fraught with danger; that an argument was worthless if it could not be taken to a logical conclusion. Sometimes Isobel wondered whether, before Mathilda, she’d ever really thought at all. She realised that she found it easier to be with Mathilda than with her own mother; that in some ways she was fonder of her, too. Confused and feeling guilty and rather cross, she followed them into the house.

  IT WAS EARLY SPRING before Tessa went back to Devon. This time it was to look after Romulus and Remus whilst Mrs Carrington went to see her family in the Midlands. She was a kindly gentle woman whose thoughts centred on her daughter and her new grandchild. Whilst she showed Tessa round the cottage and gave her lists and instructions Mrs Carrington talked about her only child with tremendous pride. Tessa listened eagerly and looked at photographs of the young family with genuine interest. Family life never ceased to fascinate her. It was clear that Mrs Carrington was making sacrifices to help them as much as she could and this included the sale of a delightful little bureau.

  ‘The young man is coming to collect it in a day or two,’ she told Tessa. ‘Here is his card and his leaflet. Please let him do what is necessary but please remain with him at all times. You simply can’t tell …’ She looked at Tessa anxiously. ‘Perhaps I should wait until I’m back. It’s just that the money would be so useful and these people take so long …’

  ‘Don’t worry a bit,’ said Tessa reassuringly. ‘Have you telephoned this number? You know, just to check it out?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Carrington nodded. ‘I did it as soon as he’d left. It’s all quite above board. Such a nice girl answered and suggested I visited the office if I felt the least bit anxious. Quite out of the question, since it’s in London but I was reassured by her attitude.’

  ‘That’s OK then. Don’t worry, I shan’t leave him alone with all your lovely things. If there’s any trouble I’ll set the boys on him.’

  Mrs Carrington looked at the two dogs wheezing asthmatically on their beds and laughed. It was a rather sad laugh. ‘They’re getting old, poor darlings,’ she said. ‘And t
hey miss my husband. We all do.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Tessa cast around for a happier topic. ‘I see you’ve been knitting for the baby.’

  The older woman’s face cleared and she picked up the soft mass of apricot-coloured wool from the table. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ she asked. ‘I was so glad that Julie had a little girl. I’m used to girls and you can make them such lovely things. I’m keeping it out so that I can get some done on the train.’

  ‘And if the young man comes to take the desk away shall I telephone you?’ asked Tessa.

  Mrs Carrington’s cheeks flushed and she looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps not …’ She hesitated. ‘Oh dear. It’s just I don’t want Julie knowing … You see, I haven’t told her that I’m not quite so well off as she thinks I am. The thing is that the young man tells me he can squeeze as much as three hundred pounds for the bureau and I don’t want to give him time to change his mind. He says there are one or two around at the moment so I can’t afford to dillydally. But he must leave cash and some sort of documentation. No cheques, mind!’

  She looked very severe and rather anxious all at once and Tessa longed to hug her.

  ‘Not a penny less than three hundred pounds! And a receipt for the bureau,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I shall deal with it.’

  It was not the antiques dealer who arrived on the doorstep the following morning, however. It was Sebastian. He hugged her, dealt graciously with her cries of delight and followed her into the cottage.

  ‘You’re doing very well, I hear,’ he said, pausing to pat Romulus—or Remus—who had waddled over to greet him. ‘Loadsa clients. Loadsa money.’

  Tessa laughed, digging her hands into her jeans pocket lest she should go on hugging and hugging him. ‘Not quite. But it’s building up. Did Rachel tell you I was here?’