The Summer House

by Marcia Willett

  Since her marriage, and the birth of her baby, she’d longed for Matt to know such riches: the joy of being with someone he could trust, of sharing his life with someone special. She’d said as much to Lottie.

  ‘But does Matt actually want that?’ Lottie had asked her. ‘His idea of fulfilment might not be the same as yours.’

  She’d had to think about that. ‘But even all this wonderful success hasn’t bought him real peace of mind, has it?’ she’d argued. ‘So what does he want?’

  Lottie had shaken her head. ‘You know how complex he is; those nightmares he has. There’s something he’s searching for though I’m not sure what it is. But I have a feeling that we might know soon …’

  And then her gaze had widened, drifted; her eyes focusing on something visible only to her. It was as if she’d entered another dimension, a different world: a familiar habit of hers but one that even after all these years made Imogen feel slightly uneasy.

  ‘What is it?’ she’d asked almost fearfully – but Lottie had smiled reassuringly and refused to answer.

  Now, Imogen left her sleeping daughter and went downstairs. Julian was sprawled comfortably on the sofa and she sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her, resting her cheek against his shoulder. His solidity and warmth reassured her and renewed her natural resilience.

  ‘OK?’ he asked without taking his eyes from the screen.

  ‘Definitely OK,’ she answered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matt slept late the next morning. Lottie made porridge and sat at the table finishing yesterday’s Telegraph crossword but found it difficult to concentrate. Presently she would drive into Porlock to do some shopping; she began to make a list on the block of paper that was kept on the bookcase beside the table for this purpose, along with a small clay pot full of pens and pencils. Imogen had made the pot at school when she was eight. ‘Tea,’ Lottie wrote. ‘Dog food. Chemist.’ Milo came into the room. He raised his eyebrows, gave a little smiling nod, which was the extent of his social capabilities before he’d drunk two cups of coffee, and acknowledged Pud’s greeting by bending to pat him in a rather perfunctory fashion. Pud resumed his position at Lottie’s feet and Milo passed through the arch into the kitchen, pushed the kettle on to the hotplate and glanced back in her direction.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Lottie automatically, but continued with her shopping list: ‘Vegetables. Fairy Liquid. Butcher.’ Milo would want to give her his own instructions regarding the meat.

  He came to peer over her shoulder. ‘Cheese,’ he muttered. She added it to the list.

  ‘Jolly nice supper last night,’ she said.

  Milo raised his chin and pursed his lips, as though acknowledging the compliment, and Lottie began to chuckle.

  ‘Honestly, though,’ she said. ‘Poor Venetia. She was longing to be asked to stay the night. Matt thought it was so unkind of you to send her off all on her own in the dark.’

  Milo had his back to her, making the coffee, but he hunched a shoulder defensively and Lottie laughed aloud. Venetia had enjoyed her evening; she adored Matt and when supper was over she’d hovered reluctantly, clearly hoping for an invitation to stay on.

  ‘Whatever is the time?’ she’d asked, peering at her tiny wristwatch. ‘It’s been such a lovely evening. Goodness, is it that late?’

  ‘Not late at all,’ Milo had answered bracingly, finding her coat and helping her unwilling arms into its sleeves. ‘Home in no time.’

  He’d gone out with her to the car. Matt had watched the little scene, clearly feeling rather sorry for Venetia.

  ‘Will she be all right driving round the lanes?’ he’d asked rather diffidently. ‘She drank quite a bit, didn’t she?’

  ‘Not that much, and we have to be a bit tough,’ she’d defended Milo. ‘Venetia’s here quite a lot since Bunny died.’

  Matt frowned. ‘It’s odd really, given that they’ve been … well, so close.’ She’d noticed with amusement that he’d balked at the word ‘lovers’. ‘After all, Milo’s been so good to all of us. He’s such a pussycat.’ A little pause. ‘Isn’t he?’ he’d added doubtfully.

  ‘Pussycats don’t get to be brigadiers,’ she’d answered lightly.

  Now, Milo put some coffee beside her notepad and sat at the end of the table. There was silence for a while. Milo poured a second cup of coffee.

  ‘The boy’s looking well,’ he observed.

  Lottie, who had reverted to the crossword, laid down her pencil. She’d had the oddest impression that when Matt had come into the house last evening he hadn’t been alone. So strong had the sensation been that she’d looked past him as they’d embraced, peering over his shoulder, so that he’d glanced behind him, saying, ‘What is it?’ and she’d been obliged to cover her confusion by making some foolish observation about Pud running out into the garden. It was almost as if the spirit alter ego that Matt had given his fictional protagonist had become a reality.

  ‘He does look well,’ she answered now. ‘I half expected him to be all gaunt and anxious but he looks great. I’ll ask him if he wants to come into Porlock with me. We could go and see Imogen and Rosie.’

  ‘Bring them back to lunch,’ suggested Milo. ‘Have they found anywhere to live yet?’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘They’d like to be near Simonsbath but even very small cottages are quite expensive within the National Park. Im’s hoping to have a garden because of Rosie, but there’s not much around at the moment. They’d get better value for their money in the towns, of course – Minehead or Barnstaple – but Im keeps hoping for a miracle.’

  ‘I was wondering about the Summer House. I told you the Moretons are going out on Lady Day. Moving back up country to be nearer to their children and grandchildren. ’

  Lottie looked surprised. ‘D’you mean they could rent it for a while? Well, I suppose they could. Im would be thrilled; she’s always adored the Summer House, it’s such a pretty little house, but I think they want to buy.’

  ‘I know they do. But why shouldn’t they buy the Summer House?’

  ‘Are you crazy? Firstly, they couldn’t possibly afford it, and secondly, even if they could, Sara would be furious. She was incandescent when you told her that I was to be allowed to stay on here if you died before I did.’

  ‘That provision still stands. Nick’s fine with it.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled at him. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘I know that you’re not really happy with the plan. That’s why I was thinking about Im and Jules buying the Summer House. If anything happened to me maybe you could move in with them.’

  ‘My dear Milo, it would be hell for all of us. Anyway, I don’t want to live with Im and Jules in the Summer House. And I still think that it would be much too expensive for Im to buy at its proper value, and you can’t simply give it to them. Look, Matt might come in at any moment. Let’s talk about it another time. But you mustn’t do anything foolish. You’ve done enough for us all already. Forget it for the moment and tell me what else should be on this shopping list.’

  Up in his high attic bedroom, Matt kneeled at the low dormer window. Across the vale the slopes of Dunkery Hill were washed with sunshine and patched with wintry colours: red-rust bracken and pale stones; bleached brown grass and the cold white flash of water. Away to the west, low cloud lay along the Severn Sea, dense as a thick grey curtain drawn across the Channel. Sheep, pretty Exmoor Hornies, strayed across the drive and grazed beneath the great beeches. Leafless, as they were now, it was almost impossible for him to identify the beech dragon in the tree nearest to his window. As a small boy he’d first noticed it: the branch extending like a leafy, flexible neck; the head formed by an oblong bunch of leaves, whilst two twigs, set at right angles on the skull, made the ears, and the small gap, through which he could see the darkness of the trunk of the tree, looked just like a round, fierce eye. The jaws snapped and gaped when the wind blew, and one long slender twig, bright with leaves, looked exactly like a tongue of f
ire.

  He’d used the image in his childhood stories and, later, in his book. The beech dragon had become such a familiar friend of his childhood that he’d been unable to make his dragon an enemy of his child hero but instead had made him the boy’s champion, whistled up by the spirit alter ego, whom he’d called ‘David’.

  ‘Why “David”?’ his mother had demanded almost angrily. He’d been surprised by her reaction until he’d reminded himself that his father’s second name had been David and that, anyway, most of her reactions were unreasonable and exaggerated.

  ‘Why not?’ he’d answered calmly. ‘It just came to me that that was his name.’

  She’d shaken her head, her face twitching with that old distressing tic that tore at his heart.

  ‘You said that he was a spirit,’ she’d mumbled. ‘Such a silly name for a spirit.’

  There had been many such conversations, always critical and negative, and he wished that she could have been truly proud of him. His unhappy relationship with her had taught him to be wary of giving away too much of himself to the girls to whom he was attracted; part of him, instinctively expecting the same reactions from them, made him too cautious. He turned away from the window, pulling a jersey over his head, turning his thoughts to the day ahead. Perhaps Imogen was already on her way over. He switched on his mobile to see if there was a message from her.

  There wasn’t, but there was one from Annabel. ‘Sounds gt. Wd luv 2 c xmoor. Cd get down @ wkend.’

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered, and put the phone in his pocket. He went out and down the steep narrow stairs. He loved this old house, parts of which were two hundred years old and which was a veritable warren of small, cosy rooms. He passed through the parlour where the ashes of last night’s fire still glowed in the wood-burner and where another staircase, broader and less steep, climbed and turned out of sight. The breakfast room was empty but he could hear Milo just beyond the archway in the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t believe you for a moment. I think you’ve had your breakfast already and you’re not getting any more. Think I was born yesterday, don’t you?’

  ‘Good morning,’ Matt said.

  There was a brief silence and Milo appeared, Pud at his heels. ‘Sorry, old chap. Wasn’t talking to you.’

  Matt laughed and bent to stroke Pud, gently pulling the long treacle-coloured ears. ‘I realize that. OK if I make myself some coffee?’

  ‘Of course it is. Lottie was wondering if you wanted to go into Porlock with her. She’s got shopping to do and then she might go on to see Imogen. She’s just phoning her.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Matt wondered whether to introduce the subject of Annabel but decided to speak to Lottie first. There was no hurry, he told himself; surely he could enjoy his first day without making any commitment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A few days later Sara phoned just before lunch.

  ‘Hallo, Charlotte. How’s life in La-la Land?’

  Lottie sighed. She knew that Sara needed to see Milo’s gesture in giving her, Lottie, a permanent home as a purely philanthropic and slightly ridiculous act: something to be mocked and made light of, as if both of them were silly children living in a fantasy world. Beneath her disdainful banter, however, was a very real anxiety that Nick might lose out on some material advantage.

  ‘Life is very good, thank you, Sara. How are you?’

  ‘I’ve got some rather bad news. Has Nick been in touch?’

  ‘Not very recently. What is it?’

  ‘It appears that there’s some trouble between him and Alice.’

  Lottie took a sharp breath. ‘Oh, no! I’m so sorry. I had no idea, they seem so …’ She hesitated. She’d been about to say ‘happy together’, which wasn’t exactly right; at least not in the sense that Im and Jules were. Nick and Alice tolerated each other in a good-natured manner. ‘They seem so well suited,’ she finished.

  ‘I thought so too.’ Sara sounded irritated. ‘Of course, Alice isn’t communicating with me and Nick is prevaricating, so I’m not certain what the real truth of it is. I thought I’d better warn you in case either of them gets in touch.’

  ‘Would you like to speak to Milo?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sara. What about the children?’

  ‘What about them? Nick has simply said that Alice has taken them to her parents’ place in Hampshire for the half-term fortnight and that Nick is not invited. He’s coming over for lunch.’

  ‘Well, give him my love. Matt’s here for a few days—’

  ‘Oh?’ Sara’s voice was sharp.

  Lottie resisted the need to explain Matt’s presence, to apologize for it. Even now Sara clung to all the rights of a wife when it came to life at the High House and fiercely protected Nick’s future claims.

  ‘She hasn’t any rights,’ Milo would say crossly when the pressure became overwhelming. ‘I can do what I like with my own property. She must know by now that I shall look after Nick.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie now said calmly to Sara. ‘It’s lovely to see him.’

  ‘And how’s the new book coming along? A bit of a time, isn’t it, since the great success?’

  Lottie bit her lips and swallowed her wrath. ‘These things take time. He’s in very good form and it’s lovely for him to be able to see Im.’

  ‘Have they found anywhere to live yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well, I hope Milo doesn’t get another pathetic urge to use the High House as an orphanage. Once is enough.’

  Lottie switched off the phone. The result of doing something so positive, so rude, still gave her a sense of shock. It was Milo who had advised her to do it having listened to so many phone calls descending into arguments and protests and irritation.

  ‘It’s the only way to deal with Sara,’ he’d said. ‘She’ll always have the last word and leave you feeling thoroughly miserable. Try it!’

  He was right; it worked remarkably well, and Sara never commented on it, but it still left Lottie feeling equivocal.

  Matt came in. He stood for a moment, eyebrows raised, and she smiled ruefully at him.

  ‘Sara,’ she said. ‘Bad news, actually. She says that Nick and Alice are having a few marital problems.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did she say why?’

  ‘No, not really. It was just to warn us in case Nick phoned. Have you seen anything of them lately?’

  ‘Not very lately. They enjoy the occasional literary party, and they just adored the film premiere, of course, and I get invited to dinner now and then. They’re always so busy, both working so hard, and the children have amazing social lives given that they’re barely out of nursery school.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just the pressure of work and it will all blow over. A funny five minutes in a marriage, as Milo’s mother used to say. What have you got there?’

  He was holding a large brown envelope, folded in half, and now he stepped forward and put a photograph on the table between them.

  ‘First of all, I thought you might like to see this one.’ He pushed the photograph towards her and she picked it up. Her own face smiled back at her, Tom beside her, laughing. He had his arm casually about her shoulder and their eyes were screwed up against the sun.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh,’ and then pulled herself together. Matt was watching her, half smiling, as if he understood. But how could he? ‘I remember this,’ she said, making a great effort. ‘We’d made an offer for his book and I’d taken him out to lunch to discuss it. It was so exciting. We were such a tiny publishing house, mostly academic stuff; a few poets. Tom was a very successful journalist and I was so thrilled to meet him and to be publishing Leopoldville. He persuaded me to go back with him to meet Helen. It was just after you’d all come back from Afghanistan in the seventies and she was rather down. Post-natal depression after Imogen’s birth. He hoped that the publication of the book would cheer her up.’

  ‘And did it?’


  Lottie hesitated. ‘Not really. Not in the long term. Though we had a lovely afternoon together. It was Helen that took the photograph.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d like it. Unless you’ve got a copy?’

  ‘No.’ She still held it, studying it. She could recall the heat of the sun on her head, the scent of lilac in the garden – and the light pressure of Tom’s arm across her shoulder. Someone in a nearby house had been playing the piano: Chopin’s sonata in B minor, the phrases drifting from the open window. Always, since that afternoon, it had reminded her of Tom.

  Remembering, Lottie’s heart contracted with pain. ‘I’d like it very much. Thanks, Matt.’

  ‘It was in Mum’s rosewood box. And then there are these.’ He tipped out the contents of the packet and the photographs slid fanwise on to the table. She bent over them. ‘Do you see anything odd?’

  She shuffled through them; hazarded a guess. ‘All of you? None of Im?’

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ He picked one up. ‘It’s more than that, though.’ He frowned. ‘I know it sounds weird but I can’t quite relate to them, if you see what I mean.’

  She picked another one up. ‘How d’you mean?’

  He shook his head as if dismissing some bizarre notion. ‘Well, for instance, I don’t recognize that jersey. How old am I there? Six? Seven? I simply can’t remember having a stripy jersey in those bright colours. And look at the background of this one. Whose car is that?’

  Lottie peered. ‘I don’t know. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s just this sense of disorientation I have when I look at them.’

  ‘Have you shown them to Imogen?’

  ‘No. I don’t like to tell her that there aren’t any of her.’

  ‘But we’ve got albums full of photos of both of you. She knows how odd Helen was at the end. I think you’re being oversensitive.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He shuffled the photographs together and put them away.

  She watched him, once more aware of the strange sensation she’d had when he’d first arrived: of a shadow at his shoulder.