The Summer House

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Can we meet before I go back?’ Nick had asked during his very hurried telephone call the previous evening. ‘Yes, everything’s going to be OK, thank God, but I’d love to see you if you can make it. Dunster? Great. Eleven-ish in the Castle? See you then.’

  Now she watched the entrance to the bar and talked to Rosie, who was drowsy and relaxed, having been pushed up to the Conygar Tower in the brisk cold air and then bumped over the cobbles on a stroll around the town. Imogen smiled at Greyam behind the bar and wondered why her meetings with Nick always gave her a slightly guilty feeling. They’d known each other for nearly all their lives and there was no reason why they shouldn’t have coffee or a drink together – yet there was a little edgy sensation going way back to that mad moment that they’d had ten years ago. For instance, she hadn’t told Jules that she’d be seeing Nick this morning – and she’d been oddly reluctant to explain to Jules exactly what Nick had been up to, merely saying that he’d got behind with his mortgage payments and that Alice was playing up about money. Not that Jules was all that interested; the new job was very demanding and he’d never had a lot of time for Nick.

  Imogen shifted uneasily as three women came into the bar and settled themselves at the table in the corner. She wondered if Venetia ever came into the Castle for coffee with her chums and turned instinctively away from them towards Rosie.

  ‘Hi,’ said Nick from behind her. ‘Hi, Rosie,’ and he held out a little toy, a soft, velvety rabbit.

  Rosie reached eagerly for it, making sounds of delight that made Imogen smile.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she said to her child, ‘isn’t that nice? Say, “Thank you, Nick,” or should we call you “Uncle Nick”?’ she asked, glancing up at him and feeling embarrassed suddenly, now that he was here, trying to emphasize the family note.

  ‘I’m not sure that I’m uncle material,’ he was saying, sitting on the other sofa, which was at right angles, shielding her from the rest of the tables. ‘Am I, Rosie? Do you like him?’ And he set the rabbit dancing, making Rosie chuckle.

  Imogen poured him some coffee. ‘So everything’s OK?’ she asked, keeping her voice low. ‘Gosh, what a relief. Honestly, I’m just so thankful for you. And Milo didn’t do the heavy father act?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘A bit. But he was entitled to, wasn’t he? Actually, he was brilliant.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘He’s saved my life.’

  ‘Dear old Milo. So what will you do now?’

  ‘I’m on my way home. I need to get everything sorted and, anyway, it would have been a bit tricky to stay. You know what it’s like, everyone a bit embarrassed? I’ll come down again soon and try to be a bit more normal.’

  ‘And what did Alice say?’

  Nick drew back a little; his face was unexpectedly suffused with colour and she watched him curiously.

  ‘I haven’t told her yet,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  Once again, Imogen was seized with various sensations: that peculiar mix of triumph and shock; of pleasure at knowing more than Alice did; of being firmly on Nick’s side.

  ‘But why not?’ she asked, pretending indignation on Alice’s behalf. ‘Honestly, Nick, she must be worried sick.’

  He looked uncomfortable, even grumpy. ‘I’m just not looking forward to the conversation. She won’t be pleased like you were. Not for me, anyway. She’ll be thankful that we’re off the hook, that’s all. She won’t give a damn about Dad and I’ll get another earful, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh, Nick.’ She touched his knee lightly, then took her hand away quickly as he reached for it, and picked up the coffee pot. Rosie nodded sleepily, head askew, the rabbit still clutched to her chest. Imogen looked at her, her heart melting with love. Guilt twisted her gut. ‘But you’ll have to tell her, won’t you?’ she said rather briskly to Nick, refilling his cup.

  ‘She’s with her mother for the next two weeks,’ he said, as if that were some kind of answer. ‘Oh, well, yes, of course I shall tell her. But it won’t make much difference. I was wondering, Im, whether to come down again next week for a day or two. I’d planned a few days off, you see, to go down to see the kids but I don’t think this will change anything as far as Alice is concerned and, anyway, I can’t say I’m that keen on facing her parents just at the moment.’

  She didn’t look at him but reached to pull Rosie’s rug more firmly over her legs. ‘I expect Milo would be pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’d hate him to think I only come when I want something. Do you think it would work or is it too close to all this and he’ll just be embarrassed?’

  ‘Of course he won’t be,’ she said firmly. ‘Milo’s not like that. And Lottie certainly isn’t. Bring him a little present and take him out for a pint.’

  He nodded. ‘I’d like to do that. And what about you? Shall I bring you a present and take you out for a pint, too?’

  She laughed, keeping it light. ‘Why not?’

  They smiled at each other, warmed by their mutual affection. Nick was looking at her, as if he was wondering whether to tell her something, a strange excited look. She stared back at him, frowning.

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You know what I was saying about Dad having to sell the Summer House?’ he asked. She nodded, eyes wide. ‘Well, he is going to sell it.’

  ‘Oh, Nick.’ She looked sad. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Listen, though. Dad isn’t sorry, and neither am I. He wants to sell it to you and Jules. At a price you can afford. He wants to, Im.’

  ‘But he can’t do that,’ she gasped. ‘He mustn’t. I mean, he can sell it, obviously – it’s his house – but he must sell it at the proper price. Not to us.’

  ‘But he wants to,’ Nick repeated. ‘He looks upon you and Matt as part of the family, and it’s a way of, well, you know, giving you something, just as if you were his daughter.’

  ‘Even so. He shouldn’t.’ Im was in a state of shock. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you. I just wanted you to know that I’m absolutely delighted, just in case you thought I might feel … well, you know.’

  ‘But your mum will be incandescent. She’ll go nuts. After all, it’s still your inheritance, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s why I want you to know that I’m completely with Dad. I hope you’re a good actress, Im. You’ll have to pretend you don’t know when Dad or Lottie tells you.’

  ‘You’re right. You shouldn’t have said anything.’

  He looked disappointed and she knew that he’d wanted to have this share in Milo’s generosity, to ameliorate his own foolishness by being able to attribute some good to it. As usual she responded to his hurt at once, stretching a hand to him and smiling.

  ‘I shan’t dare to believe it until Milo says something,’ she said. ‘It’s too good to be true. I utterly love the Summer House.’

  ‘I know.’ He was holding her hand tightly, smiling back at her – and then Rosie woke suddenly, scrabbling for her dropped toy; she let out a howl, and the moment passed.

  As she drove out of Dunster through Alcombe, Imogen was filled with misgiving. Even if Milo did intend to offer her and Jules the Summer House she wished that Nick hadn’t told her about it. She knew that she wasn’t a good actress and she wondered how on earth she could pretend amazement at such kindness. She comforted herself by thinking that Milo would quickly repent of his first generous idea and nobody would ever mention it again – and was immediately seized with disappointment lest this might be true.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Nick had warned her as they’d said goodbye in the car park, ‘you don’t know anything. We haven’t met. Sorry, sweetie, but it seemed the best way.’

  They’d hugged and he’d driven away, but she’d felt slightly irritated by the fact that she would have to play-act her way out of it. Now as she drove through Tivington and passed below Selworthy Church, dazzlingly white in the bright sunshine, she came to a decision. She turned right into Allerford and continu
ed along the lane into Bossington until she reached the drive to the High House. Milo’s car was missing but Lottie came out to meet her, bending to smile at Rosie who stared back at her solemnly and then raised the little rabbit as if in greeting.

  At the sight of the rabbit, Imogen’s heart seemed to shift in her breast.

  She thought: Thank God, Rosie can’t talk. But this made her feel even more guilty and she turned quickly to Lottie, chattering about nothing in particular; how they’d been into Dunster and walked up to the Conygar Tower and then had coffee in the Castle, and decided just on the spur of the moment to come in and see how it was all going … Suddenly she fell silent, thinking of all the things she mustn’t say, pretending that she mustn’t even know if Nick was still with them.

  Lottie slipped an arm about her and kissed her.

  ‘Nick’s gone,’ she said, ‘and all is well. Can you stay to lunch? If you get Rosie out I’ll bring the bag with all her things in. I expect you’ve got some milk for her, haven’t you? Milo’s dashed into Porlock but he won’t be long.’

  Imogen unclipped the straps and lifted Rosie out of her seat. She had a feeling that Lottie knew perfectly well that she and Nick had been in touch, she probably even knew that they’d met, and she felt uncomfortable. When they got inside, Lottie fetched the folding playpen that was kept for Rosie’s visits and set it on the floor near the wood-burning stove. Imogen plonked her down in it and Rosie sat on the padded floor, examining the rabbit – which now to Imogen’s guilty eyes looked life-size – and murmuring her own peculiar words to it.

  ‘Bah,’ Rosie muttered. ‘Bah, boh, da.’ She pressed the rabbit to her cheek and then with a swift movement flung it against the netting wall of the playpen. She shifted her weight and half shuffled, half crawled, towards a little rag book that hung from the rail.

  ‘She’s had her milk.’ Im busied herself with the bag full of nappies and juice and toys, hardly able to look Lottie in the face lest she should burst out with the truth. ‘But I’ve got some lunch for her with us, just in case.’

  ‘I expect you’ve heard from Nick,’ Lottie said tranquilly. ‘You’re his rock at times like these, aren’t you? He knows you’re always on his side.’

  Imogen was silent, her hands briefly stilled, replies jumbling together in her brain although she couldn’t find one that was adequate.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lottie was saying, not waiting for any response, ‘Milo has found a way out for him. And it includes selling the Summer House.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Imogen, her head still buried in the bag. ‘Oh, poor Milo.’ She simply couldn’t look at Lottie and she cursed Nick for putting her into this situation. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t.’ Lottie sounded almost amused. ‘He’s been trying to think of a way he could offer the Summer House to you and Jules at a reasonable price that was fair to Nick and wouldn’t send Sara into orbit, and now Nick has provided him with the ideal solution.’

  Imogen raised her head, her cheeks scarlet, and stared at Lottie. The older woman began to laugh.

  ‘Poor Im,’ she said. ‘You were never any good at dissembling, were you? Even as a little girl, with Matt threatening to murder you, you’d blurt everything out. So Nick’s told you all this already, and that’s fine. Perhaps he should have given his father the opportunity to tell you himself but since Milo asked me to tell you, anyway …’

  ‘It was just that Nick wanted me to know how pleased he was.’ Im burst at last into speech. ‘You know. He said that Sara would probably go ballistic but that he was absolutely thrilled. He just wanted me to know and to say goodbye … How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, darling. Your face. You looked so guilty and miserable that I guessed at once. Poor Im. And he swore you to secrecy, of course.’

  ‘Well, he did. He was so embarrassed about what he’d done, you see, and how generous Milo was being, but he thought it ought to come as a surprise to me when Milo told me. Honestly, Lottie, I can’t take it in even now. I can’t believe Milo could be so kind. Why should he be?’

  ‘Because he loves you. You and Matt are very dear to him. Nick’s had lots of help and will inherit all this, and Matt’s financially secure after his terrific success. Milo was looking for a way that he could help you and Jules, that’s all. He knows how much you love the Summer House and that you need somewhere to live. You’ll still have to raise a mortgage, you know. He’s not giving it to you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ cried Imogen. ‘We wouldn’t want him to. It’s just so … amazing. Isn’t it, Rosie?’ She bent down and took Rosie out of the playpen, swinging her up into the air. ‘Gosh, this child smells appalling. I’ll take her up and change her.’ She hesitated, holding Rosie close to her, their faces almost touching. ‘And thanks, Lottie. I might have guessed, mightn’t I, that you’d see straight through me?’

  ‘You’ve always loved Nick,’ she answered simply. ‘He’s very lucky. We all need one person who’s always unconditionally on our side. You’ve always been on Nick’s.’

  Im looked confused, embarrassed, opened her mouth to attempt an explanation, but Rosie began to wriggle and to cry, and Im smiled gratefully at the older woman, picked up the big bag and hurried away up the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  All the way back to the cottage Imogen wondered how she might tell Jules the exciting news.

  ‘Of course, Jules doesn’t really know the Summer House at all,’ she’d said to Lottie. ‘He’s only seen glimpses of it through the trees. Do you think the Moretons would let us have a look around it? After all, if they’re leaving it wouldn’t make much difference to them, would it?’

  At the bottom of the drive where it forked away to the Summer House she’d slowed the car, peering to get a glimpse of the little whitewashed house with its red-tiled roof and pretty veranda. She knew that it had been built at the whim of Milo’s great-great-grandmother, who had wanted a studio where she might go to paint her charming watercolours in peace; the next generation used it as a rather special summer house where the children could picnic and have parties. Just after the war Milo’s father had extended it from the studio-summer house into a delightful cottage for the couple who worked for him. Imogen recalled the accommodation: the two big downstairs rooms, now a sitting room and a kitchen-breakfast room, divided by the hall which opened on to the veranda; and, a much later addition, upstairs two good-sized bedrooms, a smaller room (perfect for Rosie) and a bathroom.

  Joyful with anticipation she drove into Porlock, waved to Richard – the owner of Antlers, the pet shop – and pulled suddenly into the kerb beside him, stopping on the double yellow line.

  ‘We’re getting a puppy,’ she called to him. ‘Picking him up in a couple of weeks’ time. I’ll be in to get some things for him.’ She glanced in her mirror as a car pulled up behind her, unable to pass. ‘Oh dear. Better dash …’

  She drove on again, still fizzing with exhilaration, chatting to Rosie, speeding away up the toll road to the cottage. Ray came out of the booth, recognized the car and waved her on. She smiled at him, almost tempted to stop and tell him the news, but she resisted the temptation, knowing that Jules must be the first to know. She thought about how she might tell him:

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened!’

  ‘I’ve got the most amazing news.’

  ‘Milo wants to sell us the Summer House.’

  She pulled into the drive and glanced at her watch: nearly half past three. Rosie had fallen asleep, and Imogen decided to leave her there sleeping in the patch of sunlight for another ten minutes. She climbed out, clicking the door quietly closed, standing for a moment breathing in the crisp cold air. Today, the coast of Wales, clear and sharply defined, appeared to be only a step away across the narrow shimmering strip of blue water where a tiny motorboat sped northwards like a shining arrow, its creaming bow wave sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine. A solitary seagull tilted and swooped above her.

  Imogen sighed with pleasure. She let
herself into the cottage, wondering what she might cook for supper – there were some lamb cutlets in the fridge – and checked to see that there was a bottle of wine with which to celebrate the good news. She’d wait until Rosie was in bed, she decided – bath-time was always such chaos and she wanted to be able to talk to Jules properly without distraction – and then she’d pour him a drink and just tell him. With luck, it might be one of his late nights when he arrived home just in time to read Rosie a story and kiss her goodnight. That would mean less temptation to blurt it all out the minute he walked in through the door before Rosie was tucked up. She let out a little cry of anticipatory joy just as her mobile beeped: a text.

  She seized the phone, pressed the buttons: it was from Nick.

  ‘Home. R u ok? Has Dad told u yet? x’

  She texted quickly back to him: ‘Lottie told me. Cant wait 2 tell Jules.’ She hesitated, wondering whether to add some message of affection, then added an x and pressed ‘send’.

  Another message arrived almost at once.

  ‘Gt. Stay in touch. Luv u lots x’

  Im stared at the message, shrugged away her unease. After all, Nick always sent affectionate messages; there was no harm in it. It was strange how, just this last day or two, she had become supersensitive about him. She was just being silly. She texted quickly, giving herself no time to brood on it, and sent it: ‘Will txt later. Luv u 2.’

  She glanced at her watch: time to wake Rosie or she wouldn’t sleep this evening. Imogen went out to fetch her. Rosie was heavily asleep and resented being wakened: she grizzled, struggling, reaching for the velvet rabbit and wailing when she couldn’t reach him.

  ‘Stop fussing.’ Imogen hoisted her daughter on to her hip. ‘Here’s the rabbit. Come on. We’re going to have some tea.’

  She picked up the big Cath Kidston holdall from the back seat, locked the car, and carried Rosie into the cottage.