It was several weeks since poor little Mary Martyn had been laid to rest and Sarah Jane, never comfortable in her native county, was anxious to be gone.
She’d been slow at first to appreciate the delights of life in Brighton, but now she had settled down. There was a lot to be seen: the lanes with their delightful little shops, the extensive promenade with its wonderful view of the ocean, the pier, the grand hotels on the front where it was possible to have coffee, or even to take a drink in the lounge bar with some decorum, no one asking too many questions. Occasionally she was discreetly approached by a gentleman who would offer to buy her a drink, and that way she had cultivated one or two interesting new acquaintances. Nothing improper had occurred – well, anyway, not yet. They were gentlemen, usually retired after a lifetime in the colonies or in the army, with too much time on their hands, who were not after sex but companionship.
Like her, they were very lonely.
Sarah Jane realised that her life had taken a wrong turning when she had fallen for the youthful charms of Solomon Palmer. It had not been love but infatuation, and it had soon passed. They had very little in common, and as drink became more important than physical passion to her, the fact that he was away so often quite suited her. It gave her a life of her own to do with as she pleased: to wander along the Lanes, drink in the hotel bars or, occasionally, take day trips to London.
Sarah Jane had not wanted to go to the funeral – she hardly knew Mary Sprogett after all – but Solomon had dragged her along only, it seemed, so that she could be lectured to by Bart about the desirability of moving.
She turned away from the window and poked around in the wardrobe. She eventually found a green bottle and, unscrewing the cap, poured a little of the contents, neat, down her throat. They called it Dutch courage, to give one the strength to face the evening. And it worked. As soon as the liquid reached her guts she felt better, more in control, less afraid. Tonight she would tell them that she was not going to move. And that would be that.
Before returning the bottle to its hiding place she had another sip of gin, larger than the first. Then she went and brushed her teeth and rinsed out her mouth before changing her dress and preparing herself for the discomforts the evening was sure to bring.
Solomon watched the butler as he poured more wine into Sarah Jane’s glass. He tried to catch his eye to stop him giving her any more, but without success. He thought the butler knew what he was doing and, rather maliciously, enjoyed it, maybe in the hope that his employer’s sister would make a fool of herself.
Solomon was quite sure that Sarah Jane had been drinking before he got home. She had that kind of reckless gleam in her eyes that he recognised from past experience. She had a couple of cocktails before dinner and grew more and more animated as the evening progressed casting Deborah, who appeared moody and withdrawn, into the shade.
Bart didn’t seem to realise that his sister had an alcohol problem and Solomon didn’t care to enlighten him. He knew that, despite their past differences, Bart was fond of Sarah Jane and indulgent towards, her. He also might just conceivably lay the blame at Solomon’s door and thus jeopardise their relationship.
“We saw a house today,” Bart announced as they were in the middle of the main course, “that we thought might suit you and Solomon, Sarah Jane.”
“Oh?” Sarah Jane sounded disinterested.
“It is not too far from Wenham, is a good size, and Solomon thought it would do quite well. You might like to see it tomorrow.” Bart looked across at his sister, whose expression remained impassive. She continued to eat without raising her head.
“Would you like to see it Sarah Jane?” Bart asked a little impatiently.
“Not particularly.” She finally raised her head, putting her glass to her lips, eyes slightly glazed.
“Really, Sarah Jane,” Bart’s air of impatience grew, “you can’t go on living in one part of the country while your husband works in another.”
“I don’t see why not. I like Brighton. I like the air. And the sea.”
“How about Bournemouth?” Deborah suggested, suddenly reviving. She had not welcomed the idea of her lover bringing his wife to stay in the same house as herself and she couldn’t wait to see them both go. “Bournemouth is only an hour away. Weymouth is nice too.”
“You’ll have to be settled by winter, my dear,” Bart said encouragingly. “You don’t want Solomon traipsing across country in the snow.”
“I’ll see.” Sarah Jane took hold of her glass and drained the contents. Surreptitiously the butler sidled up to refill it once again.
“I think Mrs Palmer has had sufficient,” Solomon said. “Haven’t you dear?” He smiled at her sweetly.
“No dear,” she said, smiling just as sweetly back, and looked up at the butler encouraging him to pour.
Bart seemed bemused by the exchange and frowned at Solomon.
“It’s a terrible thing to be left with a little baby.” Sarah Jane waved her glass in the air. “I keep on thinking of poor Alexander and wondering how he’ll cope.”
“Cope!” Bart snorted. “He’ll cope very well. He is not only wealthy enough to employ all the help he needs, but he is now reconciled with his family and staying, I hear, with Lally.”
“She immediately made an appointment with her hairdresser to get her hair restored to its normal colour,” Deborah said maliciously.
“Really, dear, you mustn’t gossip.” Bart’s tone was gently reproving.
“I am not a gossip,” Deborah replied defensively. “I admire Lally. I’m happy for her. They say that without Alexander she would have died.”
“I also heard that in a very short time she has been transformed. Alexander is back living with her and the baby. It’s a happy ending to a sad story. I, too, am pleased. But I still think he has a lot on his plate.” Sarah Jane beamed round at the table. She felt quite light-hearted, fully in control of herself and the situation.
Perhaps Bournemouth, after all, was not such a bad suggestion if it would keep everyone quiet. After all it had the same kind of amenities as Brighton – the sea, a pier, grand hotels – and there were sure to be a number of retired elderly gentlemen with enough leisure and money to keep her supplied with drinks at the hotel bars. Solomon would still be away all day and she could pass her time as she wished.
Bart cleared his throat. “Talking of babies.” He glanced sideways at his wife. “Deborah informs me we are expecting again. A little brother or sister for Helen.”
“But that’s wonderful news,” Sarah Jane gushed, raising her glass a little unsteadily towards her hostess. “When is the joyful event?”
“Sometime in the spring,” Deborah murmured. “The doctor is not quite sure.”
“A spring baby. Lovely. Isn’t that lovely Solomon?”
But Solomon was looking at his plate, his face grim and unsmiling.
“I think congratulations are in order,” Sarah Jane swung her glass high again. “Solomon, drink to the health of Bart and Deborah. You’re going to be an uncle once more and I expect you’re very, very happy about it.”
After dinner they moved into the drawing room where Bart usually put on the gramophone. He was in an expansive mood, possibly because of the baby, and lit a large cigar before going through the records by the side of the machine inspecting the labels, tapping his feet in time to the tune he was humming under his breath.
“How about ‘No, No, Nanette’?” he asked, looking round.
“One of my favourites.” Sarah Jane sashayed up to the drinks table, but Solomon got there before her and placed a hand on her wrist.
“No,” he whispered. “I forbid it.”
“You forbid it,” she mimicked and, firmly taking hold of the decanter, poured herself a sizeable measure of brandy. She then went across to Bart and began to wriggle her hips in time to the music, whereupon Bart turned, caught her and, taking her by the hand, began leading her swiftly round the room. In one hand he held his cigar while Sarah Jane
– with some difficulty and a lot more laughter – managed to cling onto her glass. Obviously in great good humour brother and sister threw back their heads and laughed uproariously. Maybe Bart was a little tipsy too.
“Would you like to go for a stroll in the garden?” Solomon turned to Deborah, who was tapping her foot in time to the music.
She shook her head. “I think I’d like to dance.”
“It’s terribly hot in here.” Solomon ran his finger round the neck of his shirt.
“Oh, all right,” she said, reluctantly getting to her feet. They strolled through the french windows onto the terrace. It was a beautiful evening, the air balmy and pervaded by the heady smell of roses brought to perfection by one of Bart’s gardeners in the beds below them.
“I don’t really feel like walking,” Deborah said slumping in a chair. “I don’t feel terribly well.”
“How long have you known?” Solomon demanded sitting down next to her.
“Known what?”
“You know. I thought you weren’t sleeping with him?” Solomon could hardly contain his anger.
“I had to say that, didn’t I?”
“You’re a bloody liar.”
“And you’re a bloody fool,” she retorted, “if you think I could refuse a man like Bart. Anyway he’s been away such a lot I’m not sure it is his. In fact,” she glanced slyly at her companion, “I’m almost sure it’s not. The doctor did say he thought I was three months’ pregnant and Bart was away during most of May.” She gave a nervous giggle. “I can always tell him the baby was premature.”
“You’ve made a complete cuckold out of me,” Solomon spluttered.
“And Bart. He’s been cuckolded too and, after all, he’s my husband.” Deborah gazed at him coldly. “Come on Solomon. You knew it was a game that we both enjoyed.”
“I love you,” Solomon said thickly.
“No you don’t.” Deborah shook her head vigorously. “It’s lust, not love. But lots of fun.” She reached out and taking his hand, winked at him. “Didn’t we have a lot of fun?”
“I think you’re a perfect little slut,” Solomon hissed, enraged by her attitude. “You’d go to bed with anyone just for a game.”
Beside him Deborah stiffened.
“You’d better be careful what you say, Solomon. Remember you work for Bart. I could make things very difficult for you if I was so minded.”
“And I could make things very difficult for you,” he retorted, “if I told him the truth.”
Deborah gave a hard, brittle, mirthless laugh.
“You wouldn’t dare. He’d kill you.” She leaned towards him, her eyes narrowing. “You be careful, my boy, and mind how you talk to me. If I say anything to damage your reputation, even hint that you behaved improperly, even attempted to flirt with me, say – and he’ll believe me, not you – he’ll get rid of you, and you’d have difficulty in ever finding another job. Bart would make sure of that.”
Deborah rose sharply to her feet and swept back into the drawing room where the dancers, apparently oblivious to their absence, were still bobbing energetically around in time to the catchy little tune.
Those weeks of summer were among the happiest Carson could remember for a long time. Of course the early years of his marriage to Connie had been happy, and there had been plenty of nice summers after the children arrived. But the last few summers he had been alone with the children and, much as he loved having them, as a single man he was often hard put to know what to do with them.
Watching Sally as she played with them on the lawn, peeping round doors as she entertained them inside on rainy days, or carefully guiding them when they went riding, he realised how much he’d missed the company of a woman. How much he needed a woman, and how important Sally was, not only to the children but, increasingly, to his own happiness and welfare.
He soon realised that Sally was attractive and desirable, and that they were perfect companions, sharing the same interests in a way he and Connie had not. Connie preferred the city to the country. Although she was a Wenham girl born and bred, she loved smart, fashionable cities like London, Paris and Venice. She liked the company of clever, cultured people, attending openings, going to the opera and theatre. She was artistic, bookish and read a lot.
It was unfair to say she had been a bad wife and mother because she had not. She was a very good housekeeper, had run a good home and adored the children. Nor was there anything to complain about the more intimate moments they’d shared. No, it had all fallen apart after he brought Nelly to Wenham and, he was sure, but for that that he and Connie would still be together.
However, he felt it had been a true test of the strength of his marriage, and it had failed. One took a solemn vow in the marriage ceremony for better or for worse, and as soon as a real crisis had blown up Connie had refused the challenge and gone off to Venice, probably the place she preferred best anyway.
But now, to his great good fortune, in her place had stepped, almost effortlessly, Sally Yetman, a woman who liked country pursuits. She was a cheerful, outgoing, relaxed sort of person. As the days of summer slid pleasantly and effortlessly by, they went on various outings to the coast, to Weymouth or Studland or Bournemouth, where Sally took them all to her home, or to the New Forest where the wild ponies roamed. Carson came to realise that he was coming to rely on her more and more.
Also that he was once again falling in love.
The days of the holidays came to an end. All too soon it was time to think of taking the children back to Venice.
“Next week,” Carson said as, the children safely in bed, they sat on the terrace after dinner drinking coffee, “we shall be on our way.” He looked across at her and saw that she had her head back, eyes closed.
“Tired?” he asked.
“I’m absolutely exhausted.” Sally opened her eyes “But it’s been a lovely summer. I’ve enjoyed every minute.”
“I can’t tell you how I’ve appreciated having you here. I don’t suppose ...” Carson hesitated “... well, I don’t suppose you’d like to come with us to Venice? I mean it would be wonderful to have your help on the journey, but I thought that as a reward for all you’ve done I could give you a little holiday afterwards, you know, saunter through Italy at our leisure. Or France and Switzerland if you prefer. How does it appeal?” Feeling nervous and fearing a rebuff, he looked at her anxiously.
“Do you know,” Sally opened her eyes and gazed at him, “I can’t think of a more perfect idea.”
***
The two women embraced each other, though they had never met.
“It’s very nice to meet you at last.” Connie stood back and looked at Sally. “You know I’m your aunt.”
“I know,” Sally smiled. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
As the children gazed at them, wonderingly, Connie explained. “Sally’s grandfather was my father. I was born when he was quite an old man.”
“How did you never meet if you were Sally’s aunt?” Netta wanted to know.
“Well, we lived a long way away. I’m older than Sally and the families didn’t have much to do with one another.”
“Sally’s been of the most enormous help,” Carson said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”
“An excellent choice.” Connie smiled again. “I can see how happy the children look.” She turned and put her arm out as a gesture of welcome to Paolo as he walked into the room.
“Darling, this is Sally Yetman. Her grandfather, John Yetman, was my father. Isn’t it a coincidence? We’ve never met before. Sally, my husband Paolo.”
“How do you do?” Sally said.
After greeting Sally, Paolo turned politely to Carson and they shook hands.
“We do hope you’ll stay for lunch this time, Sir Carson.”
“Oh yes, you must stay for lunch,” Netta insisted. “We wish you’d stay for ever.”
“That would be lovely, but alas it’s not possible.” Sally laughed. But lunch would be lovel
y, wouldn’t it Carson?”
Carson pleased she had taken the initiative smiled his agreement. To her surprise Sally felt amazingly relaxed and at ease with Carson’s ex-wife. Well, after all, she was one of the family.
“Well,” Carson said as, after a good luncheon and copious farewells, they walked away. “That went off awfully well.”
“Were you nervous?”
“A bit.” He smiled at her.
“I can’t imagine you nervous. You didn’t show it. I did think Connie was very nice by the way.”
“She is.”
“So is her husband.” Sally paused. “I mean, I do hope you don’t mind my saying it?”
“Of course I don’t mind. They are both perfectly charming people. And we can have a very civilised relationship, as much for the sake of the children as anything else.”
“I shall miss the children very, very much.”
“I miss them too,” Carson paused, “but now that I’ve got you, well, it helps.”
He looked at her but she avoided his eyes and he wished, not for the first time, that she’d give him just a little encouragement.
Despite the lack of intimacy, Sally was the perfect companion for the tour of Italy, going down one side and up the other as far as Como, where they were to meet up with Alexander. She was indefatigable, good humoured, eager to learn yet no ignoramus when it came to works of art or ancient monuments. She had, after all, travelled a great deal and this was by no means her first visit to the Continent.
But whenever Carson put his hand over hers at table, or took her arm in the street, there was no response. She seemed to be holding back as if she was afraid to give herself. If he lingered outside her bedroom door as they said good-night there would be a swift peck on the cheek rather than a kiss, and the door would be politely but firmly closed behind her.
He wondered if he did not press his suit hard enough or if it was simply that he did not attract her, preferred him to be what she had been to the children: a friend?
Carson had always been a very physical man, celibacy was hard for him, particularly in the presence of a woman he felt so attracted to. It was rather humiliating to be, in a sense, rebuffed. Without more encouragement, Carson, was nervous of declaring himself for fear of further humiliation.
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 15