by Freya North
‘Oh God, Barbara, isn’t to actually hear, more preferable than merely to recall, to remember?’
Barbara regards him as if he is a fool.
‘Of course it is, damn it.’
Ridiculously early one morning, after mulling over more possible uses for Number Three Penbeagle Street, Chloë sits cross-legged on the bed, swaddled in William’s jumper which she has consistently neglected to return. The postcard reproduction of Mr and Mrs Andrews by Thomas Gainsborough (1727–1788) lies, a little dog-eared, in her lap. Sixty-one years old when he died – what an injustice! She decides swiftly not to let the Andrews know, let alone the artist himself. She comes across Mr Andrews on his customary early morning ‘blow through’.
‘Where’s your wife?’ she asks.
‘Charming!’ he exclaims. ‘Will I not do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Chloë says honestly. ‘I think it’s Women’s Things.’
‘Hmm,’ he contemplates, ‘biological er, disturbances?’
‘No!’ Chloë cries. ‘Well, I suppose it could be – all because of a man I’ve met.’
‘Now that’s not like you, Chloë dear,’ says Mr Andrews, very interested, ‘not like you at all. Sit down on the bench and we’ll have a chin-wag. Rex! Heel! Good dog.’
‘I’ve met a chap.’
‘You’ve met a chap.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his name, girl?’
‘William Coombes.’
‘And has he a respectable trade?’
‘He’s a potter.’
Mr Andrews considers this, and then considers it good.
‘Remember the urns at Ballygorm?’ Chloë continues. ‘They’re his. Not only that – the ceramics I so loved at the South Bank last year too; which I remembered even when I was in Antrim. Isn’t that weird?’
‘Actually,’ Mr Andrews counters, ‘I’d think it rather comforting in some small way myself. This huge world full of people revolving around their own minor worlds and yet you two, it seems, destined to meet.’
‘Yes,’ Chloë agrees, ‘because if it hadn’t been in London, or even in Ireland, it would still have been here.’
‘So why is it my wife whom you seek?’
‘Oh,’ mumbles Chloë, ‘I don’t know. You know? Just a chat, some advice. I think.’
‘Advice, hey?’
‘A cure for a stomach full of butterflies?’ Chloë suggests meekly.
‘Gone off your food?’ Mr Andrews asks, and it sounds like ‘orf’. Chloë nods. ‘Can’t sleep a peep?’ he furthers. She nods vigorously. ‘Mind wanders and dances around in circles?’ Chloë agrees. ‘Not altogether unpleasant a sensation, is it!’ he declares.
‘No,’ Chloë concedes, ‘but strange.’
‘And would you be happier if it were to subside, disappear even?’
‘No,’ declares Chloë, suddenly alarmed, ‘absolutely not.’
‘Well then,’ Mr Andrews declares.
‘But,’ falters Chloë, ‘is it safe?’
‘It’s safe,’ he winks, ‘dear, dear girl.’
She feels slightly easier, though she’s not sure why, and thanks Mr Andrews accordingly. She takes off William’s jumper, folds it and places it on the chest of drawers. She would, of course, be forgetting it accidentally on purpose when she next saw him.
Mr Andrews woke his wife rudely.
‘Mr A!’ she declared. ‘Gracious me! Put that thing away. And put me down at once.’
‘Cadwallader,’ he declared, wrestling with his garters, ‘is in love.’
The last Tuesday in November was when, finally, William, watching Chloë climb and wriggle her way through the ancient holed stone of Men-an-Tol, realized he was running up the one-way street of being in love with her. He did not tell her so just then, as the emotion itself was too raw and unexplored; the notion simultaneously baffling and intoxicating, uninvited and yet not unwelcome.
Chloë had, in fact, found herself in much the same place the day before. Two pages from the end of Rebecca, she suddenly stopped reading. Reaching for the closest thing to hand that would serve as a bookmark, she slipped a National Gallery postcard of a Gainsborough double portrait between the pages and put the book down. She walked over to the window, juddered the sash up and thrust her face full on against the spiky chill of November.
‘Heavens,’ she said, smiling and frowning, ‘I wonder if I’m falling in, you know, love?’
She knew her feelings to be as strong as the wind and as fresh as the air, and if that was how being in love felt, then it was a condition to be welcomed.
FORTY-SIX
Chloë could not sleep. She rose soundlessly at two in the morning, dressed without a fuss and stepped out into the cold. The familiar cycle route soon warmed her and the sound of the sea made her feel safe.
Number Three Penbeagle Street was no more gloomy at night than it was during the day, the other buildings, however, now seemed lonely and forsaken without their daytime activity. The key turned easily as she knew it would and Chloë pushed her bicycle through first and followed it, closing the door behind her with an unobtrusive click. The lamp on her bicycle spun a soft light on the interior but cast no shadows for there was nothing in the room to produce them. Just the walls. The windows. The two doors. The original coving. The fine skirting. And the unused polystyrene cup it had seemed rash to throw away.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, I am here.’
‘Is it you?’
‘Yes, it is me.’
‘Jocelyn?’
‘Sweet Chloë.’
Chloë did not need to see her to know she was there. She felt her; a warmth enveloping, comfort seeping. Jocelyn was very near. As close as ever she had been. Mitsuko. For a while, Chloë stood very still and said nothing. She feared the lump in her throat might make her voice falter; break, even. And that would upset Jocelyn who had decreed no tears. Now that she was here at last, finally with her once again, Chloë could not spoil her visit. So she just stood, resting her back lightly against the wall, the backs of her knees nudging the back wheel of her bicycle, one hand on a warmed tyre, the other in her pocket. She gazed over to the arch window and caught a glint of ruby, a glance of emerald picked out from the fanlight by her cycle lamp. Beyond, the neglected garden emerged as two sombre humps, like an old hippo, patient and camouflaged in a drying water-hole. She closed her eyes and prophesied a flourish of small flowers instead, whites and mauves and perhaps forget-me-not blue. No pink, that was for sure. She envisaged variegated ivy, perhaps Virginia creeper clambering up the wall, and she went over to the window and peered through. She saw clematis stampeding. A small table or two. Perhaps the sound of a trickle of water. Endless. So possible. How exciting.
‘Isn’t it!’ Jocelyn declared. ‘I knew you’d find it so!’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Chloë gratefully, turning back into the room and leaning against the window-sill. ‘The key unlocks more than Number Three Penbeagle Street, doesn’t it?’ she mused.
‘Flinging open the doorway to the rest of your life, my duck!’ declared Jocelyn.
‘A great, big open space,’ exclaimed Chloë. ‘A little frightening,’ she added quietly.
‘Challenging!’ corrected Jocelyn kindly. ‘Do you think I’d send you anywhere where you would not be safe?’
‘No, Jo,’ said Chloë, ‘you never would.’
They shared an audible smile and sighed each other’s name.
‘Cornwall,’ started Chloë cautiously.
‘Cornwall!’ agreed Jocelyn.
‘Why no introduction? Like you gave for the other places? Jocelyn?’
‘Because, my dear, it needs no explanation. I did not need to expound its beauty for I knew you could find it by yourself. I know you very well. I knew it would suit you. I believed it might provide the solace for you which Scotland gave to me. After all, is it not here that you found me?’
‘Heavens, yes it is,’ marvelled Chloë.
‘And so,�
� said Jocelyn, ‘it is here that I can now leave you, for you can let me go.’
‘I can’t!’
‘You can, darling.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘But I’d like you to.’
Chloë bit back tears.
‘I need you to,’ said Jocelyn.
‘And I – Need – You,’ whispered Chloë.
‘I think you’ll find you just think you do, my darling.’
Chloë considered this. ‘I want to keep needing you.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I suppose it makes me feel safe.’
‘Safety,’ said Jocelyn, ‘is ultimately of one’s own making. And I rather think you now have an inkling of that fact.’
‘I do?’ said Chloë somewhat incredulously. ‘I suppose I do,’ she said forlornly.
‘Built up and developed over your year away?’
‘Your year away!’ countered Chloë.
‘No,’ said Jocelyn firmly, ‘your own.’
‘Yes,’ said Chloë quietly after a moment’s reflection, ‘mine.’
‘Doesn’t it feel good to say so?’
‘Not sure,’ Chloë wavered, ‘it feels strange, new.’
‘I think,’ Jocelyn declared, ‘that you’ll develop a taste for it.’
‘Do you?’ whispered her god-daughter, who held implicit trust in Jocelyn and believed everything she said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Chloë’s godmother, ‘I do.’
Chloë said ‘Heavens’ to herself and then sighed contentedly out loud.
‘Do you think you might be happy here, Chloë? In Cornwall? Because you could always sell Number Three if you like; take the proceeds to wherever you decide to settle.’
‘No!’ Chloë exclaimed, surprised at the brevity of her reaction. ‘It’s mine! And yes,’ she said, chewing the notion and finding it appetizing, ‘I think I could be happy here. Funnily enough.’
‘Blissfully happy?’ goaded Jocelyn gently. Chloë turned and faced the garden again. ‘Why don’t you answer?’ asked Jocelyn, ‘Chlo?’
‘Possibly,’ was all she muttered after a while.
‘Now girl!’ laughed Jocelyn, who could always tell when Chloë was blushing, even if her back was towards her, even over the telephone, even between the lines of a letter. ‘What have I told you about ambiguity? Is it not an affectation that is neither witty nor necessary?’
‘I don’t mean to be ambiguous,’ hurried Chloë, missing the warmth in Jocelyn’s voice. ‘I was just wondering.’
“Bout what?’
‘About the acceptable speed for love to appear and root itself.’
‘’Bout time!’
‘But is it?’ whispered Chloë, incredulous, as if, without Jocelyn’s go-ahead, the whole concept could so easily have remained untenable, implausible. ‘Really?’
‘Isn’t it!’ Jocelyn declared. ‘Oh Chloë! If you detect even an inkling of happiness, a tiny glimpse of love, a mere hint of contentment, for heaven’s sake grab it and don’t let go. Don’t, ever, think twice.’
Her words hung in the velvet brown of the room and when she spoke again, her voice was low and shot through with wisdom, with experience, tinged with sadness: ‘Don’t lose it, my duck. It comes but once. Do not question it. Do not forsake it. It cannot be retrieved.’
Chloë cycled back; slow, sad but somehow exhilarated too. Jocelyn’s voice filled her head and images of William solicited her mind’s eye. The knowledge of both was immensely soothing. Later, as she pushed her face into the pillow to stifle her sobbing, she laughed as she cried.
Oh Jocelyn Jo, don’t go.
Oh William!
Stay!
FORTY-SEVEN
And so to the kiss that seals their fate and our story.
William’s intention was that Chloë should see Carn Galver. He offered the Good Life his voluntary services as a washer-upper if only they would excuse Chloë her shift.
‘Fine by me,’ said Jane, eyeing November’s dwindling clients dawdling over herbal tea refills. The proprietor released Chloë but demanded that William honour his debt the next Saturday night. Chloë whispered to Jane that she would gladly do her shift on that night.
It was a piercingly clear day and William knew that a walk to the summit of Carn Galver would afford them priceless views over both coasts and justify a hearty tea too. They did not make it. In fact, they would not make it to the top until late January, though they went there often. The pull of the ancient landscape was too strong in other directions, and it seemed to lure them invariably to places not on their itinerary. But always for a reason: a particularly beautiful sky, a peregrine falcon just yards away, sunlight turning the standing stones to gold. They were quite happy for chance to lead the way and were rewarded with the secrets and gifts such detours provided.
When William told Chloë that a journey through the pierced stone of Men-an-Tol would bring her luck and health, she bundled her jacket into his arms and wished her way through the rock. As he helped her through, a shot of sunlight, pink and warm, alighted on her face and kissed it before William could. It spun the stone soft, it pulled flame from her hair, it sank deep into her eyes and turned her skin truly into porcelain. She could have been the mermaid of Zennor and, just at that moment, William thought she very probably was.
As she came through the stone, the sunlight clung to her and caught on something shiny, shooting liquid silver into William’s eyes. Her brooch. Familiar. Why not! But he didn’t have time to think on it now. Chloë pressed her back against the stone and closed her eyes so that the sun could embrace her face fully. It defied the pervasive scent of winter and brought with it the reminder of summer, the promise of spring. She could feel just a whisper of breeze breathe over her cheek, lifting a lock of hair and gently laying it down again. She felt beautiful.
Do I look beautiful too? Does he find me so?
She opened her right eye and saw William.
He does. And he is lovely himself.
He came close to her, his gaze swallowing her whole.
He is now going to kiss me.
Cautiously, William stretched out his hand until his fingertips rested lightly on her shoulder. He came a step nearer and moved his hand to course the curve between collar-bone and breast. Closer still; with his forefinger, he traced the lines of her brooch. Lightly, quickly and deftly. He stepped towards Chloë once more, until his feet stood either side of hers. His heart seemed to be pounding in his throat but he had forgotten how to swallow. Then he let his hand drop further until it quite covered her left breast and he left it there for a tender, delicious moment. Chloë’s soul surged and she could discern her heartbeat deep between her legs. William could feel it too, but under his hand, through her clothes, beneath her breast.
The instant he eased his hand, he saw her eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. They told him: please, leave your hand, touch me still, touch me there!
I want to.
I want you to.
He knew then that she wanted to be touched as much as he wanted to touch her. Her lips were parted, his eyes were glassy and burning.
Kiss me, William.
I am going to kiss you, Chloë.
Now.
Right now.
The gesture was as spontaneous as it was long awaited; a moment’s desire that was momentous, an instinct that was far-reaching.
William’s face nears Chloë’s, the sun is blocked yet her beauty is not compromised. Eyes are open; they press their lips against each other and the relief that courses through William mixes with the delight that fills Chloë. They are saturated with emotion and share it at once. Soft lips lightly against each other, the sensation of another’s breath on the skin, eyes so close that focus goes, cold noses touching. Instinctively, the kiss changes from one of tenderness to one of passion and, opening their mouths, they gorge themselves on each other’s taste.
Chloë knots her fingers around the belt loops of William’s jeans and guides him c
lose against her. She feels abandoned and comfortable. Oh, how he fits! William places one hand on her neck, the other is enmeshed in her hair and holds her as close to him as he can. His erection presses against the seam of his trousers, and against Chloë’s stomach; the sensation is fantastic for them both. Their tastes are distinctive and they find each other delicious. They hear sounds, involuntary expressions of warmth and desire. They are hungry and they have never been so full. The rock supports them and the sun allows them to kiss on, despite the diminishing afternoon. Deserted November affords them the privacy; the spirituality of the place, the prayer. One kiss against an ancient rock will give shape to their foreseeable futures. They knew it to be so before it happened. And after, they are content that it should be.
FORTY-EIGHT
William blamed Barbara. And then he blamed Mac. If Barbara had only shown her customary distaste and accompanying aggression, he could have denounced Chloë as just-another-woman. And if Mac had not propounded the theory of blissful happiness, William could have remained blissfully unaware of its existence and all the panoply that went with it. And though he blamed them both and cursed them liberally, he did so with an easy smile and a glint to his eye.
It was all their fault, bless them.
Their fault entirely and oh! was he grateful.
Only, he couldn’t work under such pressure, with such a distraction, and it wasn’t long before this nagged him.
‘You can’t work? Dear boy, that’s not like you,’ exclaimed a startled Mac on seeing William at his doorstep three days in a row; offering, predictably, a bag of Good Life goodies.
‘I know,’ William growled, flouncing down in a chair and holding his head in his hands.
‘How’s that Chloë girl?’ Mac asked with a carefully contrived edge of innocence, not telling William that she’d visited him the day before. William’s face shone and his eyes danced. Much in the same way as Chloë’s had, Mac observed.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Lovely girl.’