Seven Days in Summer

by Marcia Willett

  ‘But anyway,’ he went on, not wanting to walk into the minefield of this argument, ‘the twins will be going to primary school next term, won’t they, and that will surely make a difference?’

  ‘Well, it will help, but the problem is that so much of the real work at The Place is in the evenings and at weekends, so it won’t answer all of the problems. And that’s the stuff I like best, of course. The events that we put on. Actually, I’m wondering if we should move on; do something different. We’ve had a blast, nearly ten years, and it might be the best thing for Matt and me to consider a new project.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She grinned at him. ‘I’d love to have a go at glamping.’

  He laughed. ‘Glamorous camping?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘Find a really good site to live and work on, nice little local school for the twins, and I could sail and surf. I love working in the tourist industry, and these long hours are getting too much for both of us. Matt’s feeling the strain.’

  Andy drives on, thinking again of the twins, remembering how they watched him eagerly, waiting for him to give them their present, and suddenly he’s transported back in time to Trescairn: he and Liv and baby Charlie waiting for Daddy to come home from weeks away at sea. One particular homecoming floods into his memory, probably dating back to when he and Liv were the twins’ age and Charlie was just beginning to walk. They made a big banner with the words ‘WELCOME HOME DADDY’ painted on it, to be strung across the front door on the great day, and they assembled all their latest paintings to show him. Meanwhile they were rehearsing Charlie for his great entrance. The moment Daddy opened the front door Charlie was to be released from the kitchen to stagger unsteadily into his father’s arms. It took many rehearsals, Mum taking Dad’s part at the front door, before Charlie fully grasped what was expected of him, but at last he connected the start of his marathon across the hall with the opening of the front door and he staggered forward, his eyes wide with amazement at his own cleverness, and waiting for the applause from the anxious twins in the kitchen. On the great day it all went like clockwork. Andy can still remember his father picking Charlie up and swinging him round, kissing Mum and hugging them, and all the while he and Liv were keeping a wary eye on the scuffed leather grip that always went off to sea with Daddy.

  ‘Now then,’ he would say at last, ‘I wonder where I put those presents,’ and he would crouch down, unzipping the grip, pushing some clothes to one side, whilst Andy and Liv watched just as eagerly as Freddie and Flora watched him yesterday.

  ‘Now this one’s for Mummy,’ he said on that occasion, hefting a big square box. ‘Give that to her, Liv. Be careful. It’s heavy. And this one’s for Charlie, and here are yours …’ And the twins settled down at last to rip away the wrapping paper.

  Quite suddenly, having passed through Bolventor, Andy glances in the mirror, signals right and turns off on to the lane that winds across the moor to St Breward. Driving slowly, other memories crowd into his mind and he is filled with the sense of homecoming: coming home from visits upcountry, from school, from London. The car bumps gently over the cattle grid, heading down to the narrow Delford Bridge – ‘Delfy Bridge’ – which spans the De Lank River. How familiar it all is to him; how dear. The stone walls, tall bracken in the hedges, a blaze of flowering gorse; from Treswallock Down he can see the distant dazzle of the sea and the old stone and slate house that was once a row of tinners’ cottages: Trescairn. He turns up the drive, parks outside the house and climbs out. He hasn’t brought his key and, anyway, he doesn’t want to go inside. Instead, he passes around the end of the house and through the little gate that leads directly on to the moor. He climbs amongst the scattered granite rocks, pausing to glance back at the tidal sweep of moorland that washes against grey granite peaks and laps at green-black stands of fir. To the south are the moonscape pyramids of St Austell’s clay works and, just visible amongst the tree tops to the west, he can see the tower of St Breward’s church. Beyond again, a sinuous curve of silver water snakes its way out to the distant sea.

  All his childhood is here: his and Liv’s, and Charlie and Zack’s. Snowy winters, hot summers, cold wet springtimes: the village school and camping in the garden. Suddenly he remembers the long-ago endless hot summer of the camper van; the summer that Mum’s friend Tiggy came to stay. Tiggy had no family of her own but she had a little dog called the Turk, a small statue called the little Merlin, and the camper van. And she was expecting a baby.

  Andy smiles to himself, remembering. How he and Liv loved that camper van, the excursions and the adventures. It was the best toy ever. They never tired of swishing the orange curtains to and fro, pretending to sleep in the bunks and helping to make toast on the small cooker. It was a mobile playroom, a little house on wheels, and each sunny morning they begged to be taken out in it. It was a magical summer. But Tiggy died when the baby was born and Mum and Dad adopted him and called him Zack.

  Another memory. They are driving home from a party. Zack is four. Charlie is six. He and Liv are eight. In the back of the car he and Charlie are arguing, Liv is sitting beside Mum in the front.

  ‘The beastly Cat was there,’ Liv is saying to Mum. ‘They’ve moved back to Cornwall.’

  ‘Mummy,’ says Zack, standing up and clutching the back of her seat, trying to make himself heard above the boys’ squabbling. ‘There was a girl there called Catriona. She says I’m adopted. She says you aren’t my mother. She says my mother is dead.’

  Even now Andy can remember the horror in Zack’s voice, the fear in his small face, and how Liv twisted round in the front seat, her own face shocked. He and Charlie stopped squabbling and, in the terrible silence that followed, Andy could see that Zack could tell by Liv’s expression that it was true and that he was filled with terror.

  Andy sits down and wraps his arms around his knees as other memories and connections slip into his mind. He remembers the little Merlin. No more than six inches high, smooth, heavy bronze, the delicate detail giving the boy the same intent gaze as a falcon: his tunic swirling, his chin lifted and unafraid. All through that long hot summer they had it in their tent in the garden along with their special toys. He remembers Cat, as a child, snatching it down from the dresser in the kitchen and Tiggy seizing it from her.

  ‘Give me that,’ she cried. ‘Give me that at once.’

  And Cat gave her a bright, malicious look and deliberately dropped it on the slate stones of the kitchen floor.

  Years later Cat phoned him. They met at a party in London and he was attracted to her: she was clever, sexy, amusing. Soon they were an item. Liv was furious when he told her, reminding him of how Cat had behaved in the past when they were children, about her telling Zack, but he was under her spell.

  ‘Have you seen the newspapers this morning?’ Cat asked him. ‘It seems there’s an art fraud trial going on in Paris. A medieval bronze sold to an American museum appears to be a fake. It’s called The Child Merlin and it looks just like that little statue you had when you were kids. Where did you get it? Can you remember? It belonged to that woman Tiggy, didn’t it?’

  She wanted him to pursue it, to check it out. Unknown to him she went down to Trescairn, and then to Zack’s cottage in Tavistock, and had a little nose round. He didn’t take it seriously at first and then, when she refused to let it drop – questioning him about Tiggy; who was she? Where had she got the statue? – he lost his cool a bit and asked her if she was actually hoping to discredit his family in some way.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said with acid sweetness. ‘Not discredit it, Andy. Destroy it.’

  Just for a moment she looked really weird, almost crazy. It quite frightened him. After that the relationship foundered and he stopped seeing her, though she made it very difficult. Later, he asked Mum about the Merlin but she simply shrugged it off and said it must have got lost in the move when Dad was posted to Washington, though she was furious about Cat coming down and snooping. Liv simply laughed at him.

&nb
sp; ‘Do you honestly think Tiggy would have let us have it in our tent all that summer if it were a valuable work of art?’ she asked him. ‘Trust Cat to put crazy ideas in your head.’

  It was then she told him the back history about Angela and Dad and how she tried to break his marriage up.

  ‘If Cat wants to carry on the vendetta that’s up to her,’ Liv said, ‘but we don’t have to play.’

  And remembering Cat’s expression when she said, ‘Not discredit it, Andy. Destroy it,’ he was inclined to agree with Liv.

  Suddenly there is a drumming of small, hard hoofs and a group of skewbald ponies appears, skittering amongst the rocks, dashing away in alarm again as they see him. Andy stands up and half runs, half jumps his way down the track back to the car. He takes a last long look around, gets in and drives away, back to the A30.

  As he approaches Bodmin, he glances at his watch. Some instinct tells him to keep going all the way to Truro, to go to see Matt, but it’s already five o’clock and he’s promised to be at Polzeath to help Mick with his party. Andy hesitates, shakes his head – that visit must wait until tomorrow – and turns on to the road towards Polzeath.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MATT AND CATRIONA sit at the corner table in the bar. Five o’clock. It’s a quiet time for The Place, a few customers having an early drink or a late coffee, nothing happening.

  Matt feels the familiar mix of sensations – guilt, anxiety, pleasure – but if he’s honest it’s rather good to sit here, to relax in the company of an attractive, witty woman and have his ego massaged. He’s flattered that she wants to be with him, that she’s turned to him at this difficult time for her, though this doesn’t prevent him from feeling guilty, too, knowing how Liv would see it.

  ‘It’s just so nice to get away for a change of scene,’ she’s saying. ‘The cottage is a bit depressing just at the moment. All the muddle and the mess and the memories. Well.’ She shrugs. ‘You know.’

  She gives him a little glance, compounded of sadness and a show of bravado, as if she knows he will understand and sympathize, and he has to prevent himself from touching her: giving her a little hug or squeezing her hand, which lies on the table beside his own. It slides fractionally closer to his own and he knows, just as he knew at the cottage, that he could have her if he were to make the move; that he could go with her to Rock and that she would give herself to him. This knowledge, the sudden flare of desire, the utter madness of it all, fills him with a mix of exultation and shame.

  As if to distract himself he picks up his glass of ginger beer and takes a little sip.

  ‘It will get better,’ he says inadequately.

  Her smile deepens but almost immediately is gone.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says. ‘I do realize that. It’s just bad luck for you that you’re close enough for me to come and drain down on you.’

  Of course he protests that she isn’t, that she’s being very brave, but he feels uncomfortable. There’s an unreality about it all; that they should be sitting here together on a summer’s evening in this dim half-world of candles and romantic background music – Jamie Cullum singing ‘My One and Only Love’ – and the scent of coffee. She’s already asked him if he could manage one more trip to Rock to load up her car with stuff going to the tip and he promised he will try, but not next Sunday, he told her firmly. Next Sunday he must go to the Beach Hut.

  Catriona nodded at once: of course he should go. They must be missing him, she said. It sounded a lovely place.

  There was a little wistful pause, and he wondered with a kind of panic whether he should invite her to accompany him. The thought of Liv’s face, were he to be mad enough to do so, was enough to restore him to sanity. He smiled at Catriona. Perhaps, he said, during the week he could wangle an afternoon. This suggestion was greeted with such gratitude that it was almost embarrassing and she gave him her mobile number.

  It’s odd that he slightly misses the sharp, astringent side of her character, though he’s rather touched by this more gentle aspect of her nature.

  ‘I ought to be going,’ she’s saying, ‘and you’ll be getting very busy soon.’

  ‘Would you like anything before you go?’ he asks, determined not to invite her to stay, imagining all the complications.

  She begins to shake her head and then seems to change her mind.

  ‘Actually, it sounds a bit feeble but now that it’s cooler I’d love a cup of tea before I set off.’

  ‘Not feeble at all.’ Matt glances round but the bar is deserted and he smiles and gives a little shrug, begins to get up. ‘If you want something doing …’

  ‘Oh, look, don’t bother,’ she says, but he’s already on his feet.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ he assures her. ‘Shan’t be long.’

  Catriona sits back in her chair. It’s quite a relief to drop the grateful act and have a moment’s respite. Now and again some quick retort rises to her lips – like when he said rather fatuously, ‘It will get better’ – and she’s obliged to bite it back quickly. On the other hand she’s slightly wondering if she might be going too far; overdoing the sweetness-and-light thing. Yet she is sure that just at that moment he was weakening, that he was on the brink of surrender to her.

  Sunday at Rock was so good. Having a whole day enabled them to be almost natural together. At lunch she’d made him laugh, probably because they were on neutral territory, and they were able to enjoy themselves. It was clear that Matt was glad to be free from the bistro and his responsibilities for a while and it was quite an effort to stay away on Monday and not look too keen to see him again.

  It was an impulse that brought her to Truro at this time of the day and it paid off. Matt was here, the bistro was quiet and though he looked taken aback to see her he quickly got over it. But what next?

  Next Sunday he will go to see his family. She wonders what he will say to Liv; how he will describe these meetings. Surely he must tell her about them. Matt risks too much not to mention them at all. Catriona wonders if he already has and if so, how he will have explained them.

  She gazes around her and she sees again the little paintings: the street markets, the two little boys. Intrigued, she stands up and examines the signature: Maurice Desmoulins. She frowns; the name has a familiar ring but she can’t quite place it. Some instinct tells her that she is missing something important. Looking closer she sees that in this scene the taller, blond boy distracts the stall-holder whilst the smaller dark boy takes a handful of change from the cash-box. Her tea arrives and she nods to the girl who brings it, takes another glance at the painting and sits down again. Matt comes over, says that something has cropped up, and she smiles, conveying that she understands, and he smiles too, hesitates, and then disappears into the kitchen.

  Catriona pours her tea. It’s a pity she hasn’t asked him for his mobile number outright. Now she’ll have to wait for him to be in touch. Something warns her not to press or push; to let him make the next move.

  Quickly she finishes the tea, picks up her bag and walks out into the early summer evening.

  When Matt comes back into the bar he is relieved to see that Catriona has gone; relieved but a tiny bit disappointed, too. It’s odd, this mix of emotions … unsettling. He can see how easy it would be to go off the rails a bit, to let off steam. With Liv and the children at the Beach Hut, and now he’s moved into the upstairs flat, there’s a sense of being a bachelor again. It’s flattering to be sought out, to have an attractive, clever woman enjoying one’s company and asking for help. To be honest, he wouldn’t mind another trip to Rock with Catriona, to sit in the car laughing and joking, to share another lunch with her. It was good to take some time out and be himself with no strings and no responsibilities. He can see how this kind of relationship could become addictive.

  He collects Catriona’s tea things together and at this moment the door opens and a family sweeps in: two children, a young couple – clearly their parents – and an older man and woman. There is a bustle a
s the younger woman grabs the small boy, who is about to disappear behind the bar, and the older man smiles at Matt.

  ‘Any chance of an early meal?’ he asks. ‘Perhaps some pizza? It’s just a quick pit-stop on our way down to Helston.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Matt. ‘That’s not a problem at all. If you can manage to all get round this table I’ll get some menus.’

  There’s a general movement of chairs, arguments as to who should sit beside whom, a clamour of what the children want to eat and drink. The whole scene reminds Matt forcibly of his own family. This could be him, with Liv and the twins and Julia and Pete, all gathered for a meal together. As he laughs and jokes with the family he is reminded of all he has to lose, all that is special to him, and he suddenly wishes that he could rush away and speak to Liv. He wishes that instead of going to Rock, he’d made a dash to the Beach Hut despite the two-hour drive each way and the heavy weekend traffic.

  Yet even as he goes to find someone to take their order he is aware of the difficulties of explaining to Liv; of the pit he has dug. How hard it will be now to say casually, ‘Oh, by the way, when I said I went to the coast last Sunday I actually went to Rock with Catriona.’

  Matt cannot think of any way in which the subject can be treated without it seeming fraught with danger. He stands for a moment behind the bar, trying to see some way through it, knowing that he has been a fool. Of course, he could tell the truth but what exactly is the truth? That Catriona has flattered and manipulated him into spending the day with her, buying him lunch? And Cat, of all people, whom Liv dislikes and distrusts so much with all that back-history between the two families. Matt groans when he imagines Liv’s reaction. How can he possibly explain it to her? He’ll have to get out of going to the cottage with Catriona again, that’s for sure, and to think of some way of explaining it to Liv when he goes to the Beach Hut on Sunday.