Seven Days in Summer

by Marcia Willett

  Meanwhile he can at least send her a text, send his love to them all, and stop being such a prat.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THAT NIGHT THERE is a summer storm. Moonlit cloud-castles pile and topple in the west; a sudden blaze of lightning, a crack of thunder. The rain patters softly at first, then hammers down, striking the hard dry earth, needling the surface of the sea. Another stab of lightning, the roll of thunder closer this time, as the storm races over the sea and away to the east.

  Janet startles awake as if to a gunshot. The curtains flutter and stir in the sudden draught of air. She puts out a hand to feel Dave’s comfortingly familiar bulk and he mutters and turns, still half asleep. Storms have always frightened her: the sudden violence, the lavish display of elemental force. She puts her head against Dave’s shoulder and squeezes her eyes closed. His arms enfold her, his cheek against her head, and she feels safe. Suddenly she thinks of Sofia up in the attic room. The noise of the rain will be terrible on the Velux window.

  Janet stirs, as if to go to comfort her, but Dave’s arms remain folded firmly around her.

  ‘Sofia,’ she murmurs, and feels his silent snort of amusement.

  ‘She’s a big girl now. She’ll be fine.’

  Guiltily Janet relaxes. She’s ashamed of this foolish fear but unable to conquer it. As she lies listening, waiting for the storm to pass, she wonders if poor Sofia is huddled in her bed, the duvet over her head. A deafening thunderclap directly overhead makes her gasp.

  ‘That was a close one,’ murmurs Dave. ‘Such heavy rain. We certainly need it.’

  His prosaic countryman’s comment makes her smile and she hugs him tightly. Gently, with all the familiar ease of long practice, he begins to make love to her.

  In the attic room high above them, Sofia stands at the window gazing out. The moon shows briefly between rags of clouds that stream across the sky, edging their blackness with silver. Lightning briefly illuminates the landscape, gleams on the sea’s surface. She clasps the window frames each side of her head with a kind of delight, as if she is sharing in this drama, rejoicing at the immensity of it. When the rain comes, gently at first then beating, drumming on the window, she laughs aloud at the savagery of it. The whole room is filled with its noise. As the storm recedes the moon appears again, serene in the clear dark sky, and it seems to Sofia as if the wooden window frame is holding up a roof of stars.

  Annabel nudges Miles awake with an ungentle jab of her elbow. She is irritated by the noise, the sudden rising of the wind. The curtains billow into the room and rain spatters against the window.

  ‘Bloody storm,’ she says crossly. ‘That’s all we need. Could you shut the windows? The curtains will get soaked.’

  Miles yawns himself awake, swings his legs out of bed, sits on the side for a moment.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Annabel says impatiently. ‘It’s absolutely pouring.’

  His dreams fading, Miles stands up, edges around the bed and reaches for the window latch. He pauses to gaze out as lightning drives to earth, dazzling him, and then closes the windows against a rattle of rain. Yawning again, he turns back into the room. Annabel snaps on the bedside light and rearranges her pillows.

  ‘I’ll never sleep with all that going on,’ she announces, self-pityingly, as if the storm has been sent especially to annoy her. She reaches for her bedside book, the usual little frown between her eyes, and then settles back. ‘If the light’s going to keep you awake you’ll have to go into the spare room.’

  As he looks at her Miles knows quite suddenly that he no longer loves her. There is nothing left now except duty; a vow made long ago.

  ‘I’ll go and check that Daffy isn’t frightened,’ he says. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She stares at him as if he is mad – or just stupid.

  ‘At this time of night? I’d certainly never get back to sleep.’

  Miles nods, goes carefully downstairs and into the kitchen. Daffy is sitting up in her basket as if she has known that he would come.

  ‘It’s OK, old girl,’ he tells her. ‘Just a storm. Nothing to worry about.’

  He lifts the Aga lid and puts the kettle on, finds a biscuit for Daffy, and then leans on the rail, head bowed and feeling very alone. He thinks about El but knows in his heart that he has no chance of a real relationship with her. A friendship of a kind, yes, but no more than that. She is too self-sufficient: she is complete unto herself. Miles thinks about his daughter and wonders how anything might be salvaged. There has never been an open rupture, a falling out; only complete denial on Annabel’s side, coupled with the fact that his wife and his daughter simply don’t deal well together.

  Making tea, Miles thinks back to the time when he and Lily shared the flat in London, when he was at the MOD and Lily was studying at UCL, and how much they enjoyed each other’s company. He watched with affection at the way his daughter’s friends of both sexes were so easy together, true companions, sharing a bottle of wine, watching the television, talking; oblivious of any sexual hang-ups. There was an ease, a naturalness, that he envied. He stayed in the background, giving them space, but they included him in; teased him, accompanied him to the Proms, discussed nuclear power. It was one of the happiest times of his life.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Dad,’ Lily said to him once, about a year ago after a brief visit. ‘You’re just the victim of a personality clash. Come and see me. On your own.’ She laughed. ‘Christchurch’s not that far away. And New Zealand is a great country. I wish you would. And you’d like Jenny, you really would.’

  Just for a moment he glimpsed the tears in her eyes, and realized just how important it was to her, and he put out his arms and pulled her close to him.

  ‘I know I would, love,’ he said. ‘I have no problem with this, Lily. I hope that you know I don’t.’

  She nodded, her brow against his chest. ‘I do know it. But Mum won’t have us here together because of the neighbours, and she won’t get in an aeroplane because of the terrorists, so what do we do?’

  ‘We’ll have to meet halfway,’ he told her lightly. ‘You, me and Jenny.’

  She put her head back and looked up at him. ‘Would you do that, Dad?’

  Now, listening to the storm, Miles remembers the conversation. He answered that he would, though wondering if he’d ever have the courage to tell Annabel the plan. Tonight he decides that he will. He will make that journey to see his daughter, to meet her partner. After all, he has nothing left to lose – and much to gain.

  El is disturbed from her dreams, hearing the echo of the thunder and the sough of wind in the trees. Her annexe is well protected by the big farmhouse and its thickly thatched roof muffles the noise of the rain. She turns on to her back, listening. Her thoughts drift, remembering other storms, and she wonders if she might read for a while. There is the usual scatter of books by her bed and she mentally calculates them: Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’, Jenna Plewes’ Salt, U. A. Fanthorpe’s Safe as Houses, a selection of writing by George Herbert. It was Sister Emily at Chi-Meur, the beautiful old convent on the North Cornwall coast, who had introduced her to the metaphysical poetry of George Herbert – and to so much else.

  ‘How,’ she rather wistfully asked Sister Emily, in those long-ago days, ‘how did you know you had a vocation?’

  The nun thought about it carefully. They were sitting in the small west room, which El is still given on each of her annual springtime retreats. So simple, so clean, so calm: the room is her cell and her refuge. A lilac grows beneath the window and its scent fills the room each evening at sunset.

  ‘I loved a man once when I was young,’ Sister Emily said at last. ‘We were on the point of being engaged. I loved his clothes and the way the hair grew on the back of his neck but quite suddenly I knew that I could never love him as much as I loved God.’

  El began to laugh, she simply couldn’t help herself, and so did Sister Emily.

  ‘Sorry,’ El said, ‘it just sounded so funny when you p
ut it like that.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ said Sister Emily, still smiling. ‘But I was right, you see. I should have made the poor man thoroughly miserable.’

  She writes regularly, if erratically, to El, who treasures these letters. They always begin ‘El, Beloved’ and finish ‘Vivid with you in prayer’.

  El rolls on to her side, smiling a little, hearing Sister Emily’s clear voice reading at one of the Daily Offices in the chapel: ‘… Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses … let us run with perseverance the race set before us … looking to Jesus … who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross …’

  Before she can hear the last of the verse, El is asleep.

  Freddie and Flora are awakened by the menacing grumble of the thunder. They scramble out of bed and stand listening, their room lit suddenly by a searchlight of lightning. Together they hurry in to find Liv, climbing up beside her, wakening her.

  ‘It’s only a storm,’ she says comfortingly, pulling them into the warmth. ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ says Freddie, as thunder crashes above them and Flora buries her head in the duvet. He huddles against Liv and, as she wonders how to calm them, Baz appears in the doorway clad in trackie bottoms and a T-shirt.

  ‘Good grief, Charlie Brown,’ he says. ‘What’s all the row about?’

  ‘It’s too noisy,’ says Flora, as rain sheets down. Her mouth is drawn ominously downward and Baz winks at Liv.

  ‘Just the night for a midnight feast,’ he says. ‘Come on, Mummy. You go and get the doings and I’ll stay here with them.’

  ‘What’s a midnight feast?’ asks Freddie, scrambling close to Baz as he stretches out on Liv’s big bed.

  ‘“What’s a midnight feast?”’ repeats Baz incredulously. He looks at Liv. ‘Do these children know nothing? They’d never heard of Charlie Brown till I bought the DVD of the film. Now they don’t know what a midnight feast is. Haven’t you read them Enid Blyton?’

  ‘They’re too young for Enid Blyton,’ says Liv, laughing at the three of them huddled together. ‘And for midnight feasts.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ declares Baz, as another rumble of thunder echoes above them. ‘Nobody is too young for a midnight feast. And check out poor old Jenks while you’re getting the goodies. He might be a bit frightened by the thunder. I’ll have coffee, please.’

  Liv shakes her head at him and goes downstairs. Jenks is sitting by the door and jumps up with relief at the sight of her.

  ‘OK,’ she says, resigned, as she gathers a picnic together. ‘I give in. You might as well come upstairs. I can see that it’s just going to be one of those nights.’

  By the time the feast is over and the twins have gone protesting back to bed, morning is not far off. Baz takes Jenks downstairs and opens the kitchen door to let him outside. The storm has rolled away and the sky is rinsed clear of clouds, gauzy with fading starlight. Baz wanders out after Jenks and strolls down to the beach. In the west the moon is setting, slipping down behind the cliffs, but in the east there is a faint wash of colour; a brightness. He stands still, watching the dawn, listening to the sea. How quickly the light overcomes the darkness; how miraculous the change from monochrome to colour.

  Baz is filled with the mystery and the joy of creation, of life and death and an odd sense of renewal. Instinctively, he walks quickly down to the sea’s edge, strips off his clothes and wades into the water. It slides over his limbs, silky and cool, and he gives way to it, swimming with strong strokes, kicking his legs, rejoicing in this freedom.

  When he reaches the shore again he picks up his shirt, dries himself vigorously with it, pulls on his trackies and strides back to the Beach Hut feeling refreshed and renewed in spirit. For this moment his fears have been washed away and he can imagine a relationship with Sofia. Just for now he doesn’t have to remind himself that she is young enough for marriage and for children; that he would be selfish to monopolize her. He refuses to think of anything but the expectation of seeing her again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday

  THE MORNING FOLLOWING the storm is filled with hope and promise. Sofia comes down to breakfast glowing with a new energy. She feels strong and confident, as if the storm has carried her fears and uncertainties away with it. She suspects that this feeling won’t last but is determined to make the most of it.

  Dave and Janet are together in their kitchen, pottering between table and larder, and once again she is reminded of the Brambly Hedge mice: sweet and innocent and kind. She beams at them and they smile back at her. There is a quiet confidence in their unity but she no longer feels envious, only filled with a renewed determination to follow her resolution.

  ‘Did the storm keep you awake?’ she asks, sitting down at the table, and sees a little glance slip between them: amused, knowing, secret. Sofia wonders what it can mean.

  Then Janet says, ‘I was worried about you, up in that attic. The noise of rain on those Velux windows is awful. But Dave was sure you’d be OK.’

  How sweet they are. At the thought of them lying awake, worrying about her, Sofia shakes her head. ‘I loved it,’ she says. ‘I stood at the window and watched it. It was magnificent.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Janet says anxiously. ‘You might have been struck by lightning. I hate storms.’

  ‘But we always manage to ride them out somehow, don’t we?’ says Dave, giving Janet a friendly nudge as he puts a rack of toast on the table and sits down. ‘And what a glorious morning. Any plans?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Sofia, acting on her new resolution. ‘I thought I’d walk over to see Baz, and Liv and the twins.’

  It cost her a little to put Baz’s name first, not to make it look as if this is just between her and Liv, but neither Dave nor Janet seems to notice. Sofia takes a piece of toast, reaches for the marmalade. It’s odd to feel quite so happy. She isn’t used to it. Even breathing is different. Her body no longer feels anxious and restricted. Instead she is relaxed, free of stress. She takes a deep breath, just to prove it to herself. And then another one.

  Dave and Janet watch her curiously and she wants to burst out laughing, to embrace these sweet little mice-people, tell them she loves them.

  Sofia pulls herself together and spreads marmalade decorously, pressing the smile out of her lips.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ Janet is saying. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze this morning. Good kite-flying weather.’

  Dave pours coffee for Sofia and tea for himself and Janet. He looks slightly preoccupied as if something odd has occurred to him. Sofia finishes her toast and drinks her coffee and gives thanks that these two innocents can’t possibly guess what she might be thinking about Baz. It has nothing to do with kite-flying.

  ‘That sounds a good idea,’ she says brightly to Janet.

  ‘We shall do a supermarket run,’ Janet says. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ answers Sofia, and this is true. Her new resolution seems to fill her head entirely. ‘But thank you anyway.’

  ‘Should you check,’ suggests Dave rather diffidently, ‘to see if they are there? It’s quite a walk.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sofia is disconcerted. In her new mood of enthusiasm it hadn’t occurred to her that there could be any flaw in her plan. ‘I suppose it might be wise.’

  Her thoughts dart about quickly. If she texts Liv and Liv tells Baz he might think they want him out of the way. On the other hand, she has no other means of communication – and she needs to take Baz by surprise; to have a few moments alone with him.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ she says, ‘I could drive, I suppose, but I think I’ll walk. It will be good exercise even if nobody is there.’ She finishes her coffee and smiles at them. ‘I think I’ll get started,’ she says, and stands up and hurries upstairs to get her things.

  ‘Told you so,’ says Dave gloomily, as they watch Sofia go swinging out of the gate and away along the lane.


  Janet stares after her. ‘Her mother will kill me.’

  Dave frowns and then he begins to smile, and then to laugh.

  ‘Sorry,’ he gasps. ‘But honestly. There we were, last night, trying to be quiet in case she heard us, and here she is this morning, radiant with lust for old Baz.’

  ‘Dave!’ squeaks Janet. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, come on, love. It was clear as clear. The poor girl is head over heels. It’s rather touching, really.’

  ‘It isn’t touching,’ says Janet crossly. ‘At least, it might be if Baz felt the same way—’

  ‘But I told you,’ Dave interrupts. ‘I told you about the way he looked at her.’

  ‘And,’ continues Janet forcibly, ‘and if he happened to be the same age.’

  The amusement fades from Dave’s face. ‘Does it really matter that much?’

  Janet stares at him, inhales through her nose, raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Look,’ she says patiently, ‘her mum and dad are still hoping to be grandparents. They hope that Sofia will find someone, settle down and have babies. Do you honestly think Baz wants another family at his age? So would you want to be the one telling her parents that their beloved daughter has fallen in love with a man the same age as they are? They trusted us to help her through this, not to encourage her to fall in love with a man old enough to be her father.’

  Dave makes a face. ‘I hate that phrase,’ he mutters.

  ‘What phrase would you prefer?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ he says. ‘But I don’t see what we can do about it. How were we to know? And anyway, how do we know that they wouldn’t be happy together? It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Perhaps Baz is exactly what she needs. Poor girl’s had enough of selfish young men. Why not a lovely, generous, kind, older one?’