The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  Mousie grinned as she pulled on warm trousers and a thick jersey. Bruno was so like Hubert and she loved him very dearly: but then Bruno was so easy to love. Mousie sighed, regretting the readiness to criticize that had so defined her early relationship with Honor. Had she been too ready to judge her? Had she withheld love?

  It is in judging others that we betray them most.

  The words remained with her as she finished dressing and, still trying to remember where she’d read them, she went down to breakfast.

  Next door, Rafe and Pamela clattered about, each interrupting the other as they discussed the exciting prospect of the arrival of their son, George.

  ‘Just for one night.’ Rafe picked up the postcard, received yesterday, and read the words out loud again. ‘“A quick dash to see you all. Penny and Tasha won’t be with me.” Let’s hope he has a good run down.’ He cracked eggs into a white china bowl. ‘It’s odd that he’s coming on his own.’

  ‘It’s a bit of an upheaval just for one night,’ Pamela rationalized her disappointment, excusing Penny, ‘when you’ve got a tiny baby to organize. Perhaps Penny thinks it would be nice for us to have him to ourselves.’

  She took the card into her own hands, running her fingers over the shiny surface, imagining the photograph of Dartmoor ponies on Yennadon Down, which Rafe had described to her. Penny often sent embossed cards so that Pamela was able to feel the shape of the scene: a flower or a little house. This was simply a picture postcard. She put it aside and began to make coffee, measuring and spooning from jars on which Rafe had stuck Braille labels so that she could ‘read’ with her fingers, wishing that she was able to see the faces of her grandchildren. Mousie and Rafe did their best to describe them for her: Mousie was very good at it, painting in the tiny details of each child, remarking on the likeness to a parent or some other relative, until Pamela not only vividly recalled her own children at various stages of their development but was able to form an idea of the faces of the new members of her growing family.

  ‘Olivia looks just like you did at her age,’ she’d say, ‘and little Tom is going to be just like his father. He’s got those brown eyes set wide apart just like Adrian’s. Now Joe reminds me very much of my own father, though you never knew him, of course, rather than Rafe. And George … well, George is exactly like his father, just as we always knew he would be.’

  Pamela smiled to herself, admitting privately to herself that George had always been very special to her and Mousie, and suddenly had an idea.

  ‘See if you can catch Joss before she goes off to Wadebridge,’ she said suddenly to Rafe, switching on the percolator. ‘Perhaps she could come in for some supper. I can smell burning. Is the toast stuck again?’

  Rafe dealt briskly with the toaster, shared the scrambled eggs between two plates and carried them to the table, ducking automatically as he passed beneath the heavy beams. The two middle cottages of The Row had been converted into one larger dwelling and, when his mother, Julia, died, Rafe had moved back into it with his young wife and their baby girl. His view was that the quiet beauty of St Meriadoc more than made up for a higher salary and career opportunities up-country. Pamela, already pregnant with Joe, gazed at the cottage, the shining sea, the tumbling cliffs, and agreed with heart-felt gratitude.

  ‘It’s good of Mutt to let us have it so cheaply,’ she’d said. ‘The rent is terribly low. She could earn much more money letting it to holidaymakers. Or I suppose she could sell it?’

  He’d shaken his head. ‘Probably not. I don’t know how Uncle James left the estate but I imagine it would have passed from Hubert into some kind of trust for Bruno and Emma. We don’t come from that side of the family. Uncle James’s wife was my mother’s sister and they took us in during the war when Father died. Well, you know the story.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve loved being in Exeter – and I know you’ll find sixth-form colleges a bit different from university lecturing – but, oh, Rafe, this magic valley is such a place to bring up children.’

  ‘Mutt calls it “the golden cup”,’ he’d told her, ‘from a poem about a lark. You just wait until you hear the larks up by the Saint’s Well.’

  Watching her now, as she reached for the toast, her fingers testing the side of one of the small pots of conserve for the raised shape of the orange – marmalade, today, rather than strawberry jam – he felt such love for her. He did everything possible to enable her, suppressing the early instinctive reaction to protect, quickly seeing how much could be done to give back some of the freedom this swift descent into blindness had snatched from her. They’d stride arm-in-arm together over the windy hills, plunging down into the sheltered lanes, pausing so that she could identify the birds – ‘I can hear a robin … and there’s a buzzard somewhere. Wait! There’s something else. A yellowhammer?’ – whilst he held his breath, willing her to succeed. He’d put a creamy crown of honeysuckle into her hand and watch her frown of concentration smooth into delighted recognition as she held it against her face, breathing its heavy evocative scent, reliving long-ago sunny afternoon walks; the children racing ahead whilst they’d stroll more slowly, revelling in the wild hedgerows streaked with the bright, paint-colours of late spring: bluebells, campion, buttercup, rioting together beneath a blush of May blossom.

  The light on the percolator glowed red and he stood up to pour the coffee.

  ‘Odd, though,’ her voice from behind him echoed his own secret thought, ‘that George sent a card. I wonder why he didn’t ring us?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mutt woke to confusion and a clutching fear. The letters must be found and there was something else … Joss was bending over her and, gazing up at her, Mutt seemed to be looking at herself when young; those same level brows, that short, straight nose and the widely curling mouth, these features had all been there in the photograph Mousie had shown her. Visions passed before her eyes – she could almost feel the soft, rich silk of her frock between her fingers, the pressure of the silly hat on her forehead; she heard Hubert’s voice telling her to smile: ‘Come on, Mutt. It’s a wedding not a funeral!’ – and she felt hot and weak but, despite the wave of weakness, dimly she perceived some kind of danger lurking: for herself and for Joss. She clung to Joss’s hands as if she were her rescuer – or a fellow conspirator.

  ‘The letters,’ her voice creaked and cracked. ‘My letters, darling.’

  Her granddaughter’s hands were blessedly cool, her short hair – cropped below her ears and falling over her hazel eyes – was brown and shiny as seaweed. The old woman in the bed was stilled briefly by the clean, calm beauty of her young face, untroubled and unlined, and felt herself soothed. She lay back on the pillows and tried to marshal her thoughts, breathing as deeply as she could whilst this terrible band of pain gripped her chest.

  Joss watched her anxiously, concerned both by the wheezing sound that whistled between her grandmother’s lips and by the pallor of her skin. She wished that Mousie would arrive and, still holding Mutt’s hand, glanced surreptitiously at her wristwatch. Yet she maintained her outward calm and managed to smile.

  ‘Mousie will be here soon,’ she said rather cheerfully, as if it were to be a social visit. ‘Would you like some cordial? I suppose we’d better get the nasty bit over first.’

  She took the small plastic measure of medicine and held it to the shrunken, withered lips. Mutt swallowed obediently, choking a little, and relaxed against Joss’s arm, studying her. She wore a loose overshirt in soft, mole-coloured needlecord and smelled deliciously of lavender. Mutt inhaled more slowly, her panic subsiding a little: she knew now exactly where her letters were. The temporary relief from pain brought a return of confidence along with the clearing of her mind.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’ She watched Joss pour the cordial. ‘It’s private. Just between you and me. Do you promise?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Joss’s instinctive response was to comfort rather than to bind hers
elf, but the old woman sensed this and struggled up a little. She sipped at the cordial impatiently, almost out of politeness, then held the glass away from her mouth with trembling hands.

  ‘No more. It’s important, Joss darling. A real promise.’

  Joss stood the glass back on the tray. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mutt,’ she said, puzzled by such urgency and aware that she might be taking rather too much on herself. ‘But Mum will be here soon. Wouldn’t it be better—’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, vehemently. ‘Only you.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do my best.’ Joss sounded dubious. ‘Is it to do with those letters you were talking about? Do you need something to go in the post?’

  Her mind jittered nervously, full of scenes from Agatha Christie novels: a letter to her lawyer? a change in her will?

  ‘Find them,’ muttered Mutt. ‘Don’t tell anyone. Promise.’

  The hand she stretched out was hot, and Joss nodded, frightened alike by her grandmother’s terrible urgency and this descent into breathlessness.

  ‘I promise,’ she mumbled.

  It was with great relief that she heard the front door click shut and Mousie’s voice calling from the hall below. She shouted an answer and her grandmother opened her eyes again, fighting the familiar confusion, clinging to this new comfort. Joss had promised to find the letters … but there was something else; something she’d forgotten. Mousie was in the room and Joss was going.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ she whispered as her granddaughter bent to kiss her.

  ‘I won’t. Stop worrying, Mutt, and get better.’

  Now, she and Mousie were murmuring together, glancing towards the bed. In a new fever of anxiety Mutt wondered if Joss might tell – but no, no, it was clear from Joss’s lightly blown kiss from the door and Mousie’s warm smile that it was merely the usual changeover. Mutt sagged gratefully, submitting to Mousie’s professional touch.

  Half running down the drive, Joss felt unhappy and very anxious. Part of her was pleased that Mutt had not told her where the letters were: clearly she could do nothing without that information yet she had made the promise. Nevertheless, to obey Mutt’s instructions whilst she was not in her right mind was a huge responsibility. Was it right to keep something private between them at this stage of her grandmother’s life? What could it be that must be kept secret from her own children?

  Joss forced herself to slow down, aware that she was trying to escape from her worries rather than hurrying towards her work. Out in the lane she gasped in lungfuls of freezing air, heard the iced-over puddles splinter beneath her feet. Such weather was unusual here on the coast and suddenly she felt as excited as a child at the unexpected sight of snow. The black hawthorn twigs were rimed with frost and, in the ditch, a rabbit’s sudden flight crumbled last year’s crisped, brittle leaves to powder.

  At the field gate she stopped, climbing a rung or two, feeling in her big bag for the apples she’d bought for the donkeys, Rumpleteaser and Mungojerrie. These were the latest in a long line of animals from the sanctuary, who’d come to enjoy the peace of the meadow here at St Meriadoc. They came towards her, breath steaming, heavy heads nodding, and she spoke quietly to them, stroking their velvety muzzles and pulling at their ears. Dropping her bag, she swung herself lightly over the gate and crossed the meadow to the trough, smashing the thin layer of ice on their drinking water with the heel of her boot whilst they nuzzled at her pockets, hoping for more treats. Flushed with the exertion of pushing them off, laughing at their antics, she finally reached the quarry and her car in a much more positive mood.

  Mutt was feverish, she reminded herself, away with the fairies: silly to get so upset about it. At the same time, she’d made a promise and Mutt was trusting her. Her heart contracted with love and fear.

  ‘Don’t die, Mutt,’ she muttered childishly. ‘Just don’t, that’s all.’

  Across the road Rafe had appeared, calling from the door, and Joss turned quickly, fumbling with her keys.

  ‘George is coming down,’ he was saying. ‘Did Pamela tell you? Only for the night but she says that you must come in and have some supper.’

  She nodded agreement, pointing at her watch and miming the need for haste, and climbed into the car: it was like sitting in a fridge but the engine started at the third go. Driving carefully, heading away from St Meriadoc, she grappled with this new complication. Even in this icy chill her cheeks burned hotly, her heart jumped. Her love for George was still the best-kept secret in the world. Only she and George knew of it and, though her instinct assured her that he loved her too, his marriage made it impossible for him to acknowledge it openly. Oh, how she loved him … Joss gave a tiny cry of fear as she pressed down incautiously on the accelerator and the back wheels slipped and swayed across a patch of ice.

  Concentrate, she told herself. Forget Mutt. Forget George. Think about the morning ahead.

  She liked to be at the practice early, at least half an hour before the first patient was due to arrive or the telephone started to ring: those anxious ‘acutes’ who were desperate for treatment and hoped that she might have a free appointment. Or they might be too acute to come in and she’d need to talk to them and give them advice. She’d quickly learned the importance of being able to reassure people who were in pain and, though she sometimes wondered if she’d ever be in the position to afford a receptionist anyway, she was deeply conscious of the need to be the first contact for these poor souls who were frightened.

  At least by sharing rooms – renting a consulting room and a tiny waiting-room on the ground floor at a dentist’s practice – she had the benefit of the place always being clean and warm, of having other personnel in the building, and even a share in the car-park which was a great boon during the busy summer months. The forty pounds a week she paid for these advantages was a rather worrying expense but she was hopeful that her practice would grow and, meanwhile, the income derived from working as an assistant to a well-established osteopath in Bodmin for two days a week helped with the bills.

  Who was first on the list this morning? Joss took a deep breath and began to think about Mrs Tregellis; gradually the blessed solace of work and her innate professionalism distracted her from thoughts of George and Mutt and focused her mind on the day ahead.

  Once Mutt was sponged down and resettled, Mousie went downstairs and put a call through to the surgery, asking if the doctor could call in later. She was anxious: the breathlessness and pallor might indicate that Mutt was going into heart failure. Once Joss had gone, she’d grown calmer, falling asleep quite naturally, but Mousie felt it best to take no chances. Joss had left the kitchen tidy – her breakfast things washed and upended in the plastic dryer, the dishcloth hung neatly over the Aga rail – and Mousie set the tray down and refilled the kettle. Whilst she waited for it to boil she piled sheets into the washing-machine, set it going and made a quick check to be certain that the house appeared suitably welcoming for Emma’s arrival.

  The drawing-room had a sad, secretive look, as if it were faintly affronted to be visited unexpectedly in the middle of the morning, and the ashes in the empty fireplace were dusty and grey in the bright slant of sunlight. Mousie noticed that the small basket that held kindling was nearly empty, swept the grate and laid the fire ready for the evening: tomorrow, Mutt’s cleaner from St Endellion would come and give the house a thorough going-over so now there was time for a quiet moment with a cup of coffee before Emma arrived. First, however, she looked into the small parlour, unused since Mutt had tripped over and broken her ankle. Glancing about her – at the big roll-top desk, the beautifully worked screen, which stood behind the two small upright wooden armchairs, the oval inlaid table covered with workboxes and silks – Mousie was reminded of a scene that had taken place here more than forty years before, just after Rafe had been called up for National Service and gone away to Catterick.

  Honor stands at the table, matching silks, holding up the smooth skeins and laying them across a piece of canvas.

&
nbsp; ‘Your turn now, Mousie,’ she says.

  ‘My turn for what?’

  ‘Time to stretch your wings outside the valley.’ Honor turns a smiling glance upon her. ‘Time to have some fun. You mustn’t become indispensable.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Honor makes a little face. ‘You mustn’t lose sight of the fact that you have your own life to plan. Your mother will rely on you even more heavily now that Rafe’s gone and it’s best to make the break at once. What about that job you were telling me about at the BRI? Bristol’s not that far away and Julia will manage without you. She’s got old Dot next door on one side and Jessie on the other. And me up here at Paradise. We’ll all miss you terribly but I’ll look after them, don’t worry.’

  ‘It just seems rather hard, with Daddy dying and now Rafe going away …’

  ‘Look, Mousie,’ Honor drops the silks and comes round the table. ‘You don’t want to spend your youth dashing home to St Meriadoc on your days off from Bodmin Hospital. Get right away, Mousie.’

  Her intensity makes Mousie uneasy as well as defensive and, as if she realizes this, Honor smiles.

  ‘It’s easy to get into a rut,’ she says, ‘and then it’s too late. Opportunities pass and never return. It’s different for me. I had plenty of fun before the war. I’ve lived abroad, been married – and I’ve got the children to live and plan for. This valley is a tiny piece of Paradise, I grant you that, but you need to rough it out there for a bit before you can really appreciate it. Trust me, Mousie …’

  As she stared about the silent room, Mousie remembered that she’d taken Honor’s advice – and that it had been wise. She had looked after them all: extending Julia’s cottage once Jessie had died and, years later, offering Dot’s old home to Mousie at a ludicrously low rent.

  ‘You’re ready to come back now,’ she’d said. ‘Your turn for a walk to the Paradise gardens, Mousie.’