The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Of course,’ Bruno agreed drily. He felt that it was time to change the subject. ‘Have you seen George?’ he asked casually.

  ‘No.’ She was distracted at once. ‘But Mousie thinks that this isn’t just an ordinary visit.’

  ‘Really?’

  Emma kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up on the chair. ‘Mousie has this idea that there’s a problem between him and Penny …’

  He let her talk but, although he nodded, raised his eyebrows, made all the right responses, his thought were busy elsewhere and his heart felt constricted with anxiety and dread.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lying in bed, clasping each other for comfort, Rafe slept at last, whilst Pamela listened to his regular breathing, counting the steady beat of his heart. Her thoughts flicked to and fro, sharp as a needle through a tapestry, pinning a thought here, fixing a memory there. The evening had been an agony: the three of them agreeing that to discuss the problem any further – once every angle had been explored – was simply counterproductive and they’d attempted to talk of other things. Earlier in the afternoon George had taken himself off for a walk and she and Rafe had sat together in the kitchen, silent with shock and misery.

  ‘What does he look like?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Preoccupied,’ Rafe had answered after much thought. ‘He’s clearly distressed but at the same time he’s holding himself very much in check.’

  He’d paused and she could imagine his own focused expression as he attempted to describe their son. Rafe had always felt it vital to communicate as much detail as possible so that she shouldn’t feel isolated and, indeed, Pamela’s blindness had opened up new vistas for him.

  ‘Describe it,’ she’d cry: the valley softly greening into its spring colours; the sea on a wild moonlit night; the sky in the early dawning of a summer morning.

  ‘Well, it’s a very pale blue,’ he’d begin cautiously, ‘with streaks of glorious colour. You know what it’s like just before the sun rises? Those orange banners flaming across the sky? Although there’s crimson and gold as well as orange now I really look at it. And there are some little puffy white clouds. Well, actually, they aren’t just white, there’s a kind of blue rinse to them and a greenish shadow …’

  Gradually, the more he’d looked the more he’d seen and his stumbling tongue began to rise to the occasion, eloquently painting the scenes for her as she stood beside him, calling up her own memories, seeing them again in her mind’s eye embellished by his descriptions. She’d become acutely aware of sounds, of the different textures beneath her feet; conscious of currents of air that indicated an open door or the feel of the sunshine as she passed a window. They’d learned, after one or two painful accidents, that doors must be left wide open or kept completely shut, that furniture must never be moved out of its familiar place. Food might be a lucky dip on the plate or what Rafe called ‘clock-face’.

  ‘Carrots at twelve, potatoes at three, meat at six, broccoli at nine,’ he’d say.

  The one thing she missed most was being able to see the faces of her family and, in his longing to help her, Rafe had worked hard to become her eyes on these occasions.

  ‘He looked as if he was hating every minute of it,’ he’d said, forcing his recalcitrant mind to identify his son’s expression. ‘Humiliated. And he looked angry …’

  He’d paused, aware of his shortcomings, knowing that Pamela would have seen a million tiny things that he’d missed. She’d waited, not wanting to prompt him, waiting for confirmation of that clue she’d picked up on earlier.

  ‘He looked,’ he’d cried suddenly, on a burst of inspiration, ‘just like he did when he was seventeen and Jeremy MacCann beat him by one point at that school quiz and won the ticket for the Twickenham rugby match. Remember Jeremy admitted that he’d picked his father’s brains on one of the questions? And afterwards, though George was gutted that he’d lost because of that one answer and angry because Jeremy cheated, he said, “But I can’t really blame him. I know how he feels about it. We’d all kill to get a ticket to see the Army and Navy match at Twickers.” That’s how he looked. Cheated and cross but with a kind of … compassion.’

  Pamela had felt a surge of conviction, a similar reaction to her earlier response: that George, along with a natural sense of being hard done by, was feeling an unusual sympathy for Penny’s dilemma. She’d tried a shot in the dark.

  ‘I think we were right to put Joss off, don’t you?’ she’d asked, carefully keeping her voice neutral.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Rafe had answered at once: his voice indicated that he had no suspicions here. ‘It would be very uncomfortable, everyone trying to pretend that things were normal. Embarrassing for George.’

  ‘You don’t think Joss might know? She and George have always been very close.’

  She’d listened to him considering this, tapping lightly on the table with the pencil he’d been using earlier to do the crossword.

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’ It was clearly a new idea. ‘But even if she does I still think it’s not the time for a jolly family supper.’

  Pamela had been relieved by Rafe’s answer. If George was having an affair with Joss she felt certain that even Rafe would have noticed something: severally and jointly Joss and George had been in and out of the house all their lives but Pamela believed in the old saying: ‘Love and a cough cannot be hid.’ If they’d become lovers surely one of them would have let something slip? And Joss and Penny were such good friends – and Joss was Tasha’s godmother. At the thought of her grandchild Pamela had been seized with fresh misery.

  ‘Oh, what shall we do?’ she’d cried. ‘If Penny goes back to New Zealand with this man we shall never see Tasha again.’

  ‘What we mustn’t do is make it any harder for George than it is already,’ Rafe had answered firmly. ‘What choice does he have, poor fellow? The child must be with her mother – and it’s no good feeling guilty because we can’t offer her a home. It simply wouldn’t be fair on Tasha.’ A pause. ‘I suppose she is George’s baby?’

  ‘Rafe!’

  ‘Well,’ he’d sounded irritable, not wishing to be accused, ‘if Penny’s been in love with this man all this time … George is away quite a lot, isn’t he?’

  ‘But surely … didn’t you say that Tasha had a look of George?’

  ‘I might have done,’ he’d said crossly, as if she’d been trying to catch him out, ‘but, let’s face it, a three-month-old baby doesn’t really look like anyone particularly, does it?’

  Now, lying wakeful in the dark, she wondered if this thought had crossed George’s mind and she felt a new sense of compassion for him. Exhausted by the emotions of the day, comforted by Rafe’s rhythmical breathing and relaxed by the warmth of his body, she fell at last into an uneasy sleep.

  Across the landing, George lay propped about with pillows, his legs stretched out, lacking the will even to undress and climb into the bed. It had been just as bad as he’d expected, probably because he felt most unhappily divided and was afraid that his mother might have divined his dilemma.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ she’d asked – and although he’d answered truthfully, it hadn’t been the whole truth. Yet how could he have involved Joss when there was nothing more physical between them than a look, a sudden realization of belonging followed by a sense of overwhelming loss? That it should be Joss, his childhood companion, his second cousin, with whom he should discover himself in love! During the holidays they’d been inseparable and the adults tended to refer to them as if they were a unit. It was always ‘George and Joss’; ‘Joss and George’. Whilst his elder siblings had fought and shouted their way through childhood and adolescence – rivalling each other, vying for attention, determined to be best, first, strongest – George and Joss had pottered quietly on the sidelines: making play-houses up the valley beside the Saint’s Well; riding their bicycles in the hot, sunken lanes; learning to sail the small Mirror dinghy in the rocky waters of the narrow cove.

&n
bsp; George cursed himself for a fool: for not seeing what had been before his eyes. There had been a gap, he comforted himself, when he’d gone off to BRNC in Dartmouth and Joss was still at school, followed by her four years of training whilst he was joining his ship and going to sea. During those years they’d lost touch, childhood over and finished with but nothing yet to put in its place. The blow had fallen when he’d been helping her to clear out what had once been the store-rooms and offices for the boatyard. Her grandmother had agreed that Joss could rent this tiny end cottage, so long as she refurbished it and made it habitable, and he’d come to lend a hand whilst Penny, six months’ pregnant, was next door having an afternoon rest, and his parents were clearing up after lunch. He’d reached to lift an old desk, carrying it with Joss to the door, and it had unexpectedly crumbled into pieces and crashed to the floor in a powdery, worm-ridden explosion. Joss had shrieked and clutched at him and they’d roared with laughter – and then looked at each other, still holding on, the silence lengthening. Shocked, they’d each turned away, working quickly, silently, until George had said that he’d better go back and see if Penny was awake and Joss, without looking at him, had agreed that he ought. For a while they’d avoided each other as much as was possible without arousing suspicion within the family, and it was not until after Tasha was born that he’d continued to confide in Joss; to be comforted by her unobtrusive presence in the background of his life. And now what … ?

  George swore aloud, got off his bed and, with brisk, economical movements, began to undress.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  With supper over and Emma gone off to The Lookout, Joss and Mousie cleared up together; Mousie washing whilst Joss dried and put away, talking over the events of the day together. Joss had got herself into a yawning fit, eyes streaming, and Mousie put a sympathetic arm about her shoulders.

  ‘Go and run a hot bath and soak for a while,’ she suggested. ‘You look exhausted and I’m not surprised. You’ve worked a long day and there’s nothing more tiring than people, especially people who are in pain. I’ll go and get your grandmother settled for the night and then you can both get some rest.’

  Shaken by another great yawn, Joss gratefully agreed to this plan, returning Mousie’s hug before trailing away upstairs. Presently Mousie heard the bathroom door close and the sound of water gushing in the cistern. She finished tidying the kitchen and crossed to the drawing-room to gather her belongings together, pausing to put the photograph carefully at the back of her capacious bag so that it shouldn’t be creased. After that initial look at the wedding picture Emma had been moved to fetch other albums of photographs from the bookcase in the parlour and, whilst they’d waited for the doctor, they’d turned the pages together.

  ‘Old photographs are so sad,’ Emma had sighed. ‘All that hope and innocence. And somehow much more poignant in black and white, don’t you think so?’

  Looking at a snapshot of Rafe and a youthful Pamela smiling at the baby Olivia, Mousie could only agree. She’d wondered if Emma might think to mention the wedding photograph to Joss, and had experienced an unidentifiable clutch of fear, but Emma had been more interested in discussing George’s arrival, although Joss had looked too tired and strained to add anything to her mother’s speculation. Now, as she picked up her reading spectacles and slung them round her neck, Mousie wished she could identify this anxiety that touched her heart with icy fingers and squeezed her gut: it was something that stretched back to those early days after Mutt’s arrival at St Meriadoc, something to do with her silent wariness. Mousie drew out the letter from the young American and stared down at it. What had happened to Madeleine Grosjean?

  The name had clearly meant nothing to Emma but it suddenly occurred to Mousie that Bruno might have the answer. He’d been not yet five years old when the small family had left India but old enough to remember a family friend; perhaps if she showed him the photograph it might jog a memory. Again, that tiny tug of fear. Of course, she could simply consign the letter and the photograph to the fire, and that would be the end of it, yet she had the feeling that they hadn’t heard the last of the young American. She glanced at the signature at the foot of the page: Dan Crosby. She remembered the enthusiasm and hope in his face and the set of his jaw: he didn’t have the appearance of someone who gave up too easily. Perhaps it would be more sensible to discover the truth as far as it was possible, so that they were ready for him.

  She thought about Mutt. ‘I think that time is short,’ the doctor had told her privately. ‘Though at this stage there’s a borderline between getting better or worse and one can never quite tell – but she doesn’t seem to be improving. Anyway, there’s nothing more could be done for her if we got her into hospital and, in my opinion, this is where she needs to be – at home with her family nearby. Don’t panic them – it could be a few more days – and keep her as quiet as possible. You can call me any time.’

  Perhaps it had been wrong to allow Emma to go back to The Lookout but she hadn’t wanted to frighten her or Bruno and there was nothing any of them could do for Mutt now, except to keep her comfortable and secure. Just as some instinct cast a shadow of disquiet across Dan Crosby’s visit so now Mousie felt that tonight Mutt should be left in peace with her granddaughter. Having made this decision she went upstairs and into Mutt’s bedroom.

  The fire had burned low and the screen shielded the bed from the lamp, so that the room was shadowed and peaceful, but Mutt was awake, stiffening eagerly as she watched the door open – as if she waited for someone. Mousie crossed to the bed and stood looking down at her, all those old instincts alive and pressing in upon her consciousness. Questions crowded to her lips but the sight of the elderly, frail woman aroused her compassion and prevented her from asking them. Instead she said: ‘I’m going to give you your medicine and settle you comfortably and then I think I shall go home, Honor. Will you be happy with Joss to look after you?’

  She saw a slight sagging of the thin, square shoulders, a relaxation of the old bones, as if Mutt were in some way relieved, and Mousie smiled mischievously as she held the small measure to her lips.

  ‘Glad to see the back of me, are you? Well, I don’t blame you.’ She laid her back against the pillows and made certain that the ankle was supported. ‘You’ve probably had more than enough of my bullying and fussing over the last six weeks.’

  ‘No, no. Not that.’ Mutt reached out a hand and Mousie took it. ‘Nothing like that. Thank you for everything, Mousie.’

  She hesitated as if wanting to say more and then shook her head, denying herself the luxury, but she looked distressed and the pressure on Mousie’s hand increased. Mousie thought she understood: she and Mutt had never been overdemonstrative with each other and it would be difficult at this late stage for her to be effusive with her gratitude or affection. Nevertheless, she had a fleeting thought that Mutt was on the brink of some other disclosure and Mousie wondered if it should be encouraged.

  ‘I should like to thank you too,’ she told Mutt. ‘Not many people would have been as generous as you’ve been, Honor, to me and all my family, letting us stay in our cottages at ridiculous rents. Don’t think we’re not grateful.’

  She realized that there was a ring of finality in her words, as if she might not have the chance to say these things after this evening but, before she could decide how to proceed, Joss came in behind her. Mousie turned to her with relief, the difficult moment over, and explained that she was on her way home. She kissed Mutt, everything easy and natural again with Joss looking on, said goodnight and went away downstairs.

  Left alone with her grandmother Joss felt a tiny thrill of fear. Oddly, the old woman looked quite serene yet Joss felt some kind of impending peril: she knew, even before Mutt spoke, the words that she would say.

  ‘Have you found the letters, darling?’

  Joss shook her head, praying for some kind of release from her promise, wishing that Mousie had not gone home.

  ‘In my desk.’ She closed her eyes.
Joss hesitated and Mutt’s eyes opened suddenly. ‘Give me a kiss before you go.’

  Joss touched the dry lips with her own, trying to hide her anxiety, smiling down at her grandmother.

  ‘I’ll be in later when I’ve found them,’ she said. ‘Ring the bell if you need me.’

  ‘Bless you, darling. It’s all for you, remember.’ Mutt sounded drowsy and she appeared to sink further into her pillows. ‘I want you to have Paradise.’

  Joss paused at the door, but Mutt seemed to be falling asleep, and she went out, closing it quietly behind her. She descended the stairs slowly, shrinking from the task ahead, fearing what she might find, and crossed the hall to the small parlour. The kneehole desk, where generations of Trevannions had sat to write their letters, stood squarely beneath the window and Joss pulled the curtains across the black, cold glass panes before sitting down on the battered revolving chair. The bottom left-hand drawer was full of catalogues – Mutt had shopped a great deal by mail order in the last few years – but in the right-hand drawer were some battered brown files with the words ‘School Reports’ scrawled across in biro. The first file was headed ‘Bruno’, the second one ‘Emma’, and they were wedged rather firmly down in the drawer so that she had to tug at them to get them out. Beneath them was a pile of letters, some loose but with their pages neatly folded whilst others had been pushed into envelopes.

  With her heart beating painfully against her side, Joss drew the papers out, piling them onto the desk, recognizing her grandmother’s handwriting. Not love letters, then, unless they were Mutt’s own, returned to her. Joss was struggling with herself, trying not to look at them, but knowing that she must at least see to whom the letters were written, although even this small act of curiosity made her hot with guilt. Yet they were a piece of Mutt, these letters: they contained her thoughts and were part of her history. Would Mutt want her to destroy them? To burn them, perhaps, on the fire in her bedroom? Joss began to realize that it would be impossible simply to consign Mutt’s words to the flames without glancing at one or two of them. As if to postpone this treachery she picked up an envelope and held it under the light of the anglepoise lamp. ‘Mrs Vivian Crosby’ … She selected another one and then another; they were all addressed to the same person.