The thought of the letters brought her upright and on to the edge of the bed. She wondered if Bruno had managed to conceal them whilst she and Mousie were out of the drawing-room. With luck he would have carried them away to The Lookout and hidden them in his study, which was generally considered out of bounds. As she brooded on their whereabouts the door opened and Mousie came in, carrying a mug of tea. She set it down on the table beside the bed and touched Joss lightly on the head. It was a gentle caress, at once affectionate and encouraging, and Joss smiled at her. Staring up into those warmly familiar slate-blue eyes, just like Rafe’s and George’s, confusion welled inside her and she crushed her hands between her knees in an attempt to stiffen her resolve and summon up courage.
‘Did you sleep?’ asked Mousie. ‘Good. Emma’s here, just in time to see you before you go off to Bodmin. I’ve made some porridge.’
Joss nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak, and Mousie went out quietly. She picked up the mug and drank the hot, reviving tea. It seemed impossible that, only a few hours ago, she’d believed that her new knowledge would not affect the relationship between her and George. It could not change the past, this was true, but how would she manage now? Sometime today she would see him. Joy mixed with fear churned in her gut. Perhaps this was how it would be from now onwards: nothing would be straightforward ever again. She was not a stranger to complexities. From childhood she’d attempted to balance her father’s cramping meannesses and humiliating contempt for weakness against his great capability to care materially for his family: to square her mother’s overflowing generosity and loving warmth with her inability to cope with unpleasantness and anger. Attempting to understand them, trying to decide which of their traits was a force for good and acting accordingly, had shaped her own character. Now she must take on a different kind of compromise.
Joss finished her tea and went to have a shower.
Downstairs, Mousie was comforting Emma, explaining that Mutt had died peacefully in her sleep.
‘But she seemed so much better,’ said Emma tearfully. ‘She was quite bright yesterday. I really thought she was improving.’
‘That can often happen.’ Mousie stirred the porridge. ‘A lucid spell just before the end. Be glad that she didn’t suffer any more.’
‘I am. Of course I am. But if I’d known I would have stayed here last night.’ Emma’s tears spilled over again. ‘I feel I was so heartless going off to The Lookout.’
‘But you couldn’t have known. None of us could. She might have got better and then had another fall. And what then? At what point would it have been reasonable for you to start thinking, Mutt might die today, and what would you have done about it? Would you have moved down here to be with her, just in case?’
‘She’d have hated that.’ Emma blotted her cheeks with a tissue. ‘She was very independent.’
‘Quite. And she had Bruno, who saw her every day, and the rest of us nearby. And don’t forget that she’s had Joss with her for the last few months, which has been such a joy for her.’
‘Yes, I do realize that.’ Emma tried to smile. ‘Sorry, Mousie. I’m being pathetic. It’s just … getting used to the idea, I suppose.’
‘It’s always a shock.’ Mousie touched her shoulder and put a mug of coffee beside her. ‘Even when you’re expecting it, you never get used to the finality of it. Coming to terms with the fact that your chance to make amends, have one more joke, share a hug – whatever it is – is gone for ever.’
Mousie turned away to hide her own emotion and Emma’s eyes filled with tears again.
‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I think I’ll go up and say goodbye to her, Mousie. Shall I?’
She hesitated and Mousie smiled at her encouragingly.
‘I think you should,’ she said. ‘Joss’ll be down in a minute …’
Emma stood up, bracing herself so that she should not break down in front of her daughter, preparing herself for what might lie ahead. They met in the hall. Shocked by the look of suffering on her child’s face, Emma forgot her own loss and hugged her tightly.
‘You did so well, darling,’ she told her warmly. ‘How wonderful that you’ve been with Mutt these last weeks. You gave her so much happiness.’
Joss smiled rather wanly but gratefully. ‘Are you going to see her? Would you like me to come with you?’
Resisting the urge to cry ‘Yes! Yes, please!’ Emma shook her head. It looked as if Joss had been through quite enough.
‘I’d rather be alone,’ she lied. ‘You understand? Just this last time.’
‘Of course.’ Joss couldn’t quite hide her relief and, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction, Emma went upstairs.
Joss watched her out of sight, listened to the sounds of busyness from the kitchen, and went swiftly into the drawing-room. The curtains had been drawn back and the fire built up – clearly Mousie had decided that today the comfort of a log fire and a warm room was necessary – but Bruno’s used mug still stood on the small table and a newspaper lay where Joss had left it yesterday. She went quickly to the sofa, lifted the padded seat and gave a sigh of thanksgiving: the letters were gone.
George had already set out and Joss was on her way to Bodmin by the time Bruno arrived in The Row to tell them the sad news.
‘Oh, Bruno, I am so sorry.’ Pamela stretched out a hand towards him and he took it between his own. ‘Rafe and I had tea with her in her bedroom a few days ago and I have to say that she sounded very weak.’
‘She’d made a bit of a comeback.’ He gave her hand another squeeze and let it go. ‘Yesterday she was quite bright, mentally, but very tired. I think it was all too much for her to recover from: the fall and then that infection. I’m sorry to have missed George.’
There was a small, uncomfortable silence; then they spoke together.
Rafe: ‘Things are a bit tricky for him at present …’
Pamela: ‘I don’t see why Bruno shouldn’t know …’
‘No need to say anything,’ said Bruno quickly – too quickly. ‘None of my business. I just wondered if he’d gone back to sea or whether he might be here for the funeral, that’s all.’
‘He’s got some leave,’ said Rafe awkwardly, ‘just a few day but I’m sure he’ll be down. He was very fond of Mutt.’
‘We all were,’ said Pamela sadly. ‘She was a darling and we’ve had such fun together. And we’re very grateful to her. There’s no way Rafe and I could have afforded to live in a place like this if she hadn’t been so generous about the rent. Nor could Mousie. We’ve been terrifically lucky.’
Another silence. Bruno, unable to reassure them that nothing would change, said nothing.
‘Poor Joss,’ said Pamela, sensing some embarrassment and seeking a change of subject. ‘Such a shock for her. Well, for all of us, of course …’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Rafe quickly. ‘What a pity George dashed off before we could tell him.’
‘Never mind,’ said Bruno. ‘After all, there’s nothing he could do. But I’d better get up to Paradise. Sorry to have to be the bearer of bad tidings …’
He almost added, ‘when you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ but remembered again, just in time, that Joss had told him in confidence about George and Penny. He hesitated, raised a hand in farewell and went out feeling frustrated. He could only hope that Rafe and Pamela would put his odd behaviour down to grief: he’d been too quick with his reply and shown no surprise – or concern – that George might be having problems.
With Nellie at his heels, he crossed the narrow bridge and walked swiftly up the lane. The donkeys were at the gate and he paused to speak to them, rubbing them between the ears whilst they snuffled through the lower bars at Nellie. Their grey coats were furred with the mist that curled in gently from the sea, drifting smoke-like across the meadow and hanging in the black, bare branches of the beech trees, and he shivered, turning his collar up against the chill, and giving their soft noses a final pat before turning away.
He
let himself in through the garden door and paused in the hall, listening to the low murmuring of voices from the bedroom above, before passing into the drawing-room. He went quickly to the sofa, lifted the padded seat and gave a sigh of relief: the letters were gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rafe and Pamela remained silent for a few moments after he’d left them.
‘I’m glad we saw her – last Friday, wasn’t it?’ said Rafe at last. ‘It would have been horrid if we hadn’t been to visit her, wouldn’t it? The valley won’t be the same without Mutt. She’s so much a part of it all.’ He sighed, his heart heavy. ‘Poor old Bruno.’
‘There was something wrong with him,’ said Pamela. ‘Did you notice?’
‘Well, after all his mother has just died,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘What would you expect, poor fellow?’
‘It wasn’t that.’ Pamela frowned, trying to define her reactions to the encounter. ‘Not that kind of thing. Of course he was upset, that’s not the point, but he was too quick when we talked about George. It wasn’t the obvious response. Bruno has a sympathetic streak, hasn’t he, even when he’s wrapped up in a book? If you’ve got a problem he notices. Today, when we hinted about George, he kind of blanked us and that’s not like him. He wasn’t even surprised. I felt that he already knew something was wrong and didn’t want to distress us by making us think we had to tell him about it.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘Too complicated,’ he said. ‘I think he was just not himself.’
‘And did you notice that after we’d talked about living here – how we couldn’t have afforded it if Mutt hadn’t been so generous – there was a very odd silence?’
‘Well, what answer could he have made?’ replied Rafe prosaically. ‘It’s only the truth, after all.’
Pamela sighed with frustration. ‘There was something wrong,’ she insisted. ‘I didn’t say it in the hope of any particular response, it just happened to be how I felt. Having said it, though, I think he might have responded with … oh, I don’t know. Something, anyway.’
Rafe stared at her, baffled. ‘What sort of something?’
‘Well, something like, “Don’t worry, nothing will change.” Or, “Well, you’re part of the family.” I don’t know exactly what but something. There was just a very awkward silence.’ She got up and moved towards him, her hand outstretched, feeling for him. ‘Have you ever thought what might happen to us once Mutt was no longer the head of the family, Rafe?’
‘No.’ He took her hand and held it, drawing her close and putting his arm about her. ‘I can’t say I have. Bruno and Emma will inherit and I can’t see them turning us out, can you?’
‘No.’ She rested her head against his shoulder. ‘But there was something.’ She shivered. ‘Oh, Rafe, I feel upset. First George, and then hearing about dear old Mutt, and now Bruno behaving oddly.’
‘I think you’re overreacting,’ he told her firmly. He glanced out of the window, seeking a distraction for her – and for himself. He was going to miss Mutt very badly. ‘It’s a rather dreary morning but would a little walk do us good? Shall we go and talk to the donkeys?’
She brightened. ‘Let’s take them some carrots,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to be too long, Rafe. I want to be here when George telephones to say that he’s home safely.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ he assured her. ‘He can’t possibly be there yet and I want to hear your theory about George; this light at the end of the tunnel. After this sad news I can do with some light. Get your coat and I’ll fetch the carrots.’
George had travelled fast through the quiet lanes to the dual carriageway and was already turning off the A30 at Launceston on to the road to Tavistock. As he travelled his mind was busy on several different layers and he barely noticed the familiar landmarks. As he passed over the Tamar he glanced briefly downstream where the mist smoked along the river and wreathed itself between the tall trees that clung to the steep, high banks. Driving up out of the deep valley, he thought about his mother and smiled to himself.
‘You’re clearing the decks,’ she’d said – and she’d been right. He hated to hide the truth from them, it was not in his nature, but it was difficult when the secret was not simply his own. Joss felt the same, he knew she did. It was in her character: she too had a dislike of subterfuge. Even as a child she hadn’t been like other girls – whining to their mothers, sulking if they didn’t get their own way.
‘I’m not playing any more,’ they’d say, flouncing off; or changing the rules of the game to suit themselves if they weren’t winning.
Joss had always played fair and square, not grimly like Olivia, who would kill rather than lose, but with a sweet seriousness of purpose and a cheerfulness in defeat. Only he knew how difficult she’d found her father’s patronizing attitude to her friends and his predilection for giving homilies on watching the pennies. The phrase ‘I didn’t get where I am today …’ might have been coined especially for Raymond Fox. Joss had grown increasingly reticent, afraid to expose her friends to his heavy witticisms at their expense, and especially cautious with young men of whom she was fond. She’d escaped to St Meriadoc whenever she could and, once she was qualified, she’d moved back to Cornwall.
Driving carefully through Milton Abbot, picking up speed again as he left the village, George saw Joss’s face in his mind’s eye: dark winged brows above hazel eyes, the straight little nose and wide curling mouth. If only they hadn’t lost touch during that crucial growing-up time they might not be in this terrible situation now.
Clearing the decks.
He hadn’t been able to explain to his mother that it was necessary to believe that he’d done everything possible to make his marriage work as much for Joss’s sake as for anyone else involved. Neither he nor she would want muddle or doubt: it must be all or nothing. It was Penny who had brought them to this point of telling his parents and, at the back of his mind, he wondered whether she might regret it. Perhaps, now it was out in the open, it might make her think carefully about what she was doing. The idea of leaving him was one thing but once that idea was defined, given shape and purpose by words, it grew into a daunting reality that might frighten her into reconsideration – and this must remain an option for her.
As he drove through the outskirts of Tavistock towards Yelverton, the anxiety and depression that had dogged him for the last few weeks – ever since Penny had announced her intention to leave him – closed down on him. She was fond of his parents and their reaction might carry some weight with her.
‘Give them our love,’ his mother had said – and he intended to do just that. He had no intention of making Penny feel guilty or ashamed. She must be given the chance, if she wanted it, to remain with him in a loving relationship. He would do nothing that would drive her into her lover’s arms for comfort; but he’d done with anger and shouting and with pleading. Perhaps it was too late, anyway, but he felt he must give it his best shot now for as long as it took.
Taking the back lane out of Yelverton, approaching the little cottage, he saw that Penny’s hatchback was in the single parking space beside the house. Just past the gate the lane was wider, and he pulled in tight under the thorn hedge, reached for his grip and climbed out. He felt sick with apprehension and confusion, trying for some calm, friendly opening that would start them off on a level base: no recrimi-nations, no attempt at emotional blackmail.
He let himself in, calling out to her: ‘It’s only me.’
The front door led immediately into the sitting-room, which was empty. He glanced through to the long narrow kitchen, and then shouted up the stairs.
‘Hello. I’m back.’
Even as he climbed the short steep staircase he knew that she’d gone. He couldn’t have immediately said what was missing but subconsciously he knew that this atmosphere of emptiness was not simply a case of Penny being out shopping or with friends. As he looked into the two bedrooms and checked the bathroom the certainty grew. The rooms were too tid
y: there was none of the usual clutter that seemed to spawn and spread in so small a house, and he was becoming increasingly aware of a sweet, almost sickly smell which, as he returned to the sitting-room, was quite suddenly intolerable.
As he opened the window, breathing in cold, fresh air, he saw the pot of hyacinths. Penny had bought the bulbs in Tavistock market just before Christmas and put them on the window-sill so that they would catch the sunlight. Now, the blue, bell-shaped flowers, weighing down the thick pale-green stems, were fading but their scent was still strong in the airless cottage. He carried them through to the kitchen to give them some water and saw the letter, pinned down on the kitchen table beneath the green, hand-painted coffee jar. It was one of a pottery set that Penny had bought in Wade-bridge; there was another jar to hold sugar and a third for tea. He’d made a little shelf for them and she’d set the three of them in a row, delighted with them. He stood the jar back on the shelf and opened the letter. It was written with the spontaneity that was a part of her character:
I am just so sorry, George, but this is the only way I can do it. It seems underhand – and it is, of course – but there’s no point in it dragging on any longer. Brett was staying in Yelverton and came to get me and Tasha as soon as you’d gone yesterday. By the time you read this we’ll be on a flight home to New Zealand.
It was wrong of me to marry you, George, knowing that deep down I still had feelings for Brett. I actually did believe that making the commitment of marriage would finally exorcize any love I had for him. It didn’t work like that and, anyway, a year later he came to find me. I shouldn’t have deceived you then but I was so mixed up because part of me did love you and I wasn’t prepared to give in to Brett too quickly because of what he’d done before.
The fact is we should never have split up, he and I know that now, and I’m really sorry you’ve been hurt by our mistakes. But there’s no point in going on compounding the wrong. Also I’ve missed my home and family terribly, not because of anything to do with you, but just because it’s where I belong.
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