‘He just goes straight on,’ she’d said. ‘Any moral issues, ordinary humanity or common decency are all thrust aside or gradually crushed beneath the wheels of his determination. He fixes his eyes on his goal and never wavers for a second. If you get in his path you simply go under with everything else. It’s as if he feels that he has some divine right to take what he wants. It’s scary. I used to get cross with Mum for giving in to him but as I grew up I realized that withstanding him is almost impossible. It’s like trying to stand up to the Severn Bore or a hurricane.’
George was familiar with this feeling of helplessness; it reminded him of his childhood. Olivia and Joe had been bigger, stronger, more cunning: they had walked, talked, read their first words, ridden bicycles, whilst he was still in nappies. Nothing he learned to do could earn their admiration: they’d been there first. They’d sat on him, laughed at him – and were casually affectionate to him – but, for most of the time, their own fierce battles for supremacy excluded him and he’d been happy to grow up quietly outside the noisy, clashing circle of their endeavour.
Now, as he sat down again at the table and poured the coffee, he wondered what he would do when he’d be obliged to get up and go out to deal with the logs. He was certain that, on his return, the package would have disappeared and he would be in no position to question either Emma or Raymond about it. As he drank his coffee – very slowly – he prayed that Joss would return before that moment came. He would draw her attention to it, suggest that they walk down together to deliver it, so thwarting any plans Raymond might be making.
His gasp of relief was almost audible when the front door opened. Light footsteps hurried up the stairs and George watched Raymond’s face grow thoughtful, listening, his eyes on the parcel.
‘There’s Joss.’ Emma’s voice was brighter, as if she too were relieved, and she sat more easily in her chair. ‘I wonder where she’s been.’
George kept his eyes on Raymond, expecting some sleight of hand when Joss appeared: he was convinced that in the moment of her arrival, whilst attention was fixed on her entrance, the package would somehow be spirited away. The door opened and Joss and Mousie came in together. Raymond rose swiftly to his feet and in one quick, smooth movement conveyed the parcel to the dresser behind his chair, pushing it beneath a newspaper so that it was half hidden, even as he was saying ‘Mousie, my dear, how nice to see you,’ and giving her a kiss. It was so adroit, so clever, that George was almost breathless with admiration.
He looked at Joss, longing to share this new discovery with her as he had shared so much in the past. She was flushed, her eyes bright with some kind of recent excitement, and he was filled with love and longing for her. She smiled at him across the kitchen yet he could still feel the barrier between them. With a tiny jolt of fear he wondered if he’d mistaken this new reticence in her: that it was nothing to do with Mutt’s death but, rather, fear that he might demand too much of her now that he was free. After all, they’d never spoken openly of their feelings – he’d been too committed to his marriage for that to be possible – and nothing had been said that might now be acted upon. Perhaps Joss was not ready to see Penny’s defection in the light of an opportunity for her own happiness – and his. It went against all his instincts to believe that this was true, yet there was a new kind of wariness that had never been present between them before.
With this sudden loss of confidence and his preoccupation about Joss, he forgot the little scene with the parcel. Mousie was explaining that she’d left a book in the drawing-room and had come up to collect it, meeting Joss on the way, and Emma was insisting that she should have some coffee.
‘I’ll get on with the logs,’ George said.
Suddenly he felt flat, his spirits depressed, knowing that his new freedom was an empty gift without Joss to share it. He passed close to her, but politely as a stranger might, and she touched his arm.
‘Sorry I dashed off,’ she murmured. ‘Things are a bit difficult. It’s just … tricky. But it’s not you. Honestly.’
‘I’m glad about that.’ He smiled, his heart lifting a little. ‘No pressure. See you later.’
He went out, comforted by this little exchange, and began to fill the log basket, carrying the wood in a plastic container between the wheelbarrow and the drawing-room. It wasn’t until later that he remembered the package. He wheeled the empty barrow back to the shed and went in through the garden door to the kitchen. Raymond Fox was still sitting at the table, the women milling about him. Lunch was being prepared, and Mousie was being pressed to stay and join them, but there was no sign of the parcel.
George debated with himself and then spoke to Emma as she emerged from the larder.
‘I’ll be off now,’ he said, ‘or I’ll be late for lunch. Shall I take that parcel for Bruno?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she said quickly but very firmly. She seemed preoccupied, edgy. ‘Joss says that he’ll be up later on.’
He nodded and turned to Joss.
‘Let me know later on if you feel like a walk,’ he told her. ‘I shall be down at the field to take the donkeys out at around two o’clock.’ Picking up his jacket from a chair, he went away without waiting for her reply.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Zoë slipped into the kitchen, quiet as a cat, dropped her overnight bag in the corner by Nellie’s bed and hesitated by the inner door. Her black eyes took in the simple preparations for lunch – some rolls standing on a rack ready to be warmed in the oven and the soup in a saucepan by the stove – and she made a rueful little grimace. Well, she hadn’t come for the food. As she listened for a moment, wondering if Bruno were alone, she shivered and wished she’d brought warmer clothes. She’d forgotten how cold it was on the north coast, and especially in this house perched halfway up its cliff.
No voices, no sound at all that she could hear; she took a few paces back, closed the door with a bang and called out: ‘Hello, darling. It’s me.’ She passed through the kitchen and into the sitting-room just as Bruno emerged from his study and they stood for a second or two surveying each other. Zoë moved first.
‘I’m sure I’m being a nuisance,’ she said, putting up her face to be kissed, first one cheek and then the other, ‘but there’s no need to look quite so unwelcoming.’
‘Am I?’ He chuckled a little. ‘Well, I warned you that your timing is bad.’
She shrugged ruefully. ‘My timing is always bad. As far as I can see there’s never a good time for anything and the older you grow the worse it gets. Honestly …’
She paused, checking herself. It was much too early to go along that path; she needed time to soften him up a little. Perhaps after a drink or two and some gossip …
‘Honestly what?’ he was asking, wary already. ‘What brings you to North Cornwall in February, Zoë? I should have thought that the Maldives were more your scene.’
‘And how right you are, darling. The trouble is nobody was offering. It was Cornwall or nothing.’ She shivered again. ‘I always forget how cold it is here. No wonder you keep that fire going right through winter.’
‘Wait a minute.’ He ran up the stairs and after a few minutes reappeared with a scarlet pashmina. ‘Emma keeps it here for the same reason. She won’t mind if you borrow it.’
Zoë raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. She suspected that Emma would mind very much but she merely wrapped the shawl about her thin frame and perched in the rocking-chair beside the fire, watching Bruno as he piled on more logs and fanned the wood into bright, leaping flames.
‘Merlin,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you remember how I called you that after I’d read the Mary Stewart trilogy? Calling up the fire. You’ve always been able to do that. Two bits of twig and a handful of ash and within minutes you’d have a blaze going.’
He shrugged. ‘Keeping warm is important.’
‘Too right, darling.’ She spoke vehemently but, remembering her plan, immediately changed the subject. ‘I am so sorry about Mutt. I like
d her, you know.’
‘So you said earlier.’ Bruno put the bellows on the flat hearthstone and sat down on the sofa. ‘She liked you too.’
She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t say it like that, sweetie. Some people do. Odd, isn’t it? Mutt didn’t make judgements – I think that was what I liked about her. She never made me feel raw and young.’
Bruno laughed out loud. ‘You? Raw? Come off it.’
She laughed with him. ‘I was born old,’ she admitted, ‘but it didn’t do me much good, did it?’
She watched him, huddling the pashmina round her thin shoulders, out-staring his assessing look. It was strange that she didn’t feel the usual requirement to straighten her back and lift her chin, in an attempt to hide the ageing process, but merely gave him back stare for stare. Perhaps it was because she knew him so well and knew also that, like Mutt, Bruno didn’t judge his fellow men: that was why she was here today.
‘You had a good career. Good grief, you were internationally famous.’ He was answering her question – but carefully. ‘Your problem was that, given the nature of it, it was bound to be a short-lived one.’
She made a gesture that disposed of the past. ‘We’ve said all this before. It’s history. How’s life here at St Meriadoc?’
‘Just as it usually is.’ He stood up. ‘Like a drink?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘Well, actually not as it usually is for the obvious reasons. Emma’s here, of course, and Brer Fox arrived earlier this morning.’
‘They’re up at the house?’ She deliberately made the question light but was relieved by his answering nod. ‘Brer Fox must be rubbing his hands with glee.’ She took her glass and grinned up at him. ‘You’ll have to watch him, won’t you?’
‘Why?’ Bruno sat down again on the sofa and then cursed as a sharp barking was heard. ‘Hang on. That’s Nellie back from her afternoon walk to the Paradise gardens.’
He went out and she heard the back door open. Nellie came gambolling in, tongue lolling, delighted to see a guest, and Zoë quickly put her glass out of harm’s reach and stretched a hand to pat her.
‘Careful,’ Bruno said. ‘Her feet are wet. Here, Nellie. Here, you wretched animal. On your rug.’
Nellie leaped gracefully onto the end of the sofa and curled onto her rug, one paw stretched out to Bruno’s knee.
‘She’s such a nice, smiley person,’ said Zoë, watching her. ‘I wish I could have a dog but the flat’s far too small. I sometimes long for a puppy. What fun it would be!’
‘You’d hate having a puppy,’ answered Bruno at once. ‘The sheer relentlessness of it would kill you. It’s a bit like having a child…’
He paused, picking up his glass, his face suddenly bleak.
Damn, thought Zoë. Damn, damn, damn. Just the wrong note to strike.
‘Well, you’re right, of course,’ she said aloud; best to meet it head on, after all. ‘I have this unfortunate character which always lets me down when it really matters most. No moral fibre or whatever they used to call it. So how is Emma taking it? Poor Emma. She’ll be gutted but I bet old Brer Fox has got the valuers in already.’
Bruno grinned unwillingly. ‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ he admitted, ‘but you’re probably not far out.’
In the silence that followed she noted his sudden abstraction, the way his eyes seemed to look inward, and sipped thoughtfully at her wine.
‘I suppose it’s share-out time,’ she suggested casually. ‘But you’ve always expected it, haven’t you? You and Emma always knew how it would go. I can hear her now: “You have The Lookout and I’ll have Paradise.” The thing is,’ she shifted in the chair, ‘neither of you ever talked about the rest of it.’
Her keen black glance saw the small frown appear between his eyes although he continued to smooth Nellie’s coat. She now lay half on her back, her head hanging over the seat of the chair, looking totally relaxed and quite absurd.
Zoë chuckled. ‘That dog,’ she said affectionately. ‘Crazy animal. So what about the rest of it then, Bruno?’ She decided to press him a little; he could warn her off if he wanted to. ‘How has Mutt left it, do you know?’
He glanced at her almost measuringly, as if deciding what to tell her.
‘I haven’t seen the will,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m hoping that the boatyard won’t be left to Emma. That could be tricky.’
‘Tricky?’ She gazed at him in disbelief at such an under-statement. ‘Tricky? Surely she’d have realized that Brer Fox would turn the cove into some kind of leisure complex before Rafe and Mousie can take off their black armbands. What would you do about it?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘What could I do about it? Of course there’s the Inheritance Tax to be paid.’
‘And where does that come from?’
‘Out of the estate.’ He rubbed his fingers reflectively over his jaw. ‘Something will have to go.’
‘But what?’ She settled back into the chair, tucking the pashmina more firmly around her knees. ‘If Mutt has left the boatyard to Emma then that would give Brer Fox just the handle he needs. He always wanted to develop the boatyard and finding money to pay the Inheritance Tax would give him the perfect excuse.’
‘Possibly. There are quite a few problems, though. It’ll need planning permission, of course. Perhaps we’ll have to sell Paradise. Anyway,’ he seemed to pull himself together, abandoning the confidences, ‘tell me how you are and how Jilly is. How about some lunch? Not too exciting, I’m afraid, but you didn’t give me any warning. I’d offer you another drink but I suppose if you’re driving it wouldn’t be very sensible.’
‘Well, that’s just it.’ She wriggled a little, looking rather forlorn. ‘I’ve got a problem, darling.’
He looked amused. ‘No change there, then. What is it this time?’
‘I was hoping that I could stay for a day or two.’ His expression changed so swiftly from amusement to surprise that she pretended dismay. ‘Oh, don’t look like that, darling. The truth of it is that Jilly rather used me as a cover so that dear old Tim didn’t smell a rat and now I find that she’s invited Greg Allen too. Three is definitely a crowd and I’m hoping that you might rescue me just for a few nights at least.’
He stood up, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, and she felt a genuine pang of anxiety.
‘I told you on the telephone, Zoë, that this is simply not a good time.’
‘I know, darling,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I see that. But I won’t be in the way, really I won’t. After all, Emma’s up at the house. Please, Bruno. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, especially just now. I’ll keep out of the way.’
‘Oh, do me a favour, love,’ he said crossly. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. What is it really?’
She hesitated, curled back in the chair as she stared up at him, wondering how much to tell him.
‘I’ve got a serious cash flow problem,’ she said rapidly. ‘They’ve switched off the power at the flat, the bastards, and it’s freezing. When Jilly said she was thinking of coming down I offered to drive her if she paid for half the petrol. I thought I’d come on to you and ask if you’d help.’
‘I’m flattered,’ he said drily. ‘You don’t normally feel the need to drive all this way to ask for money. A telephone call usually does the trick. What’s so different this time?’
She looked away from him. It had been worth a try but she might have guessed that he’d see through her.
‘The truth is that I’ve got in a bit of a muddle.’ She reached for the inevitable cigarette, caught his wry look and shrugged shamefacedly. ‘I’m trying to give up, honestly.’ She breathed in a lungful of nicotine and visibly relaxed, breathing out the smoke and settling herself more comfortably, folding her legs beneath her. ‘The thing is,’ she began again, ‘I’ve had a bit of a difficult spell. I thought I had some work lined up, a really good commission with Sligo, and then it fell through. Anyway, I’d got deep in on the strength of it, maxed the credit cards and so on, fallen behind with
the rent. Well,’ she shrugged again. ‘It’s not the first time, is it? But then I had a bit of luck. I saw Sally Vine in Peter Jones and she was telling me about her mother. You remember Evelyn Bose, the artist? She’s pretty ga-ga now, and poor old Sally’s at her wits’ end, but the plan is to let Evelyn’s basement flat to someone who can keep her eye on her, spend some time with her, do a bit of shopping and so on. She’s got someone to come in and do the cleaning and some cooking, but Evelyn gets lonely and Sally simply hasn’t the time. So I said, “What about me?” and she jumped at it. I’ve always got on well with old Evie, and she likes me, so we struck a deal. A tiny rent in return for companionship.’ She blew another cloud of smoke. ‘So I get a comfortable flat for peanuts in exchange for listening to old Evie droning on about her lovers. I can handle that.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The fact is, I’ve had to get out of my flat but Evie’s isn’t available until the beginning of next week.’ She pulled a face, not looking at him. ‘If you must know, I’ve borrowed from all my chums and I can’t bear the humiliation of hearing their voices when they know it’s me on the phone. Jilly said she’d pay the petrol if I drove her down but Tim will be arriving on Saturday and they’ll go back together. To be honest, darling, I haven’t got anywhere else to go at the moment.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mousie leaned on the field gate, some withered apples in her pocket and Mutt’s will tucked into the shabby leather bag slung over her shoulder. She’d managed to resist Emma’s invitations to lunch, finishing her coffee and hurrying away as soon as could, and now she took a moment to catch her breath. It was only this morning after breakfast that she’d thought of the place where the will might be; a place where Mutt had put personal papers, letters and cards that she’d treasured. Oddly, this wasn’t in the desk in her parlour but in a drawer in her dressing-table. During those early days after her fall, she’d asked Mousie to bring something – a letter from Emma, perhaps – from the drawer and it had been obvious that it was here she kept her special correspondence.
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