Emma got up, looking puzzled and rather frightened, but she went readily enough. The door closed behind them and Dan sat down again at the table. He reached for his tea but his hand trembled so much that he set the cup back in its saucer and he continued to sit in silence, waiting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘So what was that all about?’ Pamela stood in the archway to the kitchen, mug in one hand and cloth in the other, listening as the front door banged shut behind Mousie. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I have no idea.’ It sounded as if Rafe had moved to the window. ‘She’s dashed in next door … Ah, here she is again. She’s got a parcel with her and she’s crossing the bridge … and going up to Paradise.’ He turned back into the room. ‘I wonder who this young man can be to cause so much consternation.’
‘She said he was an American, didn’t she?’ Pamela put the cloth and the mug on the table. ‘I didn’t quite catch what she said. As soon as you said she was back from Polzeath I went to put the kettle on.’
‘Well, she came in and put our shopping on the chair, and then she made some joke about the quarry becoming a national car-park, or something. That’s because of Zoë’s car being there, I suppose, and she asked who the visitor was. I told her that I didn’t recognize him but that I’d seen the car there last weekend. I told her that it was a tall young man with very dark hair and that he had a briefcase. I suppose I thought he might be someone to do with the funeral arrangements.’
‘But she cried out, didn’t she?’ asked Pamela. ‘That’s when I came through. I wondered what had happened.’
Rafe frowned a little, trying to pin the memory down accurately.
‘She cried, “Oh, my God, it’s the American boy with the photograph.” Something like that. And then she said, “And Emma’s at Paradise alone.” Her face turned quite pale and she had a look …’
‘What kind of look?’ she asked, after a moment.
‘It’s what we always used to describe as “Mousie being fey” when she was a girl. That’s what Mother called it, anyway. There were one or two occasions when Mousie seemed to get ideas about things or people. Not seeing into the future or anything like that, just very strong intuitions. As she got older I think she kept them to herself but I still recognized it. Mother didn’t encourage it, she thought it was fanciful, but I saw it as a rather useful gift. Anyway, that’s what she looked like just now. As if she’d had a premonition about something and it was about to become fact.’
‘Do you think she’s guessed about Joss and George?’ wondered Pamela, imagining Mousie in this new light.
‘I expect so.’ He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Probably you and I are the only ones who didn’t. All this time, under our noses, we must have been blind … sorry, darling.’
She chuckled too. ‘If I weren’t blind I might have noticed something. The thing is that they’ve been in and out and under our feet all their lives so we’ve taken their relationship for granted. And so had they. It must have been such a shock.’ She sighed with pleasure. ‘He sounded so happy, Rafe, when he was telling us last evening.’
‘He looked happy, so different from how he was when he went out to meet her, but sort of shocked, as well.’
She picked up quickly on this remark. ‘I felt that, too, but I thought it could simply be relief that it was settled so quickly with Joss. She might easily have held him off until the divorce was through or in case Penny changed her mind; something like that. I imagined that he was still trying to come to terms with his good luck: one minute despair, the next joy.’ She laughed. ‘Or am I being crazy?’
‘No,’ answered Rafe slowly. ‘Not crazy.’
‘But you don’t think it was that?’
He heard the anxiety in her voice and marshalled his ideas, recalling his reactions as he had learned to do since she had been unable to do it for herself.
‘He looked very happy,’ he reassured her; this was the most important thing, ‘but he had the expression of someone who is trying to assimilate a new idea which has come as quite a shock. It was as if he were trying to think something through and come to terms with it.’
‘But not the fact that Joss loves him?’
Rafe shook his head, remembered she couldn’t see this response and said, ‘No. I don’t think that was a shock to him. I think it was a relief that it was established so quickly between them, and that they don’t intend to make a secret of it any longer, but this was something else.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Dammit, do you see what you’ve done to me? I’ve become a psychologist; reading body language and expressions like some old wise woman scrying runes in the tea-leaves.’
She laughed with him, sympathetically. ‘But it’s important,’ she told him as if to comfort him. ‘If you notice things then we can be prepared.’ She reached a hand to him. ‘So what could it be?’
‘I don’t know but I don’t think it’s directly to do with them, if that’s any comfort. Or, if it had been, then they’d dealt with it as regards themselves and it’s something else outside them now.’
Pamela groaned. ‘How frustrating it all is. I just want them to be able to be happy after all this, although I shouldn’t say that with poor old Mutt …’
‘George is back.’ Rafe was at the window. ‘I think Joss will have to take her car up to Paradise tonight at this rate. Mousie’s right: it’s beginning to look like a car-park out there.’
‘How does he look?’ asked Pamela.
Rafe grinned. ‘Like a man who’s just had lunch with his sweetheart. Full of himself, beaming away like an idiot, two foot taller than when he went off to Wadebridge …’
They were both laughing when he came in and he laughed too, for sheer happiness.
‘Whose is that car?’ he asked. ‘Got a visitor?’
‘It’s rather odd, actually,’ Rafe answered. ‘It was here last weekend. A young man with a briefcase got out and went up to Paradise and then Mousie came in and when I described him she threw a fit and went screaming up after him.’
‘But why?’ George went to stand beside his father, staring out at the car as if it might answer the puzzle. ‘Emma’s up there, isn’t she?’
‘Rafe thinks that Mousie had some kind of premonition that something was going to happen and when she heard about this young man she shot off,’ Pamela explained jokingly to George. ‘Make any sense to you?’
When he made no reply Pamela turned towards him, surprised, and Rafe said sharply, ‘What’s going on?’
Pamela cried, ‘No Slips, George,’ into the silence that followed and she heard him take a very deep breath like someone about to dive into fathomless water.
‘Come on, George,’ said Rafe. ‘Let’s be having it.’
‘It’s not my secret,’ George said quickly, ‘but Joss said that I could tell you, although we were going to wait until after the funeral. It’s not about us, at least not in that way, although it rebounds on Joss. Really, it’s about Mutt.’
‘About Mutt?’ Pamela groped for a chair and sat down in it.
‘I’ll tell you,’ George said, as if coming to a very important decision, ‘but you mustn’t say a word to anyone until after the funeral.’ He and Rafe sat down too. ‘You won’t believe it, I promise you. It starts when Mutt and the children came back from India. Can you remember that, Pa?’
‘Well, of course I can.’ Rafe settled more comfortably, elbows on the table. ‘I was, what, thirteen? Fourteen? We were all so shocked at the news of Hubert’s death. I remember when the telegram came from Liverpool and Uncle James came down here with it. “Why wait until now to tell us?” he kept repeating and Mother tried to calm him down. “The poor child must be devastated with grief,” she said – something like that. “She’s got the two children to cope with, and remember that she doesn’t know any of us.” Poor old Uncle James was gutted although he was very stoic. We’d lost Father during the war and Mother was very sympathetic towards Mutt in the way that generation was: rather brusque but kindly. I remember th
at Bruno was very quiet, living in a world of his own and playing games with imaginary friends, and I wonder now if that was his way of dealing with his grief. Emma was too young to know anything. She was an absolute sweetie and we all loved her. Mutt …’ He paused, thinking back, giving a sad little sigh. ‘She was very beautiful. I worshipped her in a young boy’s romantic way with an older woman but I think that Mousie could never quite forgive her for marrying Hubert. Mousie adored Hubert and I think she was jealous of her. I taught her to sail, she took to the water as if it were her natural element, and she became very proficient, well, you know that …’
‘But why do you ask?’ Pamela couldn’t control her impatience. ‘Does it matter what Mutt was like all those years ago?’
‘I just wondered what it must have been like for her.’ George sounded as if he were trying to find a way to break the news as gently as possible. ‘The fact is that she wasn’t Honor Trevannion at all. Honor died with Hubert and their daughter Emma in Karachi.’ He grimaced into the shocked silence. ‘It doesn’t sound possible, does it? I’ll try to tell you how it was just the way Joss told me but, remember, I can hardly believe it myself.’
He began to tell her story carefully and faithfully, trying to recall the words she’d used as they’d sat together beside the Saint’s Well, whilst Pamela and Rafe listened in disbelieving silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Mousie telephoned Bruno just after Zoë had trailed away upstairs for her afternoon rest.
‘I try to do it most days, darling,’ she’d told him, yawning widely. ‘Keeps me going. I can thoroughly recommend it, although one doesn’t necessarily have to be alone.’
She’d raised an eyebrow suggestively and he’d grinned at the implied invitation: it wouldn’t have been the first time but today he’d felt on edge and had shaken his head.
‘Nice idea,’ he’d said, ‘but I’m not in the mood.’
She’d shrugged philosophically and drifted up the narrow, twisting staircase, disappearing out of sight just as the telephone rang.
‘I’m at Paradise.’ Mousie’s voice was low and guarded. ‘The young American Dan Crosby is here, and he and Emma have been looking at photographs.’
‘Oh my God,’ he said involuntarily.
‘My reaction exactly,’ she said drily. ‘I hope you won’t be angry but I’ve given her the letters to read. It was the only way, Bruno, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ he said, after a moment. ‘How is she?’
‘I’ve put her in the parlour at Mutt’s desk. It seemed the right place for her to read them, somehow, but I think you should be here. I’ve suggested that she reads them right through but she might suddenly need some support. When you get here I’ll take Dan down to my cottage and tell him the truth about it all. I think that’s only right now, but it’s best he’s not here when Emma comes out.’
‘I quite agree,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll come straight up.’
He left Nellie sleeping peacefully and walked quickly up to Paradise; his gut was twisted with anxiety but there was relief too. He let himself in quietly and went into the kitchen. The young man got quickly to his feet; he looked deeply distressed, shaken by the drama he had unwittingly set in motion. Bruno held out his hand, smiling at him.
‘I am just so sorry.’ Dan gripped the hand gratefully. ‘You have to believe that I had no idea about all this.’
‘How could you know?’ Bruno glanced at Mousie. ‘Have you managed to tell him the whole story?’
She shook her head. ‘Only the bare bones. I think he should come and have some tea and then I can explain it to him properly. He’s as shocked as we are.’
‘I certainly am. I feel terrible.’ Dan looked it. His face was grey, as if with fatigue, his eyes blank. ‘And at a moment like this too …’
‘The time was right,’ Bruno told him gently. ‘Don’t feel badly. Good will come of this now, I’m sure of it. It means a new start for us. For all of us. Go and have some tea and we’ll meet later on.’
‘You’re very kind.’
He stumbled out after Mousie, the picture of misery, and Bruno stood alone, his mind focusing on Emma. He glanced at the photographs scattered on the table and, with a jolt to his heart, saw his mother and father smiling up at him. Picking up the wedding picture he scanned their faces carefully, trying to remember them like this: young, laughing, happy. Only tiny flashes from the past – his father swinging him high above his head, his mother’s voice singing a nursery rhyme – rewarded his effort. His father’s face was familiar – Bruno had a portrait photograph of him from about this time – but his mother’s he barely recognized. He stared at her pretty face feeling somehow guilty, as if he had connived at the sudden dispatch to oblivion of her and his little sister’s memory. He castigated himself as he recalled how quickly, after that appalling ending in Karachi, he had allowed the layers of his new life to wrap him about, concealing and protecting him from the pain of grief and loss. Those early months of his new life, hedged about with secrecy and full of numbing new experiences, had allowed only brief moments for mourning.
Bruno sat down at the table, folding his arms in front of him, willing up the memory of that hotel room: his father and sister dead and his mother lying in bed, her hair dark with sweat, too weak to comfort him. Her suffering had been like some sick animal chained in that stifling room with them: alive and anguished and uncontrollable. He’d been helpless in his longing to bring her relief, only able to crouch protectively beside her, holding her hand and wiping her face from time to time with the damp, crumpled cotton sheet. How strong and bright Mutt’s sudden presence in contrast; how encouraging the feel of her arm about him as she’d kneeled with him beside his mother’s bed. Her relief at the sight of Mutt had been palpable; tears had trickled down her cheeks and she’d held up her arms for Mutt’s embrace.
‘Do exactly as Mutt tells you,’ she’d told him. ‘Promise me, darling,’ and he’d promised, the tears clotting in his throat, and all the while Mutt had held him steady.
Afterwards, on the voyage home and here at St Meriadoc, he’d learned to weave the memories of India into stories that he enacted as games, making it possible to deal with them but, in doing so, retreating further and further from the unbearable reality.
Bruno rested his chin on his arms, still staring at the photograph, and it was here Emma found him.
She’d finished the last letter with tears streaming down her face, piling the letters together and looking about the familiar room without quite knowing what she was doing. She sat at the desk, the words fresh in her mind, the image of the young and vulnerable woman still clearly before her.
‘Mutt,’ she murmured from time to time. ‘Oh, Mutt,’ and then wept again with despair and love.
She got up and wandered about the parlour, touching an unfinished tapestry, imagining her mother at the desk writing to the sister she would never see again, so that the tears continued to flow. Presently she felt the need to share her experience, to make it real by the confirmation of seeing the truth of it in someone else’s face, and she went almost blindly out into the hall. Through the half-open kitchen door she saw Bruno’s shoulder and bowed head and she went in to him.
‘Oh, Bruno,’ she cried. ‘Poor, darling Mutt. Oh, how I wish I’d known this before she died.’
He got to his feet and put his arms about her, gaining solace from her embrace and allowing the shadows of the past to slip gently away. She looked up into his face and saw his compassion and affection for her.
‘It was how she wanted it,’ he comforted her. ‘Don’t cry, Emma.’
‘What a shock.’ She took his proffered handkerchief and wiped distractedly at her cheeks and eyes. ‘I can hardly take it in. Yet while I was reading the letters she seemed so alive that when I’d finished I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t walk in. I had to start all over again convincing myself that she was dead. I wish I could tell her that I think she was brave and that I love her. All those
years of secrecy.’ She took a hold on her emotions and tried to control herself. ‘And you, Bruno. However did you manage it? I know it wasn’t right of her to put such a burden on you when you were so small but, all the same, I can’t help but feel for her.’
‘And so did I.’ He shook her gently by the arms. ‘I regret nothing. She did what was right at the time. It’s no good looking at it with hindsight. She’s showed us exactly how it was, and why she did it, and all of us – Mousie, Joss, you and I – we all accept her reasons.’
Emma sighed shakily and he helped her down on to a chair.
‘Joss knows,’ she said almost wonderingly. ‘And Mousie. She explained to me before I read the letters and said that you were waiting until after the funeral to tell me.’
‘That was how Joss wanted it.’ He sat down opposite. ‘She was afraid for you.’
Emma’s eyes brimmed again. ‘I thought of her just now. Opening them all alone that night. Mousie said she’s been so brave. Poor Joss. What a tremendous shock for her, and then going up to find Mutt had died. Thank God that you were here, Bruno.’
‘I do thank Him,’ answered Bruno most sincerely. He hesitated. ‘Perhaps we should have told you straight away. Mousie wanted to but Joss insisted that Mutt should be buried peacefully and you should have time to grieve.’
Emma managed a watery smile. ‘Poor darling. That was sweet of her.’ She put her hands to her face, massaging her eyes with her fingers. ‘I can still hardly take it in. Is it wrong to say that I feel proud of her? Of Mutt, I mean?’
‘You should be proud of her,’ he agreed. ‘She saved my life. You both did. I often wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t turned up then. Can you imagine a small boy of four, left alone in Karachi during those times? Imagine the loneliness, assuming I’d ever made it home, with all my family dead. You and Mutt gave continuity to my life. We’d all been so close, you see. You were my family.’
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