A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  I had to slow down, though, when a heifer blocked our way.

  ‘How many bulls are there in this field?’ Celia asked nervously, closing her window. ‘Surely they fight?’

  ‘Cows,’ I told her. ‘Highland ones, hence the horns. Roger’s into rare breeds.’

  ‘Like his wife, by all accounts.’

  I shot her a reproving look. The shaggy blonde moved slowly away, looking unnervingly, as Celia observed, like Boris Johnson, and sent us a baleful stare. We rumbled over the cattle grid to where gravel replaced clay. Past the agricultural barn we went, with hay bales stored one side and loose boxes the other, the latter these days housing classic cars rather than horses, and on towards the arch of the coach house and stable yard where the real equines lived. We purred through the yard, slowing down for the cobbles, and anything that might be tied to a ring and ready to swerve its backside nervously into my path. All the gorgeous creatures my hungry eyes sought, though, were sensibly in the shade, at the back of their stables: only a noble iron-grey had his Roman nose over a door and regarded us with mild interest as we rolled on through and under a corresponding arch. As we emerged, Celia was treated, not only to the best view of the house with its famous John Soane façade creeping with pale pink roses, but crucially, to a panoramic view of the sea, which we drove towards, and which faced the front.

  ‘Oh!’ She sat up, duly impressed. Speechless, actually.

  The large, rambling old manor sat serene and comfortable, its windows glinting in the sunlight, presiding over a shimmering sweep of pure blue. Out of sight, at the foot of a cliff, which wasn’t as steep as it looked and which I knew every inch of how to clamber, lay a pale sandy beach. In a far corner was a small wooden boathouse, inside which Hugo and I had spent many happy hours. All we could see from here, though, was the edge of the garden, which stopped abruptly at the cliff, and was a riot of daisies and cowslips. A more manicured lawn and a formal gravel sweep led to a curving flight of shallow stone steps, worn thin by centuries of feet – not to mention bottoms, for this spot afforded the best view – then double front doors, invitingly open under a splendid fanlight. So many laughs on those steps: so many friends gathered, so many flirtations, so many intense, moonlit conversations. If only they could talk.

  ‘Did you fall in love with the house or with the man?’

  I hesitated, remembering the first time I’d come here, on a very different sort of day. It had been the dead of winter, with a frost so hard it made everything sparkle, the windows glittering even more brightly than they did today.

  Celia saw my hesitation and laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Lizzy Bennett gets off on Pemberley, which all the feminist literature professors determinedly overlook. Bugger the wet-shirted Darcy, it’s his gaff that clinches it for her.’ She gazed out speculatively. ‘This is certainly working for me. I say, who’s this bucolic character straight out of central casting?’

  Celia was prone to saying things like ‘I say’ which unwittingly betrayed her cultivated right-on persona. I turned. Small, slim and crumpled looking, with a hobbling gait, wearing old-fashioned breeches tied up with binder twine, trying to keep from smiling because she didn’t do that sort of thing as a rule, and who, on approach, was actually prettier than you’d think, came the only person I was truly looking forward to seeing. Someone who you’d better think twice about before purring through her stable yard and getting away with it.

  ‘This,’ I told her happily, ‘is Iris. One of my most favourite people in the world.’ I jumped from the car and ran to meet her.

  2

  Iris didn’t really entertain hugging – she was not of that generation or persuasion – but she nonetheless submitted woodenly to the one I forced upon her.

  ‘Sorry,’ I told her, grinning as I released her, returning her to her solitary status. ‘Couldn’t resist. It’s so good to see you, Iris.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s been a while,’ she admitted stiffly, but her mouth was twitching and her piercing blue eyes gleamed. ‘I was expecting you, though. I gather you’re painting his highness, not that anyone bothered to tell me. Letty Parker in the pub got wind.’

  ‘Yes, well, they offered me a socking great fee so I couldn’t really resist,’ I admitted, looking apologetically at my shoes.

  ‘Couldn’t resist coming back here, you mean. I think you’re barking, incidentally. Who’s this?’

  Celia had approached with her most dazzling smile, hand outstretched. ‘Celia Lonsdale,’ she told her. ‘And I think she’s barking, too. I’m the bodyguard.’

  ‘Ignore Celia,’ I told Iris hastily. ‘She’s a painter, too, but she used to be an actress so she overdramatizes. For some reason she’s become a great friend and she’s also Peter’s godmother.’

  Iris scrutinized Celia carefully. ‘The christening was here. In the village. I don’t remember you?’

  ‘I’m an honorary one,’ Celia told her. ‘Peter asked me about four years ago. Said he only had one godmother, and both his godfathers were friends of his father’s, not Flora’s.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Iris slowly. ‘Shona, obviously. And cousin Ben. And the other one’s that American fellow he met at school.’ She turned to me. ‘Who’s here, by the way.’

  ‘Tommy Rochester?’ I gasped, horrified. ‘Here? He’s not. Why?’

  Iris shrugged her shoulders. She took the butt of a cigar out of her pocket and lit it. ‘No idea. Holiday, I imagine. He says he’s between jobs.’

  Celia’s eyes grew round as Iris puffed away. She hastily lit a cigarette even though she’d just put one out, a companion in this archaic ritual, rare these days. Especially one who went for the big guns.

  ‘Bugger,’ I seethed. ‘That wretched man. He’s like a bloody boomerang, always hurtling back. Peter says he’s always coming to London.’ I was furious. Tommy Rochester was the last person I wanted to see, particularly down here. He really would wonder why I’d come, and suggest the unthinkable with his knowing looks and mocking smile. A supposedly self-made man – albeit with wealthy Connecticut parents who no doubt still lobbed him a trust fund – he didn’t have a creative bone in his body and ran something odious like a hedge fund, or a management consultancy in New York. Something hard-nosed and financial, anyway. I have no doubt he looked entirely the part too, all slicked-back hair and snappy braces. He was also the worst sort of Lothario with a penchant for married women. It was said that Tommy had been in and under some of the smartest beds in Manhattan – and out of their windows. Nothing was lost in the telling, of course, and I have no doubt he delighted in these scurrilous tales of modern piracy, pillage on Wall Street by day and seduction on the Upper East Side by night. Doubtless he added his own, apocryphal embellishments. Temperamentally he was anathema to me, he pressed all my buttons, not least because I still blamed him, in some part, for Hugo and me breaking up.

  ‘Oh, this is too exciting,’ Celia breathed huskily, sucking hard on her Marlboro Light. ‘The famous Tommy Rochester. I’ve heard about him. Is he attached?’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw the front door opening slightly, although no one actually appeared. Most country houses used the back, but not Trewarren: traffic resolutely went up and down those steps, mostly because the mistress’s study was at the front, and thus a vigilant eye was kept.

  ‘Seems to be. He’s brought someone with him, at any rate,’ said Iris. ‘Nice girl. Good little jockey.’

  I was surprised. Not that Tommy had brought someone with him, that was par for the course, but Iris had an acerbic word for most people. She was certainly still eyeing Celia suspiciously, having not made up her mind. Being a good jockey helped, of course. Anyone who rode well started a few rungs up Iris’s ladder.

  ‘A tart, naturally.’ She sniffed. ‘But I don’t hold that against her. Anyway, I’d better bugger off,’ she said, glancing at the front door.

  Sure enough, Belinda was sailing down the steps. Dressed in a voluminous blue and white floral frock, a welcoming smile on her round face, s
he was very definitely making her entrance. Still undoubtedly pretty in a plump, peaches and cream, English rose sort of way, her blonde-grey curls swept back from her forehead and tucked behind pearl-studded ears, she radiated lady of the manor.

  ‘Flora! You’re here. My dear, how lovely.’ Her plummy tones floated tunefully on the breeze. ‘I was hoping you’d make it in time for lunch. Was the traffic ghastly?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ I told her as she drifted across like a stately galleon and enveloped me in her soft, velvety arms, very much a hugger. She smelled wonderful, as always. I’d once asked Hugo what scent she wore, out of interest, but disconcertingly he’d looked thrilled and given me a bottle of Arpège for Christmas. I’d conveniently lost it, not entirely sure I wanted to smell like his mother. Her beady gaze had fallen on Celia, now.

  ‘And who is this?’

  ‘My friend Celia, remember? I said in my email …’ I reminded her, colouring up. Iris took the opportunity to hobble away. ‘When you offered the cottage. I said I’d love to bring her, because she paints seascapes and—’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, I remember,’ Belinda cut me off in mid-stream. She flapped her hand dismissively. ‘But so much is going on here I clean forgot. I’ll have Yvonne make another bed up down there.’

  ‘Oh, well, no, I can do that,’ said Celia. ‘There’s no need to trouble Yv—’

  ‘No trouble,’ Belinda interrupted. Her face was all glittery smiles as she extended her hand. ‘Belinda Bellingdon,’ she purred.

  ‘Celia Lonsdale. And it’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Luckily Belinda was far too imbued with her own self-worth to spot any irony, and she smiled graciously, taking the compliment at face value. Celia was looking for somewhere to put out her cigarette, not so confident now her partner in crime had gone.

  ‘Oh, just squish it on the gravel. I’m sure they biodegrade,’ Belinda told her airily.

  Celia, who knew they didn’t, looked dubious. But she did as she was told.

  ‘And you’ve seen Iris, who’s no doubt already told you we’ve got a houseful. Come in, my dears, let’s not stand around out here.’

  ‘A … a houseful?’ I faltered.

  ‘Yes, so actually it’s splendid you’ve brought Celia. The more the merrier. And thank goodness the weather’s changed – it’s set fair for weeks now, apparently.’ We were moving towards the house, but Belinda went back and stooped to pick up the cigarette stub, pocketing it. Celia reddened. ‘Hopefully we can have all our meals outside,’ she went on, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Oh – n-no, Belinda,’ I stammered. ‘Remember I said we’d fend for ourselves? At the cottage? Which was why I invited Celia …’ I felt a familiar prickly heat and a general confusion to do with history always being rewritten by Belinda, who was not as sweetly vague as she seemed, and would never have forgotten I was bringing a friend and wouldn’t want meals at the house.

  Belinda contrived to look astonished and hurt. ‘Oh well. As you wish, my dear. But don’t forget, you’re family, and you must help yourself to anything. Don’t ask. I was just saying to Tommy and his girl, for heaven’s sake, don’t stand on cerem—’

  ‘Why is Tommy here?’ I asked abruptly.

  Belinda turned to look at me in surprise. ‘Why, because Hugo and Christina asked him, of course. He was in London anyway, and—’

  ‘Hugo and Christina?’ I stopped, halfway up the flight of stone steps. Celia almost cannoned into the back of me, but her eyes, when I glanced round, were huge too. ‘I thought they were abroad for the summer?’

  ‘Well, darling, they thought so, too. But it turned out there was some fuss at the works. Something to do with a pipeline, urgent maintenance or something. They had to cancel. Honestly, that wretched business! It was the same in Roger’s day. Couldn’t seem to do without him for five minutes! Naturally they’re disappointed, but there we are. These things happen. I thought Peter would have told you?’

  ‘No … no. He – he must have forgotten to mention it.’

  She led us inside. ‘Well, it’s a blessing, too, of course, because it means they’re here for the summer, which is lovely for us. And they’re so dying to see you. Oh Lord, is that a mouse she’s got? Truffle, come here!’ She bustled after their ancient black Labrador who’d appeared with a welcoming present, wagging her tail. Seeing it was not appreciated she fled with her prize to the kitchen. Belinda gave chase.

  ‘I’d never have come,’ I muttered, horrified. ‘If I’d known …’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Celia murmured, ‘we’ll handle it.’

  ‘We’ll find an excuse. Mum’s broken her leg, or – or a fire in the studio. Yes, a fire—’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Celia soothed as Belinda returned, bearing the dead mouse triumphantly by the tail. ‘At least it’s not a rat!’ she cried. ‘She’s done that before.’ She leaned past us and chucked it through the door into the flower bed. ‘Wretched dog, she collects them, would you believe. I found three in her basket the other day, and let me tell you, they reek. Now, in you come. I think everyone’s on the terrace. Lunch won’t be long – we waited, which means they’re probably well oiled by now.’

  Dumb and speechless with fear – me, not Celia, who looked horribly enthralled – we had no choice but to follow Belinda’s swaying floral behind through the drawing room and towards the open French windows, which gave on to the terrace and a sweeping lawn. A huge cedar tree spread its branches centrally over it, like wings, and another beautiful sea view unfolded beyond. It was years since I’d walked through these rooms: years since I’d been here with my baby in my arms – I’d breastfed him over there, by the fire, when I’d brought him here for the first time from London, on that sofa. He’d taken his very first steps out there, on the terrace we were making for now, cheered on by his father and grandfather, who’d applauded as if Peter were winning the Grand National. Roger had taken his finger and walked slowly with him down the lawn whilst Peter, unsteady and wobbly on chubby legs, had beamed toothlessly, as I’d taken pictures.

  Roger was rising from his chair at the head of the table. He was a tall, statuesque man, with a shock of white hair, a little stiffer perhaps these days, but still handsome. He was smiling broadly and his face looked even more brick-red than I remembered, but perhaps the hair was whiter. He held out his arms and came towards me, beaming.

  ‘Flora! My dear. How lovely to see you.’ He embraced me warmly and then stepped back. He struck a classical pose, hand on hip, chin in the air, a finger poised beneath it. ‘Will I do?’

  I laughed, despite myself. ‘Of course you will, Roger. Very Gainsborough.’

  ‘Only I’m sure you’re used to nubile young chaps with chiselled chins and lean thighs, eh?’ He lurched towards me, twinkling. ‘Possibly in the buff these days, too. What with all those life classes. Well, you’ll be delighted to hear I’m clinging to the garments. Belinda wants me in the High Sheriff garb, but I thought like this? Trousers and a jersey? More relaxed?’

  ‘Definitely. Although we could always try you in your hunting pink?’ I said mischievously.

  His eyes popped with pleasure as I knew they would. ‘I say, why not! Terrific idea! Bit of a clash with the old complexion, though?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Belinda said briskly. ‘And there are more than enough hunting portraits in this family. Now, don’t monopolize the poor girl, Roger, these two are dying to see her.’

  I was entirely happy with the genial Roger though, and would cheerfully have never left him, but Belinda had her hand under my elbow and was steering me lightly but firmly on. To be fair, I think she was lending me her strength. She might guess this was an ordeal.

  I’m not entirely sure how I got through it. My heart was leaping in my ribcage, but I greeted my ex-husband and his wife as if I did this every day. Not just a few times a term at school events, totally psyched up beforehand and with a couple of glasses of white wine under my belt. And the thing was, I had divorced fri
ends who did this regularly. Josie even went on holiday with her ex and his new wife, and she didn’t have a partner either, so I knew it was me. But it still hurt so much. Those Wendy Cope lines: ‘And yet I cannot cure myself of love, For what I thought you were before I knew you,’ sprang perpetually to mind. Not that he was horrid now, or mean; he hadn’t changed, however much I sometimes tried to persuade myself he had. He just didn’t love me. And since no one had ever come close since he’d left, how on earth was I supposed to get over him, as everyone said I should, and as I knew I should, too? Not by smiling into his blue eyes which matched the sea beyond as he hugged me warmly, that’s for sure. His face was wreathed in genuine pleasure, clearly hoping my presence here marked something of a watershed. The beginning of a new chapter, Flora? A much less emotional chapter. Emotional was a word that was used a lot. As if I was neurotic. Unhinged.

  Well, true, some of my behaviour had been less than hinged, I supposed, as I looked into the equally hopeful eyes of his tall, blonde, attractive wife. The one with the wide smile and the longest legs – about twice the length of mine. The one I’d sobbed down the telephone to in the small hours and who was giving me the warmest of greetings as she told me, confidentially, that she was so pleased I’d come. I hadn’t known you’d be here! I wanted to screech back as she stood, holding both my hands in hers to get a proper look at me.