A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Belinda never warms up.’

  As I walked up to the stables later, along the rutted track between the fields, my boots and hat swinging in a basket, I wondered if Celia was right: that I was getting Belinda slightly out of proportion. Overreacting and losing perspective – it wasn’t unusual. It was just that she had such inconvenient ideas for other people’s pleasure, I decided, narrowing my eyes into the distance at the lowering sun. And was totally flummoxed when they disagreed. When we were first married, Hugo and I had found a sweet little flat in Clapham, which was near the Common for me to push a pram, and convenient for his office. We were all set to exchange, when Belinda arrived to inspect it and declared it was too damp for poor Flora and a baby and that I’d have no local friends. I tried, without success, to tell her I had at least two local friends and that the surveyor had said the damp was easily resolved, but in the blink of an eye she’d moved us to Fulham, where I knew no one (principally because no one could afford it – most of my friends were still drifting around in a post-university haze, bug-eyed at my marriage and imminent baby), and from where it was harder for Hugo to get to work.

  When we’d moved in and I was two months away from giving birth, she’d arrived again, beaming and bearing gifts – beautiful cashmere for the baby and expensive bath oils for me – and we’d sat chatting cosily in the kitchen whilst Hugo was at work. I was thrilled. I thought she’d finally warmed to me. Her absence at our wedding still chilled me and it had never been mentioned, never explained. And yet here Belinda was, in her very best navy woollen dress with matching jacket and pearl brooch on the lapel, reaching for my hand over tea and banana bread – I told you, unnervingly tactile. She smiled excitedly.

  ‘Darling!’ she said, eyes shining, as if we were the best of friends. ‘I have the most wonderful news.’

  For an insane moment I thought she was pregnant too, and glanced down, but all looked normal, and anyway, she was sweeping on.

  ‘I’ve found you the most marvellous maternity nurse.’

  ‘A … sorry?’

  ‘Maternity nurse, for when the baby comes. For the first two months. She’s an absolute gem and comes highly recommended from Cynthia Palmer’s girl, who says she simply couldn’t have done without her. She’s a complete treasure by all accounts and has a year-long waiting list – imagine! But by sheer luck a baby didn’t quite go according to plan and so she has a gap.’

  I couldn’t help thinking the poor mother of the baby that didn’t go to plan wouldn’t see it as luck, but I was still trying to get my befuddled pregnant head around the general concept.

  ‘A nurse? Oh – but Hugo and I thought we’d manage, actually. And Mum’s going to come up and help.’

  ‘Oh nonsense, your poor mother has more than enough to do with all her work and I absolutely insist. You’ll be exhausted. It’s our present to you. Roger’s and mine.’

  She squeezed my by-now quite clammy hand which I hastily extracted, and smiled delightedly. Belinda, that is, not me. My head was swimming.

  ‘But … so expensive, surely. And – and I’m honestly not sure I really want a-a—’

  ‘Not a bit of it. I told you. Our present.’ Her hand went up like a traffic policeman. Her eyes almost closed and then flickered, another unnerving habit. I’d mentioned money, too, of course, which was vulgar.

  ‘And – and where will she sleep?’ I said desperately. But I already knew.

  ‘Why, in the spare room, of course. We’ll clear it out.’

  My painting room, she meant. My studio. Which she’d already communicated, via Hugo, she considered a health hazard because of the oil paints, not good for a tiny baby, even though I always kept the door shut and the window open and it was at the far end of the corridor. Dangerous, she’d even said on the phone to him once, which had alarmed Hugo and he’d repeated it.

  I knew then I’d been outmanoeuvred and there was no point arguing. Hugo would agree with her because he did pretty much anything to keep her happy, principally because he was the only one who did. Roger appeared to but didn’t, and Etta, by then, had moved to Australia, I was convinced, to get away from her mother. I’d run into Etta once, working in a wine bar in Covent Garden, and since I knew she worked in an advertising agency by day, had been surprised. ‘I’m here every night. It’s my running away money,’ she’d told me, before returning briskly, tight-lipped, to the kitchen.

  A couple of months later, in swept Pamela. She was from Edinburgh and she was very large, very pale, had orange hair, and ate for Scotland. I spent most of the time cooking for her. She was also ruthless in her insistence on a strict regime for Peter. I wasn’t allowed to feed him when he cried; he had to go for four hours at a stretch before she would present him to me, clasped to her huge white starched bosom in a tight shawl, and then she timed him for exactly ten minutes each side, popping him off my nipple with a finger as she checked the second hand of her pocket watch, before announcing: ‘Bairn’s had enough!’

  I went along with it in a haze of hormones and exhaustion, and so did Mum, initially. She’d sounded surprised when I’d told her what was happening, but then, as ever, said exactly the right thing: that it was terribly kind of Belinda and Roger. Mum never made trouble. But when, after two weeks, she arrived one day to find me sobbing in a heap at the kitchen table, Pamela meanwhile pacing her room with a screeching baby, she went in for a word and shut the door behind her. A few minutes later she appeared with a still-shrieking and hungry Peter in her arms and gave him to me. I can still see his red, tear-stained face as I unbuttoned my shirt and he pressed against me, fastening furiously to my breast, still making hiccupy sobs as he sucked, as if trauma lingered.

  A few minutes later, Pamela swept down the passage in her coat, suitcase in hand. She clattered down the stairs without a word and slammed the front door.

  ‘What will I say?’ I breathed over Peter’s downy head to my mother.

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ll speak to her. She’ll understand.’

  I never knew what she said, but Mum was made of deceptively stern stuff. She’d had to be, with Dad’s job, and her own, unofficial role in those days of looking after the wives of Dad’s men. Wives who were often alone without their husbands, scared, or even, on occasion, grief-stricken. So one Belinda Chamberlain, as was, of 26 Milverton Gardens, Truro, Cornwall, would not be a problem.

  I’d driven there once, to Milverton Gardens; out of some sort of strange curiosity. It was in the days just after my divorce, when I often drove all the way to Cornwall in a sea of tears with Peter in the back; pretty deranged, not knowing what to do with myself, and occasionally doing the wrong thing, like turning up on the Bellingdons’ doorstep. Oh yes, there’s much I’d prefer to forget. Roger had been sweet. He’d sat on the beach and chatted kindly to me, but Belinda pretended not to be in, even though her car was there and she never walked anywhere. That was when I’d driven on to her childhood home, in Truro. It was one of five in a fifties cul-de-sac, neat and pristine with an immaculate front garden. A girl left the house next door in perfect tennis whites, swinging a racquet. I remember staring up at the windows, hoping for God knows what: some sort of epiphany about what had happened to me, what had become of my life. For some reason I always had Belinda at the centre of it all, the root cause, but I knew not why, had no idea why I felt compelled to get to the bottom of her like this. Later I’d drive back, exhausted, to London.

  I shook myself now as I rounded the corner into the stable yard, a regrouping gesture. A shedding mechanism, wanting to rid myself of all that long-ago shame and detritus. Somehow I knew it was a skin I’d never quite slough off, but as I walked into the yard, the familiar smell of hay, feed, tack, hoof oil and all things horsey had its required, soothing effect. Below the clock tower where the loose boxes were, five immaculate mounts were tied to rings outside their stables, shiny bottoms towards me, tacked up and ready to go, head collars over bridles. Iris had her bottom to me too, bending and picking out the rear hind o
f the nearest horse. She turned. Raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Dressed for the Bahamas?’ she enquired, eyeing my strappy top and skinny jeans.

  I grinned. ‘Babs told me the dress code. And I’ve been inside all day, Iris, in this beautiful weather. Thought I’d get a tan.’

  She lowered the hoof gently and stood up. ‘Yes, well, Babs still rides in a bikini top so you shouldn’t take any notice of her. I was just getting her ladyship’s horse ready, heaven forbid she should do it herself.’

  ‘You’ve tacked up five,’ I said, looking along the line.

  ‘Oh no, the other two did their own. We’re a bit of a gang this evening. Ah, here she is. In time to finish the pedicure.’ She waved the hoof pick at her friend as the red convertible swept into the yard.

  ‘Sorry, darling!’ Babs called to her as she jumped out. ‘Got delayed watching Shona – I’m addicted! It’s worse than The Archers!’

  ‘Damn!’ I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. ‘Six o’clock news – I forgot!’

  ‘Oh darling, she’s fab,’ Babs turned to me breathily. ‘Looks adorable, all pert breasts and shiny lip gloss and positively pulls you in with her gorgeous liquid brown eyes. She’s mesmerizing!’

  Iris rolled her own eyes. ‘What she means is she’s thoroughly competent, word perfect and never stumbles. What she looks like is immaterial.’

  ‘And she’s quite the local celeb,’ Babs went on. ‘Opened a fête in Manaccan the other day.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Swear to God. Cut a ribbon and everything!’

  For a moment I felt ridiculously jealous that others were more in the loop than me. Shona was my friend. I mean, obviously I didn’t live here, but also … well. We hadn’t kept in touch as much as we’d hoped, Shona and I. Busy lives, different cities – Shona had started as a reporter in Liverpool, then Manchester, now here. Some would say a backwater after those two, but I completely understood a primal urge to return to just about the nicest place on the planet.

  ‘And does she love it here, now that she’s back? Is she happy?’ I asked, curiosity getting the better of me, despite wanting to hear all from the horse’s mouth.

  ‘I believe so, but you’ll know more, I’m sure.’ Babs turned. ‘Oh, look at this for style! Putting us all to shame!’

  I turned to see Tommy and Janey emerging from a back door which led from the rear of the house. They were dressed in snowy white jodhpurs, shiny high black boots, crisp shirts, and looked far more professional than the rest of us. I took a breath to quell disappointment. Right. For a moment there I’d thought perhaps Hugo. Janey’s blonde hair was tied back with a black velvet ribbon and she had bright red lipstick as a nod to glamour.

  ‘Hi, Flora! Babs!’ She gave us a cheery wave as she went across to her horse at the far end. Tommy’s chestnut was beside mine. As he crossed the yard with his swaying, slightly swaggering gait which I was sure he put on, clearly going for the John Wayne look, his face wore its habitual mocking smile I remembered of old. So irresponsible himself, so judgemental of others.

  ‘Flora. What a treat. Dressed for the occasion, I see?’ He snapped a stirrup down and put on his hard hat, an elaborate affair with chin rest, strap and buckles. ‘You clearly ride as you paint, in whatever comes to hand.’

  ‘When have you ever seen me paint?’

  ‘I went for a run this morning. Spotted you and Roger in the naughty room, disobeying orders.’

  I sighed. ‘Spying, as usual.’ No longer the socially insecure ingénue of years ago, I was buggered if I’d be intimidated by Tommy Rochester. ‘And you’re right, I do rather swerve the sartorial element. I find people tend to hide behind it. Mistake it for skill.’

  ‘Sartorial be damned, it’s the safety element.’ He fastened his chin strap tightly.

  ‘Quite right,’ I said, ramming my faded Patey on my head which would admittedly fly off in a catastrophic fall but was Mum’s and looked great. ‘And incidentally, there are some body protectors in the tack room if you’re interested?’

  ‘Also a fluorescent yellow bib someone gave Iris when they saw her riding at dusk?’ Babs joined in, her mouth twitching as she swung herself easily into her saddle from a mounting block, still in her canvas shoes, six inches of skinny brown leg showing. ‘I peeled the word “Horse” off the end, so it reads, “Pass Slowly. Young and Fresh.” I’ll get it for you, if you like?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tommy grinned good-naturedly, aware he was being teased. ‘Laugh now, but don’t come running to me when you hit the deck and those two-bit bonnets fly off and the world’s gone fuzzy.’

  ‘Darling, the world goes fuzzy at midday in my house. I might not notice the difference.’

  ‘Midday?’ Iris raised her eyebrows as she rode up beside us on an extremely fresh, excited-looking young mare, who was snorting deliriously at this unexpected party. ‘When have you ever made it to midday? I rode past your cottage yesterday morning at eleven and saw you sharing a cider in the garden with the postman.’

  ‘Ah yes, but I’m the last house on Jean-Claude’s round, you see, and he’s thirsty by then. And after all he’s French. I saw him panting up my track in his shorts and called out – “Un petit verre, Jean-Claude?” To which he gasped back, “Oui, mais pourquoi un, et pourquoi petit?”’ Babs threw back her head and gave her throaty chuckle. ‘We had a very jolly time.’

  Iris raised her eyebrows. ‘Practising your French and keeping my brother on his toes. What a surprise.’ She swept past her friend and took the lead out of the yard under the arch. ‘Over towards Farrow’s farm via the headland?’ she called back over her shoulder to all of us. ‘Or down on the beach?’

  ‘The beach,’ Babs said firmly. ‘Remember we wanted to show Flora something?’

  ‘You did,’ Iris said tartly. ‘Up to your old tricks, as usual. But actually, the water will be good for Tommy’s old boy. Soothing for his legs. And Flora, yours will appreciate it too.’

  As we headed off in a group down the track towards the bay, it occurred to me that Babs was up to something. She really did have too much time on her hands.

  At the far end of the path we took the quick way to the beach, through a sweet-smelling pine wood Roger’s grandfather had planted years ago and which was now mature, and then took a rocky path down to the shore. My old mare had clearly ridden it a hundred times before and knew exactly where to put her feet, guiding me round the increasingly jagged rocks. I left her to it. Farthing had sadly died after a peaceful retirement in the pastures here two years ago, but this one had been her stable mate, arriving when Farthing was seven and could show her the ropes. Now she was almost an old retainer herself, and very sure-footed, whereas Iris’s youngster was on her toes and inevitably stumbled. Iris soothed her with her voice to slow down. Babs was also on a baby, as was Janey, I noticed with interest. She’d clearly proven herself already and I felt slightly peeved, but to be fair, I hadn’t ridden for years. As we reached the sand and wound our way around some larger boulders, I noticed the two glamour girls sizing each other up. Janey was looking Babs up and down, and Babs hung back a moment to check out Janey’s riding, but Janey’s friendly, open manner was disarming and her enthusiasm won Babs over.

  ‘Oh God, the riding you have down here – this beach! You guys. Do you even realize how lucky you are? Back home I’m restricted to one measly bridle path which goes round and round in circles.’

  ‘Where do you ride?’ asked Babs.

  ‘Central Park,’ Janey said.

  ‘Oh cool,’ I told her. It was.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s better than nothing, but it’s repetitive and you have to go with a guide, much like in Hyde Park, which I’ve tried by the way. But at least in London you’re left to your own thoughts. If I have to listen to one more lecture on the dredging and maintaining of the Jackie Onassis reservoir I swear I’ll go nuts.’

  ‘But New York’s not really home?’

  ‘No, Connecticut, where it’s much better, obviously. But
not like this.’ We broke into a trot as we reached firmer sand. ‘We’re not allowed to ride on the beach, it’s private.’ She made a face. It was low tide, and the vast, almost empty beach spread out before us in a golden strip, the glistening water lapping it gently. My heart lifted inexorably.

  ‘There’s one guy who wouldn’t be bored by the dredging and maintaining of the Jackie Onassis reservoir,’ said Babs, riding up beside me and Janey as we headed for the water. She nodded towards a figure right in the corner where the rock pools were, waist-deep in a rubber wading suit that went up to his armpits and strapped over his shoulders. He was totally preoccupied, his hand suddenly plunging into the water with a jar. I didn’t recognize him until he turned and stared.

  ‘Yes, who is that?’ asked Janey. ‘I’ve spotted him down here before, mostly when I run, first thing. He’s always got those jars of stuff, like specimens.’

  ‘Ted Fleming. He’s a conservationist,’ Babs told her. ‘He’s on secondment to Truro from Imperial College, doing a special report for the government, apparently. It’s to do with the environmental effects of toxic waste on the coast. He’s a professor.’

  ‘Cute,’ Janey remarked. ‘For a professor.’

  ‘Very,’ Babs purred, glancing at me.

  ‘I met him earlier,’ I told them. ‘Or Celia did. She rather likes him.’

  ‘Does she indeed,’ murmured Babs, with a hint of irritation.

  ‘That makes sense. He always seems to have a gang of students trooping along after him.’ Janey nodded towards a sand dune where something resembling a camp had been set up: a gnomic gathering of earnest young people, mostly in hoodies, were hugging their knees.

  ‘Jesus. What a load of hoydens you are.’ Tommy rode up beside us at a collected canter, his riding skills – like his social skills, I’d noticed – somewhat improved. ‘So that’s the postman and the conservationist covered. Is there anyone safe from this alarming coven of sexual predators?’

  Too late, he realized he’d set himself up. We turned on him in delight and chorused collectively: ‘Yes – you!’