A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Hugo?’

  He shot me a defiant look. I lowered my brush resignedly.

  Hugo’s head appeared around the door.

  ‘Well?’ Roger demanded.

  ‘I’ve invited him to come to a board meeting. Let him see for himself.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It was Tommy’s idea,’ he said, slightly sheepishly. We exchanged a glance as Roger fumed. Hugo shut the door.

  Roger affected a high, silly voice. ‘It was Tommy’s idea,’ he mimicked. ‘Grrr … got no bite, that boy.’

  He drummed his fingers furiously on the arm of the chair as I painted on. But after a moment he got to his feet.

  ‘Right – that’s it,’ he declared. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  And out he marched.

  11

  Peter arrived by train a couple of days later and I went to Truro to meet him. Hard to describe my skippy excitement. Ridiculous, really. My son, who I could contact as much as I wanted, and who was good at responding although I deliberately didn’t text him too much, so why the beaming smile? The jaunty gait? The truth was I didn’t see nearly as much of him as I would have liked these days. For all the right reasons, obviously. He was off. Grown up. Independent. Exactly how it should be at seventeen – eighteen next month – having left school a matter of weeks ago. It was a good age, I reflected, as I watched the train pull in. Just clear of the awkward, adolescent, grunting stage – although Peter hadn’t done too much of that – and heading towards the slightly loftier ground of further education, which in Peter’s case meant knuckling down big time, hopefully with like-minded, similarly industrious souls. But Peter was no swot and I knew he’d also have time for some cricket, which he loved, and – I don’t know, punting perhaps? May balls with pretty girls? Or had I swerved into Brideshead territory? Anyway, whatever it was they all did there, I was quite sure it would be on his agenda.

  As the train came to a hissing halt before me, there was a pause, then the doors opened. The train was destined for Penzance, so only about a dozen or so people alighted. I saw him immediately, down at the far end of the platform. Tall – very tall – skinny, blond and so like his father. My hand shot instinctively into the air but I managed to resist shrieking: ‘Darling!’ Instead I walked slowly towards him and said it more quietly as he gave me a hug, towering over me, adding, ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘You too, Mum. And such a relief to get out of London – it’s baking. Heaving, too, thousands of tourists.’

  I smiled as we made for the exit. ‘You sound like some jaded old businessman who’s commuted for years.’

  ‘I feel like it. God. Six weeks in that bank has shown me how the other half lives.’

  ‘Enjoying it?’ I asked with interest as we threaded our way through to the car park. I didn’t really mind what Peter did as long as he was happy, but money was always useful and banking surely provided that.

  ‘I’m not sure “enjoy” is quite the right word,’ he said wryly. ‘But it’s interesting, if only from an anthropological angle. Some properly weird characters.’

  ‘Oh really? You mean higher up? The chiefs, or the other Indians?’

  ‘Mostly the other interns. The guy I’m paired with, right, has clearly modelled himself on Gordon Gekko. We’re talking slicked-back hair, braces, a proper pin-striped suit, and he’s already bought a briefcase which has probably got cigars in it. He’s my age!’

  ‘That won’t do him any favours.’

  ‘The whole thing is a bit like that Tom Cruise film, The Firm, if I’m honest. Pizza arrives at your desk for lunch, supper even, and they get you a taxi home at some ridiculous hour, and there’s a gym you can use, but I could tell it was frowned on when I met Adam for a drink at lunchtime. It’s like they own you.’

  I made a face. ‘Sounds a bit soul-destroying to me.’

  He threw his bag in the boot of the car. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  I could tell he was a bit disappointed. It had been something of a coup to get a summer internship in the City, and Peter had had to jump through a few hoops and do tests and have interviews to get there. He hadn’t expected to be anything other than pleased and excited at having completed it. We drove for a bit in silence.

  ‘Well, you’ve got ages to decide yet, you haven’t even started university.’

  ‘Oh God, yes, I know.’

  Peter liked things tied up, though. He liked a plan.

  ‘Publishing, maybe?’ I ventured. ‘You’ve always loved reading and it’s what you always intended to do?’

  It was Peter’s turn to make a face. ‘Except that’s the sublime to the ridiculous. There’s no money in that, apparently. Adam’s uncle is like, right at the top of some big publishing house and he earns jack shit. I’ve heard it’s one for the chicks.’

  My eyebrows shot up. ‘Is it, now? Darling, for the first time in your life you’re about to be educated with chicks. I think you’ll find them a surprisingly brainy bunch.’

  ‘And I think you’ll find I was employing heavy irony there, Mum. Sorry I didn’t create the quotation marks in the air to alert you.’ He grinned. ‘Trust me, I’ve met plenty of ball-crushing girls.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Too slow.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  Peter wasn’t remotely sexist, I knew, but nonetheless, it was also the right time to leave that school, I reflected. I’d noticed his tone had become – not arrogant, but, well, more confident. Sandy, who lived next door to us in Fulham, had raised her eyebrows when I’d mentioned this and said: ‘And Jamie isn’t?’ Jamie, her son, the same age as Peter and a great friend since toddler-hood, was at the local comprehensive and positively swaggered with confidence. Charm, too, I thought, although Sandy would groan if I said it. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the school, Flora, or his advantages; it’s the age they’ve been born into. I call it The Age of Entitlement. Poor buggers. They’ll get the shock of their lives, soon, when the real world hits them.’

  It had already hit Peter, I thought with some amusement. Six weeks in an office and he was world-weary already.

  ‘So what’s the form?’ Peter turned to me, eyes shining. Living in the moment as the Entitled Age did, he’d already completely forgotten the office. The undulating green hills we’d plunged into told him where he was heading and there was even a flash of blue in the distance. That was enough. ‘I can’t wait to have a swim. How is everyone?’

  I could tell he’d deliberately couched it as if this was a perfectly normal situation. As if we did this all the time, he and I, visiting his grandparents. My heart lurched for what he’d never had: for what he was pretending he had now.

  I pretended along with him, and gave him a – hopefully – light-hearted appraisal of everyone present, but majored on his grandfather, whom he adored, and who was always good value.

  Peter guffawed, bent double in his seat with delight. ‘God, I can just imagine him – Grandpa’s never sat still for two minutes! What possessed him to do it?’

  ‘Your grandmother,’ I said archly, but hopefully not too tartly.

  ‘Ah.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I’ll get the Wayfarer out tomorrow. You won’t see him for dust.’

  ‘Do not!’ I said, horrified. ‘I mean do, by all means, but don’t tell him! I’ll never see him again.’

  ‘Or the Laser. I’ll crew, he’ll helm, just like the old days.’

  ‘Seriously, Peter, if you do that there’ll be the most tremendous bust-up and Granny will be livid and I’ll lose this effing commission.’ I raked a hand through my hair.

  ‘Relax.’ He laughed. ‘I’m joking.’ He grinned out of the window. ‘A bit.’

  I smiled over the wheel as we drove on through the lanes that led to Trewarren and, as the scenery opened up and the sun came out, Peter turned up a song we both liked on the radio, Talking Heads. I sang along at the top of my voice which I complained children these days never did, too cool, and he made a mock horrified face. We laughed. God, it was good to see him.

 
‘How long are you staying?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Not sure,’ he said equally casually back, and I knew he was thinking: I’ll see how it goes.

  ‘There’s this festival in Wales …’

  ‘Oh yes, you said …’

  ‘If I can be arsed.’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Alex, Adam, Sam, the usual.’

  ‘I haven’t met Adam?’

  ‘Oh no, he’s a friend of Sam’s. Different school.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘So … what is the form, Mum?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ But I knew what he meant. And he’d asked earlier, when we’d set off, but I’d dodged it and moved swiftly on to his grandfather’s idiosyncrasies.

  ‘How’s this all panning out?’

  I licked my lips. We were pulling into the long wooded front drive now, not the way I’d approached with Celia. It was a mile in length, and darkness fell as we plunged through the trees, then suddenly rose again, surrounded by banks of glossy pink rhododendron bushes, livid flashes of fuchsia, blush and white.

  ‘Well, we all had lunch together on the first day …’

  ‘Excellent,’ he looked at me admiringly.

  ‘But other than that,’ I said quickly, ‘I just – you know – pop in to paint. But Granny has asked Celia and me to supper tonight.’

  ‘And you’re coming?’

  ‘Yes. We’re coming.’

  He smiled. ‘Well done, Mum.’

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t really. My throat felt a bit blocked. This had been Peter’s dream since he was a small boy: for his parents to get on properly, not just present a united front at school, and I selfishly hadn’t given it to him. Until now. It’s not much to ask, is it? But I’d found it a lot. Peter was fiercely loyal to me, I knew that, and protective of my feelings, so to have me come here, of my own volition, with no persuading from him, in the house he liked to visit most of all, and to which he would bring friends to sail and swim, was very special. It occurred to me then, as if I’m honest it had done before, that of course Josie didn’t necessarily want to go on holiday with her ex-husband, that she wasn’t thinking of herself. She was bigger than that.

  And I’d made up my mind to be more like that: had made a conscious decision yesterday, actually, just before, coincidentally, Belinda had intercepted me in the hall – minus the knives, I was relieved to notice – and after I’d had a slightly more successful session with Roger. The test match had started, glory be, and the radio provided a good few hours of calm. She’d breathlessly presented me with the invitation for tonight’s supper with all her gushing generosity, like a well-behaved child with a special treat to share.

  ‘We would so love it, Roger and I, if you would join us, Flora.’ She always said that. Roger and I. Like the Queen. My husband and I. ‘Everyone would love it, honestly.’

  It was as if she’d canvassed opinion. Said at lunch, her face concerned and caring: ‘Now, listen, everyone. I feel we have to invite Flora and her friend. It would be too awkward not to, with Peter here.’

  Grave nods round the table as the family Did The Right Thing. I’m probably wrong. Not about Belinda, but about the rest. Hugo had always encouraged my presence and Christina had only recently sent me a Paperless Post invite with a little note attached, explaining there were loads of people coming – i.e. not too stressful, well diluted – and that it was a barbecue – i.e. relaxed. She hoped I’d come. I hadn’t.

  Peter and I had even argued about it. ‘Move on, Mum. Jesus, it was fifteen bloody years ago! God, you might even meet someone there.’

  ‘I do meet people. And anyway, there’s Tim and Rupert—’

  ‘You hide behind Tim and Rupert. Tim’s a friend and he’s always been just that, and Rupert is fun but too weird to have a relationship with, you told me that.’

  Where had I heard all this before? Ah yes, Celia. I’d been tight-lipped. Said nothing.

  As we crested the brow of the hill now and swept into the front drive, I stopped the car on the far side of the fountain, away from the front door. I turned and gave him a wide smile.

  ‘I’m going to drop you here, darling. See you later.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, good plan.’ Excited eyes were on the house now, delighted to be here, on a beautiful day. The sea was glistening enticingly and he was itching to get in it. He leaned across and gave me a fleeting kiss, then got out and went round to the boot for his bag. As he went to go inside, though, he remembered. Turned.

  ‘Oh – Granny A sends her love.’

  ‘Oh Peter!’ I chided him.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Yeah, sorry, I forgot. I had lunch with her the other day.’

  ‘What a time to tell me! Forty minutes in the car!’

  The front door had already opened, been flung wide, and Granny B – you can imagine how that went down, hence it staying Peter’s and my private joke – was already hastening down the steps in another floaty floral number, arms outstretched. ‘Darling!’

  Peter grinned and slouched towards her, submitting to his grandmother’s embrace. But as she hugged him, over his shoulder, she had the grace to lift her hand in greeting. I raised mine back. Then they went inside and I drove away. Strangely, I felt happier than I had done for some considerable time.

  12

  Supper that evening was redolent of an al fresco Mediterranean affair, certainly in respect of the balmy temperature and the setting, if not the detail. Outside on the terrace a long table had been beautifully laid with white linen, crystal and silver. No IKEA cutlery and cork mats for Belinda; everything was always done properly. Too properly, Babs would say.

  ‘It’s as if she’s got the rulebook out, it betrays her social insecurity.’ She said the truly grand didn’t bother about things like that – and by that she meant herself; Babs’ grandfather had been an earl. She said they had the confidence to shove whatever they liked on their table, and that all Belinda’s relentless white linen and towels reminded her of the Ritz, which only a desperate arriviste would think was the height of good taste. Sprays of white jasmine in little glass vases tumbled down the middle of the table and long beeswax candles were alight in proper silver candelabra from the dining room. I thought it looked lovely. Most would say she’d made an effort on her grandson’s first night, and only the most cynical and curmudgeonly would find fault, but, as we made our way to the table from where we’d gathered further along the terrace for drinks, I could see Babs’ grinning face.

  Knowing I was nervous, I’d determined not to drink too much. I’d only sipped the champagne I’d been handed by one of Belinda’s apron-clad flunkies – oh yes, this was catered – so I still had a pretty full glass as we made our way to the table. I was placed between Roger and Tommy, which could have been worse, I decided. I absolutely wouldn’t have wanted Hugo beside me, and Peter and Janey were opposite, which couldn’t have been better. My son’s delighted face at this truly extraordinary family gathering shone like a beacon above his pink Ralph Lauren shirt and once again, I felt a lurch of shame at not having provided him with more delight sooner. Better late than never, I decided, as I smiled up at Roger, who’d pulled my chair out for me. Some divorced couples didn’t speak until a child got married, and even then avoided each other at the wedding. At least I’d made it before that.

  Roger beamed and chatted away beside me, with the occasional hand pat, and I knew he was going out of his way to make me feel at home. And he was so easy. I could listen to his increasingly outrageous anecdotes and patter all night, and smile and nod in the right places, even properly laughing. He could be very amusing. Belinda, happily, was at the far end of the table, but as we’d sat down she’d bustled round to assure me, in a confidential tone, that she was happy on the end because she’d had a long chat with her grandson earlier, which if I’m being churlish, suggested she was making a huge sacrifice by letting him sit next to Janey. Janey, who couldn’t help but overhear, had felt obli
ged to say: ‘Oh – surely you’d like to sit next to your grandson? I’ll sit on the end, really.’

  ‘No, no!’ Belinda had fluttered away to her seat, hands waving, as if no amount of persuasion would make her change her mind, taking the martyr’s crown with her. Just as Roger went out of his way to make people feel comfortable, Belinda went out of her way to do the opposite, and, before she’d gone, she’d touched Janey’s arm with her fingertips, bestowing on her that kind, selfless smile.

  Janey obviously didn’t take shit from anyone, though. Whilst Roger was busy chatting to Christina on his other side, she’d lowered her voice and said to me: ‘I’m sure your boy’s delightful, Flora, but frankly I don’t give a damn who I sit next to. Don’t do me any favours, Mrs B.’

  I gave a snort of laughter and was then horrified to see Belinda’s back stiffen before she sat down.

  ‘She hates you calling her that,’ I told her as we took our seats. And then I leaned across and quietly told her about the grannys’ names.

  ‘Oh, irresistible,’ Janey agreed under her breath. ‘And I know she hates it, incidentally – she keeps saying, “Do call me Belinda.” But the thing is, when we arrived, she originally introduced herself as Mrs Bellingdon, wafting into the drawing room where she’d kept us waiting for ten minutes, hand outstretched. Kind of putting me in my place, if you know what I mean—’