A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And then after a couple of days she got all confidential and cosy and said, “Call me Belinda.” Like I’d passed some sort of test. So I kicked off with the Mrs Bs. When she tries to insist, I contrive to look terribly confused, and say my mother would not approve of that, and that my brothers still call my father sir, like we’re some kind of Waspy, Westport family. She gets in a hell of a fluster.’

  I grinned, pleased Janey had Belinda’s measure. I watched Janey now as she chatted with Peter, who looked like all his Christmases had come at once, his face the same colour as his shirt. Janey talked to everyone like this, of course, making them feel special and important, which was such a gift, but he was enjoying every minute of this beautiful, charismatic young woman’s company and his moment in the sunshine. Celia caught my eye and we grinned before she turned to Hugo. Ah, right. I’d grill her later. As Janey asked Peter what he was up to, Roger overheard him bemoaning his lack of a gap year.

  ‘Gap year?’ he roared. ‘Whoever invented the bloody things should be shot! Only used to happen when you sat an Oxbridge exam, and even then it was only nine months. Certainly didn’t involve bungee jumping in Thailand. Absurd!’

  ‘Except you did actually go to the South Seas, Pa,’ Hugo reminded him with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded, ‘but only when I’d worked in the family business for six months. And I paid for it. My father was none too pleased when I got back.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I’d sent him a telegram. Having the most splendid time. Coming back Wed. He thought I’d got married.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Met me off the boat. Purple faced. “Well?” he bellowed. “Where is she?”’

  ‘God, how awful, Grandpa! Imagine if she’d been there?’

  Roger blinked into space, considering. ‘Yes. Yes, never thought of that,’ he mused.

  ‘He must have been delighted when you introduced him to Belinda, then?’ Janey said naughtily.

  Roger paused. ‘Absolutely. Yes, he was.’

  But the pause had escaped no one. Janey shot me a wink. ‘I’ll bet Mrs B had all the men in the county after her, didn’t she, Roger?’

  I held my breath. We all inadvertently glanced down at Belinda, who, rather hot, her nose red and shiny, was not looking her best. I saw Tommy flash Janey a warning frown.

  ‘Naturally she did!’ Roger agreed gallantly, quicker off the mark this time. ‘As I’m sure you do, my dear!’ He leaned across the table. ‘In New York? Like flies to the honeypot?’

  ‘No flies on me, Rog. I swat them away pretty sharpish, I can tell you.’

  ‘I bet you do!’ declared Roger, delighted.

  Peter was intrigued. ‘Is that where you work, then? New York?’

  Janey turned to him properly, and as she chatted away about Manhattan, filling him in on all the Big Apple had to offer, I saw Peter’s colour rise again and his eyes light up.

  ‘Janey’s working her magic,’ murmured Tommy beside me.

  I turned to him with a smile, prepared to be civil to anyone on this rather momentous evening.

  ‘He can’t believe his luck. She’s a lovely girl, Tommy.’

  He mock-blanched, holding the edge of the table. ‘Said like I’m undeserving!’

  ‘No, I just meant—’

  ‘Relax, I’m kidding. She’s not mine, anyway.’

  ‘Not your girl? But I thought—’

  ‘No, you assumed. Janey’s an old friend. Oh, we had a brief liaison some years ago.’

  ‘Ah. She dumped you.’

  ‘A gentleman’s code means I’m not at liberty to comment. But let’s just say our hearts weren’t in it. She’s too sparky for me.’

  ‘Being sparky yourself?’

  ‘Sure, maybe. They certainly flew. But it was pretty great while it lasted.’ His eyes twinkled at me as he raised his glass.

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ I sighed. Rolled my eyes despairingly. ‘I’m afraid your reputation goes before you, Tommy. I gather there’s no hope. You really are a marvellous role model for your godson.’

  Tommy threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, good! I like to think our little lunches in London are instructive!’

  I never quizzed Peter when he returned from meeting Tommy when he was over, looking flushed and rather pleased with himself, having been somewhere rather smart and grown-up. I looked into Tommy’s grinning, irresponsible face now and wondered just how many girls had succumbed to his rather too obvious charms. It pained me, on behalf of the sisterhood, to believe it might be plenty. Tommy played the-boy-can’t-help-it card beautifully, but there would surely come a time when it would become a bit worn at the edges? When perhaps, literally overnight, he might wake up in yet another strange bed, transformed inexorably from lovable rogue to seedy old dog? Happily it was not my problem.

  ‘And how are your parents?’ I ventured politely, feeling we’d wandered too far into Tommy’s specialist subject and deliberately putting us on more formal ground. Tommy’s parents had visited London when Hugo and I were first married and we’d gone to Rules for lunch with them. They’d been surprisingly delightful. Very much the sort of Westport family Janey had been describing earlier.

  ‘Dad died,’ Tommy said shortly. ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ I was. ‘He was a lovely man.’

  I remembered his kindness to me that lunch: telling Hugo what a lucky man he was as he beamed across the table at me, asking after Peter, who was nine months old at the time. His wife, Lillian, too. So gracious, generous and intelligent, a painter herself. I recalled Tommy’s delighted eyes on me at that meal, knowing he’d caught me out: knowing I was thinking, how can a man like that have parents like these? When his mother had asked shyly, when the men were talking, if she could possibly see my work, I’d found myself going round to sit next to her. I’d shown her bits of my portfolio, which I’d had with me because I’d been on my way to a commission. She’d admired them, but properly. Critically. Agreeing when I’d pointed out flaws, which most people didn’t. She’d had a few postcards made up of her own work, beautiful tulips, mostly overblown, very close-up. When I’d genuinely enthused about them, she’d made a face and said how well paintings always photographed, which was true. Tommy’s father overheard and broke off his conversation to disagree.

  ‘They’re heavenly, Flora,’ he assured me. ‘Everyone says so, and those postcards don’t do them justice. Huge great canvases, they are, very powerful. But can I get her to exhibit? Not a chance.’

  ‘Oh, but you don’t know anything, Michael,’ Lillian had laughed, quickly tucking her postcards away. ‘You’d like anything I did, and so would my friends. I need an objective, professional eye, like Flora’s.’

  She’d come alone to my studio the following day and I rarely let anyone do that. I think I was happy to do it because she was a fellow artist and also she was going back to America. But maybe it was something else. Maybe I’d spotted something sympathetic within her; something deep and quiet.

  ‘She’s painting like fury,’ said Tommy, as if reading my thoughts. ‘All day, every day. And my sisters have been amazing. Kit-Kat, the eldest, has a cottage in her garden, a converted boathouse. She’s trying to get Mom to move in there, but she won’t. She says she’s not done parenting yet. Doesn’t want to be in the granny annex.’

  ‘That’ll be you,’ I told him.

  ‘Oh sure, the baby she despairs of.’ He grinned and reached cheerfully for his glass. ‘Keeps her on her toes.’ He winked. ‘She’s happy about that. I’m doing everyone a favour.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. Give her my love.’

  ‘I will do. She liked you.’

  I knew this to be true, but nonetheless, a genuine compliment like this was rare and I glanced up at him, surprised.

  ‘And yours?’ he said smoothly, moving on.

  I’d forgotten he’d met Mum and it momentarily wrong-footed me. Suddenly, we were seventeen years ol
d again, back in my family home, Mum making tea for him and Hugo when he’d come to apologize after the hunt. I realized he’d have met her at our wedding, too.

  ‘Oh – she’s fine. Really well. But actually, someone’s seen her far more recently than me.’ I leaned across. ‘Peter, how was Granny?’

  My interruption gave Janey an opportunity to turn to Hugo on her other side. Peter wasn’t quite old enough to realize he was monopolizing her, and Janey shot me a smile as she turned. Belinda had also broken off on hearing what she thought was her name. She beamed eagerly and expectantly down the table.

  ‘Really well,’ Peter replied. ‘She’s got lots of students, so that’s good. But London’s the pits at the moment, it’s so hot. I thought she might be able to come down here?’ He turned to his other grandmother.

  ‘Oh, your mother, Flora,’ said Belinda. ‘I heard “Granny”. Oh, I am glad she’s busy, such a worry for you, making ends meet. Yes, well, Peter, if your mother and her friend could share—’

  ‘I’m sure she’s far too busy,’ I said quickly. I’d known Peter had meant to stay here, in the house, and that Belinda hadn’t even entertained it. And ‘your friend’ again, not ‘Celia’. I felt myself burn.

  ‘Ah, your lovely ma!’ Roger roared in, oblivious. ‘Now she really did get the county buzzing. Everyone was mad for her – what a beauty! Did you ever meet her, Tommy?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Sweetest, kindest thing, too, not a bad bone. Just like you, my dear.’ He squeezed my shoulders and I actually wanted to snog him. God, Roger was nice. And God, Belinda was a cow. I saw Celia looking at me, a half-smile on her face, her eyes saying, I don’t give a toss what she calls me, Flora, calm down. So I did. Deep breaths. Why was my mother a worry, why? She wasn’t. Never had been. She was relentlessly cheerful and capable and only ever thought about other people.

  Tommy got to his feet and, leaning around the table, topped up all the wine glasses. Something about his arm, moving between us, drew a convenient veil. I’m not sure if he did it deliberately, but I was grateful nonetheless.

  ‘So are you over here on business?’ I asked him, as he sat down. I knew normal conversation would help. That I was too quick to overreact.

  ‘A bit,’ he said shortly. ‘But not my business.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  He didn’t say any more and I was aware he was being cagey. As one often does when one’s been slightly snubbed, or at least I do, I bit back.

  ‘Shona’s on the television these days, you know,’ I said casually, knowing her name would make him sit up.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I saw her the other day.’

  ‘What – doing the news?’

  ‘No, opening the fête.’

  ‘Oh, right, you mean it was on telly?’

  ‘No, I went to the fête.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see Shona.’

  I stared in astonishment as he calmly carried on eating his lemon tart. A smile tugged at his mouth.

  ‘Cream?’

  ‘What?’ He was offering me a jug. ‘Oh, no thanks.’ I blinked, amazed. ‘Why did you go to see Shona?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well – do you keep in touch?’ I blustered.

  ‘Oh yeah. All the time. Don’t you?’

  My mouth was hanging open. ‘But – since when?’

  ‘I don’t know. Since way back.’

  ‘She never said!’

  ‘So do you keep in touch?’

  ‘Not enough,’ I admitted. ‘And when we do, it’s mostly emails. And I suppose it’s mostly about ourselves.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He was grinning now. ‘Why would she mention me?’ His eyes widened innocently. He was so pleased with himself it was infuriating. ‘But you’ve seen her since you’ve been down here, right?’ He adopted a serious tone. Oh, he was enjoying this enormously.

  ‘Well, no, I’ve only been here a few days.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He contrived to look sad. ‘A week, maybe. But you know best.’

  ‘And I’m working, for God’s sake! Unlike you!’ My voice must have carried.

  ‘Is there a problem, Flora?’ Belinda’s voice cut in like ice, from the other end of the table.

  ‘No – no, of course not,’ I flustered, horrified.

  ‘I’m teasing her, Mrs B,’ Tommy said smoothly.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, not you, too. You know it’s Belinda!’

  ‘Course I do, ma’am.’

  She wasn’t sure how to take this, but I could tell she preferred it.

  ‘Well, come along, then,’ she said decisively, at this pause in the conversation. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and pushed her chair back. ‘I think we’ve all been sitting here long enough. And it’s getting chilly. I tried to catch a few eyes earlier,’ she murmured reprovingly. ‘We’ll take our coffee inside. Leave the men to their port.’

  She rose like the queen and I immediately rose too, as did Christina beside her. But Celia and Janey’s eyes were huge. Celia glanced at me, and after a moment’s hesitation, slowly got to her feet. Janey stayed put.

  ‘I’d like some port, too, if I may,’ she said pleasantly. I saw Celia’s bottom itching to rocket down again, but I shot her a look.

  There was a silence. Then: ‘Of course,’ said Belinda quietly. But there was steel in her tone.

  Without further ado she drifted away from the table, hands trailing behind her. She sailed majestically through the open French doors to the drawing room. Her female disciples followed mutely in her wake. Judas sat firmly at the table.

  In front of the fireplace, on a vast, creamy, fringed stool, a waitress, as if by magic, was just setting a tray of coffee, a pot of mint tea, and a plate of home-made truffles. She glanced nervously at Belinda who nodded curtly, still clearly put out. Then she disappeared.

  We sat down on the edge of the sofas and quietly helped ourselves to coffee. Belinda wrinkled her nose. At length, she spoke. ‘Funny little thing, isn’t she?’ she said softly. She took a sip from her tiny cup.

  ‘Who?’ Celia asked innocently.

  ‘The American girl.’

  There was a silence. Celia set her cup down in her saucer and looked Belinda in the eye. ‘I was always taught it was impolite to discuss other guests so I couldn’t possibly comment. Where might I powder my nose, Mrs Bellingdon?’

  Belinda stared at her, astounded. ‘Well, I—’ Then she gathered herself. Sat up straight. ‘Down the corridor,’ she said tartly. ‘Second on the left.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Celia rose and disappeared.

  Belinda looked most put out. She gathered her pink pashmina shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘Well,’ she said at length. She shuddered ostentatiously. But then abruptly, her face puckered. Ridiculously, I found myself feeling sorry for her. I sank into my coffee. When I looked up, Christina’s eyes were upon me. She looked upset, too. We exchanged knowing looks and drank our coffee. We had a great deal in common, Christina and I. We obviously had Hugo, but more pertinently, we had Belinda.

  13

  ‘She’s insufferable,’ Celia told me later as we walked home. ‘It had to be done.’

  ‘But we’re guests, Cele. It makes it awkward, don’t you see?’

  ‘Well, I won’t be, again. A guest. And we’re renting the cottage so, no, not really. I don’t care if I offend her.’

  ‘We’re renting the cottage for a pittance, nothing like the usual rent, and only because I insisted.’ She didn’t answer and we walked along in silence. At length, I sighed. ‘Oh God, d’you know what? You’re right. She’s a bloody nightmare. And I don’t want to talk about Belinda, anyway.’

  ‘Quite. Let’s not give her the pleasure. She thinks the world revolves around her as it is.’

  ‘How did you get on with Hugo?’

  She paused. We were picking our way along the rutted clay track towards the sea in the dark and she bent to get a stone out of her shoe, but I knew she was considering her words. She straightened up. ‘Well,
I’m loath to say it, but he’s a very nice man.’

  I glowed beside her in the dark, the terrible, shining beam of true love for a false god. ‘I knew you’d say that. If you were honest. Knew you couldn’t possibly say otherwise.’

  Celia hadn’t really met Hugo before, apart from at the odd school play of Peter’s. She’d arrived in my life just after he’d departed, when I’d put an ad in the Art Newspaper offering half a studio for rent, to an artist who kept to themselves. I’d even said that. I hadn’t wanted to talk. I had sitters, obviously, so a chatterer wouldn’t have worked, but I didn’t have the words, at the time. A garrulous, Bluebeard the Pirate type with copious facial hair, a booming voice and no doubt canvases as big as his personality had arrived, and then Celia, who painted small, delicate pictures back then, and who, unbeknownst to me, had just split up with her boyfriend, had a row with her parents who wanted her to be a lawyer, and didn’t want to talk either. We’d painted in companionable silence for weeks, and she never asked about the father of the child I appeared to have: the one that had gone by the time she arrived, but appeared at about four o’clock each day when Mum brought him back.

  My mother sold the house in Cornwall immediately when Hugo left me. She’d rented at first in London, while she looked, then bought a flat a few roads down from me. I didn’t argue with her. Didn’t beg her not to come, to stay where she’d grown up, with her friends, her work, insist I was fine, because I knew she wanted to come and would be deeply unhappy if she didn’t. Love is like that. And Celia didn’t comment on the juggling act we performed that first year as the phone would ring and I’d shoot off to meet Mum somewhere, to take Peter to the park while she taught for an hour, then dash back to the studio. I knew I had to paint for my sanity and my mother knew that, too, and enabled me to do it. It was all that kept me from pills or drink, or whatever people normally did. When Peter went to bed I’d start again, often into the small hours. Sandy, next door, who’s a writer, says the same. Says it saves a fortune on therapy.

  I also wanted to be entirely financially independent from the Bellingdons. The flat I couldn’t do much about, nor later the school fees, but despite Hugo’s insistence – and Roger and Belinda’s, too – I took no maintenance for Peter, and nothing for myself. Roger had even made a surprise visit one day, begging me to accept a handsome sum, but I wouldn’t. I was selling paintings, I told him, portraits. I showed them to him in my studio, some already framed, waiting to be collected, already paid for. I could tell he was impressed. He even knew one of the generals I’d done recently. He’d gone off to his club, and then home on the train from Paddington, slightly appeased, but still fussed about the situation.