A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘What’s up with Flurry?’ I pointed to the terrier, who’d failed to greet me. She was in her basket, shivering gently.

  ‘Phantom pregnancy. I took her to the vet cos her ladyship wouldn’t, and they gave her some canine Valium, for the nerves. I slipped one in Belinda’s tea to see if it would make any difference.’

  I giggled. ‘Stop it. And it’s Mrs Bellingdon to you, you’ve only worked here twenty years. Is she about?’

  I glanced around nervously, expecting her to waft in, in all her floral glory, at any second. Yvonne got up and resumed her moping.

  ‘She and Hugo have gone out for the day. An arboretum or something then lunch. Don’t ask me. Christina and the kids have gone swimming, and Peter’s gone out with some friends, far as I know.’

  ‘Oh good. And Roger?’

  She grinned. ‘You’ll be lucky. Gave me a message. Said he was just going to get his boat out of the water and he’d be back in a jiffy. To be fair, I thought I heard someone in the study earlier, so he might have crept back in.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have a look.’ I surveyed the newspaper pieces which Truffle had scattered, rendering my return journey more tortuous.

  ‘Go on, you can do it!’ laughed Yvonne as she leaned on her mop, watching. ‘Twister! You remember that!’

  Back on the other side of the front hall, the study door was shut. I knocked softly and went in. Empty. Damn. Except – hang on. The long leather Chesterfield sofa with its back to me had feet sticking out from one end, over the arm. Grey-socked, and male. I crept in and around, expecting to surprise Roger, doubtless just settling down for a read of the newspaper and a cup of coffee, which under normal circumstances he’d do in the gunroom but who wants to be disturbed by that wretched girl and her paintbrushes. Instead, fast asleep, I found Tommy. His normally ruddy face looked washed out: his forehead was creased and his wavy red hair, greying at the temples, stood on end. His mouth was open and drooped dramatically at the sides. It struck me he’d slept in last night’s clothes, chinos and a smart shirt, not daytime wear. He looked strangely vulnerable, for Tommy. All around, on the floor and the sofa, lay a sea of papers. Enormously surprised, I nonetheless crept away. Although clearly, not quite quietly enough.

  ‘Hello?’

  I’d reached the door. I paused. Turned. Came back round, where he could see me.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb.’

  On seeing me, his eyes, which had been cloudy, cleared instantly. He swung his legs round and sat up. Rubbed his face vigorously with the palms of his hands.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About ten o’clock. Sorry—’

  ‘No, no, stay. It’s fine.’

  I hovered uncertainly.

  ‘Sit, even.’

  I glanced at the chair at Roger’s desk. Swung it round and perched even less of a buttock than I’d rested in the kitchen.

  ‘Were you … working in here?’ I asked hesitantly, looking around at the papers.

  ‘Oh.’ His eyes followed mine. ‘Yes. Till far too late, I guess. Lost track of time.’

  ‘You slept here?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t intend to.’

  Even upside down I could read Bellingdon Water on a few of the letterheads. Plus a wavy blue logo I was familiar with.

  ‘Helping Hugo?’

  ‘Yeah. Trying to. And getting somewhere, until my eyes closed. I guess I’ll go again later today.’ He smiled sheepishly and began shuffling the papers together. They were mostly awash with figures.

  I frowned. ‘Does he need your help? I mean … Hugo’s usually so on top of things.’ I suppose I might have sounded slightly defensive, as if I suspected Tommy of interfering.

  Tommy glanced up from paper-shuffling, blue eyes sharp. ‘That’s right, Flora. Hugo is on top of things. And he works so hard, as you, his mother and Christina are fond of telling me.’

  ‘Well …’ I was flummoxed. ‘He does work hard.’

  ‘Agreed. He does.’

  His tone was harsh, but worry made me fail to retaliate.

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Define trouble.’

  ‘Well, you tell me, Tommy. I know he faces accusations of spillage and sewer leaks. Is it that?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way. It doesn’t help.’

  He wasn’t expanding. He went back to the papers. He was being very taciturn.

  ‘And … you’ll sort it out?’

  ‘Doing my best, ma’am.’

  I licked my lips as he continued to busy himself. His eyes remained firmly on the task, avoiding my searching ones.

  ‘Tommy … is that why you’ve come? To help Hugo? Is that why you’re here and not in London?’

  ‘Well, in this heat it’s a nicer place to work than—’

  ‘Please tell me,’ I interrupted urgently.

  He caught my tone. Glanced up. Our eyes locked and he nodded. ‘Yes, that’s specifically why I’m here.’

  My heart began to thud. All my nerves tautened and I felt my mouth dry. ‘Oh God, is he in serious trouble? I mean – not him, but the company?’

  I must have looked scared because he instantly laughed and said, ‘Of course not!’ He got to his feet and I saw how creased his shirt was. I wondered what time he’d finally fallen asleep. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Tommy, I didn’t mean to ask you in that pathetic little voice. Tell me. I can take it. I promise.’

  His blue eyes came round to meet mine, heavy from lack of sleep. Years of resentment existed between us, but in that moment, all that prevailed, in the steady gaze we gave one another, was concern for a man we both cared for.

  ‘I know you can, Flora. At least – please God, after all these years – I think you can. I think you’ve found some detachment. But I can’t tell you. Not right now. But trust me, I’m doing my best.’

  I stared at him. My mouth was devoid of saliva now, but I knew he spoke the truth. That he couldn’t tell me, and would do everything in his power to help Hugo.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said in a small voice. It wasn’t nearly loud enough, but at least I’d said it. He nodded and I knew he was acknowledging my gratitude, but also dismissing me.

  I went back down the corridor, biting the skin around my thumbnail, deep in thought. More through routine and reflex than with any real consideration, I continued on through the green baize door and into the gunroom.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ roared Roger. His bottom was just about to hit the seat of his chair. He looked bright-eyed and delighted but smelled of fresh air and the sea. He’d clearly just arrived. ‘Been here ages!’ he boomed. ‘Looked everywhere for you!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Roger. I was in here ten minutes ago so don’t give me that.’ I managed to smile but I wasn’t in the mood. I was worried.

  ‘Nonsense, been here hours,’ Roger chortled, still enjoying his joke. He rubbed his hands gleefully. ‘Must have missed each other when I popped to the downstairs lavvy for a precautionary. Thoughtful fellow, me. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the creative flow.’

  ‘Thank you, for sharing that with me. And yes, that must have been it,’ I conceded, letting him win. He wiggled into position in his chair, pleased with himself. And happily, for once, wearing the correct clothes. He reached up to the shelf above and flicked his Roberts radio on to the test match.

  ‘Didn’t think to do that when you were in here for ages?’ I murmured. I mixed my paints. ‘Not like you.’

  He barked out a laugh. His eyes gleamed delightedly at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. ‘You’re shrewder than people think, Flora.’

  ‘Only when it suits me,’ I told him, turning to face him properly now, poised with my palette. ‘Sometimes it suits me for people to think otherwise. Something I’m sure you can relate to, Roger.’

  He regarded me appraisingly and not without a glint of admiration, I thought. I settled down to paint.

  My brushstrokes started carefully and speculatively as usual, my eyes darting from Roger to m
y canvas, back to Roger, back to the canvas. Presently, though, they became faster and more feverish. Yet in equal measure more precise and efficient. As always when I was upset, worried, alarmed, my work absorbed me completely; it took on the energy of my emotions. The transubstantiation – and I don’t use the metaphor lightly, for when I came down to earth later, it always seemed to me I’d been possessed – was complete and utter. Today the metamorphosis from anxiety to creativity was total. Roger’s face, which thus far had eluded me, so I’d sketched it in only roughly, concentrating instead on his hands, his shoulders, his chest, became so obvious all of a sudden. The way his eyes clouded, then cleared dramatically. The way that muscle in his cheek affected his mouth. The occasional tension, but abrupt joy, too. Roger’s was a face that could turn on a sixpence, and suddenly I got it all, in what seemed like minutes, but was probably hours. That precious, elusive stretch of creativity which was such a mixed blessing, occurring as it did for me, at its most fruitful, when I was most upset. It once more took control.

  Finally, a little voice said: ‘Can I move?’ Roger was looking pathetic. Wretched even. He gazed at me beseechingly.

  ‘Of course.’ I smiled. Lowered my brush.

  ‘God, Flora. You’re scary when you’re like that,’ he grumbled. He rolled his stiff shoulders around. ‘I daren’t breathe.’

  I grinned. ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ I glanced at the portrait, then at him. Was pleased. But the moment had passed. Blood, rather than passion, flowed through my veins now, and as it did, all my worry flooded back with it. I rinsed my brush in turps, considering. Wiped it on a rag. Then I took a deep breath.

  ‘Roger, is Hugo OK?’

  He frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, work-wise?’

  Roger’s face made a lunge for opacity and inscrutability, then reverted to its habitual transparency. ‘Well, let’s hope so,’ he growled. ‘Tommy’s on the case, at any rate. He’ll sort it out.’

  ‘He’s clever, Tommy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very. And Hugo’s not.’

  ‘Of course he is – he went to Oxford.’

  ‘Because I got him in. My old college.’ He regarded me fiercely. ‘I knew the master. Oh, he’s not stupid and he works hard, but he’s weak.’

  ‘You mean kind.’

  ‘I mean weak.’

  I stared. ‘Well, what’s that got to do with anything anyway? I mean—’

  ‘We’re talking about stopping sewage leaks, pollution, and that is reliant upon solid infrastructure, something Hugo knows nothing about. At least I did engineering. He did fucking theology.’

  I swallowed. ‘Yes, OK. But Hugo has very good directors. Engineers, even, who know—’

  ‘Lining their own pockets. Like all shareholders do. Wouldn’t have happened in my day.’ I could see he was angry suddenly. ‘Living in London – why isn’t he down here? Where it all began? In Cornwall?’

  ‘But Bellingdon contracts all over the country now. Even in the Home Counties. So London makes sense.’

  ‘Makes no sense. You need to be by the coast, hands on. Near the filtration pumps, the underground tanks, the pipelines. Not in some ivory tower in Hampstead.’

  ‘But he’s expanding the company, surely?’

  ‘There’s no sense in overexpansion. Not when you can’t see what’s happening. Yes, he’s got sewage filtration contracts with Buckinghamshire, with Thames Water even, and there’s no doubt he’s enlarged it, but he’s lost sight of it. He’ll filter the crap out of anyone’s water. Wrong. Misguided. You know what his philosophy is?’ His fists were clenched and his face grew red.

  ‘What?’

  Roger got to his feet. ‘We take shit from anyone.’

  I gazed at him. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is true. And since we’re dealing in myths and untruths, the reason he left Cornwall was not to be near the London and Home Counties contractors, and you know it, Flora.’ He burned me with his bright blue eyes.

  ‘He’s never loved it here,’ I murmured. ‘Not like you and me. Not like Babs, Iris, Mum—’

  ‘No, he prefers the London life. Drinks parties in Chelsea. Hobnobbing with wealthy shareholders.’

  ‘Sharing ideas,’ I countered. ‘New methods of technology, innovative projects.’

  ‘All of that can happen anywhere in the country,’ he told me angrily, parroting someone I’d heard very recently. ‘That’s just Hugo’s party line for running an essentially Cornish company from London. But the main reason he left Cornwall, as you and I know, Flora, was not that.’ His eyes blazed. ‘It was to get away from his mother.’

  A silence prevailed as our eyes communed. It was broken by the sound of a car coming up the front drive. Tyres, crunching up the gravel slope. As it swept around the fountain under the gunroom window, we turned as one. Belinda’s blue BMW passed sleekly by, containing the two fair heads of Belinda and Hugo. Car doors opened then slammed. Footsteps went round to the front, where Belinda insisted, unaware that real country folk used the back. There were so many pitfalls for Belinda, lurking in the class system, and she fell into many of them: to be snobbish from such a disadvantaged position must surely be exhausting. But there was one hole Belinda never fell down, and that was the one that kept her grip on her son.

  I wanted to tell Roger that. Tell him that geography and a distance of three hundred miles made no difference. Belinda had never loosened her hold, not when I was married to him – he phoned her at seven every night, and if he didn’t, she called him, and he always spoke from another room. And every month she made a trip to London. Every month. A pilgrimage. She’d arrive at Paddington and get a taxi to the City where she’d have lunch with him at Wheelers. Not with me, she never saw me, unless it was to tell me to move flats or, on one famous occasion, to deliver all the family recipes, the ones Hugo liked. No, just her son. And I had no reason to suspect, I thought, as Christina hove into view, returning slowly from the beach, her children in her wake arguing over a bucket, that things were any different now. I washed my other brushes as Roger gazed out too, lost in his own thoughts. I’d like to tell him that. That Hugo hadn’t got away. Had never escaped. But I suspect he already knew.

  20

  I went from the room, leaving Roger to his thoughts. He was still staring out to sea when I departed, hands thrust in his pockets. Very uncharacteristically for me, I then risked a spot of confrontation. Down the passageway I went, and into the kitchen. Belinda and Hugo were perched at the island together, about to have a cup of coffee. There was no sign of Yvonne. Hugo was facing me and Belinda had her back to me, pressing down the percolator. She turned.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, in a surprised tone. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘You still here?’

  ‘Yes, we had a bit of a session this morning. Took a bit longer than usual. I just popped in to say goodbye,’ I said, by way of an excuse.

  ‘Oh, no need to do that! You can breeze in and out as you please, you know that.’ She got up and went to the fridge for the milk. Don’t come in the rest of the house, she meant. Hugo was already on his feet and coming round the island to greet me. He kissed my cheek.

  ‘Flora! Haven’t seen you for ages,’ he said with a wan smile, sweeping back his soft fair hair. His face was pale, but not like Tommy’s from lack of sleep. More than that.

  ‘You saw her a couple of days ago!’ trilled Belinda. She filled a little milk jug.

  ‘You look tired,’ I told him, ignoring her.

  ‘Nonsense, we’ve had a lovely day at the arboretum, haven’t we, darling? The Friends of the Earth are sponsoring some new trees from Madagascar. I wanted to show Hugo.’

  ‘It was great, Mum.’

  ‘Then we had lunch at that Raymond Blanc bistro on the front, you know, Flora? No, actually, before your time.’

  ‘Or after,’ I said bravely. ‘I’ve just been chatting to Tommy,’ I told Hugo with a smile. ‘I hear he’s giving you a hand.’ Belinda’s face went rigid
with shock. Even Hugo looked surprised. He recovered.

  ‘Yes, he’s been brilliant, actually.’

  ‘A hand!’ Belinda finally found her voice. ‘Hugo doesn’t need a hand, he works incredibly hard. I thought you of all people would know that, Flora.’

  ‘I do,’ I told her evenly. ‘But a fresh pair of eyes is always useful, isn’t it? To get a different perspective?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Hugo said as his mother opened and shut her mouth. ‘Speaking of which,’ he went on quickly, ‘Flora – I’d love to see your painting. Is it too early? I wouldn’t ask, except I know you never usually mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind!’ I told him as we both took advantage of his mother’s temporary incapacity to breathe. ‘I’d love to show you.’ We made to leave and Belinda made to follow. ‘But weirdly –’ I turned to her – ‘and this is going to sound ridiculously precious, I only like an audience of one at this stage.’ Partly true. ‘I find the chatter rather off-putting.’

  ‘I get that,’ said Hugo quickly. ‘And you’ve always said that. Come on, let’s take a look.’

  And off we went, like naughty children. Leaving Belinda holding her silly little milk jug, outraged and impotent, in the middle of her kitchen.

  As we walked down the passageway, we exchanged a secret smile which took me right back to our illicit courting days. Hugo pushed on through into the tall, sunlit gunroom and I followed. I’d swung my easel round to face the wall, not that I cared, but I always felt it was too in-your-face left on display to all comers. Belinda, principally, who was no doubt always creeping in, having a peek. There was no space to view the painting from the wall, however, and since I knew we were going to go through the Picture Viewing motions first before we talked – oh, we knew each other very well – I walked across and swung it round to face us. Hugo gazed, considering. Presently, a small, delighted smile spread to his lips.