‘I’ll get my bag in from the car then,’ he says, ‘if you’d like to show me where I’m sleeping.’
She follows him downstairs and when he comes in with his bag she’s already waiting in Pa’s bedroom.
‘There are only the two bedrooms,’ she tells him, suddenly feeling rather shy. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.’
‘Are you OK with that?’ Will glances round the room and then at her. ‘I mean, I could doss down on one of the sofas upstairs.’
She smiles her gratitude at this sensitivity but shakes her head.
‘This will have to be my spare room,’ she tells him. ‘I hope people will come and stay so I’ve got to get over it. Freddie slept in here for the funeral. I’ll let you get sorted and then we’ll decide what we’re going to do.’
She leaves him, going back upstairs, clearing the table and filling the dishwasher. It’s a little while before she begins to wonder why there’s no sight or sound of him. She stands at the top of the stairs and calls tentatively and then goes down into the hall. The bedroom door is still open so she taps lightly and when there is no reply she looks into the room. Will is sprawled across the bed, his head buried in his forearm, heavily asleep.
El remembers that he’s driven straight down to Devon after his flight and smiles sympathetically. She studies the long bony length of him, the floppy fair hair and the half-hidden face, and thinks that it’s rather a pity that he’s gay. On the other hand it makes everything simple and easy between them. She backs out of the bedroom and goes quietly upstairs.
* * *
Will wakes out of dreamlessness, rolls on to his back and stares at the unfamiliar ceiling. He groans and sits up. It’s a fairly normal procedure to crash out after a night flight but not here: not on his first visit to the Pig Pen. He glances at his watch and groans again. He’s been out for at least half an hour. Pushing himself off the bed he wonders if he should shave, shower and get dressed as if nothing has happened but instead he goes out and up the stairs.
El is sitting at the table, her laptop open, and she glances up as he appears. He decides to behave as if she’s guessed what’s happened and he simply opens out his hands and shrugs.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I sat down on the bed to check my phone and the next minute I was gone.’
He can tell by her amused expression that she knows, that she probably came down and saw him, and he feels a prat.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says. ‘I didn’t ask you about your flight but you said you’d be driving straight down. I should have asked when you arrived if you just needed to sleep. Sorry. Would you like some more coffee?’
‘I’d love some,’ he answers, grateful for her calm response. ‘Give me ten to shave and shower?’
‘There’s no rush,’ she tells him. ‘You made such good time that the day is still all before us. Let me know if there’s anything you need.’
Back in the bedroom, he unpacks his bag, takes out jeans and a shirt and jersey. As he does this he’s puzzled by an unfamiliar lightness of heart, an odd peacefulness, and then he remembers that moment up on the moor, the old stone cross, that intense moment of mourning for his mother; his tears for her and all that he’s lost. He stands, holding his clothes, remembering the feeling of release, of being held and comforted: the weight on his heart beginning to lift with the sun as it rose above the hills.
Looking around the room he thinks about El, wonders how she feels about her father, and he feels apprehensive at what lies ahead. He respects her for what she’s doing, for how she stuck to her guns and stood by her father despite Felicity’s anger. Nevertheless, it must be tough to take this decision without any family support. He knows what it’s like to feel alone and he feels even more determined to help her through this. It’s as if his little vigil at the stone cross has strengthened him just when he needs it.
Shaking his head at this rather fanciful thought, Will picks up his shaving gear and goes into the bathroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Plum comes out of Crebers, turns left and then dives into the little passage that leads into the Pannier Market. She glances at the tables outside Dukes, wondering if anyone she knows is having coffee outside in the sunshine on this warm October morning, and then pushes open the door and goes into the market. The bustle, the colour, the wonderful variety of stalls is familiar yet always interesting. The possibility of buying for someone a present that is quirky, unique, is always here. She wanders in the aisles, smiling at the stall-holders, stopping to chat, and once again the sense of being at home clutches at her heart.
‘Hi,’ says a voice behind her.
She turns quickly and here is Issy, friend of her youth, smiling at her. Plum has no time to analyse her mix of reactions – surprise, affection, anxiety – before the exchange of hugs, expressions of delight, amazement that they should meet by accident.
‘I was going to text to arrange to meet once we’ve moved down,’ Plum says, before Issy can imply any kind of neglect, ‘but this is just a quick dash to pick up the car. Look, this is great! Have you got time for coffee?’
She’s aware that she’s gushing, overdoing it, and that Issy is giving that little secret smile to show that she knows it, too.
‘I certainly have,’ she answers. ‘No tutorials, no papers to be marked. But I’m having lunch with my mum so I can’t be long.’
Plum can barely suppress her relief. ‘Let’s go to Dukes. It looked so nice as I came through with everyone sitting in the sun.’
She’s leading the way, trying not to babble about the weather, wondering why she was so weak and foolish to admit her biggest regret to this friend who is now sitting down opposite, watching her. She remembers the occasion of her indiscretion – Ian was at sea, the children at boarding school – and Issy had come to supper at their naval hiring in Horrabridge. She was still off balance after James, still mourning him, but there was something else that was weighing on her conscience, and after several glasses of wine the temptation to talk, to tell all, was too great. How kind Issy was: how sympathetic and understanding.
Even now Plum bitterly regrets the disclosure. Not long afterwards Ian was posted to Portsmouth, then to the MOD and then to Washington. It has never been spoken of again between them, but instinct warns Plum that Issy is waiting her moment, and as they order coffee and exchange news Plum is alert, watchful.
‘I can’t think why you are so fond of her,’ her mother used to say. ‘She’s such an odd child.’
Plum could never analyse her feelings. Issy was an enigma: witty, edgy, but surprisingly empathetic. It wasn’t until she was much older that Plum realized that she always told Issy much more than Issy ever told her. She is the middle child with two clever, successful siblings, and as Plum enquires after her sisters and their partners and their children she remembers how Issy spoke once, very briefly, about her own love affair. She let the name George slip out but she quickly glossed over it and then changed the subject, and Plum suspects that he is a married man, though she’s never asked. There’s something so private about Issy that even now Plum doesn’t question her about her love affairs in that jokey way that she might with her other girlfriends. Instead, she talks about where they might live now that Ian has been posted back to Devonport and the girls have left home, how they intend to keep the London flat and how good it is to be back in Tavistock.
* * *
Isla watches her. Plum still looks so young, so pretty. It was always easy to attract school friends like Plum – easy-going, open, confiding – easy to make them laugh at her spiky wit, thrill at her daring, and respond to her ability to empathize; to lay herself alongside their fears and doubts and tragedies without ever displaying her own weaknesses. But Plum was always special. Isla wanted Plum for herself, her own special friend; to detach her from her loving family. She wondered if Plum – adored only child – could possibly imagine what it must be like to have two clever, good-looking sisters, one older, one younger, their mother’s
darlings, their father’s pride and joy. She was always pushed to the background despite her own achievements; never taken seriously.
‘It’s great to see you, Issy,’ Plum is saying.
She hates being called Issy, dislikes nicknames, thinks it’s silly and affected that Plum is so called because her name is Victoria, but she smiles back at her old friend. She asks after Plum’s girls and carefully bats away any questions about her own situation. She remembers mentioning George and knows that Plum remembers, too, and is dying to ask but is too tactful to broach the question. The relationship with George – Georgina – didn’t last very long. She said that Isla was too possessive, too demanding, but Isla can’t help her overwhelming need to bind those whom she loves closely to her. She wonders whether Plum regrets her own indiscretion – that fateful need to confide – when she admitted to a lapse that surprised and shocked Isla, though she didn’t show it. It’s quite a few years ago but old sins have long shadows and now, watching Plum across the table, still so attractive, so warm-hearted, Isla longs to mention it; to draw Plum closer again. But this is not the right time or the right place. The moment will come and she knows how to wait.
* * *
When Issy says that she must go, Plum conceals her relief. As they hug, agree that they must meet again soon, she’s glad that Issy holds a post at Plymouth University, where she lives in a flat on the campus, so that the possibility of bumping into her in Tavistock is unlikely. This morning was just a coincidence. She was on her way to her mother at Lydford but stopped to buy her a birthday present in the Pannier Market. Surely that wouldn’t be likely to happen very often. Nevertheless Plum feels unsettled, guilt and remorse knocking at her heart, knowing she will never forgive herself for that one foolish act that had such far-reaching consequences.
As she crosses the square, glancing at her watch – it’s well after midday – she realizes she’s rather later than she meant to be to meet up with her father, but she knows where she’ll find him. She hurries up the steps and into the Bedford. Her father and Tom Wivenhoe are having a pint at a table near the bar. Tom stands up as she approaches them and this small act of gallantry warms her heart and so does the hug he gives her. It reminds her of other returns – from school, from university, from other naval ports – and she responds, smiling at him.
‘What will you have?’ he asks her. ‘Coffee? Or do you fancy a wet?’
She’s about to refuse and then changes her mind. She doesn’t want any more coffee but a glass of wine might just steady her.
‘A small one,’ she says. ‘Pinot Grigio? That would be great. Thanks, Tom.’
Her father smiles at her as she sits down beside him. Presently Cass arrives and, to Plum, just for a moment it’s as if nothing has changed, as if time has stood still, held like a fly in amber. She sips her wine, listens to the flow of conversation, and wonders what they would say if she suddenly spoke out. Plum shivers, imagining their shocked expressions, the disbelief and – worse – the disappointment.
Cass turns to her, asking her how the girls are doing, whether they’ll be home for Christmas. She’s drawn into a conversation about parties, celebrations, and suddenly Cass asks: ‘How’s El, Angus? Tom and I thought we’d invite her to Sunday lunch. Will you still be here, Plum?’
‘No,’ says Plum quickly, rather too quickly. She sees her father’s brief glance and adds, ‘I have to be back in London by the weekend. Lauren’s home. I hardly see her now she’s at uni so I like to make the most of her visits.’
It’s true, but somehow she feels that it doesn’t sound it.
‘Never mind,’ says Cass. ‘Lots of time ahead. So how’s El doing, Angus? Have you seen her?’
‘No, but I’ve had a text,’ he answers. ‘She’s very excited because Natasha and Simon at Book Stop are thinking about offering her a part-time job. She was getting her CV sorted out. And then Will is coming down to help her sort out Martin’s things.’
‘Will?’ questions Cass. ‘Didn’t we meet him at the funeral?’
‘Can’t Freddie help her?’ asks Tom. ‘Surely he should be the one supporting her at a time like this.’
‘Well,’ Cass shrugs, ‘I think it was all a bit tricky after the divorce, wasn’t it? Freddie feeling that he needed to be on Felicity’s side and El sticking by Martin. I think she’s so brave to move in and try to make a life here. Would she mind, d’you think, if you were to give me her mobile number, Angus?’
He hesitates, always cautious. ‘I’ll ask her. I’m sure it’s OK but I think that might be best.’
‘Once a lawyer, always a lawyer,’ says Cass, resigned. ‘Poor girl. How awful it is. I still half expect Martin to come walking in.’
Plum puts down her glass, swings her bag on to her shoulder and gets to her feet. ‘Just going to the loo,’ she says as they glance up at her. ‘Shan’t be long.’
She walks out of the bar, through the lounge and along the passage. The cloakroom is empty and she stands for a moment both hands resting on the washbasin, head bent. She wants to scream, to cry. One small foolish act, just one, has caused such chaos. And now Martin is dead. Plum raises her head and stares at her face in the mirror. Her reflection gazes bleakly back at her. She hears voices outside, the door handle rattles as someone opens it, and Plum hurries into the nearest cubicle and locks the door behind her.
* * *
Hidden by the Endsleigh Gardens Nursery lorry in the square, Isla watches her old friend hurry across the road and up the steps into the hotel. Isla remembers how Plum’s parents used to meet friends there, taking up several tables, enjoying themselves. Several times, way back, Plum invited her to join them and Isla was amused and fascinated by these people – confident, so at ease with each other – and how they welcomed her as Plum’s friend.
It would be interesting, thinks Isla, to walk in there now. To take Plum by surprise, pretending that she’s forgotten something she wanted to ask her, and to watch her reaction. Plum was ill at ease, however hard she tried to cover it, and Isla knows why. Secrets are so dangerous. How ironic that they both have something to hide. As she makes her way back to her car, Isla decides that she might make another visit to Tavistock and have coffee in the Bedford.
The prospect pleases her and she smiles as she gets into her car, heads out of the town and drives towards Lydford.
CHAPTER EIGHT
El stands with Will in her father’s bedroom, steeling herself for the task ahead. She’s aware that Will is waiting for her to take the lead, not wanting to rush in. She’s really enjoyed their day, driving him around, showing him the beauties and the mysteries of the moor: steep-sided river valleys, high stony tors with unexpected glimpses of the distant sea, a dry-stone wall that looked like granite lace against the blue sky. The day was warm and sunny, and she was delighted by his reaction to this place she loves so much. He didn’t exclaim or enthuse but paid it the true compliment of silent contemplation.
They had lunch at the Warren Inn, drove back with a diversion around Burrator Reservoir, and then home. At first she dithered, emptying the dishwasher, checking what they might have for supper, until Will simply said: ‘Shall we just get on with it? Then we’ll be able to relax.’
She nodded. He was right. Gathering up some black plastic bags they went downstairs and into Pa’s bedroom.
Now, Will is still waiting and, making up her mind, El steps forward and swings open the cupboard doors.
‘I made a start,’ she said, ‘but I lost my nerve, and when you said you’d come down I put everything back so as to get the room ready for you.’
Will nods. He stands looking into the wardrobe and then down at her.
‘How do you want to play it?’ he asks. ‘Shall I bring everything out and lay it on the bed and then you make decisions?’
She nods, trying to imagine what Pa would say if he knew that Will was here, handling his clothes, but she’s too near to tears to put it off any longer. Will begins to slide the clothes out, laying them ge
ntly across the bed, working quickly along the rail whilst she smooths and folds the shirts and trousers, making a neat pile.
‘There’s no point,’ she says, trying to sound calm, sensible, ‘in keeping anything. Pa wasn’t very tall, not as tall as Freddie. I asked him, of course. Freddie, I mean. But he didn’t want any of these things. He’s taken what he wants. Books. A painting…’
She rambles on whilst Will works silently beside her, folding, filling the bags. Soon the wardrobe is empty and El opens the top drawers. Inside, Pa’s socks are rolled into neat balls, brown, navy, dark green. She stares at them, picks one up, thinks about him putting it there, not dreaming what lay ahead, and wants to burst into tears. Gently, Will moves her to one side.
‘Shall I do this?’ he asks.
She nods, and with the same deft movements he empties the drawer, then opens the next and the next, and works quickly through them. El stands beside the bed, fingering this garment and that, before putting them into the bags. Soon the small drawers are empty and Will starts on a chest, which is full of jerseys.
‘I’ve kept a couple of his jerseys for myself,’ El tells Will, determined to sound calm. ‘He didn’t care much about clothes. Books were his thing. So I’m keeping all those.’
Will works quickly and efficiently but he is respectful with Pa’s things, always ready to pause if El needs time to consider. Gradually the drawers and cupboards are cleared and the room is stacked with black plastic bags. El stares at them despondently.
‘I’ll take them to Tavistock in the morning,’ she says reluctantly but gratefully. ‘To one of the charity shops.’
‘I was just wondering,’ Will says quickly, ‘how you’d feel if I took them.’
El stares at him in astonishment. ‘You? Why would you do that?’
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