It’s as if Kate has offered her an opportunity and El seizes it.
‘Talking of names,’ she says, casually, ‘do you know anyone called Nancy Fortescue?’
Kate frowns, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. ‘The name certainly rings a bell but I can’t place it. Why?’
El’s ready for this one. ‘I’ve been clearing up a bit and there are things scribbled down on bits of paper. Phone numbers, names. I’m just making sure I’ve contacted everyone who should know.’
‘That’s horrid for you to have to do on your own,’ says Kate sympathetically. ‘Isn’t there anyone to help? What about Freddie? Angus was saying that his friend has been helping you sort out the clothes.’
El is thankful that none of Pa’s friends here in Tavistock knows about her mother’s new family. He never discussed it with them but El wonders if, now she is living here among them, it will be much more difficult to maintain that silence, especially if Will comes to see her again. She wonders why it is so difficult to describe Will as her stepbrother, how they would react to him, and why it matters. Perhaps, because Pa was so reluctant to talk about it all, she’s simply followed his lead. She wonders whether to tell Kate the truth and then decides that she will talk to Will about it first. She remembers how vague he was at the funeral, happy to be introduced as one of Freddie’s friends.
Kate is talking about Sunday lunch. Cass is inviting everyone, will El be able to come? They discuss it, and then Kate says she must be getting back to the Rectory, that she’s left Floss with Cass while she came in to do some shopping. They finish their coffee, El offers to help clear up, and then she’s out in Chapel Street, heading back to the car park and still wondering about Nancy Fortescue.
CHAPTER TEN
Hidden away in the lanes above Buckfastleigh, in the pretty little Georgian house at the end of the mossy drive, Davy Callaghan strides up and down the old-fashioned square kitchen, pausing at intervals to grip the back of the Windsor chair at the head of the old farmhouse table so as to emphasize a point.
‘It’s just silly of you to go on being so stubborn,’ he cries. ‘The job might be made for you, Jules. At least let me put your name forward. You were brilliant at presenting Cakes and Ale. What’s the matter with you?’
He stares crossly at Julia as she continues to roll out pastry, chop ingredients, pauses to brush back a strand of hair with a floury wrist.
‘I’ve told you,’ she says patiently. ‘I’ve done it. Been there. Got the T-shirt. I’m tired of sitting in meetings with mere children who say, “It’s so last year to have a brain, darling. Just look everything up on Google.”’
‘I don’t believe you,’ he answers flatly. ‘You love it. It’s something else. These last few months you’ve been in the dumps. You can’t just sit around out here in the middle of nowhere staring at the wall.’
‘I don’t intend to. I’ve always been freelance and I shan’t change now. I intend to write some articles on famous local people for Devon Life.’
‘It’s been done,’ he says flatly.
‘OK.’ She laughs at him. ‘Then I’ll think of something else.’
‘And meantime you’ll just live here on your own?’
‘I’ve got the boys,’ she counters.
He snorts. ‘Only in the holidays. Remember, they’re both away now, not at school any more. They’ll be off any time soon. I can’t think why you haven’t married again. It must be nearly ten years since poor old Bob got written off in that awful crash.’
‘You know why I don’t,’ she says calmly. ‘I told you once before that I lose my half of his naval pension if I marry again and I haven’t met a man yet that’s worth it.’
‘Haven’t you?’ he asks, watching her. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if that’s absolutely true.’
She turns her back on him, washing her hands at the Belfast sink, drying them on a towel and hanging it back on the Aga rail.
‘Don’t tell me. The famous Callaghan intuition at work again?’ she asks lightly. ‘Doing your Mystic Meg thing?’
He pulls out the chair and sits down in it. He looks serious, even anxious.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Jules?’ he asks. ‘I’ve been worried about you this last couple of months.’
She leans back against the Aga, smiling at him. ‘Perhaps you’re right and it’s empty-nest syndrome. Ollie going off to uni this term. Laurence joining his regiment. It’s odd here without them. Don’t know what I’d do without Bertie.’
At the sound of his name the big golden retriever, lying in his basket, thumps his tail a few times, and Davy shakes his head.
‘Isn’t that just what I’m saying?’ he asks irritably. ‘That’s why I thought you’d be pleased. The timing of this new production is perfect.’
‘Don’t go on, Dave,’ she says.
Her voice has changed, not light-hearted now, and he looks at her quickly.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Forget it. Now. I’m taking you out to lunch. No arguments.’
‘No arguments,’ she agrees. ‘We’ll go up to the Church House at Holne. But first, have some more coffee and tell me all the goss!’
* * *
As she watches and listens to him, smiling in all the right places, Julia’s thinking of Martin: of his quick wit, his sense of fun, his readiness for a jaunt. She wishes that she’d told Davy about Martin way back so that she could have the relief of talking about him now, but she and Martin agreed that nobody should know. Martin was protecting El and she was protecting her boys. Ollie and Laurence would have been shocked to think of another man taking their father’s place. They idolized their father. There were photographs everywhere of him in uniform, on the aircraft carrier, beside his helicopter. And she sympathized with Martin about his reluctance to tell his daughter that there was another woman in his life. He was honest about the reasons for his divorce: how he’d been unfaithful to Felicity on one brief occasion with an old friend. She was grieving, her husband far away, and he was lonely. Although this moment of mutual comfort and affection was immediately regretted by both of them, it was enough to show Martin the emptiness of his marriage. When, a few months later, he told Felicity that the marriage was over, his wife assumed he was having an affair and he made no attempt to deny it although it wasn’t true. He moved out whilst the divorce was going through and it was at that time that he and Julia met.
‘El’s been so loyal since Felicity and I separated,’ he told Julia, ‘and I can’t quite bring myself to explain it all to her. She believes that I had an affair and it was just a short-term thing. Maybe later on I’ll tell her the truth…’
She was quick to agree with him, imagining the boys’ faces if she tried to talk to them about Martin. And so the time passed. They made a pact that they would tell them all once Oliver went off to university. Then all three of them would have started their own lives and should be able to accept that their parents had needs of their own. Except that it hadn’t worked out like that.
Davy is watching her, looking quizzically at her, and Julia guesses that she’s missed her cue and he’s noticed that she’s not concentrating.
‘There’s something wrong,’ he says. ‘I know it. All I’m saying is that I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it. No pressure. Just putting it out there.’
‘Thanks, Dave,’ she answers. ‘The truth is, it’s not just my secret. Maybe one day…’
Treacherous tears are rising, her throat is closing up. It’s terrible to miss someone so much but to have no right to express her grief. They were so successful at keeping their love a secret. It almost seemed a part of its charm. Silly messages, coded texts, random meetings: it was like a game. Yet their feelings for each other were so strong: that irresistible fusion of compatibility, of being totally understood, totally known.
‘It’s like being recognized at last after years of being alone,’ Martin said. ‘And being appreciated. It’s like I’m being allowed to be me, even encouraged, instead of living in an atmos
phere of permanent disdain. Like sunshine after years and years of rain.’
‘I know.’ She held him tightly, wondering how she would cope with the boys, with everyone knowing.
He let her go and smiled at her. ‘Felicity has wanted to move back to Dorchester for a while and now she has the perfect excuse. But she’ll never forgive me. If I’m truthful I don’t want her to. We should never have married. She knows that. Secretly she despises me. But she would hate to stay around here and face the reaction of her friends. Felicity hates failure.’
‘So what is she going to do?’
‘Her mother died last year. She’s going back to Dorchester to be with her father, who isn’t terribly well. Freddie’s at uni and El is at boarding school, so I hope it won’t be too traumatic for them.’
Now, aware that Davy is watching her, Julia blows her nose and tries to smile at him.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she says. ‘I promise that when I feel ready to talk it will be to you. I know it’s girly and boring being like this but…’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But remember I’m always here if you need me.’
His kindness touches her and quite suddenly she gives in.
‘Oh hell,’ she says. ‘OK. There’s been this man for years now but we had reasons for keeping it secret. He died a couple of months ago, unexpectedly.’
It’s odd that now she’s spoken the words she feels calmer. Davy, on the other hand, is looking horrified.
‘My darling girl,’ he says, stretching a hand across the table to her. ‘How unutterably bloody. And you haven’t said a word. For Christ’s sake, surely you could have told me?’
She squeezes his hand and lets it go. ‘I could have, but when I found out, Laurence was just back from Sandhurst and Ollie was around all the time and I just didn’t dare let myself go. I knew if I told you I’d be all over the place. I’ve been here before, remember, and I know how hard it is for other people.’
Sensing the change of atmosphere, Bertie heaves himself up and comes across to lean against her chair and Julia digs her fingers into his thick ruff. She knows that Davy is one of the few people she could confide in without risking the pitfalls that go with sharing the pain of bereavement. He won’t over-emote or do that awful competitive grieving thing, he’ll just be there, but even so she needs to feel strong. It’s odd that it’s so easy to feel even weaker after sharing these feelings than before, and it’s perilously difficult to get the timing right.
‘It’s complicated,’ she says. ‘Nobody knows about us. I didn’t even know he was dead until I saw his obit in the Western Morning News.’
Davy buries his head in his hands. ‘Jesus!’
‘I know.’ She sits in silence for a moment. ‘I went to his funeral in Tavistock.’
Davy raises his head and stares at her. ‘Seriously?’
She nods. ‘All the details were in the paper. I just slipped in at the back of the church when a group of people were going in and sat behind a pillar. I had to, Dave. I just needed to say goodbye, I suppose. And even then I could hardly believe it. It happened so quickly. We’d made a plan to meet and he didn’t turn up, but even then I wasn’t too worried. He didn’t get much time off except at weekends and I just thought something had cropped up. You know?’
‘I’m trying to imagine it,’ he answers.
‘I know it sounds bizarre,’ she says, ‘but we both understood it. To begin with we were both in the same boat with children to think about and then it kind of morphed into a pattern.’
‘And nobody recognized you? At the funeral?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not like I’m famous or anything. I’ve only done very local stuff.’
‘Cakes and Ale was very popular.’
‘Yes, but luckily it was nearly a year ago and my hair’s shorter now. It was a very hot day so I could wear dark specs. Afterwards I waited till nearly everybody had gone before I came out of church and then I just slipped down the side path and vanished away into the town.’ There’s a little silence. ‘Sorry,’ she says at last. ‘Honestly, Dave, I didn’t mean to drain down on you.’
He shakes his head. ‘It seems to me that some people get all the shit.’
‘You’ve had your share, too. When Phil walked out on you.’
‘Yes, but that was different. Phil and I were like an ongoing sitcom. Everyone knew about it. They were taking bets about how long we’d last.’
She turns to smile at him. ‘You’re better off without him.’
He gets up, walks round the table and holds his arms out.
‘Come here,’ he says. Bertie gets up, too, and butts his head against their legs. ‘You, too, Bertie. Group hug. Are you sure you’re up for the pub?’
She nods. ‘We’ll give Bertie a walk in Hembury Woods on the way.’
But she holds on to him for a moment longer, feeling comforted by his presence. It’s impossible to think she won’t see Martin again, share the jokes, talk about books, walk together on the moor. It’s different somehow from Bob’s death. He took risks, accidents happened, and she was always braced for the news of disaster. Martin was a country solicitor: a gentle, quiet, scholarly man. This sudden dramatic ending seems so out of character for him.
She lets Davy go but she can see that he is wrestling with what she’s told him. His thin eager face is alive with speculation.
‘So are you telling me that you have no contact at all with anyone? Not a single soul? You must have phoned him? Texted him? It’ll be there in his phone.’
He’s hit on her one real anxiety. She thinks of all the texts: plans to meet.
‘Even with that we were careful,’ she says. ‘We kept it brief, almost in code. They might have been from anyone.’
‘But the number,’ he insists. ‘Your number and your name will be in the phone. So no one’s contacted you?’
She shakes her head. ‘We just used our initials. Martin had a work phone. I know that. But I don’t know what happened to his private one.’
‘So what if you get the call one of these days and somebody says, “Hello. I’ve got your number here. Who are you?” what will you say?’
She groans. ‘Don’t. You can’t imagine how awful it is. The terrible finality of it and having no rights. Sometimes I just long to hear from his daughter. He loved her so much. Part of me thinks that she’d understand how it was, but another part of me fears that she might be upset that he kept our relationship a secret. Or perhaps she might be jealous. I have no idea how this works. But the silence is odd because I assumed that she’d contact everyone in his address book. I’ve been on tenterhooks.’
‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ agrees Davy. ‘My poor old darling. This is hell for you.’
‘Oh, don’t, Dave,’ she says. ‘Don’t be kind or I’ll start crying and then I might never stop. Let’s go for that walk.’
He begins to clear the coffee things, stacking them on the draining board, and she feels a rush of affection for him, and gratitude. Now she doesn’t feel quite so alone. She knows she can trust Davy and, even more importantly, she has someone to whom she can talk about Martin.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
That evening, after Davy has gone back to Plymouth, Julia puts their tea things in the dishwasher and comes through to the front of the house and into the drawing-room. It’s an elegant room with tall sash windows and comfortable sofas. Taking the matches from the high mantelshelf, she kneels down before the brass fender and lights the kindling and twigs that she laid there earlier. As the wood catches and flares she builds a little pyramid of logs above them and sits back on her heels to watch the fire burn into life. Kneeling there on the rug she’s glad now that Martin never came to the house. It’s odd but somehow she misses him less here because there is no memory of him. They both agreed that no risks should be taken. There must be no chance of being surprised by a friend dropping by or a child coming home from school unexpectedly early. Holidays were especially difficult with her boys at home for week
s at a time. How strict their love has been; how hedged about with rules.
Except, she thinks, for that very first time, when they met and their normal rules of behaviour went up in flames just as this fire is burning in front of her now. Her experience with Bob hadn’t prepared her for this kind of conflagration. That had been a romantic attraction kindling slowly into a warmth of love that sustained her as he made his busy, noisy progress through life, and supported his devotion to his career, his aircraft, his promotion, until that flight that had gone so disastrously wrong. His sons are very like him: Laurence already passed out from Sandhurst, Ollie a keen sportsman. They strove to emulate him and were so proud of him. Even his death was glamorous in its terrible tragic way.
Slipping sideways a little, tucking her feet beneath her and supporting herself on one hand, Julia allows her memories more freedom. It was strange that she should meet Martin at The Garden House on a blowy March day. She can remember the journey across the moor: daffodils growing in the ditches and along the dry-stone walls on the road to Princetown; creamy curds of blackthorn blossom in the hedges; a sheep with one small black lamb. The tawny grasslands flowed away to high bony outcrops of rock that looked like sleeping dinosaurs.
The sun was shining as she got out of the car at The Garden House, looking around with pleasure at the camellia blossom, smiling at the woman who greeted her at the visitors’ entrance. Julia walked along the paths, glancing across the cloudy treetops in the valley to the distant hills of Cornwall, delighted by the unexpected display of purple tulips in the Walled Garden. She resisted the little wooden seats, placed in secret, sunny corners, and decided that she needed coffee. It was chilly, too cold for the terrace, but when she went inside she saw that the coachload of people she’d been avoiding on her walk had the same idea. She stood for a moment looking around at the chattering groups and then her gaze lighted on a man sitting alone at a small table for two. It was clear that he saw her plight and with a smile and a slight tip of his head, he gestured towards the empty chair. She went towards him gratefully.
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