Voices in the Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

‘He’s so much older than you.’

  ‘Only fifteen years.’

  ‘Only.’ He laughed. ‘If I married a girl fifteen years younger than I am she’d be … eighteen.’

  ‘That’s old enough.’

  ‘I suppose so. But the very idea seems ludicrous.’

  ‘Do you think me being married to Alec is ludicrous?’

  ‘No. I think it’s fantastic. I think he’s a very lucky man.’

  She said, ‘I’m lucky.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you fall in love with him? It’s different from just loving, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s different.’ She bent her head and picked with her fingers at a crack in the rock, dislodging a tiny pebble. She lifted her arm and threw this, and it bounced on the rock and landed in the pool with a miniature splash. It sank, disappearing forever.

  ‘So. You met Alec at a dinner party. “This is Alec Haverstock,” your hostess said, and your eyes met over the cocktail tray, and…’

  ‘No,’ said Laura.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘How was it?’

  She said, ‘It was the first time we’d met, but it wasn’t the first time I saw Alec.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You won’t laugh?’

  ‘I never laugh at important things.’

  ‘Well … I actually first saw Alec six years before I met him. It was lunchtime, and I’d gone to see a girlfriend who worked in an art gallery in Bond Street. We were meant to be having lunch together, but she couldn’t get away. That’s why I went to see her. And it was quiet, and there weren’t many people about, so we just sat and talked. And Alec walked in and spoke to my friend and bought a catalogue, and then went to look at the paintings. And I watched him go and I thought, “That’s the man I’m going to marry.” And I asked my friend who he was. And she said Alec Haverstock. She said he often came in at lunchtimes, just to look around and sometimes buy pictures. And I said, “What does he do?” And she told me … Sandberg Harpers, Northern Investment Trust … very successful, married to a beautiful wife, father of a beautiful daughter. And I thought, “Funny. Because he’s going to marry me.’”

  She fell silent. Found another scrap of rock, threw it into the pool with some force.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Ivan.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think that’s amazing.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘But what did you do with your life during those six years? Sit and twiddle your thumbs?’

  ‘No. Worked. Lived. Existed.’

  ‘When you met him at the dinner party, did you know then that his marriage had broken and he was divorced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you leap at him, crying “At last,” and fling your arms around his neck?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you still knew?’

  ‘Yes, I knew.’

  ‘And he, presumably, knew too?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘How fortunate you are, Laura.’

  ‘What, to be married to Alec?’

  ‘Yes. But mostly, to have been so sure.’

  ‘Have you never been sure?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. That’s why I’m still a single, available, desirable, eligible bachelor. Or so I like to think.’

  ‘I think you’re desirable,’ Laura told him. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re not married.’

  ‘That’s a long story.’

  ‘You were engaged. I know that because Alec told me.’

  ‘If I start on that we’ll be here till nightfall.’

  ‘Do you hate talking about it?’

  ‘No, not particularly. It was just a mistake. But the gruesome thing was that I didn’t realize it was a mistake until it was almost too late to do anything about it.’

  ‘What was she called?’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I answered all your questions. Now it’s your turn to answer mine.’

  ‘Oh, all right. She was called June. And she lived in the heart of the Cotswolds, in a beautiful stone house with mullioned windows. And in the stables were beautiful horses on which she used to ride to hounds. And in the garden was a blue, kidney-shaped swimming pool, and a hard tennis court, and a lot of statues and unnatural-looking shrubs. And we got engaged, and there were tremendous celebrations, and her mother spent the next seven months planning the largest, most expensive wedding the neighbours had witnessed in years.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Laura.

  ‘It’s all water under the bridge. I turned tail at the last moment and fled, like the coward I am. I just knew that the magic wasn’t there, that I wasn’t sure, and I liked the poor girl too much to condemn her to a loveless alliance.’

  ‘I think you were very brave.’

  ‘Nobody else did. Even Eve was angry, not so much because I’d broken off the engagement, but because she’d bought a new hat, and she never wears hats.’

  ‘But why did you throw up your job? Surely you didn’t have to throw up your job as well as your engagement.’

  ‘I had to, really. You see, the senior partner of my firm happened to be June’s father. Tricky?’

  Laura found this unanswerable.

  * * *

  It was seven o’clock before they got back to Tremenheere. Driving over the moor and down into the long, wooded valley that led to the village, they saw that the clouds to the south had thickened and moved inshore. After the brilliance of the north coast, this mist came as something of a surprise. The town was cloaked in it, invisible. It swallowed the low evening sun and was blown, in drifts, up from the sea towards them.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t spend the day here,’ said Ivan. ‘We’d have been sitting in a fog with sweaters on, instead of sunbathing on the rocks.’

  ‘Is that the end of the good weather, or will the sun come back?’

  ‘Oh, the sun’ll come back. It always comes back. We could have another scorcher tomorrow. It’s just a sea fog.’

  The sun always comes back. The confident way Ivan said this filled Laura with comfort. Optimism is a lovely thing, and one of Ivan’s most endearing qualities was that he seemed to radiate optimism. She could not imagine him being downhearted, and if he ever was, then it would not last for long. Even the saga of his disastrous engagement and the loss of his job, which could in a less resilient man have been the source of much retrospective gloom, he had recounted with good humour, turning the whole episode into a joke against himself.

  This optimism was catching. Sitting beside him in the open car, tired, sunburned, and salty, Laura felt carefree as a child and more hopeful about the future than she had for a long time. She was, after all, only thirty-seven. That was young. With a bit of luck, fingers crossed, she would be able to start a baby. Perhaps then Alec would sell the house in Islington and buy another, bigger, with a garden. And the house would be Laura’s, not Erica’s. And the nursery upstairs would be their baby’s nursery, not Gabriel’s. And when Daphne Boulderstone came to call, she would not be able to sit in Laura’s bedroom and make remarks about the furniture and the curtains, because there would be no memories of Erica to justify them.

  Now they were turning into the gates of Tremenheere, driving under the arch, stopping by Ivan’s front door.

  ‘Ivan, thank you very much. It’s been the most perfect day.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ Lucy, curled up in Laura’s lap, sat up and yawned and looked about her. Ivan caressed her head, pulled her long, silky ears. Then he picked up Laura’s hand and kissed the back of it in the most natural and unconsidered way. ‘I hope I haven’t exhausted the pair of you.’

  ‘I don’t know about Lucy, but I haven’t felt so well in years.’ She added, ‘Or so happy.’

  They parted. Ivan had a phone call to make; he would take a shower and change. Perhaps, later, they would all meet
for a drink. It depended on what arrangements Eve and Gerald had made. He emptied the haversack and took the damp swimming things and slung them over the washing line, where they hung, sandy and unpegged, in the gathering mist. Laura carried the picnic basket into the kitchen. There was nobody about. She gave Lucy a drink of water and then unpacked the basket, throwing away the rubbish and washing up the plastic plates and glasses. She went out of the door and down the passage in search of Eve.

  She found her, for once sitting down, in the drawing room. Because of the mist and the gloom of the prospect from the window, she had kindled a little fire, and this burned cheerfully in the grate.

  She had already changed for the evening and was doing her tapestry, but as Laura came through the door, she set this down and took off her spectacles.

  ‘Did you have a lovely day?’

  ‘Oh, heavenly…’ Laura flopped down into a chair and told Eve about it. ‘We went to Penjizal and it was gorgeous weather there, not a cloud in the sky. And then we swam and had lunch—thank you for the lunch—and sat and watched the tide come in. And we saw heaps of seals, all bobbing about with darling doggy faces. And then the tide did come in, so we went back onto the cliffs and spent the rest of the afternoon there, and then Ivan took me to Lanyon, and we had a beer in the pub, and then we came home. I’m sorry we’re so late. I haven’t done anything to help you with dinner or anything…’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s all been seen to.’

  ‘You’ve lit a fire.’

  ‘Yes, I felt rather shivery.’

  Laura looked at her more closely. She said, ‘You’re pale. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I—I had a bit of a headache at lunchtime, but I’ve had a sleep and I’m fine now. Laura, Alec called. Just after six. But he’s ringing back at nine.’

  ‘Alec … What was he ringing about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Probably just wanted a chat with you. Anyway, like I said, he’s ringing back.’ She smiled. ‘You’re looking wonderfully well, Laura. Quite a different person. Alec’s not going to recognize you when he sees you again.’

  ‘I feel well,’ Laura told her. She pulled herself out of the chair and went to the door, headed for her bedroom and a bath. ‘I feel quite a different person.’ She went, closing the door behind her. Eve sat looking at the closed door, frowning a little. The she sighed, put on her spectacles again, and went back to her tapestry.

  * * *

  Gerald stood at his dressing table, chin raised, squinting into the mirror, pulling up the knot of his tie. A dark blue silk tie, patterned with red naval crowns. It settled neatly between the two crisp points of his collar. That done, he took up his ivory-backed brushes and attended to what remained of his hair, which was not very much.

  Meticulously, he replaced the brushes, neatly lined up with his clothes brush, his stud box, his nail scissors, and the silver-framed photograph of Eve, taken on their wedding day.

  His dressing room—as his sea cabin had been—was always a model of order. Clothes were folded, shoes placed in pairs, nothing ever left lying about. It even looked like a sea cabin. The single bed, where he sometimes slept if he had a cold, or Eve a headache, was narrow and functional, and neatly squared off under a navy-blue blanket. The dressing table was an old sea chest, with recessed brass handles at either side. The walls were lined with group photographs: his term at Dartmouth, and the ship’s company of H.M.S. Excellent, the year that Gerald had been gunnery commander.

  Order was engrained in him … order and a set of ethics by which he had lived his life, and he had decided long ago that the old, rigid maxims of the Royal Navy could be profitably applied to ordinary, day-to-day existence.

  A ship is known by her boats.

  That meant that if the front entrance of a house looked clean and scrubbed, with brass polished and floor shining, then visitors assumed that the rest of the house was just as spotless. It didn’t necessarily have to be, and in the case of Tremenheere, frequently wasn’t. It was just the first impression that mattered so much.

  A dirty submarine is a lost submarine.

  In Gerald’s opinion this was particularly appropriate to the endless headaches of modern industry. Any establishment, mismanaged and inefficiently run, was doomed as well. He was, in the main part, a calm and easygoing man, but sometimes, reading accounts in the Times of strife, strikes, and picket lines, misunderstanding and noncommunication, he came near to grinding his teeth in rage, longing to be, not retired, but in action again, convinced that with a bit of sensible, seamanlike cooperation, all could be resolved.

  And then the last, the final conceit. The difficult we can do at once, the impossible may take a little longer.

  The difficult we can do at once. He put on his blazer, took a clean handkerchief from his drawer, and tucked it into his top pocket. He let himself out of the room, crossed the landing, to where a window looked out over the courtyard. Ivan’s car was parked outside his door. Eve, Gerald knew, was having a sit-down in the drawing room. Quietly he went down the back stairs and through the deserted kitchen.

  Outside, the mist had thickened and it was damp and cold. From far out to sea he could hear the faint, regular moaning of the coast-guard foghorn. He crossed the courtyard and opened the door of Ivan’s house.

  The impossible may take a little longer.

  ‘Ivan.’

  From above he heard the sound of running water, as bath water gurgled down a drain. As well, Ivan had his radio on, a blast of cheerful dance music.

  The door led straight into the spacious kitchen living room, which comprised the entire ground floor of the house. A table stood in the middle of this, and comfortable chairs were drawn up before a log-burning stove. Most of the furniture in the room belonged to Gerald, but Ivan had added things of his own: the blue-and-white china on the dresser, some pictures, a pink-and-red Japanese paper bird, suspended from the ceiling. An open flight of wooden steps, like a ship’s ladder, gave access to the upper floor, where the old hay loft now contained two small bedrooms and a bathroom. He went to the foot of these and called again, ‘Ivan.’

  Abruptly, the radio was silenced. The water gurgled away. The next moment Ivan appeared at the head of the stairs, dressed in a small towel and with his wet fair hair standing on end.

  ‘Gerald. Sorry I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I want a word.’

  ‘Of course, make yourself at home. I won’t be a moment. It felt so damp and miserable, I lit the fire. I hope it hasn’t gone out. Anyway, pour yourself a drink. You know where it is.’

  He disappeared, could be heard thumping about overhead. Gerald checked on the stove, which had not gone out. A faint warmth already emanated from its black iron walls. He found a bottle of Haig in the cupboard over the sink, poured a tot into a tumbler, and filled it with water from the tap. Holding this, he began to walk up and down the length of the room. Pacing the quarterdeck, Eve always called it. But at least it was better than sitting down, doing nothing.

  Eve. We won’t tell anyone, they had all agreed. Oh, Gerald, she had said, we mustn’t ever tell anyone.

  And now he was going to break his word, because he knew that he had to tell Ivan.

  His stepson came down the steep stairs full tilt, like an experienced sailor, damp hair slicked down, and wearing blue jeans and a dark blue polo sweater.

  ‘Sorry about that. You’ve got a drink? Is the fire all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s going.’

  ‘Extraordinary how quickly it gets cold.’ He went to get himself a drink. ‘Up on the other coast it was really warm, not a cloud in the sky.’

  ‘You had a good day, then?’

  ‘Perfect. How about you? What have you and Eve been up to?’

  ‘We,’ said Gerald, ‘have not had a good day. That is why I’m here.’

  Ivan turned at once, the tumbler in his hand, half-filled with neat whisky.

  ‘I suggest you put some water in that, a
nd then we’ll sit down and I’ll tell you.’

  Their eyes met. Gerald did not smile. Ivan turned on the tap and filled up the glass. He brought it over to the fireside and they sat facing each other across the white sheepskin hearthrug.

  ‘Fire away.’

  Quietly, Gerald recounted to him the happenings of the morning. The hysterical telephone call from Silvia. Their instant response to her appeal. The letter.

  ‘What sort of a letter?’

  ‘A poison-pen letter.’

  ‘A…’ Ivan’s jaw dropped. ‘A poison-pen letter? You have to be joking.’

  ‘It is, unfortunately, true.’

  ‘Bu—but who’s it from? Who the hell would write Silvia a poison-pen letter?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘She has it still. I told her to keep it.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘It said…’ As soon as he had got home, and before he forgot the exact words, Gerald had written them down, in his neat script, at the back of his diary. Now he took his diary out of his breast pocket, put on his spectacles, opened the diary, and read aloud. “‘You went out with other men and drove your husband to drink. You killed him. You should be ashamed of yourself.’”

  He sounded like a barrister, reading aloud in court the intimate details of some sleazy divorce. His cultured voice reduced to cool impersonality the ill-framed, evil-intentioned words. But the venom, still, was there.

  ‘How revolting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it handwritten?’

  ‘No, the classic method was used: letters cut from newspaper headlines and stuck on to writing paper. Child’s writing paper. The envelope printed with a rubber stamp … you know the sort of thing. Local postmark, yesterday’s date.’

  ‘Has she any idea who could have sent it?’

  ‘Have you?’

  Ivan actually laughed. ‘Gerald, I hope you don’t think it was me!’

  But Gerald did not laugh. ‘No. We think it was May.’

  ‘May?’

  ‘Yes, May. May, according to Silvia, has never been able to stand the sight of her. May has this fetish about drink. You know that as well as we do.…’

  ‘But not May.’ Ivan got to his feet, started pacing the floor, much as Gerald had paced it a few moments earlier.