The tractor pulled its visitors through paths that were lined with wondrous shrubs whose flowers were large and scented, colouring their silent journey along the dark paths and stopping every now and then to drop off someone, or something, a holidaying couple, a parcel, a pair of garden shears, and as they journeyed deeper into the island it seemed to Claire that not only did the shrubs flourish more profusely than she had known, but in the hedgerows exotica bloomed in full and magnificent growth, large and lush thanks to the warmth of the Gulf Stream.
And birds, too – they passed more birds of more variety than she had thought possible in such a short time.
‘They have nothing to be afraid of,’ Crawford said as she remarked on this. ‘John and Maisie allow no shooting, you see.’
It seemed the island was populated by sea birds, wild duck, geese, swifts and swallows, not to mention song thrushes and blackbirds so tame that they followed the visitors down all the paths as if they were shepherding them to the very doors of their holiday destinations.
Only minutes from their arrival, the tractor took a sharp right and suddenly there was the house, a large handsome building with a courtyard and large iron gates through which the minitractor took them, and they climbed down from their wooden seats to see that it was set about with flowers in tubs, and climbing plants festooning the calm exterior of the house.
‘My dears!’
‘This is Maisie—’
Seconds later, ‘Welcome!’
‘And that is John.’
Their hosts stood in welcoming array in the doorway of their house, their kaftans billowing about them in the mild early summer breeze.
‘They’ve never quite recovered from flower power,’ Crawford murmured, and bossed his eyes slightly in Claire’s direction.
To Claire, who was used only to older people who wore tweeds or faded Barbour topcoats in greens and browns, the Fellowes, appearing as they did in their multicoloured African robes, their silver jewellery and their sandals, were delightfully exotic.
‘I know you’re Claire Merriott, I’ve heard all about you and how brilliant you were – the auction, the painting, everything. But,’ Maisie Fellowes went on, ‘I just hope, my dear, that Crawford warned you about us, didn’t he? I’m sure he did. You see, we have lived here for a year and a day, and have drifted into these sort of habit-things. We kaftan up from the first week of May until the first week of September when the storms start, at which time we dart inside and start wearing seamen’s knits and wide-bottom bells. So. That’s just how it is here, I’m afraid, but I dare say you won’t mind,’ she finished, ‘because Crawford said you’re awfully nice and don’t stand on form and couldn’t disapprove if you tried.’
Claire smiled, feeling the warmth, not just of the sun on her back but of Maisie Fellowes’ smile, and then she glanced back at Crawford, sensing that he was staring around him unable to quite believe that he was where he was.
‘I can’t tell you how nice this is,’ he murmured to his friends, and they both hugged him again. He stared down at them. ‘It’s been too long, hasn’t it?’ he asked, and it seemed to Claire there was something apologetic in his voice.
They smiled at him. ‘We knew you’d come back, some day.’
* * *
The house was set in grounds made up of terraces on different levels and lawns that led to rougher terrain and trees in amongst which were scattered guest cottages, each individually named after musicals.
‘I’m an old musicals nut,’ John told Claire as he showed her into Camelot, and Maisie walked Crawford off to unpack in Carousel. ‘I don’t think you could better the good old days of the great sweeping musical, I don’t really. The thrill of the great velvet curtains, the orchestra tuning up, the arrival of the conductor to scattered applause, and then – moment of moments – the opening bars! What a moment! What excitement! Nothing like it now, is there! You can’t come out humming a cat miaowing!’
He proceeded to hum a few bars from what must have been a popular number when he was a child, and Claire watched him, smiling, thinking that islands must breed very special people, people who were not afraid to be themselves, people who – perhaps, like the birds, because they felt safe – retained their childish enthusiasm.
‘Leave you to unpack. Cocktails on the terrace, then luncheon and a siesta, although knowing Crawford, always was a glutton for punishment, he’ll probably want to take you for a bicycle ride or something hideous later. Take your time, wash up, as the Americans say, and then see you on the terrace.’
Claire had so few summer clothes that she had been forced to beg Melinda for a loan of some of her things, so putting two and two together she had enough to hang up in the curtained chintz-fronted wardrobe which stood on the other side of her bedroom, the bedroom itself leading to a small sitting room and on to a tiny kitchen where she could make her own breakfast and lounge about in peace.
‘So awful to see anyone at breakfast,’ John had explained before leaving her.
Claire showered and changed into some shorts and a plain T-shirt and a pair of espadrilles that she had newly bought in the King’s Road to match the T-shirt.
‘I feel so ordinary beside you, I’m afraid,’ she told Maisie when she found her on the terrace before lunch. ‘I wish I had some kaftans.’
‘Oh no, don’t wish for any such thing! Kaftans are such a bad habit! Truly. The moment one gets into the way of them, you see, that’s it, one can never see a reason for not wearing one. Kaftans pass as day clothes for eccentrics like us, and uniform for flower children, and night clothes for insomniacs, and party clothes for simply everyone. And although one does of course see the point of other clothes, one never really goes back to them. Kaftans keep the skin so airy and free and the body so relaxed that quite frankly they turn one into a total naturist. So don’t whatever you do adopt one. Adopt anything, but not kaftans. They are not a way of life even – they are a drug, like pasta or jazz, or handsome young men, or collecting paintings. A drug!’
Seated on the terrace at a wooden table Claire could admire a view of the sea from across the lawns. The gardens were full of shrubs and trees which must be rare and fine, judging from the various name plaques and carefully placed netting surrounding them. She had been seated for no more than a few seconds when she became aware that she was the focus of attention of more blackbirds and thrushes than she had yet seen.
‘I wish I had something for you,’ she murmured to two of the boldest of the thrushes, putting out her hand.
‘Don’t wish that!’ John called to her as he approached carrying a silver tray on which were placed refreshing-looking drinks and small toasted nuts and olives.
‘No, don’t wish that,’ Maisie agreed. ‘They are all without manners, and within seconds you will look like a scarecrow in a field, with birds all over you, sitting on your head and your shoulders, and you will wish you had never given them the time of day. They won’t even scare! Look!’
She clapped her hands sharply together, but the birds only looked at her, interested.
‘They’re like Ben Weatherstaff’s robin, aren’t they?’
‘Just like him,’ Maisie agreed and her eyes looked suddenly shrewd as she stared appreciatively for a second at her young guest. ‘Good,’ was all she finally said, but she smiled.
Crawford appeared a little later and he too smiled at Claire, at everything, but he warned her, ‘Don’t ever be tempted by John’s cocktails. They belong to another era when men were men and women were too!’
Home-made lemonade was the order of Claire’s day, and while the Fellowes drank cocktails that Crawford described as ‘lethal’ he had only wine, and later they ate pasta salad under the spread of cream linen umbrellas on the upper terrace, after which Crawford commanded Claire to follow him and they went in search of bicycles so that he could show her round the island.
‘Each cottage has a pair of bicycles for itself. We find that’s best,’ Maisie explained, ‘you know, for people to be abl
e to take off on their own. Much the best.’
Claire found that her cottage boasted a lady’s five-speed bike, a much more sophisticated machine than the one on which she had been used to ploughing her way around Hatcombe and its lanes.
‘I’m not used to such a posh lot of gears,’ she moaned to Crawford, struggling after him as he set off in front of her, his trousers tucked into his socks.
‘Someone your age, I thought you would be a flash cyclist,’ he teased her, pushing ahead of her with accomplished elegance. ‘I, on the other hand, am the Alain Prost of the velocipede. In fact I was odds on favourite to win the Tour de France one year, and only an ingrowing toenail prevented me from bringing the trophy back to England.’
With that he engaged gear and swished off down the track with elegant and impressive ease, followed considerably less stylishly by a wobbly Claire.
There were three roads in all on Bryndor, but as no cars were allowed the swish of their wheels along the track seemed to be the only sound to accompany their cycling efforts, the wheels and the glorious birdsong.
Taking one of the two inner roads first and cycling slowly and steadily past nothing but fields full of wild flowers and trees full of birds, Claire imagined that she must be in paradise. Beyond the meadows the blue sea shimmered in the afternoon sun, while the waves broke silently on the bright sanded shores.
Halfway along the track they passed a deserted farm, a small low-lying white-painted house with a few outbuildings surrounded by paddocks. Further along another deserted and much older building still stood, despite everything that time and the weather could throw at it, and beside that a tiny stone dwelling which had long since lost its roof.
‘A prison, would you believe?’ Crawford had stopped and he turned and looked at Claire. ‘The Fellowes think it’s early sixteenth-century and used for either mutinous sailors who were brought ashore or as an isolation cell for those with contagious diseases.’
‘They just left them here to die, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Probably, but don’t look at me. Go and ask John and Maisie. They own the island, I don’t.’
‘Just imagine always living here, though?’ Claire sighed and stayed staring out to sea for a minute.
‘Oh yes, but imagine the boredom.’ Crawford stared at her straight-faced.
‘You could never become bored here, surely?’
‘I could become bored anywhere,’ he announced defiantly.
‘Not here. This is heaven,’ Claire said solemnly.
He looked down at her. ‘No, you’re right. It is heaven.’
Following which, as if the admission was too much for him, he flung a practised leg over his bicycle and cycled off from her too fast for her to catch him. Claire pedalled furiously after him, calling ‘Stop, stop!’ which was exactly what had used to happen back at West Dean when she was little and always pedalling madly after Mellie and Rose.
‘I have such trouble with finding the right gears,’ she confessed as he slowed down for her.
‘Right, I’ll call them out for you.’
She followed him at an ever-growing distance, but nevertheless, since Bryndor was so quiet, his voice came back to her on the afternoon air, ‘Second, first, third, second, first.’
Claire realized that they made a strange little procession, what with Crawford calling to her, and herself desperately trying to follow his calls, inevitably finally losing sight of him altogether. She contented herself with slowing down to a steadier pace, more suited to a person who had little idea of gears, and allowed herself to indulge in a fantasy where she lived on Bryndor for the rest of her life, with only wild flowers and birds for company.
She did eventually catch up with Crawford, finding him lying on a large flat rock overlooking a beautiful white-sanded cove, where the sea lapped crystal clear, calm as a pond, and sea birds dived and called to each other and lacy tops to waves frilled towards the sand below.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, dropping her bike on its side in the sand. ‘I didn’t know where you’d gone.’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t lose me. Not on this island.’
‘You cycled off so quickly.’
‘Sorry. I thought I saw a puffin.’
‘I’ve never seen a puffin.’
He glanced at her briefly and then out to sea. ‘We’ll go out in a boat tomorrow. To Puffin Island. There aren’t nearly as many puffins as there used to be, thanks to the Spanish fishermen. Maisie was telling me all about it. Apparently, John says they are a bane because they trawl with these tiny-mesh nets, illegal of course, and kill all the food the puffins and other rare sea birds need. That’s why we’re losing all our sea birds. The colonies are half the size they used to be.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes, it is. Terrible. Now, let’s get bicycling, Miss Merriott, or we won’t be home in time for a pre-dinner swim, which I am sure you would like. To be followed by what John calls “teenies”, except they are far from being so. His martinis are so good, though, I know that tonight I shall not be able to resist them – but you, young lady, must.’
Claire nodded, only half hearing. She was far too busy trying to concentrate on her gear change.
And so, in happy, and much slower, formation, they cycled back to John and Maisie’s house to the sound of Crawford’s voice, ‘Down to first, right, now up to second, and third!’
The next day Claire awoke as she had when she was still a child, far, far too early. As she made herself a cafetière of coffee and sat out in the agreeably warm early morning air, she remembered how Rose and she were forever banging their heads on their pillows when they were little, to try to wake up early on the first day of their holidays. It was always such a thing for them both to be up early, to explore, which looking back was inexplicable really, because later would have done just as well. But they always had to do this early exploring, although she now realized it was really more to do with being up early, and alone. That was what it was, really. If she thought about it.
This morning was no exception. Claire wanted to be up early and alone. But, more than that, she wanted to swim.
Dressed in a towelling dressing gown and her new espadrilles she set off with a towel round her neck to find the sea. It was further away than she had expected, as the sea always seems to be.
At last, there it was. The sea, and opposite another island, and around her clumps of coarse grass growing through the sand. Feeling strangely daring, she took off everything except her bathing suit and crept down to its shallow, cold edge, dipping first one toe into it, and then a foot, and then two feet, until, rubbing her arms to give herself courage, she found she was going deeper and deeper, and then suddenly very deep indeed.
Pushing the water away from her she imagined it to be folds of silk, and thrusting her legs out behind her she thought that she must know what it was to be the only person on earth. The water was so cold it made little hissing sounds around her neck, and so calm that there was no reason to stop.
‘I am the water, and the water is me,’ she said, out loud, which she knew was something that lonely people did – talking out loud to themselves, which was strange because she knew she was neither lonely nor alone, that below her was a whole other life, whole worlds over which her body was passing.
Warmed up and as happy as she had ever felt, after some minutes she swam back to shallower waters. She started to dive in porpoise-like movements through the waves, loving the sensation of the glistening shards of clear sea splintering over her head, and again that cold hissing sound as she settled down to swim again towards the horizon, only to turn back and head once more for the shore.
And suddenly there was a figure on the shore, and he was waving, but instead of feeling disappointed that she was no longer alone, as she might once have done, as soon as she saw who it was Claire stopped swimming and waved, treading water and breathing out as she did so.
‘Come in!’ she called. ‘Come in! The water’s wonderfu
l, cold but terrific!’
But Crawford only shook his head and waved back to her, and she, thinking that perhaps he could not swim, contented herself with one last dozen strokes before heading back for the shore, leaving that exciting world over which she had just swum, leaving behind her the feeling that the sea was her, and she the sea.
He handed her towelling dressing gown to her, and together, laughing and talking, they went back to their guest cottages and Claire made breakfast for both of them, which they enjoyed sitting out on the grass in front of their doors, ‘like natives in front of their huts’, Crawford said, but Claire noticed that shortly afterwards he went inside, and left her to read and sketch the birds that would keep coming up to the table for crumbs.
John and Maisie were going to visit a friend on another island, and so they left Crawford and Claire alone for the next few days.
‘You are to do exactly as you want and when you want, and when we come back we want to find that you have drunk all our drink and eaten every scrap of Amy’s food, or else.’
So they dined alone each evening at a small table on the terrace, lit by candlelight, and served by the ever faithful Amy, housekeeper and, Crawford said, ‘the real mistress of Bryndor. Because no-one says or does anything without Amy either knowing, or giving her approval. Isn’t that right, Amy?’
Amy, small, round, and with a neat bun of white hair pinned to the back of her head, nodded severely. ‘You are a bad boy, Mr Crawford, but then you always were.’ She stopped at that. ‘Yes, you always were. A terror for teasing everyone.’ She shook her head, thinking back, and then removed their plates with an eagle eye as to whether or not they had ‘eaten up’. ‘Your appetite is still good, too,’ she added approvingly. ‘That is good. Best to feed you up now that you’re here.’
‘Have you been coming here since you were very young?’
Love Song Page 36
