‘We didn’t go into details. They were in the middle of supper. I just wanted to sound her out.’
‘It’s out of the question.’ He turned back to his desk, too dispirited to pretend. ‘Even if Patricia and Simon were prepared to put a bit in, we still couldn’t afford it. And anyway, what’s the point? It’s a hell of a long way down to Cornwall. You might make an effort to get down for weekends in the summer but it would stand empty all winter, getting damp. It’s a ridiculous idea and you know it is.’
‘You think anything’s ridiculous if it’s out of the ordinary,’ she said bitingly. ‘You have no vision. No sense of adventure. You’ve always been afraid to take risks.’
‘I married you, didn’t I?’ The words were out before he could prevent them and he dropped his head into his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. But really, Selina, this is just too much. Patricia will agree with you, of course she will. She’s thousands of miles away and doesn’t give a damn. But do you seriously imagine that Patricia and Simon will sink money into an old farmhouse in Cornwall so that they can have a holiday in it once every three years? Dream on!’
Selina leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, and looked at him thoughtfully. Her instinct warned her that there were other issues involved here and she considered carefully before she spoke.
‘I realise that it sounds crazy,’ she said. Her voice was friendly, almost amused, and he looked up at her, taken aback. ‘But Moorgate really is special to me. OK.’ She chuckled a little, holding up her hands as if warding off protest from him. ‘I promise I won’t go over the past again. After all, you know better than anyone else about my feeling. It’s just that I had another idea about it. Look,’ her voice was intimate now, almost conspiratorial, ‘I utterly agree with you about Patricia and Simon but I thought it was worth a phone call. No, my latest idea was that we should sell up here and move to Cornwall.’ She smiled a little at the shock on his face, noting the fear in his eyes. ‘Yes, it’s quite a mind-bending thought, isn’t it? But why not? You’re always so tired lately, Patrick. Very edgy. I think your work is getting you down, darling, and I’m worried about you. It would be wonderful to live in the country for a change, wouldn’t it? Just there, between the sea and the moor. Wonderful fresh air and peace and quiet. You could get a teaching job locally and we could be together, just the two of us. The kids could come down for weekends. Think how they’d love it.’ She watched him, her eyes cool, considering, mouth still smiling. ‘I just feel that it’s right, if you see what I mean. We’re still young enough for the challenge of it but old enough to be realistic’
Silence stretched between them. She raised her eyebrows and he shook his head.
‘It’s … a bit of shock,’ he muttered, turning away, unable to meet her eyes any longer. ‘I never thought I’d hear you say that you’d want to leave London. We need to think about it very carefully.’
‘Do we?’ She still sounded amused. ‘I don’t think I do. Still, I can see that I’ve surprised you. But don’t think for too long, Patrick, or we might miss the boat.’
She went away, closing the door gently, and he continued to sit, head in hands, fear in his heart.
He thought: She’s guessed that something is going on. What shall I do? Call her bluff and take a chance?
An image of Mary—dressed in leggings and an oversized shirt, singing as she fed Stuart—came to his mind. A word from Selina to the school governors and Mary might well be out of a job—and her flat, too, if she were unable to pay the rent. She’d fought hard to get the three-roomed flat with the use of a small garden, so that Stuart could sit outside in summer; it hadn’t been easy to persuade the strict, old-fashioned landlord that Stuart would be no nuisance to the other tenants, that she could afford to pay her rent and was not dependent on benefit. Patrick clenched his fists and swore quietly; he could not put Mary at risk unless he could offer her as much or more than she had already achieved for herself. On what grounds could he divorce Selina? Would he be entitled to a share in the house and would he be obliged to continue to support her? Suppose he were to lose his job in the process?
Tired, frustrated, Patrick felt an overwhelming desire to weep. Mary had come into his life at a most vulnerable and dangerous time: missing his children, disillusioned with his career in which the word Vocation’ was now a dirty word; bound to a wife he almost disliked. He’d been attracted by Mary’s cheerful, realistic approach; her energy. He felt old and jaded as he watched her with the children, encouraging them, patient but lively. The little ones responded to her enthusiasm and she was clearly in her element. There was no shred of self-pity or resentment when she told him about Stuart’s accident, or described the desertion of her husband when he learned that Stuart would be an invalid for the rest of his life.
‘He simply couldn’t face it,’ she’d said, as if this were quite a reasonable reaction. ‘He was a macho kind of guy and he just couldn’t come to terms with the life ahead. He couldn’t bear it for Stuart as much as for himself. He found it simply horrific that he would never kick a ball or swim or be normal in that way. It killed him to see Stuart in his chair. He’d weep. He just didn’t come back one evening and then I got a letter. I’ve no idea where he is.’
‘Couldn’t he be traced?’ Patrick had asked, horrified. ‘How could he just abandon you both?’
‘I don’t want him back,’ she’d said, almost fiercely. ‘He weakened me. It was terrible, watching him suffer. It was like he was injured too, and I didn’t have enough strength for them both. Stuart needs me, Dave doesn’t.’
As the weeks passed he’d learned of her joy when she’d been offered the teaching post, her struggle for the flat, the worries about her parents, who were very frail. Her love for her son was wholehearted, practical, vivid. Coming home to Selina was an unfortunate contrast—and he’d fought to resist his growing disloyalty—but the temptation was too great. Mary’s courage and vitality warmed him, attracted him, and soon he ceased to struggle too hard against it.
Could Selina possibly have suspected his growing attachment? It was impossible to imagine her living permanently in Cornwall; nevertheless the battle was now joined and he must make some kind of move. But what?
‘Lunch!’ Her voice echoed up the stair and he instinctively responded, tidying his papers, putting the top on his pen, before going downstairs.
Chapter Seven
Whistling softly to himself, Rob Abbot stirred up the thick paint with a piece of wood and dipped the paintbrush into the gleaming white. The office was empty now—except for the old desk, which was too battered and worm-eaten to be valuable—swept and cleaned out ready to be decorated. The outside door was open to a brilliant, sparkling day, and he worked quickly in the icy, invigorating air, irritated by the thought of the imminent interruption. He glanced at his watch, pressed the lid back firmly on to the can of paint and crossed the small passage to wash the brush out under the cold tap in the cloakroom. Leaving it to dry, balanced on the edge of the Butler sink, he went through to the kitchen, closing the inner door behind him. It was warm in here after the chill of the office and he blessed Lady Todhunter for agreeing that the Esse should be lit. The kettle was singing and he made himself a mug of tea, looking about him critically, pleased with what he’d achieved.
He paused, mug halfway to his lips, imagining that he heard a footstep. After a moment he took a deep breath and drank some tea. The old farmhouse was getting to him, no doubt about it. He often felt that there was another presence in the house with him: steps overhead, a door closing quietly, voices in the garden. Perhaps it was so in all old houses, if one spent enough time alone in them, but Moorgate wasn’t just any old house. Moorgate was special. It must be hard to have to part with such a place but he could understand that Lady Todhunter was rather too elderly to up sticks and move into such an isolated situation.
The slamming of a car door alerted him and he set down his mug and passed swiftly through to the
sitting room. A young couple were standing in the lane, a sheaf of particulars in their hands, staring at the house. Standing well back he watched them for a moment, noting the new four-wheel-drive vehicle, the smartly casual clothes, the confidence with which they stood together, comparing the photograph with reality. Presently they opened the gate and trod up the path to the front door.
He waited for a moment, composing himself, before he opened the door to them.
‘Ah, Mr …’ The young man consulted his sheet of paper. ‘Mr Abbot, is it? I think you’re expecting us. Mr Cruikshank telephoned you earlier. I’m Martin Baxter. This is my wife.’
She smiled briefly but her eyes were already glancing past him, trying to see into the hall beyond. They were rather older than he’d first guessed, probably late thirties, and he experienced an odd, irrational desire to slam the heavy oak door in their complacent, well-groomed faces.
‘How do you do? Yes, I’m Rob Abbot. Come in, won’t you? I often show people round to save Mr Cruikshank the drive from Truro if he can get me on my mobile.’
She was already in the hall, opening the door to the sitting room, exclaiming. Martin Baxter shrugged, smiling, implying that, having let them in, Rob was now surplus to requirements.
‘We’ll give a shout if we need any information,’ he said. ‘OK? I imagine it’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Houses are houses. Don’t let us hold you up.’
He followed his wife into the sitting room. ‘Just look at this fireplace,’ Rob heard her say. ‘It must be positively ancient. Darling! Wooden shutters! Can you believe it…?’
Rob retreated to the kitchen and stood by the open door, listening. He heard their footsteps cross the hall and more cries of pleasure.
‘This just has to be my study.’
‘Darling, have you noticed the beams …?’
When they arrived in the kitchen Rob was washing out his mug at the sink, his back to the door. They stood for a moment, silenced by the sheer size of the room, before Mrs Baxter came across and stood beside him at the sink.
‘What an utterly incredible view,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, without looking at her. ‘Yes, even washing up can be a pleasure here.’
She turned her back to the window, leaning against the working surface, barely glancing at him but allowing a faint lifting of the brows to indicate that she had not been addressing him.
‘I have a dishwasher,’ she said briefly. ‘Martin, can’t you just see this with the right furniture in it? Provençal farmhouse, would you say?’
Rob stood his mug on the draining board. ‘Or even English farmhouse,’ he said lightly. ‘The Esse heats the water as well as being a cooker.’
‘Esse?’ She glanced about her. ‘Oh, the range. We’d probably want an Aga, wouldn’t we, darling?’
‘It’s probably the same sort of thing.’ Martin Baxter sounded slightly embarrassed. ‘Is it gas-fired, Mr … ah … Abbot?’
Rob laughed. ‘There’s no mains gas piped on to the moor,’ he said. ‘No, it’s oil-fired and just as good as any Aga.’
Mrs Baxter frowned. ‘I think I’d prefer it to be electric’
‘Until the first power cut,’ said Rob laconically. ‘We get a lot of those round here. Then you’d be blessing the fact that you can cook and bath, if nothing else. Assuming the lorry’s been able to get up here, that is. It’s not always so easy in the winter. Plenty of paraffin lamps, that’s what you need. Unless you want to use the old generator. It’s still there, out in the barn. That’s what they used in the old days.’
‘Oh, it can’t be that bad,’ she said dismissively—but her husband was frowning a little.
‘Power cuts? That would be a damn nuisance when you’re using a computer. I’d be working a lot from home and I don’t want to be sitting here in the dark with a morning’s work lost.’
‘Oh, darling, it can’t be that bad,’ she repeated. ‘Millions of people live in the country these days and work at home.’
‘But you’re high up here,’ Rob pointed out. ‘Look out there. Straight down to the coast with nothing in between. The gales fair whistle up across the moor. It’s very exposed. Come and see it on a wet day with a southwesterly blowing. It’s pretty bleak.’
Martin Baxter looked at him curiously. ‘Not exactly trying to sell the place, are you?’
Rob shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business, either way. But I’ve seen people move down here to remote houses that look wonderful on a sunny day, only to sell up a year later because they can’t take the long winter months. Have you any idea how much it rains here?’
Mrs Baxter looked at him angrily. ‘I was born and brought up in the country. We know all about rain, thank you.’
He smiled at her. ‘And where was that?’ he asked sweetly.
‘Hampshire.’
She turned her back on his chuckle. ‘Come on, Martin. I want to look upstairs.’ They went out together. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ Rob heard her say. ‘Everyone knows how mild and temperate Cornwall is.’
‘Well, he might have a point.’ Martin Baxter sounded uneasy. ‘That’s more in the south, I think. It’s pretty high up here.’ There was the rustle of paper. ‘I see that there’s no mains water or sewage, either. There’s a septic tank somewhere and the water’s pumped up from a well …’
Their voices grew fainter and Rob listened to them walking about overhead. Presently they returned downstairs and Martin Baxter put his head round the door.
‘We’re off,’ he said. ‘Thanks. We’ve decided to look at a place down in Just-in-Roseland before we make up our minds.’
‘Very wise.’ Rob beamed at him. ‘Beautiful countryside, the Roseland Peninsula. Very mild down there. And temperate, too.’
He followed them through the hall and watched them climb into the clean, new vehicle, reverse it in the yard and drive back down the lane, Mrs Baxter staring straight ahead. Rob grinned to himself, waved cheerfully and returned to his painting.
‘The point is,’ Maudie said to Polonius, as they sat together before the fire just before bedtime, ‘that you are a very large person and very large persons do not climb on to sofas, nor do they sleep on other persons’ beds. It is possible, of course, that you imagine yourself to be quite a small person but facts are facts.’
Polonius groaned deeply, settling himself comfortably, head on paws.
‘It’s no good protesting,’ she said firmly. ‘I suspect that your partiality for luxurious living was what made you homeless in the first place. I hope you are older and wiser now. Posy’s a soft touch, of course. Selina must have had conniptions when she appeared with you on the end of a lead. In fact, I am amazed that she let you stay at all. However, your bed is in the kitchen and that’s where it is staying. I want no whining tonight.’
Polonius sighed heavily but he regarded her with a cynical and disillusioned eye. He’d learned that the delight and amazement aroused by his size and melancholy expression was generally short-lived and that cries of affection rapidly turned to shouts of rage. Posy was his third owner, and he’d been very happy with her, but he disliked Selina and had been relieved to be brought here to this place of woods and streams and hills. He did not feel that he’d been abandoned to yet another new owner but hoped that Posy would reappear just as she had in the past. Meanwhile, he was enjoying himself. He’d frightened the milkman by barking unexpectedly and very loudly in his ear through the open window of his pick-up truck, whilst the fellow was rooting about for Maudie’s newspaper. Later, he’d lain in wait for the postman; hiding under the hedge by the door, chasing him along the drive, back to his van.
Now, at the end of a busy day, his tail thumped once or twice contentedly and Maudie chuckled too, remembering the incident. The milkman, bred on a farm, once he’d recovered from his shock had simply pushed Polonius aside and delivered the milk and paper, reporting the incident good-humouredly, pulling Polonius’s ears and marvelling at his size. The postman, however, was new t
o the area and he’d already made himself unpopular by complaining about the difficulties of a country round and the distance he was obliged to walk. He’d suggested that Maudie should put a box at the end of the drive and Maudie had replied, somewhat tartly, that he’d probably be a happier, not to mention fitter, person if he occasionally took some exercise. To see him sprinting down the drive had reduced her to tears of mirth and she’d had difficulty in remonstrating with Polonius when he’d returned, tail wagging and clearly delighted with himself.
‘You’re a wretch,’ she said, pushing him with her foot. ‘And now I shall have to put a box at the end of the drive. I’m certain he’ll refuse to come to the door again. No more chasing or we’ll all be in trouble.’
Polonius yawned contemptuously. He’d taken a dislike to the postman and was looking forward to another encounter. Once outside the bungalow there was nothing to restrain a dog with brains and initiative and, after the restrictions of a courtyard garden and small municipal park, he had every intention of making the most of his new environment.
Sitting back in her chair, Maudie eyed him somewhat anxiously. Of course it had been madness to agree to have him—yet, if it meant seeing more of Posy, it was worth it. Oddly, she was rather enjoying his company He was cheerfully companionable, always ready for a jaunt, but there was something intractable and tough about him, a refusal to be dominated and a pronounced liking for having his own way …
‘In other words, my dear Polonius,’ she murmured, ‘you remind me of Hector. Except that Hector never chased the postman.’
She took several logs from the big basket, put them on the fire and wrapped herself more closely in the plaid rug. At least the arrival of Polonius had distracted her a little from her anxieties. It was impossible, surely, that Selina would be able to persuade Patrick into buying Moorgate, and, anyway, it was likely, now that Rob had practically finished, that someone would make an offer before Selina could hope to get her act together. Posy had been dismissive, quite certain that her father would prevent it, but Selina had inherited her mother’s stubbornness and it would be foolish to underestimate her.
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