by Susan Sallis
She looked at him now as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. He was managing so well; there was no need for daily visits any longer, she made them to assuage her own guilt.
She answered his question with a shrug. ‘It’s not going to look very different, I wouldn’t think. I let the cows go to Godolphin Home Farm, of course. There are no cauliflowers this year, no sprouts. Anything that comes up accidentally will be left. I am expecting it to look very run-down.’
He said, ‘It will still fetch a decent price, Lucy.’
She shrugged again. Unless William advised her otherwise she knew exactly what she was going to do with Roach’s farm.
Harry said, ‘William came in to see us last night. I wanted to talk about . . . things. But he would not. Matthew never will. And neither will you.’ He looked at her. ‘I thought I might work it out like you are doing, Lucy. But of course . . . that went wrong.’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him. Everything he did seemed to go wrong and she wondered how on earth he would ever ‘work things out’. She had so wanted him to go back to his family. She could try again of course.
William accepted a lift in the Hillman. ‘A lovely little car,’ he said as they bounced down the lane towards the dunes. She put Harry to the side of her mind and beamed.
‘I know it’s wrong to love material things, but I do so love Minnie. I tell everyone she is my key to freedom!’
He smiled, marvelling yet again how much this woman had changed. And as if she could read his mind she said, ‘This is how I felt in Devon with Bertie. And before that with my mother when we went black-berrying or picking mushrooms. And, of course, with Daniel. After Egg I thought that happiness had gone for ever but I don’t think it has.’ The car leaped over a tussock in the middle of the track and she laughed. ‘I really don’t think it has!’
‘It’s just been lying dormant,’ he agreed, smiling, accepting that such happiness was infectious. ‘I wish you could meet Arnold Jessup. He is getting on for sixty and he has fallen in love with Connie’s mother who is probably a dozen years his junior. And suddenly they are teenagers. They live together and bicker like a couple of children. It’s marvellous.’
She wanted to ask about Connie. Was she happy with William now? She remembered that morning when they had come to see her – why had they come to see her, to be forgiven? She remembered her own reaction to that ringless finger. She had hoped wildly that the girl had been rejected . . . that her life too was in ruins around her.
Their laughter died and she said quietly, ‘I am glad you and Connie . . . I really am glad.’
‘Thank you, Lucy. I will tell her that. She will be pleased.’
‘She still feels it? Actually seeing Egg in the sea like that . . . probably already . . .’ She could not go on.
‘Oh yes. She still feels it.’
She negotiated the open gate and guided the car carefully around the wide bend and waited for the awfulness of the house to hit them both. There it was, somehow squat, dug into the sandy ground that hid its infamous cellar. She pulled up so that they could view it as a whole.
He glanced at her and said in a very matter-of-fact voice, ‘It’s a huge asset, Lucy. I am guessing that the long arm of the L-shape overlooks the sea. And the outbuildings look solid enough to be converted into accommodation.’
She appeared not to hear him. ‘It’s not empty,’ she murmured.
‘My dear, you are bound to feel that. It’s one of the reasons I would advise you to sell it as soon as possible.’
She continued to grip the steering wheel. ‘I don’t mean ghosts. The house is being lived in. There’s washing on the line.’
He frowned. ‘So there is. Yet no smoke coming from the chimneys.’
She put the car into first and edged over some tractor ruts and on to the yard and as they drew up at the back door, so it opened and a girl came out with a basket of more washing. She wore no shoes and her jeans were rolled to the knee. But an enormous oiled sweater must have given warmth. Above it her face was almost obscured by curtains of brown hair.
She put the laundry basket on the ground, surprised to see them but not shocked.
‘Hello!’ She walked across, ignoring the small stones littering the concrete of the yard. Her feet and lower legs were red like a chicken’s. ‘Are you lost?’
Lucy, used to the Flower People though most of them had disappeared from Truro in the autumn, smiled. ‘Not at all. We came to see the farm.’
‘Oh. Well, come in. There’s two of us on duty today and Paul has gone for wood for the fire. I’m doing the washing in cold water but we need firing to cook.’
Lucy got out of the car and stood holding the door and looking at the girl; she was much too thin. ‘Have you moved in?’
‘No. It’s not ours but we keep it going for Harry. He lived here and there was a terrible accident and he’s in hospital. We’re going to look after him when he gets back.’ She smiled that special beatific smile they all had. ‘Go on in and look around while I hang up this stuff. It’s a lovely house. We’re making it beautiful for Harry.’
Mesmerized, they both went in through the back door. Lucy girded herself against the long drab passageway and grubby windows; the dark terror of it all. They were opposite the dairy, but not the dairy she remembered from that visit when she had been looking for Harry. The Flower People had covered the brick walls in paper . . . an enormous collage. All she could see was colour. It looked like a multicoloured patchwork quilt. Hardly hearing William’s remarks about squatting rights, she put a hand behind her and he took it. She whispered, ‘It’s different, William. It’s completely different . . .’
He said, ‘Those people must have done it. It – it’s amazing. My God, it’s right down this passage – look.’
She looked. They walked slowly down the passage, looking into the rooms. Great swags of coloured nylon material framed the windows. In the kitchen, the whole ceiling was covered with open, up-ended umbrellas.
The girl came up behind them. ‘This is particularly good, we thought. Kitchen ceilings get so mucky. You just take down the umbrellas and wash them under the tap and hang them back up.’ She smiled. ‘We started finding all these brollies when the summer visitors went back. They were washed up or left in the dunes. And the drapes were old tents and . . . well, anything we found really. Then we stuck layers of newspapers on the walls to warm the place up. And on top we’ve all had a go. We got most of the stuff from wallpaper shops. Magazines. Catalogues . . . you know.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked about fifteen. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Harry will love it.’ Lucy smiled at the girl; she had Ellie’s enthusiasm and desire to please. ‘He will be so happy here. It’s just the right thing to do.’
The girl’s eyes opened wide. She said, ‘Oh my God. You are Harry’s angel, aren’t you? And it must be your house!’
‘I hope my friend here can fix it –’ there she was, using Margaret’s word ‘– for Harry to have it. “Harry’s House” . . . sounds just right, don’t you think?’
‘It sounds . . . wonderful.’ The girl had that look of adoration that Lucy had seen in Harry’s eyes and which so exasperated her.
She said, ‘Listen. Can you give my friend and me just a few minutes to go on looking around? Then we’ll go and you can light the fire in the range and cook your food.’
‘Of course, of course. I want to go and tell the others anyway.’ She gave that dreamy smile. ‘My name is Beatrice but they call me Bee. I’m always busy. And now I am bringing good news!’
She was gone. Lucy found she was still clutching William’s hand and she released it quickly. ‘Well,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
He grinned. ‘I think the phrase is – a turn-up for the books! But be careful, Lucy. Do you really want your mother’s old home turned into a commune?’
She grinned back. ‘You know I’m not an angel, William. Far from it. I wanted to give the place to Harry anyway. I t
hought he’d be able to work it enough to keep body and soul together. That’s what he came back to Cornwall to do, live off the land. He’s a romantic. And I am not.’ She made a face. ‘You should have heard some of the gossip going around the village when I bought Pardoe Cottage with one hand and sold it with the other!’
‘I’ve picked up bits from Carthew. You weathered it all, Lucy. That’s what you must remember.’
‘Let them have a go at this latest transaction then. I’m proposing to give the house to Harry Membury and I’m going to advise him to let part of it in the summer months. Either to the Flower People or to birdwatchers or fishermen. It’s a full-time job with maintenance and suchlike but it will be just the kind of thing he’s looking for. And give him a chance to live his life exactly how he wants to live it. Then if it doesn’t prove to be the dream he’s chasing, he can sell it and start again somewhere else.’
William went to the window and peered out. ‘On a crisp winter day like this it’s probably as attractive as in the summer. But it does depend on the weather, Lucy. You are “advising” Harry to live here on his own from – what – October to May?’
‘Or not. The choice is his. He can sell it and take the money back to Avis. She’d have him back then. But if he can make a go of it here, his two girls will want to spend time with him. And soon they will be old enough to make their own choices.’
She was moving around, trying out the electrical appliances. They were all dead. She looked up at the inverted umbrellas and smiled. She knew he would choose to live here. At last, at last she had done something . . . good.
She came and stood by William and stared out at the dunes rolling down to the sea. She felt suddenly as if a great weight had fallen from her. She whispered, ‘It must have been near here somewhere that I went into the sea that night.’
He turned his head and looked at her. Her whisper became a thread. ‘Ellie stopped me. I’ve never done it again.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and held her to his side. She breathed audibly, once, twice and then said in a normal voice, ‘Margaret wants us all to swim together in the sea. She thinks it will take away some of the nightmare. We were going to do it last summer but . . . other things happened.’
He said, ‘Connie has not swum since that afternoon.’
She lifted her face and looked at him and saw that all was not well. Without thinking, she put her free hand up to his head and drew it down. She felt the shock go from his body into hers. She held the kiss for too long and he broke from her and started babbling apologies. She wondered what had possessed her and said harshly, ‘It was me. Stop saying sorry – you know it was me.’ She moved from the window and went straight to the cellar door. ‘Let’s see what they’ve done in the dungeon –’ she forced a laugh ‘– then we must go.’
She opened the door. The ladder had gone. She had intended going down and her foot was extended into mid-air before she realized the steps were no more. She could easily have pulled back her foot; she was hanging on to the lintel anyway. There was no danger. But William pulled her back as if she might be going to throw herself forward into oblivion. And then he held her to him and as she put her head against his shirtfront she realized she was weeping.
‘I am sorry, Lucy. So sorry.’ His voice was broken, jagged. ‘If I hadn’t brought Connie down to Cornwall . . . Chasing a client, that’s what I was doing . . . All our motives were wrong. And your son drowned. And my poor Connie, my poor Connie, will never forgive herself.’
She held on to him as if she were indeed about to crash into the darkness of the cellar. He stroked her hair; she thought he might be kissing the top of her head. His comfort flowed around her. She relaxed against him. But still she said, ‘That girl will be back. Bee. She will be back.’
‘Yes.’ He did not stop stroking her hair. She did not want him to stop.
She said, ‘Let’s go. Let’s slip away before they all come in and want to talk to us.’
She turned within his arm and he shepherded her back down the passage as if she were an invalid. She felt in her pocket and gave him the car key. ‘You drive,’ she said, not looking at him.
She thought that if he pulled in nearer the towans and took her in his arms again, she would let it happen. But he did not stop until they were in the drive of the rectory. And then he made brief farewells to Matthew and Harry and got into his own car to leave. She stood there, waving to him, until Harry called, ‘I’ve made some soup, Lucy. Can you spare the time to have some with us?’
She could spare the time. She smiled congratulations at him. ‘You’re cooking again, are you? I just hope this isn’t mushroom soup.’
He promised her it was not. Matthew was already eating his appreciatively and she frowned at him. The very people you expected to have manners certainly did not. If Barbara or Denny started before grace was said they would have got a good rap on the knuckles.
Harry said, ‘You look rather pleased with yourself, Lucy. You weren’t put off by the house any more?’
‘No.’ She sat down and picked up her spoon. ‘And neither will you be, Harry.’ She told them both about the psychedelic wallpaper and the umbrellas and laughed at their expressions. ‘You’ll really like it, Harry. The Flower People did it for you.’ He said something about squatting and she said, ‘They’re borrowing it, that’s all. Once you’re in they’ll probably leave till next summer.’
He stared at her. ‘I thought the grand plan was that I was going back to Avis?’
‘I don’t want the house, Harry. Seriously. It’s yours. William is going to draw up the necessary papers. Apparently it will make quite a big difference to my income tax!’ She laughed. ‘That’s why I’m looking pleased with myself. So please don’t spoil it.’
She ate her soup. They both babbled on. It was delicious; Harry was a good cook even if he was a vegetarian. She voiced this and he told her in no uncertain terms that Avis could keep the vegetarian cookbooks.
They all smiled at each other and before Harry could start up again she said, ‘There’s something else too. I feel pleased because I don’t hate Connie Vickers – Connie Mather – any more.’
She got up to clear the plates and thought with surprise that she meant that. She couldn’t still be hating Connie if she had actually avoided kissing William again. And probably again and again.
Sixteen
LATER, LUCY THOUGHT that she should have known the Trips were returning to America for good. But they left a stock of Tad’s food as usual and some special plant food for the berberis and Gus made plans for the spring term; they could not have known themselves. But she had had a gut feeling for some time now; Margaret’s enthusiasm was still there but her restless mind was looking for something else. Even so, she appeared to have to tear herself away for her ‘duty Christmas’, as she called it. Everything was as usual on the surface. Margaret was pleased that William Mather had taken the trouble to come down and be an advocate for Lucy over the farm business. More so that he had gone with her to the house and discovered the Flower People still there. For some reason Lucy did not tell her that she was gifting the place to Harry Membury; Margaret had never really taken to him. And she could never tell anyone that she had kissed William.
The Trips had opened so many doors for them; the television, the telephone, the car, had all been instigated by them. The swimming had died a death since the weather became colder; even the warm water of the pool could not tempt them. But Lucy and the girls had kept up the allotment and were back to using only home-grown vegetables. That was their own thing; the skill they had brought with them from the towans. Lucy did not mention it but some time during the late autumn Margaret had given up helping with the allotment. She pleaded a bad back.
They left for America before the end of the school term. Ellie and Gus actually appeared to enjoy a tearful farewell. Gus cuddled Denny and Barbara and stroked the cats. Ellie asked her at least three times to write every day. Margaret put a Christmas sack of presents under the tree an
d Lucy gave her the lightweight package specially requested. ‘Something that will poke down the side of one of the cases without breaking,’ Margaret had stipulated. The outer brown paper was so pliable it obviously contained either scarves, ties or handkerchiefs or all three.
Margaret said, ‘Well done, Luce. You did listen to me for once!’ She laughed and pecked at Lucy’s cheek. Lucy smiled back and just for a moment saw something in Margaret’s face that almost frightened her. Without stopping to think, she flung her arms around the thin frame and held her tightly, and after a startled moment Margaret put her own long arms right around her friend and lifted her off her feet.
Marvin stepped in. ‘Come on, you two girls! No tears now. Just because Gus and Ellie want to make a drama of it, there’s no need for you to follow suit!’ He drew Lucy away and kissed her cheek. And then they were gone.
Lucy had assumed that Margaret was deliberately cooling their friendship because of Marvin. He was not possessive but there were certain social occasions Margaret was expected to attend and she had twice begged off working on the allotment because she had to keep her nails decent. ‘Marvin knew I was a farm girl when he asked me to marry him so I don’t know what all the fuss is about!’ she had said. Yet Marvin had been so generous and easy-going it was hard to imagine him making a fuss about a broken nail. And then came that moment when Margaret’s face had opened to her and shown her such misery that she had responded with a hug like a python’s.
She worked hard to dispel that look from her memory. She baked and roasted and checked on her chutneys and jams; cleaned the house from top to bottom; took Harry to Roach’s farm and on the journeys there and back told herself sternly that of course Margaret was not dying of some terrible cancer and keeping it a dreadful secret.
Ellie’s new job helped. As soon as the Laurels closed for the holiday she wrote an introductory letter to the librarian at Truro Central, suggesting a storytelling session once a week. She listed the books she had used with her little groups in Hayle library and left her telephone number too. The librarian responded immediately and asked whether Monday afternoons would suit Ellie. ‘The main library is closed on that day while we catalogue and do repairs in the back room. You could have all that space for action drama if you felt like it. Some mothers will come in case you need help and we’re just a knock on the door away.’ Ellie was slightly overwhelmed and the librarian picked up on that and immediately said, ‘Look. Just try it. One session – I will advertise one session only. If it works . . . well, who knows?’
