A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

“Of course he won’t.” Thea still smiled at Louise, whilst continuing to address her daughter. “He’d find it much too exhausting … Are you feeling better now?” She asked the question gently.

  Louise nodded, withdrawing her hand reluctantly, but she would not look at the child.

  “Yes, of course. I… haven’t been too well lately. Just the odd attack of dizziness.” She felt the requirement to excuse her behaviour but another glance into those far-seeing eyes caused her to stumble in her explanation. “It’s just… m…

  “Are you staying with Brigid?”

  “Yes. Well, in this cottage. You could…” she hesitated, “you could wait here if you like.”

  “Oh, could we?” The child was beside her again, face alight with eagerness. “Then Mummy could have some coffee and I could talk to Oscar through the window.”

  “Hermione,” admonished Thea, “please stop bothering Mrs. … I’m so sorry, you didn’t tell us your name.”

  “I’m Louise Parry. And of course you can have some coffee. I have to unpack my shopping and get sorted out, so it’s not a problem.”

  She was talking at random, crossing the paved sitting-out area to the door, digging into her pocket for the key. Hermione had disappeared into the courtyard and could now be heard telling Oscar the new plans at the top of her voice.

  “But Brigid could be some time.” Thea was following her. “And you’re on holiday. We can’t monopolise you for too long.”

  “I wish I lived here.” Hermione was back. “Isn’t it a dear little house? Shall I take my juice out so that I can stay with Oscar? I think he likes to know I’m there.”

  “Darling,” remonstrated Thea, “Mrs. Parry hasn’t offered you any juice yet.”

  “There’s some orange juice in the fridge,” muttered Louise. “Could you manage while I fetch the shopping?”

  “Of course. This is very kind of you…”

  Louise went back out to the car and opened the hatch. She stood quite still, hidden from the house, and presently the child passed her, carefully carrying her glass of orange juice.

  “I shall stay with Oscar,” she said. “Mummy’s making coffee. Thank you,” she called back, as an afterthought

  “This is extraordinarily kind of you.” In the big living room Thea was calmly making coffee. “I can’t apologise enough. So silly of me to come rushing out without calling Brigid back or being intelligent. George had taken Amelia and Julia—my two older daughters—to see his mother. She’s elderly and he likes to see her as soon as we get home. And, of course, Hermione couldn’t wait to fetch Oscar.”

  “If it helps,” said Louise, putting her provisions away, “Brigid’s having lunch at the pub in Holne with her mother and sister. Perhaps I could drive down and get the key or something while you’re having your coffee. No, honestly, it’s no trouble at all. I’m sure Brigid will understand.”

  Half an hour later she was watching Oscar’s ecstatic reunion with his family and waving them off down the track. Brigid had seemed quite resigned to Thea’s unexpected arrival, perfectly happy to give her the key, grateful to Louise for coming to her friend’s rescue. The estate car accelerated slowly away, Oscar watching from the back window, Hermione waving furiously, and presently Louise went back inside and stared unseeingly at the remains of the small, impromptu feast. It was too late now to worry about lunch, and, anyway, she wasn’t hungry. She turned quickly, thinking she heard a footstep, a chuckle. Hermione…?

  “Don’t!” she warned herself savagely. “Just don’t think about it.”

  Hastily she began to assemble a picnic: a ham sandwich, an apple, a chunk of cheese. She made up a small bottle of elderflower cordial and put it all into a small, light knapsack. A few minutes later she was quite ready. Shutting the door behind her, dropping the key into her pocket, she set off, walking briskly in the direction of Combestone Tor.

  BRIGID PUT the car away and went to see if Louise might be at home. The cottage was closed up and there was no answer to her knock. She was feeling guilty that Louise had been obliged to rescue Thea but, luckily, the distraction had done nothing to spoil the amicable atmosphere of the lunch party. Jemima had been on good form and Frummie had been on her best behaviour. Now her mother had disappeared to sleep off the effects of overeating and Brigid went into her own kitchen, wondering if it might be a good idea to get on with some work. Blot was quartering the rooms, looking for Oscar, and she felt all the languid flattening of the spirits which comes after a period of mental and physical effort amongst people with whom one cannot truly relax.

  Faintiy dissatisfied with herself, Brigid wandered upstairs, Blot at her heels, passed through the dressing room and bedroom and went into her workroom. This room, directly above the kitchen, looked east and south and was dominated by the huge table on which she did her cutting out. A smaller table, holding her sewing machine, was placed beneath one of the windows and an old-fashioned rosewood sewing box, opening tier upon tier and holding cotton reels, spools of silk, pins and needles, stood on long wooden legs in a corner near the table. On the cream-washed walls hung large picture frames containing collages of photographs. Black-and-white snapshots and glossy colour {Mints, they were records of the family—her own and Humphrey’s—and they invariably drew her attention, even after all these years of their company. She paused now to look at them: Michael beaming gap-toothed at the school photographer, and, sixteen years later, in cap and gown at his graduation ceremony. Humphrey, straight-backed, serious-faced, at the Passing Out Parade at Dartmouth, and five years later carrying Julian in his christening gown. How she’d loved those early years when the boys were small; their need of her, their unconditional love, had filled the empty ache of missing Humphrey and, as she’d read to them and cuddled them, she’d vowed that they should never feel unwanted or unloved. How hard it had been to send them off to school, how desperately she’d missed them: wandering from room to room, standing at the doors of their bedrooms, feeling a physical longing for cheerful voices raised in friendly argument, shoes kicked off upon the floor, scattered toys.

  “I know it’s difficult,” Humphrey had said gently, “but it’s only fair to them. We move about too much and they’ll always be having to make new friends, struggling with different teachers. You have to let go sometime, my darling.”

  “But not yet,” she’d wanted to cry. ‘They’re still litde“— but she’d known that it would have been even more unkind to wait until they were older when it would be more difficult for them to be accepted into the system. If she’d known that her father would die so soon after Julian had started at Mount House she might have insisted that they need not go away at all. By the time she’d moved back to Foxhole, he was already happy and setded at school with all his small naval friends and, knowing Michael would follow him there, she hadn’t had the heart to uproot them again for her own selfish needs. Instead she’d made the most of exeats and half-terms and had maintained a close and loving relationship with her boys: the kind of relationship she’d longed for with her own parents. Where, she sometimes asked herself, had she fallen short as a child? What had she lacked? Her father had been kind if distant; affectionate but remote. As for her mother..,

  She bent closer to look at a tiny snapshot of Frummie, laughing and beautiful, in a ridiculous hat and impossible shoes. It was creased and worn from being carried about and shown: ‘That’s my mother.” “Gosh! Isn’t she pretty? But hasn’t she … you know …left…?” “She’s still my mother”

  Brigid turned away and stared at the material stretched out upon the table: curtains, yet to be made. Was it impossible to change? To step free from the limitations of genes and character? To be rid of resentment that surged from nowhere, disabling love? Each time she believed that she had conquered, imagined that her very real affection for her sister was, at last, stronger than her jealousy, some reminder—a bitter thought, some hastily spoken words—would undermine her efforts, as if some demonic serpent lay curled, latent within her, waiting
to strike. She occasionally surprised a look on Jemima’s face: a mixture of puzzlement, disappointment, sadness—and something else. It was a look of hopeful humility; it expressed a kind of longing but also acceptance. It was this that was really difficult to deal with; as if Jemima understood Brigid’s dislike and took her sister’s valuation to herself. Puddle-duck. It could so easily have been a happy, loving nickname. Yet, for Brigid, the word still held those connotations with which she’d invested it as an unhappy, angry schoolgirl. It stood for all the pain she’d suffered in fee rejection by her mother, and Jemima was the living symbol on which her anger had centred. Puddle-duck. She’d made so many overtures, poor Puddle-duck, so many loving gestures, tried to forge a real friendship with the older half-sister she’d been so pleased to find, yet in the last resort it had been impossible for Brigid to make that final, total acceptance.

  She thought: What sort of person am I, for God’s sake?

  Jemima had been so much fun at lunch, warm and amusing, generously insisting that it was her treat, and Frummie had been so responsive, so affectionate, so—Brigid’s hands clenched unconsciously—so approving. How rarely did her elder daughter bask in such motherly love! No, her portion was dealt out in sarcastic observations, malicious witticisms, cool irony. Brigid smoothed the fabric, turned on the radio, bent to stroke Blot, curled now on his mat by the window. Work could absorb, calm, satisfy. She lifted the heavy scissors and cut with accurate, skilful confidence.

  It was much later, back in the kitchen for a cup of tea, that she noticed the red winking light on the answerphone. Thea’s voice was apologetic: “So sorry, Brigid. What a twit I am! Bless you for having him. He’s obviously been well looked after. Have you seen the little pressie on the dresser? Speak soon. Bring Louise over for tea? Yes? Lots of love.” The next voice contained a kind of hurried, brittle cheerfulness. “It’s Jenny. Hope you’re OK, Brigid. I wondered if I could pop over and see you? Would Tuesday be OK? Don’t bother to phone back if it is. I’m all over the place at the moment. See you then. Late morning. Great. ‘Bye for now.” Brigid pressed the replay button and, as she listened for a second time, a new anxiety clutched at her gut. She glanced absently at the dresser and saw a package, neatly wrapped, and a card, but she was not thinking of Thea: Jenny’s voice had set alarm bells ringing and her heart was filled with fear.

  CHAPTER 6

  When shall I see you again? Jemima Spencer did not ask the question. She knew it was against the rules. Watching him dress, she wondered if she loved him or whether she knew exactly what the word meant. It was used so casually, so indiscriminately, although it contained such huge possibilities. He was important to her; she liked him enormously and he was a good lover. Yet she knew that she would be perfectly happy once he’d gone; content to be alone. She felt inhibited by any other presence in her flat, not quite at ease, and bad often stated that she was by nature a mistress.

  Leaning on an elbow she admired his long straight legs mid supple, tanned back, watched his desirable, pleasure-giving body being swallowed up by his neat, concealing clothes.

  “I might be down again on Tuesday.”

  She rolled on to her back so that he might not see her face. “I’ve got someone coming over to supper on Tuesday.” He liked her to be casual; it fanned the flames of possessive-ness. “Can’t put it off.”

  “Who is it?” sharply.

  She smiled, a private little smile. “No one you know.”

  He stared down at her and she knew that he was torn with pursuing this conversation, yet cautious lest it opened him up to accusations: “What’s it got to do with you? You’re going home to your wife. Why should I sit around waiting… ? ” and so on. He’d heard it all before, though not from Jemima. Still, it was wise not to push your luck… Eyes narrowed, his hands flicking his tie into a knot, his thoughts might have been scrolling over his face so clear were they to her.

  “Not Tuesday, then?”

  He stooped deliberately to kiss her, one last lingering caress, and she felt laughter bubbling up from deep inside. This often happened at moments when she should have been moved with desire or sadness; instead this sudden upward-swooping joy, a flash of delight at her separateness. He released her abruptly, irritated by his failure to persuade her, his face sulky.

  “Not Tuesday.” She swung her legs out of bed, her toes feeling for her espadrilles. “Give me a buzz.”

  “OK.” He could play it cool too. He hesitated. “Well, then.”

  She led the way into the passage, shrugging into a cotton wrapper, deciding not to offer him coffee or a drink.

  “Safe journey.” She kissed the tip of her forefinger and put it against his cheek. “See you soon.”

  There was nothing to do but smile, accept it graciously, and leave.

  Closing the door behind him, Jemima was chuckling to herself. She padded back along the passage and opened the door into the sitting room. It still gave her a thrill. Looking out across the harbour the room seemed to shimmer tremulously with a watery light; cool, bright reflections danced on the pale green walls. The smoothly pale, ash-wood floor gleamed between white rugs and an enormous sofa, striped cream and blue and green like a deckchair, was set at right angles to the glass doors which led on to the balcony.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “So now we can relax.”

  There was no response from the huge, long-haired Persian cat who lay curled in a basket-weave chair. He slept peacefully, his round face serene. Jemima bent over him, smoothing his long fur, and he opened one eye before settling himself more comfortably.

  “You are lazy, MagnifiCat,” she told him severely. “You are an idle animal. But then so am I. That’s why we like each other, I suppose.”

  She took an apple from the bowl on the low, glasstopped table and, opening the sliding doors, stepped on to the balcony. The evening was cool and the rising tidewater was stained crimson with the last sunset rays; small waves lapping round the ferry pier, rippling from beneath the bows of a small dinghy being rowed steadily out to one of the moored yachts. People were sitting outside with their drinks at the Ferryboat Inn and tiny, friendly lights twinkled from East Portlemouth across the harbour. Jemima took a deep breath of sheer joy and bit into her apple. She knew that Brigid disapproved of the rent she was paying, knew that it would have been more sensible to have used her small legacy to make a down payment on a small cottage or a flat, but she could never have afforded a mortgage on anything like this. Even to win her sister’s approval she could not have resisted this flat.

  “I know she despises me,” she said sadly to MagnifiCat, who had come out to investigate, “but I couldn’t turn down a chance like this, even if I can only afford it for a few years. That’s one of the differences between us, I suppose. I grasp the shadow instead of the substance and she is level-headed and responsible.”

  MagnifiCat sat down and stared insolently at a seagull riding on the mast of a dinghy which was moored alongside the quay. The seagull stared back with cold yellow eyes and the cat’s tail twitched.

  “Don’t even think about it,” advised Jemima. “I’ve told you before, we don’t do seagulls. He’d have you for breakfast. Or supper.”

  She flung her apple core in a high arc and, with a hoarse shriek, the seagull rose up from his perch, catching the core on the upward beat of his flight. Jemima watched, rubbing her bare arms. Her thick fair hair, loose and untidy, curled over her shoulders and down her back and she shivered slightly as she watched the brilliant crimson light adying into the black water.

  ’Time to eat,” she said—but she didn’t move. The scene kept her leaning on the rail, captivated, reluctant to go back inside, even though she could continue to watch it from the comfort of her sofa. It was barely three months since she’d moved in; before that she’d rented a flat in Gloucester and worked for Home From Home, a company who arranged holidays in privately owned accommodation. She’d transferred to Devon not long after Frummie had moved to Foxhole and now had half a dozen
properties in her charge. These were properties owned by people who lived abroad or who had no intention of becoming involved in the letting. Unlike Brigid, who dealt with everything from the booking to the cleaning, these owners rarely visited these cottages and Jemima had to make certain that they were kept in order, were cleaned and restocked, and that the holidaymakers who booked them were given access and kept happy. She had built up a very small team of part-time helpers who might be available to clean and deal with the changeover at the weekends but very often these people—who were self-employed or on social security—were not totally reliable and Jemima would find herself scurrying from cottage to cottage, changing sheets, dusting and cleaning, dashing back to give over the keys to the first arrivals.

  “You should get proper cleaners,” Brigid had said, “not people who are on social security. You’re encouraging a black market economy by paying people who won’t declare it.”

  “You make them sound like drug-crazed layabouts,” Jemima had answered. “These are good, respectable people who can barely make ends meet. It helps them out to earn an extra bit here and there.”

  “It’s cheating,” Brigid had answered inexorably. “You could get them into trouble if they’re collecting benefit.”

  “Not all of them are,” Jemima had protested. “It’s just that their men aren’t earning much—fishermen or small builders, that sort of thing. Why shouldn’t they put a few extra pounds in their pockets?”

  “If they needed it that much they’d be more reliable,” her sister had replied and Jemima had been left with the usual sense of ineffectiveness, of inadequacy, This was the problem: Brigid was so straight, so sure; there was no mess and muddle in her life; her own letting cottages and her small soft-furnishing business were organised efficiendy and successfully, as was her marriage. She’d been a good mother, dealing calmly with all the dramas of the boys’ childhood and adolescence during Humphrey’s long absences, and it was clear that he adored her.