A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  Her eyes closed, Frummie remembered that she’d offered him coffee, casually, easily, the letter rustling in the pocket of her tweed jacket, hiding any eagerness or impatience. He’d refused—he’d been running late, some problem or other—and she’d raised a hand to him as he’d turned the van and driven away. She’d even—she shook her head, amused now, at the remembrance—she’d even gone indoors to make some coffee and had carried it out here, to this same spot, before she’d opened the letter; as if this deliberate postponement might possibly convince herself of her indifference.

  She’d read the letter, whilst the doves tittuped over the cobbles on thready feet, eyes bright, heads tilted, hoping for corn.

  “Darling Fred …”

  Strange, this stinging stab of vivid, agonising memory. No doubt the sun, the doves, the wallflowers, even the mug of coffee in her hand, had recreated that moment, first lived forty years before, and made it real. So real that her fingertips were surprised to find drill, not tweed, as they brushed against her thigh, and, when she opened her eyes, she half expected to see Diarmid, returning unexpectedly from the farmers’ market in Buckfastleigh.

  “I forgot my chequebook,” he’d said cheerfully, self-deprecatingly, and she’d stared at him, shocked by the strength of her resentment at his intrusion.

  “I didn’t hear the car.”

  “I left it up the track. It’s nearly out of petrol so I walked down.” He’d been clearly surprised by the sharpness in her voice and he’d glanced at the letter, eyebrows raised. “Not bad news, I hope?”

  “No.” She’d looked down, folding the letter with carefully slow fingers. “Just the usual screed from Margot.”

  “Ah.”

  What was he waiting for? she’d wondered irritably—and had refused to look at him but raised her cup of coffee and sipped calmly.

  “Hadn’t you better get on?”

  Now, forty years later, she flinched against the needling pang of remorse. Perhaps he would have liked some coffee, would have been happy to sit in the sun with her for a moment, watching the doves, breathing the scented air. Instead, he’d turned away and gone indoors whilst she’d sat quite still, waiting with a clenched impatience.

  “See you later.” He’d waved the chequebook, smiled and then gone away up the track, leaving her alone.

  After a few minutes, she’d unfolded the letter again.

  “Darling Fred…” The letter had been full of anecdotes, references to mutual friends, a scandal amongst actor acquaintances; and, scattered through the pages, those lightly teasing, thrillingly exciting phrases which turned her gut to water. She’d longed to be there, in London, in Richard’s cluttered Chelsea flat, laughing at some malicious rumour, calling up chums to arrange a lunch, knowing that his eyes, full of secret knowledge, were upon her. Wherever they’d gone, to crowded ballrooms, packed theatres, busy restaurants, their eyes would meet and they would laugh: delicious, private, knowing laughter. He’d always been able to make her laugh, had known just how to amuse her, to drive away the sudden onslaughts of depression which dogged her; unlike Diarmid who, head in book, might not even notice that she was ready to tear Foxhole down, stone by stone, in furious, desperate boredom.

  As she’d read the letter, hearing his laughter, excited by his carefully worded persuasion, she’d known that she’d give in, agree to another visit, but this time she’d known too that it would be different. She hadn’t wanted to admit to this knowledge.

  “Just a few days,” she’d said aloud to the doves, “not long“—but, as she’d talked to them, she’d been making plans. Even Diarmid, too honourable himself to be suspicious of others, might be surprised to hear that she would be making another trip to London so soon. As for Brigid …

  Frummie remembered how she’d stood up suddenly, then, scattering the doves, thrusting the letter deep into her pocket.

  She’d thought: Don’t think about Brigid. Deal with that later. She’s quite happy with Diarmid…

  She hadn’t realised that “later” would prove too late; that Diarmid would prove so stubborn or so determined to keep his daughter or that the batdes would be so savage. Diarmid had been inexorable in his position of strength. His care and love for Brigid had been irrefutable but, oh! how he’d exacted his revenge for his own humiliation and pain. He’d written: “Do you really consider yourself to be responsible enough to have the care of a child? You’ve abandoned her once for your lover How can I be certain you might not do it again?” Frummie shivered and opened her eyes. Forty years ago she’d sat here in the morning; now, it was late afternoon and the seat was in shadow. She took up her mug and reached for the letter. Puzzled she looked about, fumbled in her pocket, even peered under the seat before she came to her senses.

  “Old fool!” she muttered contemptuously. “Stupid bloody woman!”

  She stood up stiffly, wincing a little, and, as she crossed the courtyard, die telephone began to ring again.

  CHAPTER 14

  It wasn’t until Humphrey had gone back to London that Brigid felt able to give her mind more fully to Louise.

  “What was all that about?” he’d asked, when she’d at last replaced the telephone receiver. “Jemima, was it?”

  “Mmm. Nothing much. Shall we have a drink while I get some supper?”

  She’d been unwilling to spoil the golden mood of the long, happy day by discussing Jemima’s fears for Louise. Humphrey was not the sort of man who took an interest in her girl-friends’ problems. He had no real understanding of the deeper psychological processes and he quickly became impatient with drawn-out analyses of other people’s anxieties.

  “We probe about too much these days,” he’d say. “Everyone wants to be a counsellor, amateur or otherwise. It isn’t always good to delve about in our inner psyches; sometimes it’s better just to shut up and get on with life.”

  Brigid felt that he probably had a point Despite her own private soul-searchings, her attempts to understand her own feelings and come to terms with her sense of failure—how else could a mother leave her daughter unless that daughter was negligible?—in the end she’d had to get on with her life. Humphrey, because of his love for her, had been sensitive to these emotions, patient, loving, kind, but she rarely imposed other people’s emotional problems upon him; especially when he had only a short leave period. So she’d pushed Jemima’s anxious warnings to the back of her mind and concentrated on their precious time together.

  She’d noticed Louise’s safe return, kept a watching brief from a distance, but it wasn’t until she’d seen Humphrey off on the train and driven back to Foxhole that she was able to think about the things Jemima had told her. Dropping her bag on the table, hanging her car-keys on a hook on the dresser, Brigid glanced at the telephone to see if there were any messages. The red light glowed steadily and she turned away, relieved. It had been a private terror, whilst Humphrey was home, that Jenny might ring and leave a message and that he might listen to it. So great was her fear that she’d actually switched the answerphone off each time they’d gone out, just in case. Now, it no longer mattered.

  With a sense of desolation, Brigid sat down suddenly at the table, resting her head in her hands. There was none of her usual pleasure, no contentment in being here this afternoon. Her peace had vanished, shattered by Jenny’s news of possible disaster, by the prospect of Humphrey’s long absence, and now, it seemed, she had Louise to worry about too.

  “She looks really odd.” Jemima’s voice had sounded anxious. ‘Terribly tired and not with it.”

  Odd, the sensations her sister’s voice engendered in her. First there was the tiny but insistent twinge of resentment: however hard she tried she could never be wholly, unconditionally friendly. Brigid could hear that cool note in her own voice, disliked herself for it, but could never quite achieve a genuine warmth. Was it because Jemima approached her with caution? There was a faint anxiety beneath the cheerful greeting, a wariness that could not be disguised. Perhaps, if they’d known each o
ther much sooner, whilst they were still children, this antagonism might have been overcome. Of course, it would be a great deal easier if their mother was not so open in her favouritism—but that was hardly Jemima’s fault. She neither sought such approval nor seemed particularly happy with it, and tried hard to form a bond with her elder sister. Now and again there had been evidence of affection between them, a blossoming of sisterly feeling, which had pleased them both. Yet it seemed difficult to sustain it No sooner had it put forth its fragile blooms than some blight annihilated it. This usually took the form of a remark from Frummie—some slighting observation, some show of partisanship, which roused all die old requirement for self-protection.

  Brigid thought: It’s me, really. I’ll never come to terms with the fact that she left me but wouldn’t leave Jemima. I can’t seem to overcome my jealousy.

  Blot came to sit beside her, resting his chin on her knee, and she pulled his long ears and stroked the silky, rounded dome of his head.

  “I’m a twit,” she told him—and he wagged his stumpy tail encouragingly. The telephone rang and she sat for a moment, almost too nervous to answer it, afraid it might be Jenny with bad news, seizing the receiver only seconds before the answerphone clicked into play.

  “Thea,” she said with relief. “How are you?… Yes, so I was, wasn’t I? With Louise. Only Humphrey’s been home… Yes, absolutely fine… That would be good. I’d like to… Yes, of course I’ll ask her but she hasn’t got much holiday left now… I’m sure she would. I’ll phone you back… I will. Love to the girls and Geoige.”

  Brigid hung up and stood for a moment, thinking.

  “She’s quite sure her husband’s having an affair,” Jemima had said. “She suspected it for a while but now something’s made her certain and she’s behaving very oddly. I’m worried about her.”

  Apart from the usual antagonism it had irritated Brigid to discover that Jemima knew such intimate details about Louise’s life.

  “She’s my friend,” she’d wanted to say—and had been disgusted by such a childish reaction, the old familiar fear threatening her confidence.

  She shrugged it away but it clung persistently. After all, it was odd that Louise had achieved such intimacy so quickly with Jemima. She’d never seemed the type of woman to spill confidences and this was such a very personal problem. Brigid frowned thoughtfully. Of course it was possible that she’d been too preoccupied with her own terrors, as well as by having Humphrey at home, to notice that all was not well with Louise. Grimacing guiltily to herself, Brigid shook off the deadening threat of inadequacy. The important thing was to see Louise and give her the opportunity to talk, to share her fears. At least she now had a good excuse to go across to the cottage and remind her about Thea’s invitation. Louise hadn’t seemed too keen when it was first mentioned but she might have changed her mind. Feeling slightly nervous, Brigid went out into the bright, cold evening.

  LOUISE WAS sitting at the table in the big living room, painting. She frowned at the sound of Brigid’s knock, accompanied by a call of “It’s only me.” However, at the familiar sight of her, tall and casually elegant, her short fine blonde hair pushed back behind her ears, Louise felt an easing of this strange, new, tight tension in her chest and was able to smile at her: but she did not stop painting.

  “How clever.” Brigid approached to look. “What delicate little pictures.”

  Louise did not respond. It might be a trap. She must be very careful, even with Brigid, but she continued to smile.

  “I haven’t seen you for a day or two.” Brigid hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’ve been making the most of having Humphrey home.”

  Louise nodded; she knew all about that. You needed to make the most of every second, every single, tiny second, because otherwise… She realised that she was still nodding and blinked, frowning. Had she spoken? Betrayed herself?

  “Louise?” Brigid was looking at her curiously. “Are you OK?”

  She felt the need to giggle but knew that she mustn’t. Not yet. She nodded again. Yes, she was quite OK. Never been better. Only she needed to be very, very careful.

  “Shall we have a cup of tea?” Brigid had stood up again and was filling the kettle.

  Louise smiled a wider smile. She recognised that note, a brightness in her voice, that gave Brigid away. Careful! If she opened her own mouth toads might jump out, just like in the fairy story; toads that might turn into terrible, frightening words, and let loose all those things that were waiting behind the door in the wall. The door must stay shut. She leaned with all her might against it, feeling it pressing against her back. Oh! how heavy it was; how tired she was. She’d like to sleep and sleep but she mustn’t break her vigil even for a second.

  “Thea just phoned.” Brigid was making tea. “She’s invited us over for lunch. I know you were wondering if you had the time to come too. What do you think?”

  Louise stopped smiling. Danger was here, all about her. She remembered Thea; she was nice, strong and good, but she was connected, somehow, to all the dreadful things that were waiting behind the door. No, she could not see Thea. She shook her head.

  Brigid stood the mug of hot tea near at hand on a little round mat The mug had a picture on it but it was not her own mug; perhaps Brigid didn’t know that she always brought her own mug so as to feel at home…

  “I wish you’d come with me.” Brigid had sat down again now, and was smiling at her.

  Louise smiled too. She picked up the mug, holding it close so as to look at the picture.

  “I thought you might like to see Oscar again. And Hermione.”

  Hermione… Louise’s hand trembled. The danger was close, so close now, and she couldn’t move; not a muscle. The door was opening, ever so slightly, and someone was trying to slip through. Someone small, with long bright hair… Oh! she must press against it, slam it closed, but they were so strong…

  With a convulsive movement she flung herself backwards, the hot tea spilled over her wrist, across her book, and Brigid leaped to her feet with a cry. She took Louise’s mug, forcibly wresting it from the clenched fingers, set it down and ran to get a cloth. By the time she’d wiped the table, blotted the book, dried Louise’s hand and wrist, her heart was hammering and her throat was dry.

  “There,” she murmured. “There we are. My God, you did give me a fright. Are you OK?”

  Louise’s eyes were blank, but very bright, and she was smiling. The door was closed again, shut tight, but it had been a very near thing. Nobody must guess; nobody must know. She stared back at Brigid, an idea hovering, and her smile became fixed. Was Brigid dangerous too, now? Had she seen something when the door opened? But what? She must be lulled back to safety. Louise nodded and then sighed suddenly. She felt so tired; so very tired.

  Watching her, Brigid shivered. There was something terribly wrong here and she needed help to deal with it.

  “I have to go,” she said gendy. “Will you be OK? I’ll be back soon. Why don’t you try to rest? You look very tired.”

  Louise pushed her paints aside and leaned her elbows on the table. The door was closed, slammed shut and she could rest, just for a moment… not for long, no, but for a moment or two. She put her head on her arms and her eyes closed.

  Brigid stepped quietly back. Looking round, she took Louise’s car-keys from the other end of the table, picked up the black leather handbag, and moved silently to the door. Outside she took several very deep breaths and went quickly across to Frummie’s cottage.

  FRUMMIE, WATCHING Casablanca, was pleased by the unexpected interruption. She knew the film by heart and the evening stretched emptily ahead.

  “Hello,” she said, reaching for the remote control. “Missing Humphrey? Like a drink?” She caught sight of the handbag and her spirits fell. “Are you going out?”

  “No. It’s Louise’s.” Brigid dropped the bag on a chair but still held the car-keys. “I’m really worried about her. She’s behaving very strangely.”

>   “How do you mean?” Frummie was intrigued. She hauled herself out of her chair, impressed by Brigid’s expression; she looked quite frightened. “What’s happened?”

  “Jemima telephoned.” Brigid perched on the sofa’s arm. “She said that Louise had called in, quite unexpectedly, and that she’d been… well, distracted and peculiar. She suspected her husband of having an affair and decided she’d phone him up. It seems that she asked him some kind of trick question which convinced her that she’s right Jemima said she looked terribly tired and then simply fell asleep. She slept for hours, apparently, and then woke up quite normal and very bright, but seemed puzzled to find herself in Salcombe. Jemima offered her some supper and tried to persuade her to stay but she wouldn’t She says she wasn’t absolutely certain that Louise knew who she was and seemed to think that Jemima knew Martin. That was two days ago.”

  Frummie looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen her about,” she said. “She looks fairly normal.”

  “She wasn’t just now.” Brigid shivered. “She was just sitting there, painting. She wouldn’t speak, just kept nodding and smiling. I made her a cup of tea and she picked it up and then… she sort of flung herself backwards. It was so sudden and… violent The tea went everywhere. But she didn’t make a sound and the tea was really hot I’d just poured it out She hardly seemed to notice.”

  “How extraordinary.” Frummie laid a hand on Brigid’s shoulder. “And frightening. Like a fit, or something.”

  Brigid looked up at her anxiously. “I’m not sure I should have left her alone. I brought her bag and her car-keys, just in case ”