A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “Oh, nothing in particular.” He’d hastened to reassure her, not wishing to alarm her. “He just doesn’t look at things the way most people do.”

  “Are you basing that on the fact that he remarried so quickly after your mother died or have you been hiding things from me?” she’d asked suspiciously. “Come on, Humphrey. It’s bad enough as it is, without you hinting at anything more sinister. Look at what ‘things,’ for instance?”

  “It’s difficult to define.” Humphrey had been on the defensive. “It’s not anything weird. Just the way he sees life in general. He comes at it from a different place than most people. He’s entirely unmaterialistic and rather penetratingly honest.”

  Brigid had frowned, confused. “I’ve never imagined him like that,” she’d said. “The way you talked about his going off made him sound a very selfish person.”

  “He is. But that’s the kind of thing I mean. He didn’t think about how I might feel or how it looked or anything. He just did his own thing. But when you confront him his reasons can be … well, disconcerting, to say the least.”

  “DM you confront him?”

  “Not sensibly. I was too young and still too upset about Mother dying. I remember he asked me how it would benefit me if he stayed single and I said that it looked bad and that people would get the wrong impression.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked what people I had in mind and why their opinion was important. I couldn’t think of a sensible reply. So then he asked me again how it would benefit me and I couldn’t think how. After all, I was nearly twenty-one and about to go to sea. It sounded so childish to insist that he stayed put because it gave me a sense of security but I resented his insensitivity. Everything happened all at once: Mother dying, me going off to sea, Father going away. There seemed nothing solid to hold on to and I felt he should have understood that.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “That’s the point. He said he did. And then he said, ‘But does it matter?’ That’s what I mean when I say he doesn’t behave or react like other people.”

  “Then he should get on well with Mummie,” she’d said rather crossly because she was feeling nervous. “Thank God it’s only for three months.”

  Brigid finished her coffee and put the mug in the sink. Suddenly she was possessed with a great weariness; an inability to deal with the problems life was presenting; a need to escape. She went quietly out of the kitchen and back upstairs. Crawling into bed she pulled the pillows into a nest about her and almost instantly plummeted into a heavy sleep.

  JEMIMA, TOO, had woken unusually early. She lay for some moments, luxuriating in a sense of true relaxation; her limbs heavy with a kind of boneless immobility. It was impossible to move; even her eyelids were weighted with sleepy content; her mind working with a slow, satisfying happiness.

  She thought: I love him. Oh God, I really do.

  Excitement surged, shattering her torpor, and she rolled on to her stomach, closing her eyes tightly, hugging herself, lest she should lose even a second of this sudden moment of delight She had several meetings, now, to tell over, reminding herself of special exchanges, heart-stopping glances—but he was playing it cool, very cool. A morbid curiosity led her into conversations about Annabel, which made him moody, but she simply couldn’t help herself. This was a completely new experience for her. Hitherto, she had been uninterested in her companions’ partners: they belonged to a different world in which she had no interest. This, she told herself, was because she’d never been in love with any of the men whose paths had briefly marched with her own. Now it was different and she needed to know what qualities had drawn him to Annabel, dwelling on it with the kind of painful insistency with which one presses the tongue against a nerve-jumping tooth. His moodiness, the drawing together of his brows, instinctively set off a flutter of fear in her gut, yet still she could not resist. Once he’d overcome his initial reluctance, however, he’d been quite lyrical in his praise. As he described Annabel, Jemima’s own private reactions became soundless grace notes to his glowing recital.

  “She works in IT,” he’d told her. “She’s a very bright girl. She got a first at university“—She would.—“and was offered several really good positions with top companies. She was head-hunted for this job“—Naturally!—“and she’s had a lot of promotion. You can tell that she’s being groomed for something pretty special“—Who could doubt it?—“and they think very highly of her. That’s where the trouble really started“—Aha! Now we’re getting to it!—“and I should have seen it coming. The chap who’s training her clearly fancies her. Well, I can’t blame him for that“—Ohy of course not— “but it came as a bit of a shock to find that she fancied him too. Enough to break up our relationship so … well, so brutally“—She must be an absolute bitch.—“but I suppose I’ve just been stupid …“—No you’re not. You’re absolutely gorgeous and she’s a silly cow.—“You’re very quiet. Sorry. This must be all rather boring for you. I got a bit carried away.”

  She’d caught at her self-possession and shaken her head. “Don’t apologise. It’s a terrible shock, I can see that.” Keep it low-key. Casual. “I expect she’s pretty attractive, as well as clever?”

  He’d smiled. It had such a sadly reminiscent quality, his gaze drifting beyond her to some past, precious memory, that she’d had to hold her clenched fists under the table lest he should see the jealous spasm which made them tremble, and her smile had slipped into a fixed grimace. You asked for it, sweetie, she’d told herself grimly. And now shut up. I know you want to ask what she looks like in detail but don’t even go there.

  ’To be honest, she’s rather gorgeous“—Shit! I don’t want to know this.—“and a bit of a clotheshorse. She’s so slender that she looks good in anything“—It’s too late to sit up straight and hold your stomach in, so forget it—“and she’s tall too. Very, very, dark colouring—but, hey, who cares about Annabel?. Let’s talk about you. Much more interesting.”

  “That’s true.” She’d regained her poise quickly, assuming a jokey sophistication, hiding her sense of insecurity, and his good humour had been restored. He’d almost missed the last ferry.

  Jemima rolled on to her back, chuckling to herself. It wasn’t her fault he’d caught it. She’d kept a surreptitious eye on her watch, thinking up all kinds of delaying tactics, until he’d glanced at his own watch. She’d had mixed feelings about his determination to get back across the harbour but had kept calm, waving him off cheerfully. He’d telephoned her later…

  The indolent, relaxed mood had passed and she sat up, yawning, pleased to see the sunshine, listening to the gulls and the familiar water sounds: the diesel on a fishing boat chugging out to sea, the rhythmical dipping of oars, the lapping of the tide against the ferry pier. Later, they would meet for a drink and then she’d drive him out to Bolberry Down for a walk along the cliffs, followed by supper at some pub. This time, he’d probably be too late to catch the ferry. Pretending that she would have done it anyway, Jemima slid out of bed and began to drag off the sheets. She pottered to and from the airing cupboard until the bed was freshly made; clean, crisp linen; plump, downy pillows. Humming, she flung the blue and cream patchwork quilt across its surface and smoothed it carefully, thoughtfully. Smiling to herself, she pushed the blue, heavily figured cretonne curtains right back and leaned for a moment from the open window, looking up the estuary, beyond the Bag, where gorse and heather bloomed gorgeously, gold and purple patches of colour on the headland.

  It was nice, the way he let her drive him about—“You drive like a man,” he’d told her. “And from me that’s a compliment. I don’t like being driven“—and encouraged her to decide what they should do. She liked the way other women looked at him; it made her feel good in a possessive, strong, sexy kind of way.

  “I must admit,” he’d said on one occasion when the pub was crowded and they’d had to wait for a table, “that it’s good to be with a woman who doesn’t fuss all the tim
e.”

  “Fuss?” She’d looked surprised, as if she’d never heard the word before; a light “Whatever can you mean? What’s to fuss about?” tone in her voice. And when he’d answered, “Oh, I was just thinking about Annabel. She could be a bit heavy sometimes if things weren’t absolutely just so,” she’d said, “Oh, right,” with just the correct amount of amused indifference; a sort of “What? Oh, Annabel Yes, of course,” carelessness and made a point of being positive and jolly whenever things were a bit iffy; like the pubjtitchen running out of lobster just when she’d said that she’d set her heart on it or it starting to rain when they went for their ferry trip to South Sands. He’d smiled at her, that smile that made her heart behave like some crazy yo-yo, and told her he couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed himself so much. “Me, too,” she’d answered—but still jokey, so that he’d slipped an arm about her and murmured, “You’re rather special, aren’t you?”

  “Rather special.” Jemima straightened up and turned back into the bedroom; fair-haired, not dark; size fourteen, not a clotheshorse; no university degree, no IT qualifications—but “rather special” all the same.

  She made a rude face at an imaginary presence. “Eat your heart out, Annabel,” she said—and went to take a shower.

  CHAPTER 20

  The house looked just the same and yet she might have been seeing it for the first time, so unfamiliar was it. No, not unfamiliar, that wasn’t quite accurate. It was, rather, something glimpsed in a dream—or so long ago that it aroused curiosity rather than any deeper emotion.

  Louise thought: It’s unreal. Smugglers Way is real. Foxhole is real. But this place no longer seems to have any importance for me.

  She was confused: disorientated. On the journey back to London she’d imagined several reactions but not one of curiosity. Three years of her life had been spent here yet the events of the last six weeks had cut down like a bright sword, dividing her from her previous existence; but not from all of it. Just as she had cut herself off from her life with Rory and Hermione, denying its existence, so now it was her time with Martin which seemed to have happened to someone else. It was a different Louise who had stood here in the kitchen, climbed the stairs, worked in the garden. She stared around at objects which had once formed the backdrop of her life; a well-known tapestry of belongings which set the scene for her life with Martin. Where was the Louise who had lived among them? Who was she?

  The front door opened and closed with a bang. She stood quite still, waiting. His footsteps, muffled by the rug, thudded quickly along the hall and he came briskly into the kitchen, his arms full of carrier bags, his face creased in a faint frown of abstraction. The change of expression was ludicrous. He almost jumped away from her with a gasp of shock.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly, automatically. “I’m a bit early. Of course, you wouldn’t have recognised the car.”

  “I thought you were coming by train.” It was an accusation. “You said you’d telephone from the station.”

  “Yes, I did.” How strange to be here with him again. “But I decided to drive, you see. Does it matter?”

  Watching him, she could almost read his thoughts. He’d been expecting her to arrive by taxi, giving him time to prepare himself, and he was wondering if she’d seen anything of an incriminating nature.

  “You’d forgotten that I have a key. Well, I do live here.”

  Not any more, sweetie. He might have spoken the words aloud, so clearly were they written in his narrowed, unwelcoming eyes. He turned from her, dumping the bags on the table, giving himself time.

  “How brown, you are,” she said lightly. “You’re looking tremendously well.”

  He sighed. “OK. Let’s not do the subtle hinting bit, shall we? No, I didn’t pick up this tan on the golf courses of Great Britain. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Not at first,” she said slowly. “I suspected things but it wasn’t until I met the man on the train …” And I saw the woman with the child, she thought, her heart quickening.

  “What man?” He was staring at her impatiently. “What are you talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Suddenly she didn’t want to be here. Slowly, painfully, she’d regained her grasp on reality and she didn’t dare let loose her hold. “Honestly, Martin, it really doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, please.” He closed his eyes. “Don’t talk yourself into being a martyr.”

  “I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. It’s just that things have changed. I know I haven’t been able to explain to you yet—”

  “I know, I know. I should have come down to Devon again but to tell you the truth, sweetie, it wasn’t exactly my scene. The erring bastard giving his faithful beloved a nervous breakdown and a built-in audience watching the reconciliation scene.”

  “Frummie’s not a bit like that.” Louise stopped abruptly. “Look, Martin, I just want to tell you how I feel.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Well, let me do it for you. I shouldn’t have slipped off to the Med. I shouldn’t have been touchy on the telephone; I shouldn’t have been so lazy about coming down to Devon to visit you more often—”

  “You shouldn’t have been having an affair with Carol in the first place.”

  His eyes snapped wide open with shock. “You did know, then?’

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “Did you really imagine I was taken in by your slagging her off all the time?”

  “But you said you only suspected.”

  “So I did.” She shrugged. “I imagined you had better taste.”

  He flushed a dark, patchy red and she looked away from him, shocked by the surge of fierce pleasure she felt at this cheap hit.

  “She’s young,” he said, wanting to hurt; to retaliate. “Twenty-three.”

  She looked at him compassionately. ‘Well, that’s great, then,” she said. “If that’s what you want, Martin—”

  “Don’t be so bloody patronising,” he shouted. “I picked you up from nothing. Just remember that. You didn’t know what day of the week it was. Your life had collapsed and you were nothing. Nothing! All you had were your clothes. Even your mother had given up on you.”

  ’That’s absolutely true,” she answered. “You were very good to me, Martin. You looked after me.”

  ’Too right, sweetie. And a lot of looking after it was, in the early days, I can tell you.”

  “Martin, let’s not do this. I’m grateful for all that you’ve done for me but I want to say that it’s finished. No, wait. Not because of Carol or anything you’ve done or haven’t done but because I’ve been able to come to terms with what went before. You protected me from all that but now I need to face it and I can’t do that here or with you.”

  He stared at her, puzzled, suspicious. “So what brought this on?”

  Louise, hesitated. No point is telling him that his infidelity had begun the process: he wouldn’t understand and he would see it as an accusation. After all, it wasn’t important any more.

  “I think it was simply time,” she said slowly. “The shock of Hermione’s death numbed me. I couldn’t face it. Maybe I’ve been protected from it until I could bear it. I don’t know. The point is that it’s happened and things are different.”

  “You mean you don’t care about me any more?”

  He’d seen his advantage and seized it quickly. Now it could be all her fault.

  “I’m still very fond of you,” she said levelly. “Do you want me back?”

  His face was a study of conflicting emotions: irritation, anxiety, caution. She laughed suddenly.

  “Can’t we be honest? I want to go and you want to be free of me. Does there have to be blame? Condemnation? I don’t know what I shall do but I think I have to be alone.”

  “You’re not staying at that setup in Devon?”

  “I can’t stay with Frummie indefinitely,” she said. “I’m thinking of taking a winter let. I don’t like to look too far ahead at the moment.”

  His expressi
on softened, responding as always to need. “Will you be OK? Look, you don’t have to worry financially just yet. You’ll need a car, for a start. It’s expensive to hire long term. I’m sure we can sort something out between us.”

  “That’s very good of you, Martin,” she said sincerely. “I might need a bit of a loan to start me off but I shall find a job as soon as I can.”

  “Are you fit enough to work?”

  She shrugged. “Depends what the work is. But I shan’t be a burden on you for any longer than is necessary.”

  “Oh, honestly, sweetie. As if that matters. I don’t want you to be silly about this.”

  ’Thanks.” She smiled at him. “If we can be friends that’s what really matters. I’m not out of the wood yet.”

  Quite suddenly the old current of ease and familiarity was flowing between them again. He came swiftly across to hug her. “Friends,” he said warmly. “Now tell me how you really are.”

  “YOU’RE LOOKING better,” he told her later.

  He’d made tea for her, properly, in the blue flowered teapot. Martin hated mess and was not a natural kitchen dweller. They sat in the sitting room, with the French doors open to the small, pretty garden, amongst the elegant comfort of Rose and Hubble choir covers and curtains, rosewood furniture and his precious pieces of Meissen. His mother had left him some property, along with a comfortable amount of money, and he would wait months for the right painting or figurine or bureau with which to complete his setting. He was fastidious, careful in his choice, and yet his generous warmth lent life to the otherwise sterile beauty of his rooms.

  Louise, smiling at him, was remembering the married quarters at Smugglers Way: the flat-roofed blocks, rendered with grey, pebble-dash concrete, the uniformity and lack of imagination of the decoration and furnishings. She had a mental picture, suddenly, of the Fablon tacked to the side of the bath and was pierced with an anguished longing.

  “What is it?” He was refilling her cup, watching her with his old, familiar tenderness.