A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “I don’t know how to make amends,” said Brigid sadly, at last. “And it’s almost worse now he’s beginning to be calm and reasonable about it.”

  “Do you need to make amends?” Alexander frowned as if puzzled. “You did what you felt was right at the time. You didn’t deliberately jeopardise your retirement plans. If you continue to act guiltily Humphrey will respond accordingly and will continue to feel hard done by. That’s human nature. Gradually, it will poison your relationship. Your guilt will slide into resentment and his sense of injury will harden into bitterness.”

  “But you have to admit that it’s a bit tough.” Brigid was almost affronted at his lack of sympathy—for either of them. “He simply must continue to work now. He can’t stay in the Navy and it’s not easy finding a job at fifty-three.”

  “I agree with that but the answer seems obvious to me. Humphrey’s a sailor. You have to pay the sailing school twelve thousand pounds. Why doesn’t he simply buy the school? Your debt simply becomes a different kind of loan which he can work to pay back whilst giving himself a living.”

  “But… he’s not that kind of sailor.”

  “Not what kind of sailor? Humphrey has sailed small boats and he could learn to teach others and help to run the school. Why not? He’ll need a challenge of some kind. He’s far too young to retire.”

  “But I don’t know if he’d want to.” Brigid was struggling to come to terms with this extraordinary idea. “And it’s down in Cornwall.”

  “Does that matter? He’d get home quite often, I’m sure. More often than he does at present. He could probably do some of the administration work from home. And what happens in the winter? Surely it’s much quieter then?”

  “I don’t know.” Brigid was utterly confused. “I’ve never thought about it. Iain and Jenny are keeping the school running in the hope of finding a buyer. I’m sure they’d be glad to carry on. Oh!” A new thought struck her. “I can’t see Humphrey working with Jenny.”

  Alexander shrugged. “He might feel quite differently about her once it becomes his school. Or she might decide to leave and do something else.”

  Brigid began to laugh. “You are quite ruthless,” she told him.

  He looked surprised. “Am I? I don’t think so. Doesn’t it seem an obvious solution to you? The loan becomes an investment in your own business. Much more satisfactory than adding it to a mortgage and then doing a grinding job to pay it off. Isn’t it likely that Humphrey would be more at home running a sailing school, his sailing school, than working in an office or as a bursar at a boarding school?”

  “Well, yes. But if that were the case wouldn’t Humphrey have already thought about it and suggested it to me?”

  “He’s probably too busy responding to your guilt and feeling aggrieved,” answered Alexander bluntly. “He probably hasn’t thought it through at all. Why not suggest it to him?’

  “Do you know,” she said slowly, “I think I will.”

  “Good,” he said lightly. “Very good. In that case I’ll leave you to finish your walk in peace. You’ll need time to think about it carefully.”

  “I will,” she agreed, rather anxiously. “I’ll need to know exactly how to put it to him.”

  He looked down at her, smiling a little at her serious expression. “And you’re sure that was the only reason? For that relieved look?”

  “What else could it be?” she countered lightly.

  He nodded, as if accepting her evasion. “Well, good luck with the thinking,” he said. “And just remember that no one ever sticks to the script, no matter how perfectly you write it in your head. Give him room to manoeuvre. Be flexible.” He turned away, hesitated, and turned back again. “Oh, and by the way, don’t tell him that this was my suggestion. Put it to him from your point of view.”

  She watched him stride away, feeling an enormous affection for him, and then walked on beside the river, her head whirling with new, exciting ideas; guilt and depression quite forgotten.

  FRUMMIE, PEGGING out washing, saw him return. She stood for a moment, considering, and then called to him.

  “Louise’s shopping,” she said. “What about some coffee? I’m just having some.”

  He paused, as if giving it some thought, and then nodded. “That’s very kind.”

  “Come over when you’re ready.”

  She went back indoors, her spirits rising. Alexander was a challenge worthy of her mettle; and she felt invigorated after a bit of a run-in with him. She took out the cafetiere Brigid had given her and her special coffee from Effings, also a present from her daughter, and spooned in a generous quantity. By the time Alexander appeared everything was prepared and set out on the low table by the sofa in the living room.

  “Did you enjoy your walk?” she asked, as he sat down beside her on the sofa. “I hate this weather. It gets on my nerves.”

  “It’s better down by the river.” He watched her press down the plunger. “There’s always a movement of air by water.”

  “If you say so. I have very little desire to go out into this bleak, inhospitable countryside. I can’t think why Brigid loves it so much.”

  “She is by nature solitary. Its emptiness appeals to her.”

  “She takes after her father. Diarmid was exactly the same. Just adored it. I’ve made her promise she won’t leave Foxhole’s land while this murderer is still at large but it’s impossible to make her stay inside.” She glanced at him sharply. “And/what about you? Are you another solitary?”

  He smiled—and she saw in that moment how like Humphrey he was, a much thinner, older Humphrey—shaking his head at the mere thought of it.

  “No, no. I’m not cut out to be alone. I like people about me.

  She set down her cup, delighted with him as usual, a now-familiar sense of fellowship spreading pleasantly within her.

  “Oh, so do I. I loathe being alone. Hate it, simply. It’s been heaven having Louise with me. I’m going to miss her terribly.”

  “But you have a friend coming?”

  Her eyes slid sideways, considering him. “Yes,” she said. “Dear old Margot. We were at school together. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

  He setded himself comfortably, moving the low table a little so that he could stretch out his legs. “Is that relevant?”

  Frummie chuckled. “It will be to her. Margot likes to be liked. I’ve told her a thousand times that it’s a weakness but she can’t help herself.”

  “Not one you suffer from?”

  “Certainly not!” she answered indignantly. “Being disliked or even hated can add spice to a relationship. These days everyone needs to be loved. Children require to be praised and lauded for simply existing and adults have to be awarded prizes for being merely adequate. Standards must be lowered lest anyone should fail and excellence is diluted down and shared out amongst footballers, those who acquire wealth through bully-boy tactics or talentless musicians. These are our icons in a society of wishy-washy political correctness. I cannot abide it.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “And do you dislike Maigot? Or hate her? Or do you merely tolerate her rather than be alone?”

  She was taken aback by his directness. “I’m actually very fond of Margot,” she said defensively. “Well… most of the time.” She began to laugh. “You’re impossible,” she said. ‘Truth to tell, Margot is my insurance against a long wet lonely autumn. If I’d known that Louise would be here I wouldn’t have asked her.”

  “But Louise won’t be here.”

  “No.” Frummie drank some coffee. “Part of me knows that it’s time she made the break but part of me won’t accept it. I think it’s because I dread being alone again but I’m pretending that I think it’s because she’s not ready to manage on her own.” She stared at him crossly. “So there you are,” she said irritably, as if he had wrung the confession from her.

  “It seems a sensible plan,” he said reflectively. “This short break to test herself. Don’t you think so? And you’ll have
Margot… and the rest of us.”

  “As you say.” She shrugged—but felt in some way soothed and relieved by her admission.

  “I’m thinking of inviting a friend to stay,” he offered.

  It was as if he were seeking a reaction—approval, perhaps?—yet it seemed out of character and Frummie looked at him warily, coolly.

  “Oh?”

  “Mmm.” He sipped his coffee. “An old school-friend. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Shall we like him?” Frummie’s lips turned down in her characteristic smile. “Or is that irrelevant?”

  Alexander laughed. “Not to Gregory. He loves everyone and likes to feel it’s reciprocated. He and Margot should get along splendidly.”

  “Well.” Frummie was intrigued but determined not to betray herself too far. “And when is he coming?”

  “Quite soon. Early in October.”

  “Margot and I must give a little party for him. Brigid will help. I’ll get Jemima over and I’m sure Louise will come back for it.”

  “It sounds just up Gregory’s street. Five women to two men, he’ll like that.”

  “And what about you?” she asked lightly. “Will you like it too?”

  He turned to look at her smilingly, so that she felt slightly confused and rather foolish.

  “Oh, yes,” he said gently. “I shall like it too.”

  CHAPTER 33

  When shall I see you again? Jemima did not ask the question. For too many years it had been against the rules and, even now, despite a really fantastic weekend, she could not bring herself to frame the words aloud. She was not secure enough to risk a rebuff; this new love was too precious to lose as a result of a hasty or misjudged assumption. The impossible had happened: she was no longer content to be alone nor considered herself to be by nature a mistress. Now she wanted him with her on a permanent basis; longed to hear him make some kind of commitment. There were moments, very serious moments, among the longer periods of fun and light-heartedness, when he talked about the future, their future, and she felt convinced that his intentions were in line with her own. Nevertheless, she was quite unable to broach it openly. Because of the nature of their meeting, her role, it seemed, had been defined. She was destined to be companionable, cheerful, happy. She knew now all of Annabel’s characteristics which had annoyed or distressed him and she was too afraid to allow herself to stray into their territory. No. She must remain bright-faced and sweet-tempered, unfazed by inefficiency, laid-back and undemanding; quirky, cool, independent. These were the things about her he loved, the traits which captivated him.

  “It will come,” she told herself. “It’s early days. Don’t be greedy. It’s a big step for him, just don’t rush it.”

  It was hard, though, really hard to dissemble; to tease and joke and play it cool when she wanted to hold him; to sink into comfortable, relaxed security with him. To say “When shall I see you again?” easily, naturally, as though she had the right.

  He rolled on to his back and opened his eyes. “Do I have to go?”

  She bit back her instinctive response: an overwhelming desire to cry: “No! Stay with me. Don’t ever leave me.”

  “I’m afraid you do.” She made herself smile at his groan, to pretend toughness. “It was your idea to stay over and make an early start.”

  “Slave-driver,” he grumbled. “Admit, though, that it was clever of me to arrange a meeting in Bristol first thing Monday morning.”

  “Pretty good,” she said judicially. “Exeter would have been better.”

  He gave a crack of laughter, pulling her down on top of him, and she responded willingly but with a brief, backward glance of regret for that past sensation of upward-swooping joy which had revelled in her separateness; which had held her free of sadness and desire. She was careful, however, to be the first to break away, to subdue her quickly rising passion.

  “I need some coffee,” she said. “And so do you. Thank God you don’t eat breakfast.”

  He lay watching her, arms folded behind his head. “Annabel could never come to terms with that,” he said. “She believes that no one can function properly without a good solid breakfast inside them.”

  She was shocked by the depth of rage which shook her; holding back with difficulty the urge to turn and scream at him; quelling the need to punish him for his insensitivity. Why should Annabel be so readily in his thoughts after such a heart-shaking night of love? No commendation for remembering his habits and foibles: no gratitude for not fussing. Only a reference to bloody Annabel! She kept her back carefully turned towards him as she belted her wrapper and slipped on her espadrilles. Forcing down her rage, she reasoned with herself that she could expect no praise for something which he believed to be her natural behaviour. She had, after all, taken pains to show him that she did not fuss.

  “It depends what she means by ‘function properly,’” she said lightly. “But perhaps our priorities are different. I’ve known lots of people who ‘function’“—she deliberately stressed the word, giving it a sexy overtone—-“extraordinarily well indeed with very little inside them.”

  He gave another shout of laughter, enjoying the occasional flash of bitchiness, flattered by these latent signs of jealousy, and went away to take a shower. She went into the kitchen, still angry, feeling oddly degraded. In attempting to compete with Annabel, to outdo and undermine her, she’d made herself sound like some promiscuous airhead. Confused and miserable she made the coffee and wandered into the sitting room. MagnifiCat raised his round, flat face and she dropped on her knees beside him, laying her cheek on his warm, soft flank.

  “I’m a fool,” she told him. “I’m just no good at this. God, I love him!”

  Presently she stood up and went out on to the balcony. The harbour was wreathed in curling mist, the opposite shore invisible, the sounds of the sea-birds echoing mournfully, evocatively, in the early morning silence. He was behind her, putting his arms about her, burying his mouth in her hair, and she folded her own hands over his, returning the pressure.

  “Magic,” he murmured. “You, this place. The whole scene. I can’t stay away from you. You’ve bewitched me, I hope you realise that.”

  Relief, gratitude, love, welled inside her in an unstoppable tide of generosity and she turned in his arms, slipping her own around his neck. Impossible to remain cool or to give some quirky answer. The kiss was deep, long, satisfying.

  “Me, too,” she said at last, inadequately.

  They clung together until MagnifiCat came winding round their legs, butting and pressing his head into their ankles, so that Jemima began to laugh and they drew reluctantly apart.

  “The coffee will be cold,” she said. “And you’ll be late.” He sighed. “You’re a hard woman,” he said as he followed her inside, “but it’s not long till Friday.”

  The words repeated themselves sweetly inside her head, or she said them out loud to herself, long after he’d gone, making it impossible to go back to bed or sleep. She could only sit on the sofa, MagnifiCat beside her, watching the cold white mist diffusing into a glowing, golden, cloudy brightness just as her own private joy was warming the remains of her fear and anger into a deeper love and a more confident hope.

  LOUISE WAS relieved to be making the trip to East Prawle alone. This would be her first official day as tenant and she needed the time to be quiet, to have the chance to think things through, to decide exactly how she was feeling. She was feeling tired, that much was certain. Ever since Jemima had suggested the cottage she’d bounced between excitement and terror; determination and lack of confidence. It didn’t help that she was well aware that they were all watching her, anxious lest she should not be strong enough yet to be alone, ready to encourage her to draw back. Knowing instinctively that she must take this step, she hadn’t dared to show her true feelings, not even to Frummie: especially not to Frummie. For the first time since her breakdown in Brigid’s kitchen it was necessary to keep a guard on her emotions. Frummie didn’t want h
er to go. This was very touching—and she didn’t want to go, not really—yet part of her knew that if she didn’t make the break now she might never have the courage. She could imagine staying on for ever, finding a job, working from Foxhole with Frummie looking after her. To begin with it would be just until she found her feet and afterwards it would be impossible to leave without hurting Frummie’s feelings. Of course, it was probable that Frummie would be unable to sublet, that Humphrey and Brigid might not be too happy with her continuing to be a paying guest, but she could imagine that the situation might drift on indefinitely. Margot’s arrival, along with the. offer of the cottage, had given her an opportunity she simply had to take.

  She’d tried to keep Frummie involved, showing her over the cottage, listening to her advice, promising that she’d admit it if she found this new independence all too much, but she was glad to be alone now, to be driving out of Kings-bridge, the little car piled with her belongings, ready to make a new start. Turning right over Frogmore Bridge, climbing the hill, glancing with delight at the estuary winding between quiet, autumnal fields, she was washed through with an unexpected wave of freedom. She felt light, rinsed of anxiety, buoyant. Gradually she allowed herself to give way to excitement, happy anticipation: planning how she would setde in, trying to imagine this new, rather solitary, life. The little cottage was charming, if tiny. Yet it was its tininess which appealed to her: there was a sense of safety in such a small comfortable area; security in its cosiness. It was the last cottage of a higgledy-piggledy terrace which was charming in its nonconformity. The minute porch led directly into the one big living room, with the kitchen, a narrow slip of a galley, screened off by a divider containing cupboards and shelves and a breakfast bar. The kitchen door opened into a long narrow conservatory with a door to a small walled yard. Upstairs was one good-sized bedroom, the bathroom and a boxroom.