A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  Today was bright again; the power restored. The storm had passed away, the last lingering rags of clouds drifting eastwards, and the sun was shining. She stood up, stretching, and went into the galley to wash her brushes. The clean brightness, the fresh smell of paint, pleased her. She felt the sense of satisfaction which comes with the contemplation of the results of hard work and she sipped at her mug of hot soup, her spirits rising. Tomorrow she would begin work upstairs. Meanwhile, she planned to go for a walk. She’d barely been out since the stormy weather had set in and she longed to stride out over the cliffs or along the beach, resting her dust-filled eyes on distant vistas and stretching her legs after days of crouching and kneeling. Her back felt permanently bent with scraping, sand-papering and rubbing down. She’d worked long and hard, and a treat was in order.

  As she finished her soup, between taking bites from a cheese-filled roll and peeling an apple, she decided that she would drive down to East Portlemouth, park in the lane above the ferry steps so as to wander along the beach—if the tide allowed—and up through the wood to Rickham Common. This was one of her favourite walks and she decided to take a small picnic with her: a flask of hot tea and a few small rock-cakes would go down rather well up on the cliffs. Fifteen minutes later she was putting the lightweight knapsack in the car, hurrying back inside to collect her fleece hat, and finally setting off. She did not notice the small red car parked beside the village green, nor the man who was standing half hidden by the stone shelter. He wore a baseball cap and Ray-Bans and appeared to be engrossed in the unusual windvane on the roof of the shelter, his head tilted back as he stared up at its crown and the letters EIIR. Once she had passed, however, he walked quickly to the red car and climbed in, turning it so as to follow her through the winding lanes.

  As Louise descended the steps which led down to the beach, she was pleased to see that the tide was ebbing. This meant that if she were careful she could get along the beach quite safely, although she might have to scramble over some of the low-lying rocks. She picked her way along, glancing across to Salcombe, wondering what Jemima might be doing, until she rounded the rocky point into Mill Bay. As she crossed the beach she remembered her dream. It was here that Hermione had danced, teasing the waves, and Rory had stood beneath the trees, watching her. For a moment her heart filled with despair and loneliness and she struggled to keep depression from muscling in; wrestling her happiness in the bright day down to helplessness, dragging her spirits down into misery.

  Frummie’s words slid into her mind and she clung to them grimly. “Look beyond it” She climbed the path into the little woodland, concentrating on the view of the sea which lay ahead. The bent and twisted oaks and sycamore, ancient and stunted by the salt spray, seemed unusually quiet and oddly eerie. She had the odd sensation that someone was near at hand, and she was glad to climb out into the sunshine on the common amongst the fading bracken. She walked more slowly now, looking across the narrow mouth of the estuary to Starehole Bay and the Mew Stone on the further side. The silvery silken skin of the sea stretched to a misty, indistinct horizon, and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily, the slanting rays of the sun gleaming and glinting on their painted decks.

  She wandered along the coastal path, watching gannets diving and the smaller terns with their dancing, skimming flight, noticing the gorse bushes still in flower and the clumps of thrift which grew amongst the rocks. Presently, beneath some wind-shaped apple trees, she laid out her waterproof and poured some tea into the plastic cup. The rock-buns tasted good, full of delicious fruit, and the tea was hot and refreshing, and she sat dreaming in the afternoon sunshine until she began to grow chilly. Kneeling, she packed the waterproof and the tea-things into her knapsack, swung it on to her back and got to her feet. The sun was low now, dazzling into her eyes. For a moment she thought she saw another figure on the footpath but when she looked more carefully, shading her eyes, there was no one there. She started back, watching the boats which were now heading for harbour, hugging the channel of the further shore as they crossed the spit of sand called The Bar.

  Louise walked quickly, hands in pockets, crossing the common once more, passing through the woodland and down to Mill Bay. As she came out of the trees and began to cross the half-circle of beach, she caught her breath in a tiny gasp of shock. Beneath the trees, half hidden by the rocks at the edge of the cove, a man was standing. So strongly did he remind her of her dream that she glanced involuntarily towards the water’s edge, expecting to see the small child dancing. There was nothing there; only the tide washing gently in across the sand. She looked back at him, her steps slowing, feeling suddenly afraid. There was something familiar about him, about the cap and the black Ray-Bans, which made her search her memory, wondering where she’d seen him before. He was slightly turned away from her, staring over the harbour, yet, even as she advanced he moved round the edge of the point, looking at her now. Trembling, poised for flight, she stopped, and in a swift movement he took off his cap, crushing it into his pocket, and removed the tinted spectacles.

  She stared at him, heart hammering in her side, fists still jammed in her pockets and, just as it had been in the dream, no words would come and she was immobilised with fear. He came towards her, hesitated and came on until he was an arm’s length away. They stared at each other in silence until he shook his head almost irritably, as if dispelling some emotion which had gripped him and paralysed him, and with an immense effort he smiled at her.

  “Hello, Louise,” said Rory.

  THE WALK back to the ferry steps seemed to take hours. The reality of his presence, suddenly after three years of absence, was a tremendous shock and, to begin with, she could neither move nor speak. She stared at him, struggling with a whole variety of emotions: disbelief, delight, fear, guilt. He took the initiative—but then he always had. She was reminded of those returns from sea and her frustration in her inability to cross the barrier which distance and loneliness had erected in his absence.

  “I didn’t know how to do it,” he was saying anxiously, apologising for the shock. “I couldn’t think of any other way.”

  She shook her head, trying to say, “It’s OK. I understand,” but still the words wouldn’t come. She simply did not know how to begin. What words could be adequate after the way she’d left him? Quite instinctively they began to walk back along the beach together. Whilst he talked, trying to build some kind of bridge, she stole glances at him, sliding her eyes sideways, still gripped with shyness—and shame.

  “I’ve been following you.” It was a kind of apology. “Trying to get up the courage to speak.” He chuckled, a not very convincing sound, but he was doing his best. “Obviously my disguise worked.”

  He took out the baseball cap, smoothing it and turning it in his hands. His efforts were palpable and she was shaken with an overwhelming tenderness for him.

  “I thought I did recognise you.” She spoke at last but the words were husky, as if her voice were rusty with disuse. “But not as you, if you see what I mean. As someone else.”

  He turned to her eagerly, encouraging her, stuffing the cap back into his pocket. “You’ve probably seen me about without realising it,” he said. “I followed you once from Foxhole in the car. We were in a hold-up for a few minutes and I wondered if you’d seen me in your mirror. And I was in The Wardroom when you were there having coffee.”

  She stared at him, shyness forgotten in surprise. “But how did you know where I was? Sorry. I’m being a bit dense, aren’t I? I thought you meant you’d seen me by accident…” She hesitated, confused.

  “Martin told me,” he said. “He said that you’d… come to terms with things.”

  He looked uncomfortable but she was too shocked to notice it. “Martin told you?”

  They stood quite still, staring at each other, and, when he spoke, he chose his words very carefully.

  “He stayed in touch with me, you see. He was horrified by… such a tragedy and he tried to keep hold of me, if you can understand
that.”

  She looked away from him, surprised to see the children running on the sand and boats chugging into harbour. The brilliant light and the sounds crashed in on her consciousness. It was as if. the whole world had narrowed down to the tiny space which he and she inhabited. Now it expanded almost violently around her. The children’s voices echoed over the water and the engines of the fishing boats purred rhythmically. The sun was nearly gone, rolling away behind the cliffs.

  She said, “That sounds like Martin. He’s a mender of people.”

  “Yes.” A silence. “He was very sensible, actually. He made me see, though not all at once, that you needed the space…”

  She turned back to him quickly, desperately. “I am so sorry, Rory. Oh God, I was so cruel but I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

  “I know. Honestly. It’s not that I—Look, I’m not asking for explanations. It’s just… I’m explaining how it was.”

  His hair was ruddy in the sunset’s glow, his eyes the same colour as Hermione’s. Her lips trembled. “Yes. I see that. Sony…”

  “Well, he kept in touch.” They were walking on again now. ‘There was a point when we both wondered if it would ever change. And then back in the summer he telephoned.” A long pause. “I’m out of the Navy now.”

  “Out?”

  He nodded. “I did an exchange with the Canadians for two years but after that it was never going to be the same.” He shrugged. “There was never a day when I didn’t think of you both.”

  “Oh, Rory …”

  He was determined not to take advantage of her emotion.

  “So I got a job with an engineering company in Newport. There’s a lot of research and I really enjoy it. Martin phoned and said that you’d had a kind of breakdown but that you were … on your own again. He thought you might be able to…”

  “Face reality?” He did not look at her and his expression was wary. She sighed. “That’s what it was, you see. At the time, I couldn’t face it. The only way I could manage to survive was to deny it. To pretend that it had happened to another person. By the time you got back from sea I was too far along the path of denial. You had to be denied too.”

  He said bleakly, “I’ve never forgiven myself for not being there.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “Look,” she said. “Look…Ohhell…”

  “Shall we go and have some tea somewhere?” They’d reached the ferry steps and he was smiling at her. She could hardly bear the love in his eyes. “Just so that we can talk. Nothing heavy.”

  She smiled back. So it had always been: the familiar advance and retreat until she’d been able to cross the final barrier. He’d never pushed, never forced, but had waited patiently to be accepted once more into her life: her life—and Hermione’s.

  “Come back to the cottage for tea,” she said. “You can follow me. Although… I suppose you know where it is?”

  He nodded, embarrassed. “Martin told me, you see. I’m sorry. It’s rather horrid to be spied on, isn’t it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t think that telephoning out of the blue was a very good idea.”

  “No, I think it would have been even more difficult.” She tried to convey her gratitude for his making such an effort; for his sensitivity. “Come and have some tea, if you’d like to, but I’ll have to go down to the end of the road so that I can turn.”

  “I’ll follow you,” he said—and turned away to his own car.

  All the way back to East Prawle she drove automatically, quite unaware of her surroundings; shocked, excited, frightened. He followed her quickly and efficiently, parking behind her outside the cottage, waiting with hands in pockets whilst she unlocked the door.

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” she said. ‘I’m decorating it, you see.”

  He wandered about, asking questions, whilst she boiled the kettle and spoke lightly about the joys of decorating, but both of them realised that the spell was broken. That unexpected meeting on the beach, on neutral ground, out of time, had moved them forward—or backward—unbelievably quickly. Suddenly, here in the small cottage, they were awkward, ill at ease, uncomfortable. Louise talked because she could not bear the silence, dismayed by her brittleness, helplessly groping towards that earlier extraordinary intimacy. Even Rory seemed incapable of narrowing the gap which now yawned between them.

  “Are you on leave? On holiday?” She corrected herself, remembering that he was no longer in the Navy. It seemed unimaginable that he should have come outside, abandoned his career. ‘Where are you staying?”

  “In Kingsbridge.” He fiddled awkwardly with his spoon. “I’ve got a long weekend.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “A very long weekend. It’s only Thursday afternoon.”

  He smiled. “My boss is a very nice man. He and his wife, Frances, have been terribly kind to me. It’s a bit odd, you know, after the Service, but I’m getting used to it.”

  “Newport, you said?” They were like strangers again, talking at a dinner party where the hostess has insisted that everyone goes into another room for coffee, so that the intimacy of the dinner table is shattered, irretrievable. “Not too far from your family.”

  Rory’s forebears had farmed in Herefordshire for generations. She’d always teased him that, with his ruddy colouring, he looked more like a farmer than a sailor.

  “Not too far.” He didn’t look at her. “I’ve got a litde cottage in the Wye Valley. It was nice to have somewhere to put our things.”

  “Things?” she repeated sharply.

  “Mmm.” Still he would not—or could not—look at her.

  “We didn’t have much, I agree, moving round in married quarters, but there were our books and lamps and a few ornaments. And Hermione’s toys and books.” The silence was weighty with memories: pain seemed to flicker between them. “I wanted to keep them. To remember… I like to have them around.”

  “I couldn’t bear them,” she said at last. “I couldn’t cope with the agony of it.”

  “No, of course not.” His voice was warm with understanding. “But maybe… Well, I kept them. But I could never find Percy. You know? That parrot she loved so much?”

  Did he really imagine she could ever forget?

  She said, “He … went with her. I… couldn’t bear for her to go … alone.”

  Swallowing desperately, she stood up, picking up the teapot, refusing to look at him. “I think we need more tea.” Her voice was high, almost social. Almost… He sat in silence whilst she went into the galley to boil the kettle, his head bowed.

  “So you came out to Foxhole.” She put the teapot on the table and sat down again, hardly daring to look at him, willing him away from the quicksands of the past.

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath, as if shrugging off some unbearably heavy weight. “Yes, I came out to Foxhole and drove about hoping to get a glimpse of you. I had a fortnight’s holiday and I decided that I’d try to make contact if I could.” He laughed. “You can’t imagine how many times I lost my nerve.”

  “But where were you staying?”

  “Well, that was so odd.” He took his tea. “Stephen, that’s my boss, Stephen Ankerton, well, his son runs an adventure school on Dartmoor. When I told him that I was going down he told me to have a word with Hugh and see if he could put me up. Hugh’s a really nice guy, well, they both are, and I stayed with him for that fortnight, making odd forays out over the moor in the hope of seeing you. The first time was by accident, actually. I was walking by that reservoir, I’ve forgotten its name, just trying to sort things out in my mind, scraping up my courage, and then I saw you. Sitting by the water on a bench. It was the most incredible shock, actually, seeing you again after all this time.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, recalling her own reaction earlier on the beach. “Yes, I can believe that. Hang on!” She sat up straight, staring at him. “I remember that evening. I was terrified. I saw you in the trees and I ran for my life.”

  “I know.” He looked shame-faced and amused al
l at once. “I didn’t mean to scare you but I didn’t have the nerve to show myself. I was such a fool. One evening I actually parked the car up by the bridge and walked down the track. I’d decided that I was just going to hammer on the door and ask to speak to you. Martin had explained the lay-out to me and I was determined to make a move but I turned my ankle on a stone and suddenly all the lights went on and a wretched dog started barking its head off.”

  “I don’t believe it.” She was still staring at him, her face alight with unforced merriment “Don’t say you were our murderer?”

  “I hope not!” He grimaced, pretending shock, ready to go along with this lighter mood. “Which murderer is this?”

  “There were three murders in Devon in the space of six months or so, all women out on their own. And then a woman was attacked in Buckfastleigh. We all began to get a bit twitchy and Frummie refused to allow us to go out on our own. She took it terribly seriously, especially when I got back from Venford that evening all in a dither because I’d seen you hiding in the trees.” She began to laugh. “Clearly you’d gone by the time the police arrived.”

  “I certainly had!” He was laughing, too. “I remember someone opening a window and shouting out, ‘Who’s there?’ and the dog barking fit to bust. And then the chap came out of the other cottage. I was way back up the track by then. I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to get much of a welcome.”

  “No,” she said, sympathetically. “You probably wouldn’t. Frummie would have probably laid you out cold with the poker before you’d opened your mouth.”