A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  Thea began to laugh. “The mind boggles,” she said. “Hang on. What about you telephoning to say that you want to see them together and then tell them both at once? If you feel you can manage it face to face.”

  “Yes,” said Louise thoughtfully, turning the suggestion over carefully in her mind. “Yes, I’m sure I can.” She was positive now. “That’s brilliant. I’ll do that. Thanks, Thea.

  Sorry to burden you with it. It’s just that I got completely bogged down with it.”

  “And then we’ll all meet him,” said Thea cheerfully. “One at a time, would you say? Or in groups? You could sell tickets. I can’t wait.”

  Louise began to laugh. “Don’t even talk about it. Look, I’m really grateful.”

  “It’s not a problem. Let me know how it goes and don’t forget we’d love to see you.”

  “Thanks,” said Louise gratefully. “I promise I’ll be over soon. Give Hermione a hug for me.”

  When she replaced the receiver she felt as if Thea had removed all the terror for her. Odd how, even at that first meeting, Thea had seemed so strong, stretching out a hand to her, holding on to her, whilst the world reeled about them. Some of the serenity which defined Thea rubbed off on those whom she touched, even if only briefly. Feeling confident now, Louise prepared to telephone Brigid but, even as she dialled, she found herself thinking about Jemima. Her telephone had been on answerphone for nearly two days and, although Louise had left messages, Jemima had not returned her calls. She was just deciding that if she didn’t hear from her by the end of the day she’d drive round tomorrow to see if she could find her, when Brigid’s cool voice broke into her thoughts and put everything else out of her mind.

  BRIGID STOOD in the courtyard watching the doves as they swung in a feathery cloud against the sky. The colour of their wings seemed to change as they passed above her head: pure white against the brilliant blue; grey against the creamy cumulus; startlingly white again against a patch of thunderous black. They swooped in perfect accord, as if responding to some instinctive, in-built choreography, and she was moved to joy at their flight. The swallows had gone; grouping together for days before the final migration, sitting in rows along the barn roof, until one morning they’d vanished away, leaving the empty nests as a promise against their return next spring. As she watched the doves Brigid remembered how she’d stood here, on the day of Louise’s arrival five months before, thinking about Jemima. Then, there had been a disappointed frustration in the knowledge that she and her sister were still estranged; now, she was able to feel a quiet pleasure in the anticipation of a growing friendship: a stepping free from the old disabling resentment. Hard though it had been she’d tried to follow Alexander’s advice—no, not advice. Alexander wasn’t the kind of man to give advice—to follow, then, his suggestion that she should lay down her weapons; that she should expose her weaknesses. How had he put it? “We serve others as much by our weaknesses as by our strengths.” It was a new concept and a rather startling one. She’d always been at pains to appear at her best—strong, capable, sensible—with her mother and her sister. Now, it seemed that not only was it not necessary but that the reverse had much to commend it. And it had worked! It hadn’t been easy, telling Jemima her secret; exposing her foolishness and showing that her marriage was not quite the faultless, perfect union that she knew Jemima had imagined it to be. More than that, she had known that she might lose the sweetness she derived from knowing that Jemima envied her. Believing Jemima to be their mother’s favourite there had been satisfaction in being able to parade her happy marriage, lovely children and now a grandchild as her possessions. Now she had shown that there were flaws, secrets, fears—and Jemima had met these disclosures with a warmth and generosity which gave no indication of any diminishing of affection. It had certainly brought them closer.

  When she’d telephoned the evening before Jemima had sounded fatigued, depressed and anxious and Brigid had discovered that there was no longer any desire on her own part to be impatient, to urge her sister to pull herself together or attempt to sort out her problems. In fact, she hadn’t asked any questions as she usually did in a kind of “Oh, what on earth’s the matter now” kind of way. She’d merely played it by ear, sympathetic, friendly, until Jemima had asked if she might come over to Foxhole to see her.

  “Of course,” Brigid had answered at once. “Lovely. When?” and when Jemima had said “Would tomorrow be OK?” Brigid had hidden her surprise—and anxiety—and had agreed at once.

  “Just us?” she’d asked tentatively, not quite knowing what was in Jemima’s mind. “Or would you like Mummie to come? And Margot?” And when she’d answered with horror, “Good grief, no!” Brigid had felt a glow of satisfaction. She feared that it might be an unworthy glow, to be preferred by Jemima above their mother, nevertheless it had been a source of private joy. It indicated the growing trust between them and Brigid was seized with delight at this prospect and with a corresponding fear that she might not be able to live up to any expectations Jemima might have of a confidante. “Come just before lunch,” she’d suggested. ‘1 think the mob are going to Exeter so with luck they’ll have set off before you arrive.”

  Now, as she stooped to stroke Blot, she could hear the sounds of activity issuing from the cottages and prayed that they’d hurry up. Margot was now telling Frummie how much colder it was than they’d imagined and, beneath the ensuing duet between the two women, she could hear the lower bass line as Alexander and Gregory strolled out to the car. She decided to slip away indoors, lying low until they’d gone, but, even as she turned, she heard the sound of an engine and saw Jemima’s car coming slowly down the track. Cursing beneath her breath, she saw Frummie glance round and begin to wave enthusiastically whilst the other three watched with various expressions of welcome and surprise.

  “Shit!” muttered Brigid. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Jemima parked the car and climbed out. She looked tired, pale and oddly defenceless and Brigid was consumed with an entirely unexpected flame of protectiveness, just as she might have felt for her own boys. She went forward quickly as Jemima almost visibly braced herself for the greetings which assailed her.

  “Darling!” cried Frummie, almost vexed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? How maddening. We’re just going off to Exeter.”

  Jemima smiled at Margot and at Alexander and allowed herself to be introduced to Gregory, who beamed at her appreciatively and shook her hand. Behind their heads, Brigid raised her fists and shook them in a gesture of despair and Jemima’s lips curved in a spontaneous smile of understanding.

  “I’ve come to have lunch with Brigid,” she answered. “I was sure you’d be off jollying, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “Brigid didn’t tell us either,” said Frummie, with a sharp glance at her elder daughter, and—as was always the case— Brigid was certain that her mother knew all her thoughts, worthy and unworthy, and that she was secretly amused by them. “You could come with us. Wouldn’t that be rather nice? Make it a real party.”

  “We could,” agreed Brigid calmly, strolling forward, “but we’d have to take two cars.” She winked quickly at Jemima and caught Alexander’s eye pleadingly.

  “Good idea,” he said smoothly, rising immediately to the occasion. “In which case I hope Jemima will travel with me and Gregory.” He made her a litde bow, smiling at her, whilst Gregory made noises indicating his delight at such a prospect. “I’ve hardly had the chance to get to know her yet”

  “On the other hand,” said Frummie, with superb poise, “it’s rather unkind to ruin Brigid’s plans. I expect you’ve been busy all morning cooking something delicious, haven’t you, darling?”

  “Well…” Brigid hesitated, as though she were seriously weighing up the possibilities of going or staying.

  “Don’t let us oldies interfere,” said Margot playfully, patting Jemima’s arm. “You two girls have your own little party. Maybe you’ll still be here when we get back.”


  “Probably,” said Jemima, brightening. “Very likely.”

  “Well, then,” said Frummie cheerfully, “we’d best be pushing on or we won’t get any lunch. See you later, girls. Alexander’s turn to drive, I think. Yes? I’ll go in front with him so as to navigate.”

  ’THAT WAS terrible,” said Jemima, as she followed Brigid into the kiteheji, Blot wagging at her heels. “I could really see us being whisked off to Exeter.“

  “I thought they’d be gone,” said Brigid, “They’re often away by coffee-time.”

  “I couldn’t have raised my game today.” Jemima sat down at the table. “I am definitely not on my best form.”

  Brigid looked at her. Jemima was dressed all in black: a. soft angora jersey with a roll-neck over an ankle-length narrow, tweedy skirt. She wore leather boots and a long, black fleece waistcoat; her hair, bright and shining, fell loose over her shoulders. Although the unrelieved black accentuated her pallor, she looked very striking and Brigid was reminded of a younger Jemima who had smiled with such sweet friendliness at her father’s funeral twenty-two years before.

  “You look tired,” she said gently. “Would you like a drink?”

  Jemima sighed and her shoulders drooped. She seemed too weary to make even such a simple decision.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve had a permanent headache for the last few days and alcohol seems to make it worse. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t see why. Alcohol isn’t a universal placebo. Have some elderflower cordial with some ice.”

  “Oh, yes.” Jemima sat up. ‘That sounds nice.” She bent to pat Blot who sat at her feet, tail wagging. “Aren’t animals nice?” she asked irrelevantly. “Much nicer than most people.”

  “Now that,” said Brigid, filling a glass with water, “sounds like someone who has been shat on from a great height. Who’s been horrid to you?”

  Jemima laughed briefly and fell silent. She watched Brigid add the ice and then took the glass. ‘Thanks,” she said—and sipped a little. “Delicious. To answer your question, several people.”

  Brigid filled her own glass, took a quick look into the oven and sat down opposite. “Really?” She checked the question which rose to her lips and drank a little of her wine, praying for wisdom. She simply mustn’t begin the third degree or show any of that arrogance which assumed that she had some God-given right to deal with other people’s problems. She said, “I always thought that Sartre had the right of it when he said ‘Hell is other people,’ or something like that.”

  Jemima stared into her cordial. “I’ve been asked to leave the flat,” she said.

  “You’re kidding?” Brigid was shocked. “But why?”

  Jemima shrugged. “Well, it was always on the cards. It was made quite clear when I took it on that they might need it for themselves as a rest area for staff. It’s perfectly reasonable but I’d just grown rather to love it.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s in a beautiful position. Oh, I am so sorry. Have you any idea where you might go?”

  Jemima shook her head miserably. “Not yet. They’re being very kind about it but I’ve got to look about. All my own places are short winter lets or holiday lets so I’ve got to start making a real effort. It’s going to be a very difficult act to follow.” She smiled wanly. “You always said I should have put the money towards a little place of my own and now, you see, you were right.”

  Brigid felt no particular gratification at this observation, only a very real sympathy. She also had the feeling that there was something more which she had not yet been told.

  “I think it’s wretched for you,” she said. “Look, you can always come here, you know. Don’t jump into something that’s not right. I know this is out of your patch but at this time of the year that’s not so critical.”

  ’That’s really kind.” Jemima glanced at her gratefully and Brigid saw that there were tears in her eyes. “Thanks.” She made an attempt at a chuckle. “It’ll be a family commune soon, if you’re not careful.”

  “I’ll expect we’ll manage. Where do you think you’d like to be?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  She seemed so apathetic that Brigid was genuinely worried. Jemima was usually so light-hearted, so optimistic: this weary indifference was most unlike her. Brigid choked down the desire to ask if she had run out of money and sat in silence for a moment, reviewing and rejecting platitudes.

  “Give yourself time to think about it,” she said at last. “There’s always room here. Don’t feel pressured.”

  She could see that Jemima did not trust herself to speak and cast about for some lighter topic which might give her sister time to come to the point.

  “Hungry?” she asked casually. “We could eat if you like?”

  Jemima wrinkled her nose. “I’m not terribly hungry,” she said apologetically. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  “That sounds worrying.” Brigid was determined not to panic but she was already wondering if Jemima was ill; whether she was about to tell her that she had some terrible disease. “Not like you at all.”

  She took up her glass and drank determinedly, her hand shaking a little.

  “I’ve been dumped,” Jemima said suddenly, almost casually. “Really dumped. Not my usual stuff. It was terribly important. I thought we were going to be together and now it seems we’re not.”

  Brigid realised that she was gaping and pulled herself together.

  “Oh God, I’m really sorry. How bloody! I had no idea. Who…?” She stopped herself. “I didn’t know there was anyone special.”

  “He’s been around for most of the summer. He had a very long holiday at one of my cottages and then he came down most weekends. He’d just split up from his girlfriend and we got on really, really well.” She paused, biting her lip. “He was going to relocate. We were making plans.” Her chin shook and Brigid longed to get up and go to her. “I love him,” she muttered. “I really love him and I don’t know how to manage now it’s over.”

  She set down her glass and burst into stormy tears, folding her arms on the table and burying her face in them. Brigid pushed back her chair and went round the table to her.

  “Poor, poor Puddle-duck.” For the first time in their lives she used the name quite genuinely as an affectionate nickname, kneeling beside her sister as she wept, an arm about her shoulders, her cheek against Jemima’s hair, waiting for the storm to pass.

  CHAPTER 42

  “We thought you might be missing Gregory,” said Frummie, “so I’ve popped over to see if you’d like to come for supper. Don’t be polite. If you’re enjoying the peace and quiet only say the word.”

  Alexander smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of refusing such a generous offer,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “And you needn’t think,” said Frummie, somewhat waspishly, “that it’s because we’re having withdrawal symptoms. Margot and I have a great deal to say to each other.”

  He looked shocked. “Such a thought would never occur to me,” he protested. “I have no doubt that your inner resources are … unfathomable.”

  She grinned reluctantly. “If only that were true,” she said, abandoning all attempts at pride. “As winter draws on my spirits sink depressingly low. I dread the dreary wet days and endless dark evenings.” She hesitated, as though wondering whether to tell him some of her thoughts, and then pressed on determinedly. “Margot’s asked me to go back with her,” she said, “and I have to say that I’m seriously tempted.”

  Alexander stretched out his long legs, crossed at the ankle, and waited. He’d lit the wood-burning stove in the small sitting room and had been reading when Frummie had arrived. Now he put his book aside and watched her, preparing to keep one mental leap ahead.

  “Well, it would be fun,” she said, crossing her bony knees and resting back against a cushion, her eyes on the flames. “Margot tells me that Gregory has invited us to stay with him in London. I wondered if you would be there?”

  �
��I?” He raised his eyebrows. “Why should I be with Gregory?”

  “I just thought that you said something about staying with him on your way north.”

  “Oh, I see.” His face cleared. “Yes, that’s true but only as an overnight stop, as it were.”

  “London’s hardly on the route to the north.”

  “No, it isn’t, is it?” He chuckled at her relentless curiosity. “Nevertheless, I shall spend a day or two with him.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When I leave here,” he answered blandly.

  Frummie compressed her lips and her foot tapped the air impatiently. “Have you any idea how irritating you are?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, I think so,” he answered judicially. “People have been fairly frank about it during the last seventy-odd years.”

  She laughed. “Wretched man!” she said cheerfully. “I want to ask you something, Alexander. It’s rather personal.”

  “Ask away,” he said, amused and intrigued. “I reserve the right, however, not to answer.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do,” she snapped. She paused, her eyes still on the flames. “Are you going away to hospital? Are you ill? Dying, perhaps?”

  He stared at her in surprise and then burst out laughing. “Good heavens, no! What gave you such an idea?”

  She looked at him searchingly. “Just a suspicion I had. Not a nursing home, then?”

  “Not a nursing home.” He met her gaze levelly. “I’m going north to work.”

  “To work?”

  “Do you think I’m too old to be useful?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not necessarily. But what work?”

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to tell you that at present.”

  She frowned, biting her withered lips, her fingers beating out a silent rhythm on the chair’s arms. “Have you heard of Humphrey’s latest plan? That he’s going to run a sailing school?”

  “Really?” Alexander sounded noncommittal. “Well, why not? Sounds quite interesting.”