‘I don’t know what to call her,’ she says, holding the dolly up so that Jemima can glance at her.
‘Agrappina,’ Jemima says. ‘Hermione. Winifred.’
And Maisie laughs because the names sound so funny.
‘Those aren’t real names,’ she says.
‘They certainly are,’ Jemima says indignantly. ‘I’ve got a nice little box at home that will make a lovely bed for her. You’ll have to take her on the plane to Australia to meet your cousins at Christmas. Wait till Otto sees her.’
‘But he mustn’t carry her about like he does his teddy,’ Maisie says anxiously.
‘Of course he won’t,’ Jemima says. ‘Anyway, she wouldn’t taste very nice in that net dress. He’d spit her out at once.’
They both laugh, and Maisie is so happy that she wants to shout and run and sing.
Leaving Ange to deal with the shopping, Charlie seeks out Ben in his studio on the top floor. He’s sitting at his computer, concentrating on digitally enhancing a photograph of the guardship. He doesn’t take his eyes from the screen and Charlie pushes aside the muddle of cameras and photographic equipment and perches on the end of the table.
‘I’ve just met a friend of yours,’ he says. ‘Jemima Spencer.’
It’s a kind of madness but he can’t resist: he wants to talk about her, speak her name, and gauge Ben’s reaction – which is one of surprise.
‘Really?’ He saves his work and turns to look at Charlie. ‘How did you manage that? I’ve only met her once myself – well, twice I suppose, though you couldn’t really count the first time – so I’m not sure I could call her a friend.’
‘She thought I was you.’ Charlie laughs. ‘And by the time she realized I wasn’t we’d got talking. She had a little girl with her. Maisie.’
‘Ah, yes. Maisie.’
‘Jemima was looking after her while her mum was at work. We had a cup of coffee together at one of the stalls.’
‘Really?’ Ben’s eyebrows shoot up; he looks amused. ‘That was quick work.’
Charlie grins back at him, relieved that Ben is remaining very calm. There is no hint of jealousy.
‘She said that’s how you met. At Alf’s.’
Ben nods. ‘We’d sort of seen each other at Stokeley Farm Shop. She had her dog with her, as well as Maisie and Maisie’s mum. So when I went into Alf’s and she was sitting there with Otto, I joined her.’
‘And?’
Ben shrugs. ‘And nothing. We talked about houses. She works for a holiday letting company and they have a house in Southtown. I invited her to come and see the Merchant’s House and gave her my mobile number but nothing yet.’ He gives Charlie a puzzled, questioning look. ‘So what’s all this about?’
Charlie wanders over to the open window through which the distant noise of regatta is filtering: the drumming of music, the thumping of machinery, the shrieking of children. He stands staring down and when he speaks it’s very quietly, as if he’s talking to himself.
‘I think I’ve just fallen in love, Benj.’
‘Christ, Charlie.’ Ben pushes back his chair and gets up.
Charlie looks at him. ‘I know. It’s utterly weird. Do you mind?’
‘If you mean do I have an interest, well, not in that way, no. I like her. She’s beautiful and unusual and I hoped we’d be friends, but nothing more than that.’
Charlie lets out his breath with relief. ‘That’s something.’
‘Why?’ asks Ben, almost crossly. ‘You’re not thinking of pursuing this, Charlie, for God’s sake? I mean, come on. How would it work? What about Ange, for a start?’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, Benj. I feel I’ve been poleaxed.’
‘So how did you leave it? Have you arranged to see her again?’
Charlie begins to laugh. ‘She told me to go away.’
‘Well, then …’
‘But then she looked back and waved her scarf. She was laughing.’
He looks at his cousin as if he expects him to understand, and then Ange begins to call from the landing below and his expression changes.
‘Claude knows, too. He saw us.’
‘Claude? How on earth …?’
‘He said he met them on Torcross Line having ice cream. Jemima lives at Torcross.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
Ange shouts again that lunch is ready and Charlie calls back, ‘OK. We’re on our way.’ Then, ‘Come on,’ he says to Ben. ‘We’ll talk later,’ and they go downstairs together.
Much later, as they sit on the beach whilst Maisie constructs odd shapes with the pebbles, Jemima roots about in her bag and finds the card Ben gave her. She looks at his name, at his telephone number, and then she carefully enters it into her mobile.
‘I’m building a castle,’ says Maisie. ‘No, it’s not. It’s a palace for Princess Poppy.’
This is the name of the new dolly, decided upon at lunch where the princess sat on the table presiding over the fish and chips. Now she sits on Maisie’s rucksack so that she might observe the construction of her new home.
‘Only,’ says Maisie, flinging herself down in despair, ‘I can’t do windows.’
‘It’s difficult with these pebbles,’ agrees Jemima, getting on to her knees. ‘You need a few very big flat stones. Have a look around and see if you can find some.’
She tries to remodel Maisie’s construction, which looks more like a roofless igloo than a palace. Behind her Otto stretches out in the shade of the seawall: he is deep in sleep but his paws twitch from time to time as if he is dreaming about his earlier walk by the ley. It is hot; no breeze disturbs the tranquil surface of the sea. Families seek the shade of their windbreaks, or little pop-up tents, cramming sunhats on to the heads of small children, slathering sunblock on to bare arms and legs. Maisie returns with some larger stones and Jemima attempts to help create the palace for Princess Poppy but all the time she is thinking about Charlie, wondering if he will tell Ben he met her and what he might say about her. She remembers how Maisie asked Charlie if he were her father and his straightforward answer. There was no opportunity to explain; Maisie continued to hold his hand as if she’d known him all her life and he was completely at ease with her.
‘I’m tired,’ she says now, collapsing suddenly on to her side and putting her thumb into her mouth. ‘What shall we do, Jemima?’
Jemima slightly dreads these moments when Maisie is seized with boredom, needing entertaining, and inclined to whine. It is too hot to go for a walk along the beach and she prefers to take Maisie swimming unaccompanied by Otto, who is always uncharacteristically overexcitable at the prospect of a paddle. She falls back on her usual distraction: refreshment. To go back home for tea is rather dull, and she hasn’t bothered to bring a picnic, but a little treat at the Seabreeze Café just a few yards away generally revives Maisie’s good temper. They can sit outside with Otto and plan what to do during the hours before bedtime. Otto’s walk beside the ley will be a must, then perhaps a DVD, or Lego.
Maisie is already running ahead with Princess Poppy whilst Jemima strolls behind with Otto. She wonders idly what she would do if Charlie were to appear. She envisages several little scenarios in which they meet again unexpectedly. She still feels foolishly excited, unbearably happy: it seems inconceivable that nothing will come of it.
‘I often come to Dartmouth on my own,’ he said. ‘I can come and stay with Benj. We’ve arranged to go down to Polzeath tomorrow but I’ll be back.’
She loved the way he called his cousin ‘Benj’ because his mother had; loved the concentration of his gaze and the way they’d connected. He was exciting, different, yet oddly familiar and comfortable to be with: how weird was that?
Maisie is already scrambling on to a chair at an outside table, putting Princess Poppy down, beaming with anticipation. It’s time for tea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘I NEED A cup of tea,’ Evie says to Claude. ‘How about you? Shall I put the kettle on?’
Evie wants to put her arms around him to hug him and, at the same time, she wants to give him a shake.
‘I know, but it’s only for two days. For heaven’s sake, Claude, I shan’t die of it.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he grumbles. ‘It’s your house. Your garden.’
‘Yes,’ says Evie thoughtfully. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’m really beginning to take that on board.’
She can feel him studying her as she stands beside him on the balcony, watching the tide making. The boathouse is already in the shadows as the sun sinks behind the hill and she feels suddenly glad that Claude will be here with her this autumn and for Christmas. Last winter, without Tommy and with tenants in the Merchant’s House, she’d felt alone for the first time in her life. She tried to reason it away: to rationalize it. After all, she’d lived alone before she met Tommy, and during those first ten years before they were married he spent most of his time in London. Ah, she reminds herself, but back then she’d had her writing. Her extensive research into those families and their friends and servants who were caught up in the Civil War had taken up so much of her time; the construction of each book, the interweaving of the people and events, the planning and plotting, possessed her. Even once she and Tommy were married she still spent a large portion of each day at work here in the boathouse whilst Tommy relandscaped the garden and oversaw the modernization of the Merchant’s House. After twelve years of snatching precious hours together it seemed a luxury to have so much freedom. It’s odd, though, that this time of the afternoon is still the most poignant time: when she misses him most, longs for his company – and now she can’t help thinking about Russ, too, though she hasn’t thought of him for many years. Both these men whom she loved are dead.
Earlier she’d seen Mikey in Marks and Spencer and was struck again by the elusive resemblance he has to his grandfather. How strange – almost bizarre – it was to see Russ’s grandson in her little local branch of Marks and Spencer. He was friendly, pleased to see her; his father, he said, was back at the flat with a bad headache so he’d dashed out to buy some provisions for supper.
‘If you and your father would like to come for coffee or a cup of tea …’ she began cautiously, but at once he looked uncomfortable and she wondered what to do, what to say, that might put him at ease.
‘I’d like to,’ he said awkwardly, ‘it’s just that Dad’s not terribly well right now. Since Mum died … you know?’
He looked so wretched, so burdened with grief and responsibility that once again she longed simply to put her arms around him and hug him tightly. She wondered how she might strengthen him, or whether her interference might simply weaken him; cause him more difficulties than he was already bearing.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, Mikey. Look.’ She opened her purse and took out one of her cards. ‘This is just in case you should ever need any help or if at any point either or both of you ever wanted to find me. Put it somewhere safe, Mikey.’
He took the card and studied it.
‘It says your name is Evelyn Drake,’ he said. ‘You told me it was something else.’
‘Yes, that’s my business card. I’m a writer and that’s my professional name. But my married name is Fortescue. My husband died a few years ago.’
He looked at her as if he was measuring the grief of an old woman against his own raw experience.
‘I knew your grandfather very well,’ she told him. ‘We were very good friends. So that makes us friends in a kind of way, too, doesn’t it? He would be so pleased to know that I’ve met you. You’re very like him.’
He nods rather ruefully, as if this is not always an advantage.
‘Dad and Grampy didn’t always hit it off,’ he said. He puts the card in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Thanks, Mrs Fortescue. I promise I won’t lose it.’
‘You could call me Evie,’ she suggested. ‘I’d like that.’
His sudden smile lit his face and touched her heart.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s cool. Thanks, Evie.’
She wanted to suggest that they walk part-way home together but had the wisdom to say goodbye to him.
Now, staring out at the river, thinking of Russ and Mikey, and of TDF, she feels Claude’s compassionate gaze but doesn’t look at him lest she should break down and howl with grief. Mentally, as she stares across the river at Kingswear basking in sunshine, she pictures Claude: his kindly, squarish face; the little curling tonsure of gingery-grey hair, small pebble-grey eyes beneath tufty brows, a wide full-lipped mouth.
‘If Claude were a stick of Brighton rock,’ Tommy said, ‘he’d have the word “loyalty” stamped all the way through him.’
She knows how lucky she is to have his friendship and his loyalty. Claude has never judged her or Tommy and, since she’s been alone, he’s given his support every way he knows how. It’s been a huge relief to take him into her confidence over the discovery of the papers in the cartoons. She’s still convinced that there’s something else – something not yet revealed – though she can’t imagine what it is. She wonders if she should tell him about her affair with Russ, the guilt she feels about her youthful, selfish indifference to Pat, but, even as she wonders whether she should attempt it, they hear a knocking on the door, which opens, and Ben is calling, ‘Hi. Anyone in? Are you coming over for a drink?’
She turns with relief, smiling at Claude, lifted out of her grief and anxiety by Ben’s suggestion. He appears in the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ he says again. ‘I just wondered if you were being polite or something. You usually like a cuppa in the garden on a day like this. And I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvi B chilling in the fridge for later. So what about it?’
‘It sounds like heaven,’ Evie admits, ‘but I wasn’t quite sure whether Charlie and Ange might have other plans.’
He shrugs. ‘Kettle’s on. They can join in or not. See you in a minute then.’
He exchanges a glance with Claude, who beams approvingly at him, and goes out.
‘Excellent,’ says Claude with great satisfaction. ‘He’s a good lad, is Ben.’
‘It’s just so heart-rending sometimes,’ she admits, ‘when I see him or Charlie these days. They look so much like TDF when I first met him. God, he was gorgeous. Love at first sight. Do you believe in all that stuff, Claude? Can you imagine it happening to Ben, for instance?’ She snorts with amusement. ‘Or Charlie?’
He doesn’t answer, following her out and waiting whilst she locks the door. Glancing at him, she sees that he looks almost anxious, rather secretive, as if he is remembering something. She climbs the first steep flight of stone steps that leads up to the road above, pausing at the turn before she embarks on the second flight, hearing Claude coming up slowly behind her. They cross the road together and go in at the front door, calling to Ben, who shouts that he is in the kitchen. Charlie is there, too, assembling the tea things on to two trays.
There is no sign of Ange. Evie suppresses a sense of guilt and prepares to enjoy the moment: it’s time for tea.
From halfway down the stairs Ange listens to their voices as they go into the garden carrying the trays and then she slips back upstairs. This little thing is still niggling her; the sense of something missing. It’s difficult, with Ben continually appearing unexpectedly, to have a good snoop round but from the landing window she can see them all on the terrace at the top of the garden, pouring tea, handing round plates, which gives her a moment to herself to check the rooms again.
The drawing-room is unchanged: two comfortable sofas; glass-fronted cupboards built into the alcoves on each side of the timber-surrounded fire; two big sash windows looking across the uneven roofscapes to the river and Kingswear. The china in the cupboards, the paintings, are all in their
familiar places, but anyway she knows that what she is missing is something odd; something quirky that has gone from its usual place.
The big attic room on the third floor has never held anything of value, though she has another quick glance. Back on the second floor she checks out Ben’s quarters again and then runs down to the first floor. She ignores the master bedroom, which she and Charlie are using, and looks again into the other bedrooms. These are the rooms she and Charlie used when the children were very small. One had once been a dining-room and off this room was the pantry; big enough to convert into a little dressing-room, with a tiny window on to the garden, and where the girls had slept as babies on those rare visits when TDF and Evie were first married. It’s a pretty little room, with a small painted chest against one wall, a bookshelf with the old childhood favourites stacked along it and a Lloyd Loom chair with an embroidered cushion in its lap. As she stands at the door, glancing in, she suddenly remembers what is missing from the room: the cartoons. On the wall above the cot seven small framed cartoons had hung: beautifully sketched and rather amusing. Someone told her they’d been drawn by Ben’s great-great-grandfather and, on light summer nights when Millie or Alice was not sleeping, Ange would stand by the cot, murmuring to her, or rocking her in her arms, whilst she studied the little drawings. Now the wall is bare and the cartoons have gone.
Ange stands quite still. The cartoons would never have been sold. They are loved and valued family possessions and, as such, they belong to her and Charlie – and to Ben, of course. Perhaps they were moved because of the tenants, though it’s unlikely. The tenants were old friends and the house was let fully furnished. She will ask Evie the question: politely but firmly. The house might be Evie’s, though obviously it should be left to Charlie when she dies, but the cartoons are not. Ange considers the idea of Ben claiming them; after all, they were drawn by his great-grandfather. At the same time, he was Charlie’s great-great-uncle, which means Charlie has a claim, too. Of course, it would be a pity to split them up …
Summer on the River Page 11
