Summer on the River

by Marcia Willett

  ‘I think she likes having you there. She can use the garden and the garage, and the place isn’t getting damp and cold. Do you find it a bit big, all on your own?’

  ‘I don’t really use the first floor at all.’ Ben changes gear as they start up the winding hill from Blackpool Sands. ‘I suppose I might use the drawing-room in the winter, but it’s slightly imposing. I tend to live in the breakfast room when I’m not working. It would be quite nice to have someone sharing. Someone to chat to in the evenings, especially when winter draws in.’

  ‘I’ll come and stay,’ Charlie promises, but even as he says it he wonders how it might be achieved. Maybe Ange will encourage it so as to keep tabs on Benj.

  They swoop down the hill by Strete Gate and on to Torcross Line, and Charlie is clenched again with excitement and terror. It’s pathetic but he’s really glad that Benj is with him. Rather like having Maisie there, Benj’s presence prevents the whole thing from toppling out of control. He’s not quite ready for that yet. Jemima seemed so strong and confident; so amusing and fascinating. Being with her was like entering into another sphere; a completely magical experience that he longs to repeat.

  His mobile beeps and he digs it out of his pocket and checks it. It’s a text from Ange and immediately his stomach sinks and knots into a kind of leaden lump: he feels guilty and remorseful, yet he cannot turn back: not now; not yet.

  ‘Ange,’ he says briefly. ‘Just to say everyone’s OK.’

  He sends a text, switches the phone off – it could be embarrassing if she rings during the next few hours – and stares ahead. The last thing he needs at the moment is a reminder of his family: how uncomfortable it is to be disloyal. Benj is turning into the car park, manoeuvring into a space, digging in his pocket for change for the parking meter.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Charlie.

  He gets out and stands for a moment gazing out to sea, stretching and relaxing and concentrating on the evening ahead: on Jemima. Just at this moment, nothing else matters.

  Jemima is watching for them. Standing at the window of her sitting-room she sees them leave the car and stroll along the path beside the ley. At this distance she can barely tell them apart though she guesses that it is Ben who leads the way, pointing out the activities of the ducks on the water, pausing to study the scene as if he might be sizing it up for a photograph. Charlie waits, hands in the pockets of his jeans, scanning the houses as if he is looking for her.

  She runs down the stairs, through the kitchen and the conservatory, and goes out to meet them. Charlie sees her come out of the gate and his serious expression is transformed with delight. He takes his hands from his pockets and starts forward as if he might cross the road to embrace her. She takes several deep breaths but can’t prevent herself from beaming back at him, though she stays where she is.

  Ben is turning and now he is smiling too so that they both arrive together and, to her relief, this prevents any kind of formal or emotional greeting. Everyone has something to say, which all gets muddled up together, and she goes back into her little yard, where Otto is waiting, and ushers them into the house.

  The men both stop to speak to Otto, to smooth his head and pull his ears, so that any kind of awkwardness is over very quickly.

  ‘I did warn you that it’s only a little bit of house,’ she says. She feels breathless, slightly overwhelmed, as they come into the conservatory. ‘Three is definitely a crowd in here.’ Fearing that this might be misconstrued she hastens on: ‘This is my garden.’ She indicates the wide windowledge with all the pretty pots of flowers. ‘You can see the ley and pretend you’re outside.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Ben says warmly, ‘especially with the evening sun pouring in. And the kitchen is through here?’

  He goes ahead and Jemima glances at Charlie, who smiles at her so intimately that her heart bangs about as if it is trying to escape from her breast. She hurries after Ben who is now examining the kitchen.

  ‘I see so many people’s houses,’ he says. ‘They never cease to fascinate me.’

  ‘But not little ones like this,’ counters Jemima. ‘You only do big, posh places.’

  ‘Not true,’ he protests. ‘I sometimes do holiday lets. Cottages, barn complexes, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you?’ She’s momentarily distracted. ‘Our photographer’s moving upcountry. Wouldn’t like some work, would you?’

  He looks at her quickly. ‘I would,’ he says. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Well, he’s definitely going. And I don’t think we’ve advertised yet.’

  ‘Could you ask them? It would be great just at the moment.’

  ‘With your portfolio, or whatever you call it,’ says Charlie, ‘I should think they’ll bite your arm off.’

  He looks delighted at the prospect and Jemima is touched by his partisanship.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she says. ‘I’m back to work tomorrow so I’ll have a word. Go on upstairs and have a look at the sitting-room and then we’ll have a drink. We can have it up there if you like, or in the conservatory.’

  They both opt for the conservatory and she takes a bottle of white Bordeaux from the fridge and puts a plate of nibbles on the glass-topped table. Otto cocks his head hopefully and she says, ‘Leave,’ very firmly. His ears flatten but his tail wags once or twice as if in acknowledgement of her instruction. She’d seen Charlie’s quick look of disappointment when she mentioned going back to work after the Bank Holiday and she wonders how long he will be in Dartmouth without his family. She can hear them coming back downstairs and she takes three glasses from the cupboard.

  ‘I love your little bit of house,’ Ben says. ‘I see what you mean about the view. You know, I think if I had to choose, I’d rather have a view of the ley than the sea. There’s more going on and you must be able to see the changes of the seasons much better from this side. We’ll have to do a return match, won’t we, Charlie, and show her the Merchant’s House?’

  ‘Definitely,’ says Charlie.

  Jemima can feel his relief that Ben is taking charge, turning it into something manageable and easy and fun. She feels the same and she relaxes, holding up the bottle.

  ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘Small one for me,’ says Ben. ‘I’m driving.’ He crouches down to talk to Otto, who struggles up gratefully in his basket and picks up a very battered teddy to offer to Ben. ‘Thanks, old boy,’ he murmurs. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’

  Charlie and Jemima stand smiling at each other, separate again just for a moment. He holds out his glass to touch it briefly against hers as if he is pledging something, and she feels quite weak and foolish – and terribly happy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  REGATTA: THE FUN of the bungee rowing in the Boat Float; two spectacular firework displays; the hauntingly beautiful illuminated river procession; a review of classic craft with its wonderfully informed commentary; the heart-stopping Red Arrows. Ben takes photographs, wanders amongst the happy visitors and provides a safe anchorage from which Jemima and Charlie sail out from time to time to conduct an odd, unlikely love affair. They contrive never to be alone yet there are moments when they can draw apart and enter into their magical, private world: holding hands as they watch the flare and drama of the fireworks; Charlie’s arm protectively around her as the Red Arrows scream up the valley, turning and twisting just feet above the masts of the moored yachts; laughing together as they cheer on the tug of war in Coronation Park.

  Ben watches them with a queer mixture of envy and compassion. Jemima is so open, so funny, so easy to be with, and between the three of them runs a cheerful, jokey familiarity as if they have always known each other.

  Claude and Evie seem to have entered into this strange conspiracy. The garden is the place where they all congregate each afternoon and where Jemima joins them, having come down on the Park and Ride or walked over from the office after work. She wanders amongst the sweet-smelling shrubs, asking Evie the names of the plants, drawing her fi
ngers through the lavender, teasing Claude about his knowing the Latin names.

  Ben pours tea, and later wine; sometimes they have supper there, on the top terrace. Behind the laughter and the jokes he sees the memories that shadow Evie’s eyes, the anxiety that lingers at the edge of Claude’s smile, the pain of Charlie’s undeclared love. And at some point Jemima will push back her chair and say: ‘I must get back to poor old Otto,’ and there are always protests of dismay, a plan for tomorrow, but it is always Ben who goes with her down through the garden, through the house.

  ‘I love your house, Benj,’ she says to him, looking around the hall and up the elegant staircase.

  ‘Not mine, alas,’ he says. ‘Evie’s house. Charlie’s one day. Not mine.’

  She reaches up to kiss him goodbye and he sees that suddenly her eyes are full of tears and he just as suddenly hates it that she cannot be openly and happily with Charlie.

  ‘Dear Benj,’ she says.

  He likes it that she calls him Benj; as if she has known him from a child.

  ‘I’m driving you up to the Park and Ride,’ he says. ‘No, it’s no use being stubborn and independent. It’s later than we usually are. Come on. Don’t argue.’

  Suddenly he feels angry with Charlie, who seems content to let things drift like this; who makes no move to push things to some conclusion. In silence he drives up Crowther’s Hill, trying to conquer this resentment, knowing that part of it is rooted in jealousy. How easy it would be to fall in love with Jemima, to detach her gently from his cousin.

  She sits beside him quietly, her blond hair falling down over her shoulders, her hands loosely clasped in her lap. She’s wearing one of her pretty long skirts and a loose shirt with the sleeves pushed up over her rounded, creamy-brown arms.

  ‘Don’t, Benj,’ she murmurs.

  He doesn’t look at her. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Be angry.’

  He gives a little gasp of despair, of irritation, and she turns her head, studying him.

  ‘It’s such a short time being all together like this,’ she says. ‘It’s so precious, Benj. So strange and magical. You and me and Charlie. Evie and Claude. It might never happen again quite like this. We must be happy while we can.’

  ‘And will that be enough for you?’ he asks.

  She is silent for a moment.

  ‘It might have to be,’ she answers him at last. ‘It’s not just to do with Charlie and me, it’s to do with all of us. It works so wonderfully well; as if we’re a real family. Oh, I know you and Charlie are cousins but there’s such an odd bond between us all, isn’t there? It’s precious, Benj. Any kind of love is precious. We mustn’t waste it by grabbing and snatching and smashing things. It’s much too important for that. We’ll all remember this regatta, when you were here with Charlie, and Claude was with Evie, and I happened along and got drawn into the magic circle. It’s like that thing in Ecclesiastes, isn’t it? “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” Between us I suspect we’ve all been doing a bit of mourning and weeping one way and another, but just this week, well, this is our time to laugh, Benj, and to dance.’

  He feels a bit choked up. ‘If you say so,’ he says.

  He pulls into the car park, sits staring out across the steering wheel, and she leans across and kisses him on the cheek. She smells of lavender.

  ‘See you tomorrow?’

  He nods wordlessly and she hesitates, begins to get out of the car and suddenly stops.

  ‘I completely forgot. I’ve told Jane about you. My boss. She says she’d love to meet you and have a chat.’

  ‘Really?’ He’s shocked out of his emotional silence.

  She nods. ‘Mm-hm. Very impressed she was when I told her about you. You know where the office is in Foss Street? Well, she said tomorrow morning after ten and before midday, if you’re free.’

  ‘I certainly shall be. Will you be there?’

  ‘If you’d like me to be there to make the introductions I can do that.’

  He thinks about it. ‘It might be rather good, if it’s OK, but I can manage if you’re busy.’

  ‘I’ll be there first thing but I’ve got to go out to a cottage in Dittisham before lunch so the earlier the better. Ten thirty?’

  He nods. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good.’ She slides out, waves a hand.

  As he drives back home, gradually his resentment towards Charlie fades. Perhaps, like Jemima, Charlie is simply seizing his moment to laugh, to dance, without snatching and grabbing and smashing things up. Ben puts the car in the garage and goes inside. Charlie is in the kitchen making coffee, putting mugs on to a tray.

  ‘Hi,’ Ben says. ‘I decided to drive her up to the car park. She’s got an interview for me with her boss tomorrow morning. Pretty good, eh?’

  Charlie looks at him with such pleasure that Ben is filled with all the old familiar affection for him. He picks up the tray and they make their way up through the garden to break the good news to Evie and Claude.

  This is always the difficult bit: driving home on her own. Almost at once she is missing the heart-warming quality of deep affection that passes between them all and that, by some small miracle, has extended to include her. Jemima switches on the radio. Nina Simone is singing ‘Mr Bojangles’ and in her mind’s eye Jemima sees the melancholy clown-like figure, dancing, spinning, leaping to a background of county shows and fairgrounds, and she is seized with a nostalgic longing for childhood: for her younger self who could embark on relationships without worrying too much about the outcome. This attraction to Charlie is outside her experience: this sense of knowing and being known.

  As she drives through the gathering dusk she tries to decide what the difference is between him and Benj. They are so alike, the ease of companionship is present with both of them, the ready humour, but as she listens to the haunting music she knows that it is Charlie’s sense of joy that speaks so directly to her; his secret longing for the magical world beyond the everyday grind, and his readiness to believe that it still exists despite all the evidence to the contrary. It finds an echo in her: in her own determination to live alone in her odd little bit of a cottage because of its position; to take on Otto despite the inconvenience because she hates to be without the comfort and companionship of a pet; to refuse promotion or to relocate because the particular quality of how she lives is more important than money or prestige.

  The difference between them is that Charlie will never be able to seize his dream. He is committed to his wife and children and she knows he will never leave them. His tragedy is that he’s glimpsed the reality of the dream but either way he believes he can’t win. It seems to him that if he grabs it the guilt might soon destroy him and if he turns his back on it he’ll never get over losing it. Just for this week of regatta he has been offered an opportunity to enter into that magical world and revel in the freedom and joy of it and, because it is in his nature, Charlie has decided to seize the joy and make the most of it.

  Jemima remembers how she first saw him, thinking he was Ben, and the way his face lit with delight as she approached him. It wasn’t calculated – ‘This could be my lucky day’ – or wary – ‘Who the hell does she think she’s smiling at?’ – it was the open, happy reaction of someone to whom a new experience, a smiling gesture, was welcome: it was serendipity. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment: just this weird sense of joy which has spread out during regatta week to include Benj and Evie and Claude.

  Jemima parks in the little space beside her yard gate and lets herself into the conservatory. Otto comes wagging joyfully to meet her and she goes down on one knee to embrace him, allowing herself to be passionately licked. She drops her bag in the kitchen, slips her feet into sand shoes, grabs his lead and goes back out with him, through the little alleyway that leads down to the beach.

  At once, the immensity of the shining seascape, the rhythmical hush and suck of the tide across the shingle, a solitary star in the western sky,
all these calm her spirit, reignite optimism and restore peace. Tomorrow can look after itself.

  ‘What I want to know,’ Claude says, as he and Evie descend the steep steps, unlock the door and let themselves in, ‘is what is going on? Is anything going on?’

  Evie laughs at him, dropping her cashmere shawl on a chair, kicking off her shoes.

  ‘If you mean Jemima and Charlie, well, yes, a great deal is going on but not necessarily in the way you mean. Nothing clandestine is going on. They’re not sneaking into bed together.’

  Claude looks exasperated. ‘But what’s going to happen, do you think?’

  ‘Very little, I suspect. Jemima makes him happy. He can be himself with her and she with him. They’re two of a kind, soul mates, and they’re just taking the opportunity to be happy together. I don’t think bed is the main objective at the moment. And even if it were, well … I mean, it would be a bit tricky for Charlie, wouldn’t it, with Ben in the same house and you and me across the road? We might report back to Ange.’

  Claude snorts. ‘As if we would. Good grief, what does he take us for?’

  ‘Even so, it’s not quite the normal set-up. And, anyway, I’m not sure that’s an issue for them. I think they’re just having fun.’

  ‘If you say so. And what happens after regatta?’

  ‘Ah, well, that remains to be seen. I’m probably being infected by regatta madness but I find I’m incapable of doing anything except encouraging them to enjoy this week of freedom.’

  ‘And then that will be the end of it?’

  Evie sinks down on her big sofa and looks up at him.

  ‘You’re still worried?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ He sits down beside her, throws out a cushion – he hates cushions – and half turns towards her. ‘They remind me of you and TDF.’

  She looks beyond him, into the past, smiling a little.

  ‘I suppose it is the same, in a way. It was the luck of meeting that really special person to whom you could say absolutely anything, who would completely understand, who got all those foolish lifetime references to books and films without saying “What do you mean?” all the time. It was as if we’d been brought up together and then separated for years and suddenly met up again. Oh, I can’t explain it, Claude.’