Voices In Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  No comments, no postmortems, no unnecessary sympathy. ‘More than anything,’ Alec told his brother. ‘Come to my club and I’ll give you lunch.’

  They fixed on a day and time.

  ‘And what shall I tell Gerald?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be at his wedding. I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.’

  Brian rang off. Slowly Alec replaced his own receiver. The past is another country.

  Images filled his mind, not only of Chagwell, but now, thinking of Gerald, of Tremenheere as well. The old stone house at the very end of Cornwall, where palm trees grew, and camellias and verbena, and scented white jasmine covered the sides of the glass houses in the walled garden.

  Chagwell and Tremenheere. They were his roots and his identity. He was Alec Haverstock and he would cope. The world had not come to an end. Gabriel had gone; parting from her had been the worst, but now the worst was over. He had touched bottom and he could only start coming up again.

  He stood up, and carrying his empty glass, went through to the kitchen to look for something to eat.

  3

  ISLINGTON

  IT WAS FIVE O’CLOCK before Laura finally reached home. The breeze had dropped and Abigail Crescent drowsed sleepily in the golden sunshine of late afternoon. For once, the street was almost deserted. In all likelihood, her neighbours were sitting in their tiny gardens or had taken their children off to neighbourhood parks for the solace of grass underfoot and shady trees overhead. Only an old lady, with a shopping trolley and an ancient mongrel on a leash, was making her way down the pavement. As Laura drew up in front of her house, even they disappeared, like rabbits down a burrow, descending steps into some basement flat.

  She gathered up the day’s shopping, her handbag, and her dog and got out of the car, crossed the pavement, and went up the stairs to her front door. She always had to remind herself that it was her own front door every time she found her latchkey and turned the lock. Because the house, which she had lived in for nine months, was still not totally familiar. She was not yet in tune with its moods nor its reactions. It was Alec’s home, and it had been Erica’s home, and Laura always entered it tentatively, unable to suppress the sensation that she was trespassing upon another person’s property.

  Now, the warm silence pressed in, thick as a fog. From below, from Mrs Abney’s domain, came no sound. Perhaps she had taken herself out or was still asleep. Gradually the humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen made itself heard. Then a clock ticking. Yesterday Laura had bought roses, filled a jug with them. Today their scent, from the sitting room, lay heavy and sweet.

  I have come home. This is my home.

  It was not a large house. Mrs Abney’s basement and, above it, three stories—two rooms at each level and none of them particularly spacious. Here, the cramped hall and stairway; on one side the sitting room, on the other the kitchen, which also served as dining space. Above, the main bedroom and bath room and Alec’s dressing room, doubling as a study. Above again—with dormer windows and sloping ceilings—the attics. A nominal guest room, usually stacked with suitcases and an overflow of furniture, and the nursery, which had once been Gabriel’s. That was all.

  She set Lucy down and then went into the kitchen to unload the groceries and the chops she had bought for supper. Here were pine fitments, blue-and-white china, a scrubbed table, wheel-back chairs. French windows opened onto a teak deck, and from this a flight of wooden steps led down into a small paved garden, where grew a flowering cherry and a few tubs of geraniums. Laura unbolted these windows and threw them open. Air stirred through the house. Outside on the deck were a couple of garden chairs and a small, wrought-iron table. Later, when Alec came home, and while the chops grilled, they would have their drinks later out here, in the dusky twilight, watching the sun drop out of the sky, savouring the coolness of evening.

  Perhaps that would be the right time to tell him about not going to Scotland. Her heart sank at the thought, not because she was afraid of him, but because she dreaded spoiling things for him. The kitchen clock stood at ten minutes past five. He would not be home for more than an hour. She went upstairs and took off her clothes, pulled on an airy wrapper, and lay down on her own side of the enormous double bed. Half an hour, she promised herself, and then she would have a shower and change. Half an hour. But almost instantly, like a person dropping down a well, she was asleep.

  There was a hospital: long corridors, white-tiled, the hum of half-consciousness loud in her ears, white-masked faces. Nothing to worry about, she was being told. Nothing to worry about. A bell started to jangle. Perhaps there was a fire. Someone had tied her down. Nothing to worry about. The bell went on ringing.

  She opened her eyes and lay staring at the ceiling. Her heart was still hammering with the fright of the dream. Automatically she lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. Half past five. The bell rang again.

  For airiness, she had left the door open, and now she heard Mrs Abney coming up from the basement, making heavy weather of the climb, a step at a time. Laura lay motionless, listening. She heard the click of the latch, the front door opening.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Boulderstone, it’s you!’

  Daphne. Daphne? What was Daphne doing here at half past five in the afternoon? What on earth could she be wanting? Perhaps, hopefully, Mrs Abney would think Laura was out, and send her away.

  ‘I’ve been ringing for hours.’ Daphne’s high-pitched voice was clearly audible. ‘I was sure somebody had to be in, because Mrs Haverstock’s car’s there.’

  ‘I know. I had a look for myself when I heard the doorbell ringing. Perhaps she’s up in her room.’ Hope died. ‘Come along in, and I’ll pop up and see.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t asleep, Mrs Abney.’

  ‘No. Just frying a fishcake for my tea.’

  Now, Mrs Abney was climbing the stairs again. Laura sat up with a jerk, pushed aside the light cover, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sitting there, dizzy and disorientated, she saw Mrs Abney appear at the open door, stopping only to give it a token rap on the panel with her knuckled fist.

  ‘You’re not asleep, then.’ Mrs Abney, with her frizzy grey hair and her bedroom slippers and her heavy support hose, which did nothing to conceal the ropelike knots of her troublesome varicose veins. ‘Didn’t you hear the bell?’

  ‘I was asleep. I’m sorry you had to answer the door.’

  ‘Ringing and ringing it was. Thought you must be out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Laura said again.

  ‘It’s Mrs Boulderstone.’

  From downstairs, Daphne was listening in to this exchange. ‘Laura, it’s me! Don’t get out of bed, I’ll come up—’

  ‘No…’ She didn’t want Daphne in her bedroom. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  But her protests did no good, because the next moment Daphne was there. ‘Goodness, I’m sorry. I never imagined you’d be in bed at this hour. Poor Mrs Abney. Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. Now you can get back to your fishcakes. We were quite worried about you, Laura. Thought you’d disappeared for good.’

  ‘She never heard the bell,’ Mrs Abney explained unnecessarily. ‘Well, if you’re all right, then.’ And she left them, her bedroom slippers treading heavily away down the creaking stair.

  Daphne pulled a comic face at her departing back view. ‘I did try to telephone, but there wasn’t any reply. Were you out?’

  ‘I went to have tea with Phyllis in Hampstead.’

  Daphne tossed her bag and her sunglasses down onto the end of Laura’s bed and moved to the dressing table to check her appearance in Laura’s mirror. ‘I’ve been having my hair done. It was boiling under the dryer.’

  ‘It looks very nice.’ You could tell, not just by her perfectly coifed cap of silvery hair, but by the rich lacquered smell of her, that Daphne had come straight from the beauty salon. She looked, Laura decided in a hopeless sort of way, quite amazingly chic, in thin cotton trousers and pale pink silk shirt. Her fig
ure remained slender as a child’s, and as always she was deeply tanned, impeccably made up, scented and elegant. ‘Who does it for you?’

  ‘A boy called Antony. He’s queer as a coot, but he cuts well.’ Apparently satisfied with the way she looked, Daphne turned from the mirror and sank into a small pink velvet armchair that stood by the window. ‘I’m exhausted,’ she announced.

  ‘What have you been doing all day?’

  ‘Well. I had some shopping to do.… I got a divine pair of knickerbockers in Harrods, I thought they’d do for Glenshandra. I’ve left them in the car, otherwise I’d show them to you. And then I had a gorgeous lunch in the Meridiana, and then I had to come all the way to Euston to pick up a package for Tom. It’s a new salmon rod, made for him in Inverness, and they sent it down on the train. So … as I was coming this way, I thought I’d come and see you and we could finalize all our plans for going north. Doesn’t that sound businesslike?’

  She lay back in the chair, stretching out her legs. Her eyes, large and of an amazing blue, moved around the room. ‘You’ve changed things in here, haven’t you? Isn’t that a new bed?’

  Her lack of perception, of tact, was something that Laura, painfully diffident herself, had never got used to.

  ‘Yes. It is new. Alec bought it when we got married.’

  ‘And new curtains as well. That’s a very pretty chintz.’

  It occurred to Laura that Daphne must have been in this room a thousand times before, gossiping with Erica, just as she now sat and chatted to Laura. She imagined them trying on new clothes, sharing confidences, discussing some party, making plans. Her thin wrapper felt crumpled and sweaty. More than anything, she wanted a shower. She wanted Daphne to go away and leave her alone.

  As sometimes occurs on truly desperate occasions, she was visited by a brainwave.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Adore one,’ said Daphne promptly.

  ‘You know where Alec keeps the drinks … in that cupboard in the kitchen. There’s gin there, and tonic. And a lemon in the fridge … and some ice. Why don’t you go down and help yourself and I’ll be with you in a moment. I have to get some clothes on. I can’t stay here for the rest of the day, and Alec will be home soon.’

  At this Daphne perked up visibly and needed no further persuasion to fall in with Laura’s impromptu plan. She pulled herself out of the chair, collected handbag and sunglasses, and went downstairs. Laura waited until she heard cupboard doors opening and the clink of glass. Only then, when she was certain that Daphne would not suddenly appear again, like a Jack-in-the-box, did she get to her feet.

  Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed, she went down and found Daphne relaxed on the sofa, with a cigarette lighted and her drink on the table at her elbow. The sitting room was full of evening sunlight and the scent of roses, and Daphne had found a new Harpers and Queen, and was flipping through its glossy pages, but when Laura appeared, she tossed the magazine down and said, ‘You haven’t changed this room at all, have you? I mean, apart from a few bits and pieces?’

  ‘There wasn’t much point. It’s pretty enough as it is.’

  ‘Do you like living here? I always think Islington’s a bit back of beyondish. It takes such hours to get anywhere.’

  ‘It’s handy for the City.’

  ‘That’s what Alec always said—stubborn old devil. Which was the reason that Erica made him buy Deepbrook.’

  Laura, taken aback, could think of no rejoinder to this. Never before had Daphne come up with such a direct, almost provocative, reference to the past. Why now? Perhaps because there was no Tom here to put a brake on her outspokenness. She and Laura were alone, and she obviously felt that there could be no need for delicate references, tactful evasion. Laura’s heart sank and she felt trapped.

  Daphne smiled. ‘We never talk about Erica, do we? We all tiptoe around the subject as though it were forbidden. But after all, it happened; it’s past history now. Water under the bridge.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Daphne’s eyes narrowed. She lit another cigarette and then said, ‘It must be strange being a second wife. I’ve often thought it must be strange for you. A whole new experience, and yet it’s all happened before, to another woman. It’s a classic situation of course.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, think of Jane Eyre, or the second Mrs de Winter in Rebecca.’

  ‘Except that Alec is neither a bigamist nor a murderer.’

  Daphne looked blank. Perhaps she was not as well-read as she made out. Laura thought about explaining, and then decided against it. She saw that Daphne’s glass was empty.

  ‘Have another gin and tonic.’

  ‘Adore it.’ This seemed to be her stock reply when offered a drink. She held out the glass. ‘Or would you like me to get it for myself?’

  ‘No. I’ll do it.’

  In the kitchen, she poured the drink, filled the glass with ice. Daphne had been out for lunch—doubtless with one of her mysterious admirers. Doubtless, too, she had been plied with martinis and wine. Laura wondered if, possibly, she was slightly drunk. What else could explain her extraordinary burst of frankness? She looked at the clock and longed for Alec to come home and rescue her from this situation. She carried the glass back into the sitting room.

  ‘Oh, gorgeous.’ Daphne took it from her. ‘Aren’t you having anything?’

  ‘No. I’m … not really thirsty.’

  ‘Well, cheers!’ She drank, and then set the glass down again. ‘I was just thinking … you know, it’s nearly six years since Erica went to America. It doesn’t seem possible that it was so long ago. I suppose, as we all get older, time flies by more quickly … or something. But it doesn’t seem so long.’ She settled herself more comfortably in her corner of the sofa, tucking her feet up beneath her, the very picture of a woman getting down to an intimate chat. ‘She was my best friend. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I think I did.’

  ‘We were at school together. We were always friends. It was I who introduced her to Alec. At least, I didn’t introduce them, because she was in Hong Kong, but I brought them together. When they got married, I was terribly thrilled, but I was also just the teensiest weensiest bit jealous. You see, Alec was one of my first boyfriends. I knew him before I met Tom. Silly to feel that way about a man, but let’s face it, there’s no love like a first love.’

  ‘Unless it’s the last love.’

  Daphne’s expression was at once surprised and hurt, as though she had just been bitten by a worm. ‘I wasn’t being bitchy, I promise you. Just making a tiny confession. After all, he is a very attractive man.’

  ‘I expect,’ said Laura, in some desperation, ‘you missed Erica very much.’

  ‘Oh, dreadfully. At first I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t coming back, and then the divorce came through and Alec sold Deepbrook, and after that I knew we’d never go back. It was like the end of an era. Weekends without Deepbrook to escape to seemed very strange. We worried about Alec, too, being on his own so much, but he took up with his brother again and used to disappear off to Devon on Friday evenings. I expect he’s taken you there?’

  ‘To Chagwell, you mean? Yes, we’ve been, we went for Easter. But mostly we just stay here.’ (Those weekends were the best of all. Just the two of them and Lucy, the door closed and the windows open and the little house to themselves.)

  ‘Do you like them? Brian Haverstock and his wife, I mean. Erica couldn’t stand going there. She said the furniture was covered in dog’s hairs and the children never stopped screaming.’

  ‘With such a big family, it’s bound to be fairly disorganized and rowdy … but it’s fun, too.’

  ‘Erica couldn’t stand undisciplined children. Gabriel was charming.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Does Alec ever hear from Gabriel?’

  This was getting worse and worse. Uncontrollable. Laura lied. ‘Oh, yes,’ and was astonished at her own coolness.

  ‘She’
s probably a real little American by now. Young people out there have such a marvellous time. I suppose that was why she never came back to this country to see Alec. He always imagined that she would. Each year he’d start making noises about her joining us at Glenshandra, and he’d book a room for her in the hotel and get himself all organized. But she never came. Talking of which,’ she went on, with no change of expression in her voice, ‘that’s really why I came to see you, not to talk about my past life. Glenshandra. Are you all prepared to face the frozen north? I hope you’ve got heaps of warm clothes, because it can be bitterly cold on the river, even in July. One year it rained nonstop and we nearly froze. And you’ll need something formal for the evenings, just in case we get asked out for dinner. That’s the sort of things husbands never remember to tell you, and there isn’t a shop for a hundred miles, so you can’t go out and buy anything.’

  She stopped and waited for Laura to make some response to this. Laura could think of nothing to say. Daphne rattled on.

  ‘Alec told us that you’d never actually fished, but you are going to try it, aren’t you? It’ll be boring otherwise, left at the hotel all on your own. You don’t look very excited at the prospect. Aren’t you looking forward to it?’

  ‘Well … yes … but…’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  She would have to know sooner or later. Everybody would have to know. ‘I—I don’t think I’m going to be able to come.’

  ‘Not come?’

  ‘I’ve got to go into hospital. It’s just a small thing … a small operation, but the doctor says I’ve got to rest up afterwards. She says I can’t go to Scotland.’

  ‘But when? When do you have to go into hospital?’

  ‘In a day or two.’

  ‘But does that mean Alec can’t come?’ Daphne sounded appalled at this prospect, as though without Alec the entire holiday was doomed to disaster.

  ‘Yes, of course he can. There’s no reason for him to stay.’

  ‘But … won’t you mind?’

  ‘I want him to go. I want him to come with you all.’