Voices In Summer

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  ‘May is an old lady, Ivan. Over the last few months, her behaviour has become odder by the day. Eve suspects she’s going senile and I’m inclined to agree with her.’

  ‘But it’s so out of character. I know May. She may not like Silvia, but deep down she’s bound to be sorry for her. May can be maddening, I know, but she was never one to bear a grudge or be resentful. She was never wicked. You’d have to be totally wicked to think up a thing like that.’

  ‘Yes, but on the other hand, she’s always held very strong views. Not just about drink, but moral behaviour in general.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘“You went with other men.” Perhaps she thinks Silvia’s promiscuous.’

  ‘Well, she probably is. Was. Never did May any harm.’

  ‘Perhaps May thought she was being promiscuous with you.’

  Ivan swung around, as though Gerald had landed a blow at him. He stared, incredulous, at his stepfather, his blue eyes unblinking and blazing with indignation.

  ‘With me? Who thought that one up?’

  ‘Nobody thought it up. But Silvia’s an attractive woman. She comes and goes at Tremenheere all the time. She told us that you’d driven her to some party…’

  ‘So I did. Why waste petrol taking two cars? Is that being promiscuous?’

  ‘… and that sometimes, when we’re away, you have her up here for a drink or a meal.’

  ‘Gerald, she’s Eve’s friend. Eve keeps an eye on Silvia. If Eve’s away, I ask her here…’

  ‘Silvia thinks that May has watched from her window and disapproved.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s Silvia trying to get me into?’

  Gerald spread his hands. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like something to me. Next thing, I’ll be accused of seducing the bloody woman.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Did I? She’s old enough to be my bloody mother!’

  ‘Did you sleep with her?’

  ‘No, I bloody never did!’

  The shouted words left a sort of vacuum behind them. In the silence that followed, Ivan tipped back his head and poured the last of his drink down his throat. He went to pour himself another. The bottle clinked against the side of the glass.

  Gerald said, ‘I believe you.’

  Ivan filled the glass with water. With his back still turned to Gerald, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I had no right to shout.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. And you mustn’t hold this against Silvia. She made not the smallest insinuation against you. It was just that I had to be sure.’

  Ivan turned, leaning with grace against the edge of the draining board. His quick anger had died, and he grinned ruefully. ‘Yes, I can see that. After all, my track record hasn’t always been perfect.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your track record.’ Gerald put the diary back in his pocket, took off his spectacles.

  ‘What are you going to do about the letter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What if there’s another one?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’

  ‘Is Silvia prepared to take no action?’

  ‘Yes, only she and I and Eve know about it. And now you. And you will of course say nothing. Not even to Eve, because she doesn’t know that I’ve told you.’

  ‘Is she very upset?’

  ‘Very. I think more deeply upset than poor Silvia. She’s frightened of what May might do next. She has nightmares about having to watch while poor May is wheeled off to some geriatric mental home. She protects May. Just as I protect Eve.’

  Ivan said, ‘Well, May protected us. She looked after me, and she stood by my mother all the time my father was ill and dying. She was like a rock then. Never faltering. And now this. Dear old May, I can’t bear to think about it. We owe her so much.’ He thought about this. ‘I suppose we all owe debts to each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s a sad business.’

  They smiled at each other. ‘Let me give you the other half,’ said Ivan.

  * * *

  Eve and Laura sat in the firelit drawing room, listening to a concert on BBC 2. The Brahms Piano Concerto. It was past nine o’clock, and Gerald, not wishing to spoil their pleasure, had taken himself off to his study to watch the news in there.

  Laura lay curled up in one of the big armchairs, Lucy in her lap. Ivan had not reappeared. While she changed, Laura had heard his car go through the gate and take off up the hill in the direction of Lanyon. She guessed that he was off to the pub, perhaps to have a beer with Mathie Thomas.

  Across the room, Eve stitched at her tapestry. She looked, thought Laura, tired this evening and very fragile, her fine skin taut over her cheekbones and dark bruises of fatigue beneath her eyes. She had spoken little, and it had been Gerald who made conversation over the grilled chops and fruit salad, while Eve picked at the delicious food and drank water instead of wine. Laura, watching her through sleepy, half-closed eyes, felt concern. Eve did so much, was always on the go, cooking and organizing and generally looking after them all. When the concert was finished, Laura would suggest bed. Perhaps Eve would let her make a hot drink for her, fill a hot-water bottle …

  The telephone began to ring. Eve looked up from her work. ‘That’ll be Alec, Laura.’

  Laura pulled herself out of the chair and went out of the room, with Lucy at her heels, down the passage to the hall. She sat on the carved chest and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Tremenheere.’

  ‘Laura.’ The line was better this time, his voice as clear as if he spoke from the next room.

  ‘Alec. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you called before. We didn’t get back till seven.’

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Yes, it was lovely.… How is everything with you?’

  ‘Fine, but that’s not why I’m calling. Look, something’s come up. I’m not going to be able to come back to Tremenheere to fetch you. As soon as we get back to London, Tom and I have got to go to New York. We only heard this morning. I got a phone call from the chairman.’

  ‘But how long have you got to be away?’

  ‘Only a week. The thing is, we can take our wives with us. There’s a fair amount of socializing to be done. Daphne’s coming with Tom, and I wondered if you’d like to come too. It’ll be pretty hectic, but you’ve never been to New York and I want to show it to you. But it would mean getting back to London under your own steam and meeting me there. How do you feel about it?’

  How Laura felt was appalled.

  This instinctive reaction to a suggestion made by Alec, whom she loved, and intended for Laura’s pleasure, filled her heart with a sort of horrified guilt. What was wrong? What was happening to her? Alec was asking her to go to New York with him, and she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to make the journey. She didn’t want to be in New York in August, especially with Daphne Boulderstone. She did not want to sit in some air-conditioned hotel with Daphne while the men attended to their business, nor pound the sizzling pavements of Fifth Avenue, window-shopping.

  But worse was the realization that she did not want to get the train back to London. Nor be torn by the roots from this lovely, carefree existence. Nor leave Tremenheere.

  All this took only a second to flash, with hideous clarity, through her mind.

  ‘When are you going?’ she asked, stalling for time.

  ‘Wednesday evening. We’re flying Concorde.’

  ‘Have you booked a seat for me?’

  ‘Provisionally.’

  ‘How—how long would we be in New York?’

  ‘Laura, I told you. A week.’ And then he said, ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Don’t you want to come?’

  ‘Oh, Alec I do.… It’s sweet of you to ask me … but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It’s just that it’s all a bit sudden. I haven’t had time to take it in.’

  ‘You don’t need much time. It’s not a
very complicated plan.’ She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps you don’t feel up to it yet.’

  She grasped at this excuse, the proverbial drowning man with his wretched bit of straw. ‘Well, actually, I don’t know if I do. I mean, I’m fine … but I don’t know if flying’s an awfully good idea. And New York will be so dreadfully hot.… It would be so awful if anything happened, and I spoiled it all for you … by being ill…’ She sounded, even to herself, hopelessly irresolute.

  ‘Well, don’t worry. We can cancel the fourth seat.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. I feel so feeble.… Perhaps, another time.’

  ‘Yes, another time.’ He dismissed the idea. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘When will you be back again?’

  ‘The following Tuesday, I suppose.’

  ‘And what shall I do? Stay here?’

  ‘If Eve doesn’t mind. You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘And will you be able to come and fetch me then?’ This sounded even more selfish than saying she would not go to New York with him. ‘You don’t have to. I—I can easily catch the train.’

  ‘No. I think I’ll be able to drive down. I’ll see how things go. I’ll need to contact you later about that.’

  He might have been planning some office meeting. The hated telephone separated them, rather than brought them together. She longed to be with him, to see his face, watch his reactions. To touch him, make him understand that she loved him more than anyone in the world, but she didn’t want to go to New York with Daphne Boulder-stone.

  Not for the first time, she was aware of the gap that yawned between them. Trying to bridge this she said, ‘I miss you so much.’

  ‘I miss you too.’

  It hadn’t worked. ‘How’s the fishing?’ she asked him.

  ‘We’re having a great time. Everyone sends their love.’

  ‘Ring me before you leave for New York.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And I’m sorry, Alec.’

  ‘Think no more about it. Just a suggestion. Good night. Sleep well.’

  ‘Good night, Alec.’

  7

  SAINT THOMAS

  AT FIVE THIRTY IN THE MORNING, Gabriel Haverstock, who had lain awake since three, pushed aside the rumpled sheet and climbed silently out of her bunk. Across the cabin, a man still slept, his hair and stubbled chin dark against the pale pillow. His arm lay across his chest, his head was turned away from her. She pulled on an old tee shirt that had once belonged to him and made her way, barefoot, aft to the day cabin. She found a match and lit a ring on the small, gimballed gas cooker, filled a kettle and put it on to boil, and then went up the steps and out into the cockpit. There had been a dew, and the deck was damp, beaded with moisture.

  In the dawn light, the waters of the harbour lay like a sheet of glass. All about, at their moorings, other boats slumbered, moving so slightly that it was as though they breathed in their sleep. Ashore, the dockside was beginning to stir. A car started up, and from the jetty a black man climbed down into a wooden dinghy, cast off, and began to row. Across the water, each dip of his oars was clearly audible. The boat moved out into the harbour, its wake causing only an arrow-shaped ripple.

  Saint Thomas, United States Virgin Islands. During the night, two cruise liners had moved in under cover of darkness and tied up. It was like being unexpectedly invaded by skyscrapers. Gabriel looked up and saw, high on the superstructure, sailors working, winching cables, sluicing decks. Below them, the tall cliff of the ship’s side was studded with rows and layers of portholes, behind which, in their cabins, the tourists slept. Later in the morning, they would emerge, wearing their Bermuda shorts and their hectically patterned fun shirts, to lean over the rail and gaze down at the yachts, just as Gabriel was gazing up at them now. Later, they would go ashore, slung with cameras and mad to spend their dollars on straw baskets and sandals and carved wooden statuettes of black ladies with fruit on their heads.

  Behind her, in the cabin, the kettle began to boil.

  She went below and made a pot of tea. They had run out of milk, so she cut a slice of lemon, put it in a mug, and poured tea over it. Carrying the mug, she went to wake him.

  ‘Umm?’ He turned when she shook his naked shoulder, buried his face in the pillow, scratched his head, yawned. He opened his eyes and looked up, saw her standing over him.

  He said, ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About a quarter to six.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He yawned again, heaved himself up into sitting position, pulling the pillow from beneath him and stuffing it behind his head.

  She said, ‘I made you some tea.’ He took the mug and tried a scalding sip. ‘It’s got lemon in, because there’s no milk.’

  ‘So I see.’

  She left him, poured another mug for herself, took it out into the cockpit, and drank it there. It was getting lighter by the minute, the sky turning blue. As the sun came up, it would burn all moisture away, in a drift of vapour. And then another day, another hot, cloudless, West Indian day.

  After a bit, he joined her. He had dressed, was wearing his old dirty white shorts and a grey sweat shirt. His feet were bare. He stepped up onto the deck and went aft, busying himself with the painter of the dinghy, which had got fouled up with the stern anchor chair.

  Gabriel finished her tea and went below again. She cleaned her teeth and washed in the tiny basin, put on jeans and a pair of canvas sneakers and a blue-and-white-striped tee shirt. Her red nylon kit bag, which she had packed last night, stood at the foot of her bunk. She had left it open and now stowed in it the last of her stuff—her sponge bag, her hairbrush, a thick sweater for the journey. There wasn’t anything else. Six months of living on a boat had done nothing for her wardrobe. She pulled the ties at the top of the kit bag and tied them with a seamanlike knot.

  Carrying this, and her shoulder bag, she went back on deck. He was already in the dinghy, waiting for her. She handed him the kit bag and then climbed down the ladder, stepped into the fragile craft, and sat on the forward thwart, holding the kitbag between her knees.

  He started the outboard. It hiccupped and then fired, making a noise like a motor bicycle. As they moved out over the water and the distance widened, she looked back at the yacht—the beautiful, fifty-foot, single-masted sloop white-painted and graceful with her name, Enterprise of Tortola, emblazoned in gold upon her transom. Over his shoulder, she watched it go for the last time.

  At the jetty, he tied up, tossed her luggage onto the dock, and heaved himself up after it. He gave her a hand and helped her up beside him. Once, there had been a set of wooden steps for this purpose, but they had been blown away in some hurricane and never replaced. They walked down the dock and up the steps into the complex of the hotel. They went through the gardens past the deserted swimming pool. Beyond the reception building, beneath the palm trees, was a forecourt, where a couple of taxis stood, the sleepy drivers dozing. He woke one, who stretched and yawned, disposed of the kit bag, started the engine, and generally prepared himself for a trip to the airport.

  He turned to Gabriel. ‘I suppose, then, this is goodbye.’

  ‘Yes. It’s goodbye.’

  ‘Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so.’

  ‘It’s been good.’

  ‘Yes. It’s been good. Thank you for it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her. He had not shaved and the stubble on his chin scratched her cheek. She looked into his face for the last time, and then turned and got into the taxi and slammed the door. The old car trundled forward, but she never looked back, so that she never knew if he waited until they were out of his sight.

  From Saint Thomas she flew to Saint Croix. From Saint Croix to San Juan. San Juan to Miami. Miami to New York. At Kennedy, they lost her kit bag and she had to wait for an hour by the empty, turning carousel until it finally appeared.

  She went out of the building into the warm, humid, New
York dusk, the air foggy and smelling of fuel oil, and waited by the sign until an airport bus came her way. It was full, and she had to stand, strap-hanging, with her kit bag between her knees. At the British Airways terminal, she bought a ticket for London, and then went upstairs to sit for three hours, waiting for the flight to be called.

  The plane was full, and she realized that she had been lucky to get a seat on it. She sat next to an elderly blue-haired lady who was making her first trip to Britain. She had been saving up, she told Gabriel, for two years. She was on a tour—most of the passengers were on the same tour—and they were going to see the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, and make trips farther afield as well. Edinburgh, for a day or two of the festival, Stratford-on-Avon.

  ‘I just can’t wait to see Stratford, and Anne Hathaway’s cottage.’

  The excursion, to Gabriel, sounded mind-boggling, but she smiled and said, ‘How lovely.’

  ‘And you, dear, where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Gabriel.

  She did not sleep on the plane. There was not enough night to go to sleep. No sooner had they finished dinner than, it seemed, they were being handed hot towels to wash their faces and given glasses of orange juice. At Heathrow, it was raining. Soft, sweet English rain, like mist on her face. Everything looked very gentle and green, and even the airport smelled different.

  Before she left Saint Thomas, he had given her some English money—a few ill-assorted notes from the back of his wallet—but there was not enough to pay for a taxi, so she caught the tube from Heathrow to King’s Cross. At King’s Cross she changed to another train that took her to the Angel.

  From the Angel, she walked, her kit bag under her arm. It was not very far. She saw that changes were taking place in the once-familiar streets. A block of old houses had been bulldozed away and a new and enormous structure was going up in their place. A wall of wooden hoardings protected this building operation from the pavement, and these were spray-painted with graffiti. Skids Rule, she read, and Jobs not Bombs.

  She went down the old Islington High Street and through the Campden Passage, between the shuttered jewellers and antique dealers, past the toy shop where once she had bought, in a dusty box labelled three shillings and sixpence, a doll’s china tea set. She turned down a narrow, paved lane, and emerged into Abigail Crescent.