Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  ‘What do you mean? The last year? Summercove’s not going anywhere, is it?’

  Jeremy was looking in the mirror. He didn’t reply immediately. After a while he said, ‘Just – I just sometimes think, it might be different next year. We’ll all be off doing different things. And Franty won’t want us coming down every year.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Just don’t know if we’ll go there every year.’

  Louisa looked slightly alarmed. ‘I can’t imagine us not coming down here every year,’ she said. ‘I love it.’ Cecily’s face appeared again between the seats.

  ‘I used to think that, now I don’t,’ Jeremy said. ‘That’s why I want to make the most of this summer.’

  Cecily opened her mouth and shut it again. Her eyes were huge. But Louisa was watching her brother, who never expressed an opinion about anything. She patted his arm.

  ‘I think the Minack’s a great idea,’ she said. They were on the outskirts of Penzance now, every other house a B&B or a café. Holidaymakers were walking along the harbour front, carrying buckets and spades. The outdoor seawater pool behind the harbour was in full swing, girls in bikinis and perfect hair demurely dangling their feet into the water. A group of boys lounged against a few motorbikes, parked up by the boats. They were smoking, in black leather jackets, their hair slicked back, and they stared at the car as it shuddered past them. Cecily stared out at them, fascinated.

  ‘Mods are so passé. Honestly, Penzance is so out of date,’ said the worldly Londoner Louisa, glancing scornfully at them as they drove past. ‘Bet they’ve never even heard of Bazaar.’ She smoothed her hair behind her ears, anxiously, as Cecily watched in fascination. ‘Come on, Frank. Hurry up.’ She corrected herself. ‘Jeremy, sorry.’

  Jeremy laughed, and his brow cleared. ‘Don’t worry. Look, here we are now.’

  Cecily got out early while Jeremy parked the car. Louisa was by this point actively anxious, looking at her reflection in every window they passed, even the glass of the ticket office at the end of the platform, much to the bemusement of the bulbous-nosed ticket officer who stared at her. It was a hot day, hotter in the station than outside, where there was a cooling breeze from the sea.

  ‘It’s strange being in a town on a boiling day like this, after a few days at Summercove,’ said Jeremy, running his forefinger around the collar of his shirt. ‘Actually does make you realise how lovely it is to be there.’

  ‘I know,’ said Louisa. ‘It is the most beautiful place. And we are lucky. I shouldn’t be rude about them. I do love Franty. I love being there. Joining in – all of that.’

  ‘Such a little homemaker,’ Jeremy said, nudging her. ‘Love it when everyone’s all together having a wonderful time, don’t you? Even when they’re not?’

  Louisa put her hands on her hips. ‘Be quiet, Jeremy. That’s rubbish. I just like . . . I like the idea that we’re all together. And then we get here and . . . it’s not how I expected.’ She shrugged. ‘But hey-ho – let’s go onto the platform, shall we?’ she said, squinting at the train track.

  They waited in the covered station until the train chugged slowly into view, past St Michael’s Mount in the distance, the granite castle out to sea glowing strangely gold in the midday sun.

  ‘There it is!’ Louisa cried. ‘There it is!’ She stared at the black engine hoving into view, as if she expected Frank and his brother to be standing on top of it, waving placards. ‘I can’t see them!’

  ‘Of course you can’t, you ninny,’ Jeremy said, shaking his head at his sister. Goodness, girls were such idiots about chaps. There was Frank, a perfectly decent sort, nothing wildly eccentric or unusual, and Louisa was completely gaga over him. It made him almost uncomfortable, he didn’t know how to talk to her about him. She’d even used the word ‘marriage’! Louisa, who he’d always thought was a sensible sort of girl, the kind of sister one didn’t mind having, the sort who got scholarships to study sensible things like biology . . . And it turned out she was just like all the others, obsessed with weddings and babies after all. Jeremy didn’t know what Frank would think about that at all. Yes, girls were odd sometimes, even one’s sister.

  The plumes of thick white and grey steam cleared, the doors opened, and there was mayhem. Porters scurried to help the first-class passengers, elderly gentlemen in tweeds and their immaculate county ladies in neat hats and gloves carrying crocodile travel cases. Cross, important-looking City gents in bowler hats, their starched collars wilting in the heat, clutching furled umbrellas and briefcases.

  Louisa and Jeremy peered past them as the first-class section gradually dispersed, but then instead of two young men came endless hordes of families, struggling with battered, heavy suitcases and screaming children, lots of boys with Beatles-style mop-top haircuts, sweating in polo necks, girls in pretty cotton dresses and low heels, cardigans draped over shoulders, housewives in headscarves, carrying their shopping in wicker baskets, farm workmen, officious men in suits with efficient moustaches, lounging men, old men . . . but no sign of Frank and his brother.

  As the masses subsided into a trickle, and then to nothing, so that the platform was empty once more, Louisa and Jeremy looked despondently at each other. ‘Perhaps they missed the train?’ Louisa said, her mouth turned down. ‘But wouldn’t they have at least telephoned, to let us know?’

  ‘I should have thought so,’ Jeremy said. ‘Not like old Frank to leave us waiting.’

  Louisa glanced desperately down the platform once more. ‘Perhaps they’re . . . perhaps they’re chatting with the driver.’

  ‘Lou, I don’t think so,’ said Jeremy. ‘They’d know we’d be waiting. Old Frank wouldn’t leave us hanging here while he swapped horror stories about Dr Beeching with some railway bod. Perhaps their old man’s been taken ill again, he wasn’t well before Easter, I wonder if that’s it . . . Hullo! Who’s that? Frank!’ he said with relief, as someone poked him in the ribs. ‘Oh, dammit, it’s you. Hullo, Cecily.’

  Cecily’s face fell as she saw his expression. ‘Hello, Jeremy,’ she said in a small voice, blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘I got my book and my new diary. Look.’ She held up a Georgette Heyer in one hand and in the other, a simple red exercise book, with a stamp on the front: Name, Class, Subject.

  ‘The Toll-Gate,’ Jeremy read aloud. ‘Right. Sorry, Cec. Thought you were Frank,’ he added, not seeing the look of anguish on her face. He turned back to his sister. ‘I’ll just check with the chap at the ticket office. Perhaps there’s a message for us, but I doubt it. Wait here.’

  Louisa’s keen eyes missed nothing, and she nudged Cecily after he’d gone. ‘I can’t believe you’re blushing, Cecily. You’ve got a pash for Jeremy. Ha!’

  ‘I haven’t!’ Cecily cried, hitting her on the arm furiously. She stamped her foot, her face still red. ‘Shut up, I haven’t!’And she crossed her arms, blinking back tears of mortification, like every other teenager before and since.

  ‘Sorry, Cec,’ Louisa said, feeling guilty. ‘That’s your new diary, is it? Gosh, you’ve written a lot, to be getting a new one already. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cecily said, standing up straight again. ‘I love it. This new bit will be even more private, I can say what I like because I’ve finished the school project.’ She hugged both books to her.

  ‘No sign,’ said Jeremy, appearing again. ‘I must say,’ he repeated, ‘not like him, leaving us high and dry. I thought old Frank—’

  ‘Oh, shut up about damned old Frank,’ said Louisa, turning on her heel. ‘They’re not coming. Let’s just get back home, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecily, imitating her with a flounce. ‘I want to go home too.’

  Jeremy sighed and followed them.

  Louisa was silent on the journey home. Jeremy took the quicker main road through the open countryside, driving fast because he was hungry now, and he’d heard Mary mention chicken salad for lunch.

  ‘I don’t understand what happened,’ Cecily said, equanimity restored,
sticking her head between their seats. ‘Why wouldn’t they have come?’

  ‘Perhaps we got the wrong time. Or the wrong day,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘Perhaps they just changed their minds,’ Louisa said. ‘I bet they did.’

  ‘Frank wouldn’t do that,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ve known him for eleven years, he wouldn’t just not turn up. Guy either.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Cecily said. ‘I thought he was Louisa’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Honestly, Cecily,’ Louisa said through gritted teeth, ‘if you say that again, I will ram this down your throat.’ She turned around, brandishing a battered old Shell Guide to the Roads of Britain with some force. Her lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair out of place.

  ‘We were at prep school together,’ Jeremy said. ‘Known him for years. Lives near us. We used to play tennis together, the three of us. And Guy. You’ll like Guy,’ he told Cecily. ‘He wants to be a writer too.’

  ‘I bet he’s not as nice as you,’ Cecily said quietly. Jeremy didn’t hear her. ‘They’re good sorts. They like playing tennis, swimming, joining in with things, all of that.’ He turned the car off the main road, onto the dark, leafy lane above Summercove.

  ‘Well, if they’re such bloody good sorts, why— oh, hell!’ Louisa cried. ‘This stupid car, Jeremy! The spring’s come through the damned seat, look, it’s torn my shorts! My beautiful shorts . . . oh, God.’ She squirmed around in the car.

  ‘Maybe if you put the Shell Guide over the spring it’d stop it tearing anything else,’ Cecily offered helpfully. Louisa shot her a look of pure loathing.

  They drew up outside the house. ‘I’ll put the car in the garage, if you want to hop out,’ Jeremy said, and the girls got out. Cecily opened the gate while Louisa, still grumbling, followed behind her.

  Cecily breathed in as they walked across the lawn towards the house. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to be back on a day like today, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can smell the sea, I can smell the sea . . .’

  Voices drifted across to them from the terrace on the other side of the house. ‘I expect they’re having lunch already,’ Louisa said ruefully. ‘Bet they didn’t wait.’

  They walked around the side to the garden, and Louisa let out a cry.

  ‘Oh! Oh, my goodness.’ She stared in amazement across the lawn.

  There, kneeling on a blanket, in slim black trousers, a white T-shirt and a black cardigan slung over her shoulders, a white ribbon tying back her dark hair, was Miranda and, with her, two young men, one in meticulously pressed linen shorts and a navy polo shirt, a cricket jumper tied round his neck, the other in jeans and an open-necked shirt. They were laughing at something Miranda had said. She looked up.

  ‘Oh, here!’ she said, her cat-like face breaking out into a smile as the girls walked towards her. ‘Louisa’s back from the station! I’m sure she can explain what’s happened. Louisa, look!’ she said sweetly to her cousin. ‘Frank and . . . it’s Guy, isn’t it?’ she added shyly. ‘They wired yesterday to say they’d be down early, but it obviously never arrived. Isn’t that strange?’

  Frank and Guy sprang to their feet as Louisa and Cecily, on the edge of the lawn, stood there, mouths open. ‘Hello!’ Louisa said, desperately clutching the flap of material on her bottom. ‘My goodness! What a lovely surprise! We’d quite given up on you two. How strange!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Miranda asked, watching her cousin anxiously. ‘Is something . . . wrong?’

  ‘No, no,’ Louisa said hastily. ‘I tore my shorts, that’s all. Very annoying!’ she added heartily, one hand still holding the ripped material. ‘Hello, Guy, Frank—’ She patted both of them awkwardly with her free arm, bowing her head in mortification.

  ‘Hello, Louisa,’ Frank said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Very – very nice to see you.’

  ‘Oh, we are glad you’re back,’ Miranda said. She unfurled her legs from underneath her and stood up gracefully, stretching her long arms, and Guy gave her his hand to help her up.

  ‘Wow,’ said Cecily, in admiration. ‘Miranda, you look pretty today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Miranda. She tugged at her ponytail and looked sympathetically at her cousin. ‘Poor Louisa!’ she said, in honeyed tones. ‘You’d better change your shorts before lunch, it’s in five minutes. Guy, Frank – are you all settled in? Do you want a wash and brush-up?’

  ‘When did you get here then?’ Cecily asked. ‘How strange that we never got the wire!’

  ‘About an hour ago,’ Guy said. He smiled at Cecily. ‘We got a lift from a fellow who was going to Sennen Cove. Very decent of him. We were a bit stuck, we didn’t know what to do. We weren’t sure which bus would take us to Summercove, and a taxi would have wiped us out.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m Guy,’ he said, shaking Cecily’s hand.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, pleased. ‘Hello, Cecily,’ Frank said, also stepping forward. ‘I’m Frank, I’m Jeremy’s friend.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

  Cecily stared at him. ‘Hello, Frank,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said awkwardly. He pointed to his shorts. ‘We’re all kitted out for a summer holiday, as you can see.’

  She didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him. ‘It’s funny,’ she said after a while. ‘You don’t look like you should be wearing shorts.’

  ‘Aah. I am not that used to them, it’s true,’ Frank said. ‘You look more like you should be . . .’ Cecily paused. ‘Wearing a bowler hat.’

  There was a silence. ‘Cecily, that’s rude,’ Miranda said, pushing her. ‘Say sorry.’ But Frank laughed. ‘No, it’s not rude. She’s right.’ He fiddled with some imaginary cufflinks, a smile on his handsome face. ‘I’m usually more happy in smarter kit, it’s true.’

  Cecily rubbed her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr Bowler Hat.’

  Guy gave a shout of laughter and Frank joined in. Louisa, however, looked mortified.

  ‘I’m sure we passed you on the way,’ Frank said to Louisa. ‘We got our friend to sound the horn, and we pulled over, but you didn’t seem to spot us.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Louisa said. ‘Of course. I remember now . . .’ She bit her lip, annoyed, and then clutched her bottom again. ‘I really should go and change,’ she said, blushing. ‘Sorry. Will you two be OK out here while I go off?’

  She looked at Frank, but he was listening to Miranda, who was saying, ‘How wonderful you’re here. Ah,’ she said, turning towards the house, ‘there’s Jeremy. Now we’re all present and correct.’ She sighed and smiled happily at the new arrivals, coiling her hair around one finger.

  Suddenly a shadow passed over her. ‘Hello there,’ said a voice behind her, and Miranda and the two boys turned to see Frances walking towards them, her hand outstretched.

  ‘I’m Frances Seymour,’ she said, pulling the headscarf that had been tying her hair back off her head. She shook her honey-coloured hair out, scratching her scalp. ‘What a terrible welcome you’ve had.’ She smiled at them both, eyes sparkling, her clear, tanned face glowing with pleasure.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Guy, shaking her hand, clearly taken aback. ‘It’s wonderful to be here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank, wiping his hand on his shorts and then holding it out to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kapoor.’

  Frances looked up at the tall, blond, godlike Frank, and smiled, almost in amusement. ‘Frances, please,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Frank,’ he replied. ‘Well, so that means we’ve got almost the same name!’

  ‘Ye-es.’ There was a look on her face that he found rather disconcerting. ‘Well, let’s get you a drink.’ She laughed, her green eyes glinting in the sun, and patted Miranda on the shoulder. ‘Stand up, darling. Isn’t this wonderful? I feel as if the holidays can properly start now.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘More tea, vicar?’

  ‘Tea? Ha – very good. Yes, please, Louisa.’

  ‘Guy, more champagne?’
>
  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

  Louisa turned to her aunt. ‘Franty, is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘No,’ said Frances, smiling. ‘You’ve been wonderful. Sit down and enjoy yourself, darling.’

  They had gathered on the lawn at the front of the house for drinks before dinner. There was no wind, not even the faintest breeze from the sea. The scent of lavender and oil from the lamps outside hung in the still air. ‘My One and Only Love’, and John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman floated out to them from a gramophone.

  Louisa, resplendent in mulberry-coloured silk, was making the rounds with champagne, but it was Miranda who was the star of the show that night. She appeared after everyone else had gathered on the terrace, in a black grosgrain cocktail dress, extremely simple and obviously expensive, with a tulip skirt and tight bodice which clung perfectly to her gamine figure.

  ‘That is a beautiful dress, Miranda,’ Louisa said generously, handing her a glass. ‘You look like Jackie Kennedy.’

  Miranda flushed, her olive skin mottling red. ‘It is a beautiful dress,’ Frances said, curious. ‘Where’s it from, may I ask?’

  Miranda turned her face to her mother. She was glowing. ‘I didn’t tell you, Mother. So please don’t be cross. But Connie sent me a postal order to school. For ten pounds. I bought this in Exeter. And some other things.’ She was pleading.

  ‘She gave you TEN POUNDS?’ Cecily screeched. ‘I didn’t know it was that much!’

  The shirt that morning. The lovely blue pumps she’d been wearing yesterday. Of course. Frances nodded, appraising her daughter again. She definitely had style, she’d give her that much.

  Not for the first time, Frances regretted making her old school friend – married to a wealthy industrialist and without children of her own – Miranda’s godmother. She was absentminded but very generous – when Miranda was ten and a half she bought her a pearl necklace from Asprey’s – but it wasn’t fair on the others.