Tim knows that Aunt Kat and Oliver between them will keep everything light-hearted and easy, and he no longer has any fear of joining them. He finds a glass, fills it with water and carries it out to Francis.
‘Oh, darling,’ cries Aunt Kat, just as he guessed she might, ‘surely we can do better than that? How about some tea? Francis? Charlotte? Would you like some?’
‘I’d love some,’ says Charlotte, subsiding on to the bench with Oliver in her arms. ‘I’ll put him in his buggy. Are you sure you can manage?’
‘I think I might just cope,’ says Aunt Kat. She smiles at Tim, gives him a little wink, and his heart twists with such affection that it makes him feel weepy. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you, Francis?’
‘Certainly I will,’ replies the old man. ‘Never refuse an offer of tea.’
Tim pushes the wheelchair towards the benches, positions Francis beside the table, and then erects the umbrella so as to give him a little protection from the sun. He sees that Francis is watching him, and he knows that the old man feels guilty that he has forced the truth from him; fears that he has blundered in where angels fear to tread. Tim gives him a smile to reassure him.
‘I’m glad you know,’ he says softly. ‘Really, I am.’
And then Charlotte is joining them with Oliver, who cries out with the joy of seeing his favourite toy, Wooster flops down in the shade beside Francis, and the tension evaporates. As he sits down next to Charlotte, Tim almost wants to laugh at the normality of the family scene – and suddenly another line of poetry runs in his head:
‘For who plans suicide sitting in the sun?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AFTER KAT HAS gone, Jerry clears up the lunch things and then goes to make the bed. He still is not used to these random acts of lovemaking; this ability to please himself and be responsible to nobody.
‘What’s your problem?’ Kat asks, wrapping her arms around him. ‘Lock the front door and turn your phone off,’ and he is delighted to do as she says, though part of him imagines that he can still see Vee’s face; her expression as she watches them together.
He goes into the sitting-room, opens a window and picks up the cushion from the floor. It is the cushion that precipitated the lovemaking. When his daughters visited the flat, one of them had come out of the little spare room with it in her hands.
‘Where did you get this, Dad?’ she asked. ‘I don’t recognize it, do I?’
‘It’s sweet,’ said her sister. ‘I love the little dog. A bit kitsch for you, though, Dad?’
‘It was a house-warming present,’ he said, ‘from Sandra.’
He has no qualms in telling them. Sandra has made a big hit with the family. When he suggested that he’d like to host a lunch for them, and that a friend had offered her house and garden, they’d been enthusiastic. Probably they saw an opportunity to check out their father’s ‘friend’ but any suspicions they had would have been immediately set to rest. Sandra behaved impeccably. She helped Jerry prep the lunch he’d brought with him, suggested a few extra treats from her own cupboard as well as a cake she’d made just in case they stayed on until tea time. There was something familiar, rather comforting, about working with her in the big kitchen and he was unexpectedly aware of how much he missed feminine company and the daily round. Once the family arrived, and they’d all been introduced, she effaced herself, making certain that it was Jerry who was running the show; staying in the background but always available to help out. The grandchildren were delighted by the small bedroom full of toys and books and with the swing and the slide in the garden.
When his daughters expressed their pleasure at her kindness, Sandra merely said that her own grandchildren were regular visitors, that she loved having them and that it was great fun to be able to share the toys with Jerry’s grandchildren. His daughters relaxed with her and by the end of the afternoon she was one of the party. At one point she even fetched some books and read to the two youngest children when they became overtired so as to give Jerry more freedom and time with his girls.
‘What a nice woman, Dad,’ they said. ‘This has been such a lovely afternoon.’
And afterwards, helping her to clear up, he tried to express his gratitude and to pass on his family’s pleasure.
‘It’s difficult for a man on his own,’ Sandra said, ‘and I thought it would be nicer for you to see them all in a family setting. I can see why you don’t want to keep a big place going just for occasional holidays so I’m very glad it worked out. It’s different for me. Two of my sons live locally so I often have the children staying over so that their parents can work, and it makes it all worth it.’
‘Well, it was really kind of you,’ he said. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ and it seemed appropriate, even necessary, to kiss her cheek. She gave him a hug, quite a serious hug, and he felt a frisson of anxiety; he sensed her expectation. This little homely gathering had moved their relationship on to a slightly different level and all his natural caution sent out warnings to him.
To his huge relief her telephone began to ring and she went to answer it. By the time she returned he’d gathered up all his belongings and was ready to leave. He saw her disappointment but pretended to be occupied with getting his things out to the car. Then he drove away, torn with a conflict of emotions.
The cushion was still on the sofa when Kat turned up some days later after the family had left.
‘Good grief,’ she said, picking it up. ‘What a ghastly thing. Oh!’ Her expression of amused disdain froze into horror as she stared at him. ‘Oh, my God. Did one of your daughters give it to you? I am so sorry.’
‘No,’ he said, half laughing at her expression. ‘As a matter of fact they didn’t.’
He couldn’t quite bring himself to mention Sandra but as he took the cushion from her she put her arms around him, and pulled him closely to her.
‘I am such a horrid person,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t mean to be. I just can’t help it. You’ll simply have to forgive me, darling. You will, won’t you?’
He dropped the cushion and began to kiss her; he could feel her chuckling deep inside, which made him laugh, too.
Now, lovemaking over and Kat gone, he turns the cushion in his hands. He seems to be divided between the two women; between Kat and Sandra. Each appeals to different sides of his nature, but how is he to reconcile them? He makes as if to carry the cushion back to the spare room but some lingering memory of Sandra’s kindness to his children, the familiarity and warmth of being in a family home again, causes him to hesitate.
He tosses the cushion back on to the sofa and goes to take a shower.
The tea party in the courtyard is still going on when William arrives home. He’s glad to see them all, to have a diversion from his thoughts, from the phone call he received earlier from Fiona.
‘Are you very busy?’ she asked. ‘Can you spare just a quick moment?’
‘Of course,’ he said, still looking at the columns of figures on his computer, though he pressed the ‘save’ button. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, something rather exciting has turned up and I’d like to talk to you about it.’
William was silent: his brain darted to and fro, wondering where this was leading.
‘That sounds mysterious,’ he said after a pause. ‘So what does “exciting” mean exactly?’
‘I can’t tell you on the phone. I thought I might come down this weekend, actually, but I can’t get away on Friday,’ she said casually. ‘I really do need to talk to you, Wills. Just you and me. Are you OK with that?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, wondering why he felt nervous. ‘I suppose so but I can’t quite see all the need for this secrecy and silence stuff.’
‘Just trust me. I’ll book myself in at the Cott. Perhaps I could buy you dinner?’
‘Well . . . why not?’
‘Try not to sound so keen.’ He could hear her laughing and he tried to pull himself together.
‘I’d like that. Sorry, Fi, only I’
ve got a client due and I’m just the least bit preoccupied.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said at once. ‘I shouldn’t have called you at the office but it’s really quite important. Oh, and, Wills, just you and me. Tell the others it’s a payback for the barbecues. You can invite them if it makes you feel better, but they won’t come.’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked, confused, and heard her laugh.
‘Take my word for it.’
He was irritated by this smug female response: as if he, a poor simple male, couldn’t see what was so obvious to her.
‘OK,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday. I’ll be over seven-ish.’
He switched off the phone and sat for some moments wondering what this exciting news could possibly be and then put it aside and got back to work.
Now, as he goes to greet his family, he still feels equivocal at the prospect of Fiona arriving quite so soon. He suspects that some emotional crisis is approaching, some change in the dynamic of their relationship, and he can’t see how he should handle it.
‘What did she mean,’ he asks Kat later, when they are alone, ‘that I could invite you all but you wouldn’t come?’
Kat’s amused, pitying look is almost as irritating as Fiona’s remark.
‘The fact that she’s invited you to dinner at the Cott for the first time since you separated does rather indicate that she’s looking forward to a tête-à-tête. To begin with she must know that it’s very difficult for Charlotte. She’d have to find a babysitter and you know she only really trusts me and you. So if Charlotte can’t go I think Fiona would guess that I wouldn’t want to play gooseberry with the two of you and that I’d say that I’ve got a date with Jerry.’
‘What about Tim?’
‘I don’t think Tim would consider supper with Fiona and you and me a big night out. You could try it, of course.’
‘So why did she even mention it?’ he asks irritably.
‘Just in case you needed a reason to be having dinner with her. In case you didn’t want to say that it’s just you and her.’
‘But why take the risk? Any of you might have accepted.’
‘But we haven’t. Charlotte said . . . well, see above. And I’m telling you why I’m refusing. Fiona took a gamble on it. But it’s let you off the hook and nobody will be wondering how it went. Except me, of course, now you’ve told me the truth.’
He shrugs: it’s all too complicated.
‘And have you got a date with Jerry?’ he asks.
‘I have now,’ she says.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘HE DOESN’T USUALLY have dinner on his own with Fiona,’ Charlotte says to Aunt Kat. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?’
‘Not really. I told you that she wanted to do a payback for the barbecues and various other meals she has when she visits us. But I’ve got a date with Jerry and you can’t go because of Oliver, and I think William thought it was a bit churlish to refuse.’
Charlotte pushes Oliver a little further along the river bank and then stops so that he can see the ducks. He gazes in silence at a small flotilla of mallards, swimming and diving and paddling in and out of the rushes, and Aunt Kat laughs at his expression. Charlotte watches him, full of protective love, anxious that nothing shall ever harm him; knowing that she is helpless. She feels vulnerable and out of control, which is so unlike her. During the last face-time with Andy it was as if she were talking to a stranger. No, not quite a stranger but a distant friend: someone she’d known quite well once but with whom she’s been out of touch. This frightens her. And now William and Fiona seem to be reinstating their relationship. It’s not that she doesn’t want them to be friends – it would be nicer for Oliver if they are – it’s just unsettling.
Aunt Kat is crouching by the buggy, pointing to the ducks and making quacking noises. Oliver chuckles, banging his fists on the bar in front of him, legs kicking.
‘I think we can take it that he likes the ducks,’ she says, straightening up. ‘Though they don’t quite look like the one he has in his bath. So, do you mind Fiona inviting William for dinner à deux at the Cott?’
‘No.’ Charlotte shakes her head. ‘No, of course not. It’s just out of character, isn’t it? I know they put up a good exterior for Andy’s sake but I’ve always been under the impression that it costs William rather a lot to sustain it.’
‘I think it does,’ answers Aunt Kat as they stroll on. ‘He was, after all, the injured party. We did discuss this recent approach. I told him that we’d got rather into the habit of treating Fiona as the baddie and she’d begun to live up to it. It would be good all round if the situation were a bit more normal.’
‘What’s normal? Do you mean that they might get back together again?’
‘How would you feel if they did?’
Charlotte tries to imagine it but can’t find the words to explain her sense of feeling unsettled: out of her depth. It sounds so feeble.
‘After all,’ Aunt Kat is saying, ‘socially it would make no difference. They’ve always kept up a good show for Andy’s sake. Privately, I think there would still be problems unless Fiona is prepared to give up her job and move back.’
‘But is that likely?’ asks Charlotte disbelievingly. ‘I mean, that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Her taking that job. That’s why everything fell apart in the first place. Do you really think Fiona would come back to live here with William?’
Aunt Kat stops to watch a racing eight shooting downstream: eight oars entering the water simultaneously, at precisely the same angle, in a rare and sustained moment of togetherness. The bow lifts from the water as the boat runs forward as though it is speeding across the water rather than through it.
‘Beautiful,’ she says.
Her voice carries over the water and the cox turns his head very briefly to smile at her. Oliver watches, stretching his arms out as if to embrace the shivering reflections, the small boats at anchor, and the gulls that sweep above the fast-flowing tide.
Aunt Kat turns back to her, smiling at her.
‘People don’t really change,’ she says. ‘We adapt, grow – or not – but essentially we remain the same.’
Somehow Charlotte feels comforted. They walk on together, pushing Oliver, discussing Mattie’s new job at Exeter, and it is only much later that Charlotte realizes that Aunt Kat hasn’t answered her question.
Mattie is so happy. She can’t quite believe her luck: this job as a research assistant, her own little room – well, living-room, bedroom and shower-room on the campus – and Dartmoor only ten minutes’ drive away. She could get there in her lunch-hour and be having a little picnic whilst everyone else is still queuing in the cafeteria. And just down the A38 is Brockscombe with Charlotte and Ollie – and, of course, Tim.
Her quarters aren’t quite big enough to hold a party to celebrate her return but it doesn’t really matter. Every day seems to be a celebration. Charlotte seems especially pleased to have her back. It’s not like Charlotte to be quite so emotional and Mattie is touched by her sister’s welcome. She guesses that it has quite a bit to do with Charlotte missing Andy, and getting a bit worked up about the prospect of his next posting, but even so, it’s a very nice change to feel that she’s appreciated.
Meanwhile, she’s taking great care not to crowd Tim. She is certain that he’s delighted that she’s living so much closer but she needs to give him time to resolve whatever it is in his life that keeps him detached, wary. Her big terror is that he’s still in love with someone who’s dumped him, yet when they’re together she can hardly believe that this is true.
She’s trying to give him space but, knowing that he’s near, it’s so hard not to text him, phone him, make a plan. It’s essential to play it cool while showing that she loves him, though she’s not certain how it is to be done at such close range. It’s lucky that she has Charlotte and Ollie as good reasons to visit Brockscombe, though there are times when she wishes that she and Tim could have more privac
y.
It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. We have all the time in the world.
She’ll go to the gym and work out, have a shower and then maybe text Tim and make a plan for this weekend: perhaps a walk on the moor. He could bring Wooster. Even as she thinks about it a text pings in. It’s from Tim.
How about lunch on Saturday at Two Bridges?
Mattie gives a little whoop of delight. She texts back quickly.
Great. Could be there about midday.
She feels relieved, excited: something to look forward to and, more importantly, he has made the first move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FRANCIS STANDS AT his open window. A ghost of a moon is rising in the east above pale fields, ripe with barley, and he can hear the wavering call of an owl down in the copse. He looks out at the familiar landscape, across the carriage drive and the lawn, to the little sunken ha-ha, which divides the garden from the fields beyond, and he breathes in the warm, sweet air, scented with honeysuckle and meadowsweet.
He wonders who will stand here after he is gone, who will watch the changing of the seasons, who will see this valley shining in the sun, sodden with rain, transformed by snow. Who will look for the rabbits playing in the long grasses in the ditch or for the badger clumsily lumbering his way across the field? Even now, at ten o’clock, it isn’t dark. The land is washed with a mysterious half-light and the cattle along the river’s edge stand knee-deep in mist.
Francis knows that this summer is the last that he will see at Brockscombe: his last hurrah. He is aware of a sense of urgency, to tie up loose ends, to complete his work, yet he cannot quite see his way clear. At least he knows now that neither his boys nor their children will stay here after him.
As he gazes out into the night he thinks of the email from his eldest son, Roger: impossible to think that he is nearly at retirement age and Sebastian not so far behind.
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