‘Seems to have cheered her up.’ Henry looked pleased. ‘She’s been looking a bit peaky. The thought of a party will jolly her up a bit.’
‘Mmm.’ Gussie looked thoughtful.
For some reason she heard a warning note ringing in her mind. What was it? She shook her head. She was getting old and imagining things, that was all. Henry was watching her and she smiled at him. He grinned back.
‘It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas,’ he said.
IT WAS BOXING DAY, after the party – held in the afternoon because of Jack – before Gillian had a chance to speak with John alone. Gussie hurried Nell away saying that she must rest and Jack went off with Henry into the library to watch a film on the television. John sat on in the drawing room, staring into the fire and wishing that he could stay there for ever. How wonderful to be released from the endless treadmill of worry and fear. He looked back at his naval career now with something like astonishment. Could that lighthearted man who enjoyed life and always had money in his pocket possibly be himself? Since Martin had left, his sense of isolation had increased and he felt terribly alone. He knew that, in these past few months, Nell had been trying hard to stay calm and unworried, to keep the lines of communication open between them, to show him love and support. However, now that he was deceiving her about the house in Bournemouth, he felt a great weight of guilt which in turn made him feel in some strange way almost resentful towards her. He dropped his head back against the cushions and shut his eyes. How unfair life was! Why should he be driven into the ground, beset by problems, whilst Henry lived in this great pile, with two farms, various cottages and a successful courtyard development? John preferred not to think of the responsibilities which tenants and land brought, the careful husbanding and use of resources or the sheer hard physical work which kept Henry busy. He only knew it must be easier for Henry than for himself. He fetched a great sigh of self-pity.
‘That sounds like a whisky sort of sigh to me.’
John jumped and opened his eyes. The room was half in darkness; the heavy brocade curtains pulled against the damp raw afternoon and only one lamp lit, casting a pool of light onto the polished mahogany table on which it stood at the far end of the room. By the glow from the fire, John saw Gillian standing at the drinks table. She wore dark leggings that showed off her long straight legs and a loose silky crimson jersey – which continually seemed about to slip from one shoulder but somehow never did – beneath which she was obviously wearing nothing at all. He heard liquid splashing into a glass and presently she stood before him, holding out a heavy cut-glass tumbler two-thirds full of gold. He took it with a surprised but grateful exclamation of pleasure and she curled up at the other end of the sofa, facing him and holding her own glass. She raised it to him.
‘So here’s to us. We’ve hardly had time to have a chat, have we? How are things with you?’
John returned her salute and took a sip before he spoke. He’d been very much aware of her during the last few days – private glances, little smiles, a quick kiss under the mistletoe – and he’d enjoyed the sensation. It made him feel like that man he’d remembered earlier; someone who’d known how to enjoy himself and who’d always had an eye for a pretty girl.
‘Oh, not too bad.’ He would have liked to make a bid for her sympathy by pouring out his troubles but instinct warned him this may not be wise. He didn’t want to give the impression that he wasn’t on top of things or unable to cope.
‘That sigh said that you’ve got things on your mind. It’s a cold old world at the moment, isn’t it? And now with a new baby to worry about …’ Her voice trailed away and the understanding in it wooed him into accepting her point of view – that the baby must be a nuisance rather than a blessing – without question.
‘It’s come as a bit of a shock.’ He turned the glass in his hand, watching it catch and reflect back the flash of the firelight. ‘Nell had a few problems after Jack and then it seemed as if she would never have another. We got a bit careless to tell you the truth.’ He shook his head and swallowed some more whisky.
‘Poor John.’
Her voice was soft and when he turned to look at her she smiled at him with such warmth and intimacy that he was momentarily thrown off balance. After a moment he smiled back and then took another gulp from his glass. He stared into the fire, his heart beginning to tick rather faster than usual and a whole variety of emotions swirling round in his brain.
‘How about another drink?’
She kneeled up in her corner and held out her hand for his glass but John held onto it and nothing seemed more natural than that she should subside next to him, her legs tucked beneath her. He felt the warmth of her body and the faint seductive whiff of her scent and, as she bent her head, the short blonde hair brushed against his shoulder.
‘It seems almost unfair,’ she said, and he had to bend his head closer to hers to catch the words, ‘that Henry should be doing so well when other people are having such difficulties.’ Since this had been his own thought only moments before he could hardly contradict her. ‘It’s sheer luck that his is a courtyard development. They’re the only sort of properties that are moving. I’ve got a friend who’s got one. He says the market’s absolutely dead.’
‘It is.’ John tried to ignore the proximity of the breast which now, somehow, seemed to be pressing against his arm. ‘It’s desperate.’ He swallowed some more whisky and tried to concentrate. ‘Is your friend doing OK?’
‘Poor Sam.’ Gillian gave a throaty little chuckle. ‘His partner walked out on him. Wife trouble or something. Left him in the lurch.’
‘That happened to me.’ In his readiness to identify with this unknown friend, John made the mistake of turning to look at her. Gillian looked up at him, her golden brown eyes wide with sympathy, her lips parted a little.
‘People can be real shits,’ she said.
He stared at her and then turned quickly away.
‘He’s got the site but no money to develop it with,’ said Gillian reflectively. ‘And three people all waiting to buy the cottages. Tough on him, isn’t it?’ She shifted a little and the softness of her breasts and the scent in his nostrils made John tremble.
‘Bloody for him.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘Mmm. Sure you won’t have that drink?’ This time her hand covered his on the glass. ‘Whoever goes in with him will make a killing, that’s for certain.’ She leaned a little to take the glass and her cheek almost brushed his own. ‘It’s a gold mine. The site has to be seen to be believed. It’s really nice here but that one’s spectacular. That’s why he’s got people fighting to buy the cottages when they’ve been converted.’
Her face was inches from his and as he released the glass into her hand he took her chin in his fingers and kissed her. She seemed to melt into the kiss and the blood hammered in his head, blinding him to everything but the feel of her. She moved in his embrace and he let her go abruptly.
‘For heaven’s sake don’t say you’re sorry.’ She was smiling at him. ‘If you haven’t realised that I’ve been longing to do that all Christmas, you’re not the man I think you are.’
Once again she imposed her will on his. It would have taken a different, stronger character to refute the implication that he was a virile, red-blooded male to whom a flirtation with his host’s wife was not only acceptable but somehow admirable. She moved away to replenish the glasses and John with an ease born of practice hastened to assuage his guilt by telling himself that, had Nell been more loving, more willing in bed during these past months, this might never have happened. Nevertheless, he cast about for some way of defusing the tension.
‘Has your friend approached the banks?’
‘Oh, good grief! You know what the banks are like at present. Everything has to be written in tablets of stone these days, doesn’t it? They’re too afraid to move. Such a pity. After all, we’re only talking of fifty-odd thousand. Whoever raises the money will get it back threefold.’
‘Really?’ John took his newly filled glass thoughtfully. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Oh, it is. Everyone who’s seen it says so. Look how well Henry’s done. The courtyard development is the in thing. All Sam’s are cash buyers too. Don’t even need mortgages. If he could just get started it would be a matter of weeks before the first one would be ready for occupation.’
John sat up a little and Gillian, curled beside him, watched him over the rim of her glass as she sipped.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said slowly. He paused and Gillian held her breath.
‘Really?’ she said lightly when she could bear the silence no longer. ‘And what might it be?’
John turned to look at her but the passion had gone from his eyes and it was Gillian’s heart this time that started to race.
‘It just might be possible that your friend and I could do a deal together.’
Gillian sat back with an incredulous little grimace.
‘Really? How on earth …? I mean …’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but I didn’t think that things were too good for you at the moment.’
‘Ah. Well that’s where you’re wrong.’ John’s spirits started to rise and he began to feel excited. ‘This might be just what I’m looking for. I’ve got a feeling that this was really meant to be.’
‘When you say this …’ Gillian snuggled closer and raised her face ‘ … do you mean …?’
John bent to kiss her and she noticed with relief that all the fire had gone from his touch.
‘Well, that would be nice too but I was just wondering …’
‘Yes?’ Gillian sat up and sipped at her whisky. ‘Wondering what?’
‘Would it be possible for me to meet this friend? Just to have a chat. No strings. A preliminary canter, as it were.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Not a word to a soul, of course.’
‘Of course. It shall be our little secret.’ Gillian managed to keep her tone casual. ‘Well, why not? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. We’ll make a little plan and slip away, shall we?’ She paused. ‘When were you thinking of?’ she asked almost indifferently.
‘Well, we’re here all week but it would be nice to do it soon. Would he be available over the holiday? Does he live round here?’
‘Exeter. I tell you what,’ Gillian uncurled her legs and stood up, ‘I’ll go and give him a buzz, shall I? There was some talk of his going away for the New Year.’
‘Oh, yes please, then.’ She had to check her triumphant smile at John’s eagerness. ‘I’d like to catch him before I go back.’
Gillian stood her glass on the table and slipped out and John resumed his fire-gazing. Now, however, his depression had lifted and ideas chased round inside his head. He lifted his glass and drained the last of the whisky feeling alive and excited. He had a feeling in his bones that things were going to turn out right after all.
Fourteen
IT SEEMED AS THOUGH once again the Christmas celebrations at Nethercombe had started the New Year off on a good footing. John, full of plans and hopes, was in better spirits than Nell could ever remember although she had no idea why. In January 1992 the property market reached its lowest point ever and if it hadn’t been for the deal which was being forged with Sam, John would have been quite desperate. Nell, unable to see any reason at all for his good humour, was puzzled but the comforting knowledge of the house in Bournemouth prevented her from being too anxious. Surely with that and John’s pension – for the thousandth time she wished that he hadn’t commuted it – they could cope until he found a job? The recession couldn’t last for ever. She turned her thoughts to the baby that she carried and decided that she must relax and look forward to it and try to push her doubts and fears to one side.
Jack went back to school and Nell found the flat quiet and lonely without him. They’d spent happy hours talking about the baby; deciding on names only to change their minds and choose others that became more and more outrageous. Nell bought some wool and began, rather inexpertly, to knit tiny garments whilst Jack wrote a long, painstaking letter to his grandparents and aunt in Toronto telling them about the forthcoming event.
‘Why don’t they ever come to see us?’ He abandoned his task for a moment and came to hang on the back of the sofa. Nell frowned at the knitting pattern, trying to make sense of it and failing miserably. ‘It’s rather a long way and it’s very expensive,’ she explained. ‘And your cousin is a very sickly child. I told you. Pauline was very ill when he was born and neither of them are able to live normal healthy lives. It’s very sad.’
‘But Granny and Grandpa could come,’ protested Jack. He hung his arms over the chair and drew up his feet, breathing stertorously into the cushions. ‘Aunt Pauline could stay in Toronto with Uncle Philip.’
Nell, who had often thought this, considered her reply.
‘Pauline’s very nervous,’ she said at last. ‘Sick people often are. She can’t bear for them to leave her. You have to remember that they’re her mum and dad.’
‘They’re your mum and dad too,’ grumbled Jack, doing complicated things with his legs. ‘But they left you when they went out to Canada.’
Nell was silent, remembering the bitterness she’d felt when they told her they were going.
‘Pauline needs us, darling,’ they’d said, automatically expecting her to understand and accept that her spoiled younger sister must be put first, for thus it had been all her life. ‘She simply can’t cope with the new baby. She was so ill with him. And Philip drinks. We’ll come back and see you, of course, and you must come out. It’s so wonderful out there.’
They’d sold everything, giving Nell the small sum of money that had been the deposit on the cottage at Porlock Weir, and set off with promises of visits and money to help with air fares but they’d never been back and Nell had never visited them. It was as if she and the two-year-old Jack were completely unimportant to them and, even when it might have been possible for Nell to scrape up some of the money for a ticket, she was too proud to ask for a contribution.
Jack gave a great kick and tumbled over the back of the chair into her lap where he lay, laughing. Nell dropped her pattern and tried to rescue her knitting but before she could speak, his face changed and grew solemn and he stared up at her round-eyed.
‘I can feel it,’ he whispered, half alarmed, half excited. ‘I can feel the baby moving.’
Nell began to smile a little. ‘He’s kicking you,’ she said. ‘Serves you right for falling on top of him. Or her. You’ll have to show a little more respect.’
But Jack didn’t move or smile back. He continued to lie against her, feeling the fluttering movements, awed by his experience. She lightly brushed the hair from his brow, conscious of so many emotions – joy, gratitude, terror, love – that she felt that she might fly apart, disintegrate into a million particles. Aware of some of these sensations, Jack slipped his arms round her waist and hugged her as tightly as he could whilst trying to be gentle.
‘Aloysius,’ he said, referring to their earlier conversation. ‘Or Persephone if it’s a girl.’ He watched her smile and felt relieved. ‘What if he’s twins?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Nell, retrieving her needles. ‘And what about that letter?’
Jack sighed and crawled off the sofa on his hands.
‘I’ll finish it after tea,’ he promised. ‘I’m starving.’
Now, all alone, Nell longed for his easy natural companionship. Try though she might, she could not keep her fears at bay and John’s odd behaviour, cheerful and confident though it was, only served to unsettle her more.
FOR JOHN, THINGS WERE going better than he had dared to hope. He’d taken to Sam at once, was impressed with the site and had no difficulty in believing that there were buyers queuing up. If the courtyard development at Nethercombe could sell the way it had, then so could this. Sam was affable, charming, perfectly ready to give John the telephone numbers of those who wished to buy and showed no sign of his relief when Jo
hn refused and simply accepted his word for it. When John telephoned to say that his bank was prepared to advance the money against the house in Bournemouth Sam knew he was home and dry. The bank was arranging to take a first charge over the property, agreeing to lend sixty per cent of the value which meant that they must wait until the valuer had made his report to find out the exact sum available.
‘Even so,’ John told him, ‘I’ve been told that I should be in a position to write a cheque before the end of January. The manager says he’ll be reviewing the loan in six months’ time. How far d’you think we’ll have got by then?’
‘Six months?’ echoed Sam, hearing the anxious note in John’s voice. ‘Well, even if we look on the pessimistic side, we should have the first sale contract signed by then. The first unit ought to be ready in seven months. How does that sound?’
It sounded very exciting and the days dragged until, at last, John was able to telephone again to say that money was in his account and he could write out the cheque. Sam arrived at Bristol Temple Meads station the next morning and John met him from the train and took him back to the office.
‘Before you write the cheque,’ said Sam, as John flourished his cheque book, ‘I’ve got one or two papers here for you to look at. Read them first. If you’re happy with them you can write the cheque.’ He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file from which he extracted an impressive-looking legal document. ‘That’s a charge over the property so that no one can sell it without telling you first. It’s a second charge, of course. The bank holds the first one. As you can see, I’ve already signed it and had it witnessed by my solicitor. Even so, you may want your legal man to look over it.’
Impressed, John read through the clauses.
‘It seems fine,’ he said at last. ‘Not that I understand all the jargon. Still. Thanks, Sam. I don’t see any point in wasting money to pay another solicitor to do it all over again, do you?’
The Courtyard Page 12
