At least Nell asked for very little and seemed content to stay in the warmth of the flat during these cold winter days, reading and knitting for the baby. At the mere thought of the baby John felt an upsurge of anxiety and had to remind himself of the new scheme that would save his life. Once again his hand crept towards the telephone and once again he withdrew it. Only two weeks had passed since Sam’s visit to Bristol. He didn’t want to look as if he were nagging but he wished that Sam would give him a quick call.
At the end of the third week, John threw away his scruples and telephoned the flat in Exeter. There was no reply. He continued to try throughout the day but there was still no answer. He tried early and late but the telephone rang unheeded and John began to worry. He remembered what Sam had said about being ran over by a bus. Or perhaps he was ill? He thought of phoning Gillian but wondered what he’d say if anyone else answered. Irresolute, anxious, he waited a few more days. Sam had told him that work would begin at once on the site, bringing in the utilities, and he wondered if Sam was out there, perhaps in a caravan, keeping an eye on things.
At last John made up his mind. He filled up the car with petrol – keeping his fingers crossed when he passed over his Barclaycard – prayed that no one would notice that the tax disc was three months out of date and set off for Devon.
GUY WEBSTER LET HIMSELF in, bent to pick up his post and stood looking thoughtfully at the large square envelope for a moment before closing the door behind him. Bertie pottered ahead of him into the kitchen and stood looking into his empty dinner bowl with regret and a certain amount of surprise.
‘You ate it all last night, you dumb animal,’ muttered Guy. ‘It’s not the magic porridge pot, you know. Doesn’t fill up again as soon as you’ve emptied it.’
Bertie wagged his tail politely and sat down on his beanbag in the corner. He stared fixedly and hopefully at the cupboard on the wall until Guy, who had been reading Phoebe’s invitation, sighed and picked up the bowl.
‘I can take a hint.’
He prepared Bertie’s dinner and thought about the party. The one problem with the Courtyard was that it would be very difficult to stay aloof whilst remaining on good terms with one’s neighbours. It was the risk he had decided to take; there was so much else going for it. Guy put Bertie’s bowl on the floor and went into the sitting room to switch on the television. He’d have to accept. He could see no other course unless he said that he was away working, moving a boat perhaps. Guy glanced again at the card. The thing was, he didn’t want to have to go out specially on a Saturday afternoon and evening just to keep up the pretence. It would have been different had it been summer. It was worth keeping his little office in the marina open later then and he could potter round to the Royal Castle for a pint and some supper. As it was, it was hardly worth opening at all at the moment. There was simply no money around. Still, he was surviving. With careful management and that very generous gift of money from his father …
Guy stirred a little in his armchair. He still felt the prickings of guilt when he remembered how he’d accepted money from the man who had caused his mother so much pain and had been so indifferent to him as a child. He’d never been as frightened of him as his twin, Giles, but there was no doubt that he’d been a very unsympathetic figure who spent most of his time at sea and seemed like a stranger when he came home, creating a feeling of tension, almost fear, in the even, happy tenor of their lives. After the divorce he’d left the Navy and gone to Canada where he still lived. Guy had been over several times now at his father’s invitation – and expense – and he knew very well that the presents of money were a way of buying his friendship back and worse, a way of striking obliquely at the wife who had finally left him.
Guy got up abruptly and going to the fridge took out a can of beer. Although she’d never for one moment said so or given any sign of it, he guessed that she must find his disloyalty difficult to deal with. But was it disloyalty? After all, the man was his father and Guy knew with a disconcerting self-honesty that he shared some of his less attractive characteristics. He tipped his head back and drank straight from the can. He loved his mother but that didn’t mean that he was obliged to ignore his father. He’d said as much to Giles who simply looked at him until Guy felt uncomfortable. Anyway, he’d needed the money and why shouldn’t he take it? They’d had nothing from Mark Webster since their sixteenth birthdays and only the bare necessities since they were ten when their mother had left him.
Guy swore, took another swig and jumped violently as the doorbell rang. Bertie barked excitedly and Guy swore at him too. His face as he opened the door was not particularly welcoming and Phoebe grimaced in alarm.
‘Heavens! That sort of day, was it? Then I shan’t intrude.’
‘Rubbish.’ Guy swallowed his irritation and smiled with as good a grace as he could muster. ‘Come in. It’s too cold to stand about.’
‘Just for a moment then.’ She followed him inside. ‘I’ve come to ask a favour.’ Guy stood silent, waiting until Phoebe cocked a knowing eye at him. ‘Just what you were dreading, eh? Boring neighbours bouncing in and out being pains in the neck?’
Guy smiled unwillingly and Phoebe grinned.
‘I’ve just got in …’ he explained but Phoebe shook her head at him.
‘Now that’s a sign of weakness I didn’t expect from you,’ she said reprovingly. ‘You know the golden rule. “Never apologise, never explain.” Next, you’ll be asking me to sit down and then, if you got really carried away and were to offer me a drink, you’d never be able to forgive yourself.’
Guy burst out laughing and she laughed with him.
‘All I need is a lift to Dartmouth tomorrow. I want to go to the market and my car’s still in the garage. It didn’t pass the MOT and it won’t be ready tomorrow. I’m meeting a chum for lunch and she’s bringing me back but a lift would save my life.’
‘I leave early,’ warned Guy, unable to quite squash his natural resentment at being cornered.
Phoebe drew down her mouth at the corners and rolled her eyes at Bertie.
‘That puts me very properly in my place,’ she whispered to him and Bertie wagged obligingly. ‘Excellent! Now you’ve recovered everything you lost when you started to apologise,’ she said cheerfully to the exasperated Guy. ‘Feel better?’
She headed for the door and Guy, completely wrong-footed, followed her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked reluctantly and she looked at him, shocked.
‘Certainly not,’ she said primly. ‘I’m going back to have an early night so as to be up in time in the morning. How early is early? Six o’clock?’
Guy’s smile was tight-lipped and his eyelids drooped a little.
‘Eight fifteen should be fine,’ he said as he opened the door for her.
Phoebe guessed that she had very nearly gone too far and her smile was open and friendly and almost disarmed him.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m really grateful.’ Just outside the door she turned back. ‘And don’t panic. I shan’t expect conversation with my lift. I never talk to anyone before ten o’clock in the morning either!’
Seventeen
HENRY SAT AT HIS desk wrestling with the tax demands for the estate and thinking, as he had nearly four years before, about Gillian. This time he was not marvelling at his good fortune. He knew now that he hadn’t worked hard enough at his marriage, that in marrying a girl almost twelve years younger than himself he should have been more aware. Perhaps he’d already been too set in his ways to think of marrying. Gillian said to him once that he was married to Nethercombe and in many ways it was true. The estate had as many calls on him and as strong a hold over his heart as a spouse might and, if he were honest with himself, very little changed when he brought Gillian home as his wife. Yet he loved her. What she’d needed was the ardour of a man of her own age, not the quiet contented warmth of a middle-aged man. Henry knew that in his ways and ideas he was as old for his years as Gillian was immature for h
ers and he should have made allowances. It was foolish to expect Gillian to love Nethercombe as much as he did and to be prepared to dedicate her life to the same extent. If only there had been a little more money.
Henry took a sip at the coffee that Gussie had brought him earlier, pushed back his chair and wandered over to the window. He dug his hands into his trouser pockets and stared out at the side lawns and the rhododendron bushes, dank and dripping in the February rain. Of course, the Courtyard had taken every penny in those early years. There had been nothing left over for jollies. But it had worked. His dream had been realised and now the cash flow was easier. Money, however, was not the answer. Gillian should have been involved, kept occupied, drawn into things. He remembered her ideas for the conversions – some of which had been used – her enthusiasms, her flair and style. Somehow these talents should have been utilised. But how?
Henry sighed and turned back to his desk. He had written to her; a long letter, describing his deep sadness, his longing for her, his desire for her happiness. He’d said that she would always have a home at Nethercombe, that he would welcome her back absolutely unconditionally if she would only consider it. His single request was that she should do nothing in haste but give herself plenty of time to think. At the very end he told her that he loved her and that he was miserable without her. It was true. Henry’s hands balled into fists in his pockets as he thought of that unknown man. To begin with he’d wondered if it were Simon. He knew now that it wasn’t but had no intention of making enquiries. Only the household was aware of her departure and he could trust the Ridleys and Gussie. Henry took his hands from his pockets and ran his fingers through his hair. Perhaps he should never have brought Gussie back to Nethercombe; but what else could he have done? It had been naive to think that they could all live together happily under one roof, no doubt, but it could have worked if Gillian had been more confident in her position, stopped seeing herself as the incomer. He remembered her reaction when he’d suggested that they might redecorate their sitting room. She’d seen the bribe for what it was and he knew he’d been wrong in insulting her with it.
Gussie put her head round the door. ‘Alan Tremaine says you’re expecting him, my dear.’
Henry glanced at his watch, closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He’d completely forgotten that he’d arranged to see his tenant from Higher Nethercombe Farm.
‘Send him in, Gussie,’ he said, tidying his papers aside. Gussie smiled at him sympathetically and he nodded as if to reassure her that he could cope. ‘Bring us some coffee, would you?’ he asked and as she went out, passing Alan Tremaine in the doorway, Henry got to his feet, with his hand outstretched, his marriage and Gillian pushed, for the moment, to the back of his mind.
NEL SAT ON THE sofa with her feet up listening to Vaughan Williams’s ‘Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis’ while she sewed together a tiny woollen cardigan. Her stock of baby clothes was growing very satisfactorily and, whilst some of the garments didn’t look quite like the pictures on the patterns, Nell was very proud of her handiwork. The music soothed and calmed her, which she felt was very important at the moment with John going about as emotionally coiled up as the spring of a newly wound clock. Nell could feel her stomach churning as she looked at his closed inward-looking face. Something was going on but she was almost too afraid to ask. Only days before, the atmosphere had been different. There had been a sense of suppressed excitement, as though he were keeping a wonderful secret that he dared not yet tell. Now it had changed and she felt a terrible foreboding. Part of her was desperate to know, part wanted to go on in this quiet ignorance. With the knowledge that they could pack up and go to the house in Bournemouth had come a great measure of peace. They could scrape by on John’s pension until he could find a job – she knew it would be difficult in the present economic climate but surely something would turn up – and they could start again. The house had been left partly furnished and there was a lovely garden for Jack to play in. She almost hoped that the business had collapsed so that they could get this dreadful strain over and go. Jack had been offered a full scholarship to Sherborne and the relief had been so great that Nell had wept. Surely, with all these things coming together, they could manage? If only poor John could swallow his pride, admit the estate agency had been a disaster and get it over with! So many businesses had been wrecked in this dreadful recession that he need not feel ashamed. Knowing his extreme sensitivity in this area, Nell had only been able to approach the subject obliquely and recently, given his mood of the last few days, not at all.
The ‘Fantasia’ had finished and as Nell prepared to reverse the tape there was a ring at the doorbell. She went to open it and found her neighbour from upstairs on the doorstep. She smiled at Nell and raised her eyebrows at her bump.
‘Any day now by the look of you,’ she said cheerfully and held out a letter. ‘This got put in with ours by mistake.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Nell took it and hesitated. ‘Would you like—?’
‘No thanks, love. I’m just off to the shops, thanks all the same. Can I get you anything? You don’t look in a fit state for shopping.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Nell, grateful that her peace was not to be disturbed by a flow of banalities, ‘honestly. But thanks anyway.’
The neighbour went on her way and Nell went back into the flat turning the envelope in her hand. Since John was careful to pick up the post as he went to the office each morning, Nell never saw any letters but her own. She went back into the sitting room and idly opened it. It was from British Telecom. As she read the letter, her heart began to pound and she had to read it twice to make sense of it. The bill had not been paid, it seemed, and since requests for payment had been ignored and no explanation had been forthcoming, the telephone line would be discontinued and the matter put in the hands of their solicitors. Even now, though Nell felt the old sensations of terror creeping round her heart, she could not really panic. She still felt quite certain that – once John could be persuaded to give in – they could move to Bournemouth and, with careful management, survive. Nevertheless, the afternoon seemed endless and it was with a sense of relief, mixed with apprehension, that Nell heard John’s key in the lock.
‘Hi.’ She smiled at him as he came in, staying where she was on the sofa. ‘How are you?’
‘OK.’ His voice was dull and he bent to kiss her without looking at her.
‘This came,’ she said without preamble and held out the letter. ‘I didn’t realise that things were so serious. I wish you’d told me.’
He stood looking at the letter, the light throwing an unflattering shadow into his face, and Nell suddenly noticed how old he looked, much older than his forty-two years.
‘John.’ Her tone was abrupt and John looked at her, frowning a little. ‘Why don’t we give it all up? Just pack it in?’
‘You make it sound easy.’ His voice was still flat and lifeless and Nell got up and went to him. She put her arms round him and looked up at him pleadingly.
‘It could be easy,’ she said gently. ‘There’s no shame in knowing when to give in. This recession has been too much for so many people.’
‘So what then?’ He didn’t attempt to return her embrace. ‘Go on the dole? Live in a DSS bed and breakfast? The landlord certainly wouldn’t let us stay on here.’
‘But why should we do that? We can go to Bournemouth. I’m sure we’d manage—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop going on about Bournemouth!’ He pushed her arms away and turned his back. ‘You know how I feel about that!’
‘Yes but I don’t know why.’ Nell was puzzled and afraid. ‘It’s so silly to go on like this. OK, this bill’s not a very big one luckily, we hardly ever use this telephone, but what about the other bills and the rent? Are those being paid? Why run up bills needlessly? I know the business isn’t working. It can’t be. Estate agents are at the lowest they’ve ever been, I saw it on the news. Why throw more money away? Haven’t we lost enough alread
y?’ She saw his back go rigid and bit her lip. She must be careful, think about what she was saying. ‘Oh, John,’ she laid a hand on his unresponsive arm, ‘please. We could be so happy. It’s a lovely house, more or less furnished for us, with a garden. We could squeeze by on your pension now that Jack’s got his scholarship. And with the baby coming—’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ He spun round and she recoiled at the rage and hate in his face. ‘Just shut up! OK? Shut up! I don’t want to hear about Bournemouth or the bloody baby! OK?’
‘John, please!’
He stared into her frightened, pleading face and felt an urge to strike it, to throw her to the floor, to kick the distorted belly. He raised his hand as though he would hit her and, terrified by the hot surge of violent rage that was spiralling out of control, he pushed her backwards on to the sofa and fled from the room. The front door banged. Nell huddled where he had thrown her in the corner of the sofa, harsh sobs tearing themselves up from deep inside her. She drew herself into the smallest ball that was possible in her condition and cried in earnest. After a while, feeling dizzy and sick, she forced herself to relax and sit up. At this rate she’d go into premature labour. Whatever happened she must think of the baby. ‘“The bloody baby”,’ she repeated to herself and wept anew, hugging her bump as though to assure its occupier that it was loved. She dragged herself into the kitchen and went through the familiar motions of making herself some tea. She felt ill and exhausted and made a very real effort to calm herself. It was difficult. She was so frightened. John’s volatile temper had often caused her moments of distress but never had he looked at her with such disgust and hatred, as though he would have enjoyed hurting her. At the thought of it, Nell gave a little whimper of terror and misery. Supposing he came back drunk? No longer able to control himself as he had in that last second?
The Courtyard Page 15
