‘Are you OK, kiddo?’ he’d asked, next time they’d met. ‘I hope you’re not angry with me. It just seemed the natural thing to do at the time. The first time is rather important for a girl, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t like you to be hurt or anything like that by some insensitive lout.’
She’d swallowed and nodded; her experience did not allow for this kind of conversation.
‘Well then.’ He bent and kissed her lightly and instinctively her arms went out to hold him. ‘That’s all right. But don’t drink too much at parties.’
So that was that; but Tessa had not stopped loving him. One day, she was quite convinced of it, he would suddenly realise that he’d loved her all along. Meanwhile she dreamed about him.
She passed Ausewell Cross and a few minutes later was pulling in at the Roundhouse at Buckland-in-the-Moor. She always got up on to the moor as quickly as she could and the Roundhouse was always her first stop. She climbed out of the car and stretched, sniffing at the wind that blew across the hills. The Roundhouse, with its little shop and gallery of artists’ studios, was attached to the farm and three generations of Perrymans—if you included young Colin who helped out in emergencies—ran it all. She wondered if Mrs Perryman would be around or whether one of her twin daughters—or perhaps both—would be working today. She looked forward to seeing their friendly smiles and hearing their soft Devon voices just as much as she longed for the delicious coffee. Tessa smiled to herself with anticipation; she felt exactly as though she were coming home.
‘THE USUAL DRAMAS!’ ANNOUNCED Kate when Tessa had settled into the big Victorian house on the edge of Whitchurch Down. ‘Felix has cut his pad and David has left half his belongings behind. Oh, and I think I’ve found you a new customer.’
‘Oh great!’ Tessa sat at the kitchen table stroking Felix, who had come to lean against her. ‘Who is it?’
‘Hang on, I’ve written it down somewhere.’ Kate leafed distractedly through the muddle on the table. ‘They’re over towards Ivybridge way. Two labradors. Here we are. Carrington. She’s a widow, rather elderly, who likes to visit her daughter in the Midlands. Dear old thing she is and the dogs are very well trained and far too fat and idle to do anything antisocial like running away. I’m sure you’ll get on very well.’
‘Thanks, Kate.’ Tessa inspected the piece of paper which Kate pushed across to her. ‘I need all the help I can get.’
Kate looked down at the feathery blonde hair cut short and the neat little face with the wonderfully expressive golden eyes; lion’s eyes. She admired Tessa who was making such an effort to create a decent career for herself, despite a lack of family to support and encourage her. Sue Anderson had told Kate all about Tessa’s past.
‘She’s an absolute sweetie,’ Sue had said. ‘We all love her. She longs for a family. It’s quite heartrending, really. Nothing but some old aunt who watches the box all day long. We met her at the school once. Poor Tessa.’
‘I’ve heard that you’re doing splendidly,’ Kate said now, giving Tessa’s shoulder a little squeeze. ‘Give Mrs Carrington a buzz while you’re here and then go over and see her. You’ll love Romulus and Remus.’
Tessa burst out laughing. ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Romulus and Remus? Good grief!’
‘The breeder was having a Roman period, apparently,’ said Kate.
‘At least Mrs Carrington didn’t choose Ptolemy or Nero. One must be grateful for small mercies.’
Tessa grinned up at her. ‘It’s nice to be back,’ she said.
LATER, AFTER SHE’D DRIVEN Kate into Plymouth to catch the train, Tessa took the limping Felix for a little stroll. The late October sunshine was warm on her shoulders and she restrained an urge to run and shout. These huge spaces filled her with a sense of freedom and she took great lungfuls of air, still hardly able to believe her good fortune. She might have been stuck in an office somewhere—or in a shop. What luck to have fallen into this job and to have such good friends to help her! Tessa paused to pat Felix, who hobbled beside her, and then turned to the car: she mustn’t let him overdo it.
Back at the house, she unpacked and began to settle herself in properly. She always had the little spare room which she had almost come to look upon as her own and, having put her things away, she made her usual tour of the house. Everything was in order and with a sigh of contentment she went into the kitchen and pushed the kettle on to the Rayburn. Felix, stretched on his rug in the corner, watched her, his tail beating a tattoo on the floor. She went to him, crouching beside him and stroking him.
‘She’ll be back soon,’ Tessa told him. ‘Don’t worry.’
He stretched himself out contentedly and she got up and wandered round the kitchen, peering into the fridge, checking the larder—Kate was always very generous—and pausing before her favourite painting; a moorland scene done by David himself. It was of a bridge over the River Dart and a part of the bank with a group of foxgloves glowing against the sun-warmed stone. The light danced on the water and, in the corner of the picture some words were scrawled, partly obscured by the mounting: ‘Bless you for everything. It’s been perfect.’ The rest of the writing was too hidden to read. The painting never ceased to hold her attention and engage her emotions. Presently a new frame on the dresser caught her eye and she picked it up curiously. It was a photograph of two young men. Tessa had often seen photographs of Kate’s twins from her first marriage. They were dotted about the house; in Kate’s bedroom on her chest of drawers; in a montage of family photographs in a frame in the downstairs loo; in the bedroom—which was obviously kept ready for them—standing on the bedside table. There were the twins as babies at either end of a huge pram; the twins as toddlers, each clasping the other’s hand on a beach; the twins as small boys in uniform, going off to school. This, however, was a very recent one. Tessa stared at it. They were very alike—both tall and dark—but one looked more serious, almost forbidding, frowning a little; the other smiled, his eyes crinkled against the sun, his hands dug deep in his pockets.
Tessa replaced the photograph and sighed a little. Families: everyone seemed to belong to someone.
‘Everyone except me,’ she said aloud sadly, and Felix opened an eye and sat up.
She smiled ruefully at her self-pity and pulled herself together.
‘You wait,’ she said to him. ‘One day I’m going to have lots of children and at least two dogs. And I shall live here on the moor. You wait and see!’
Felix sighed deeply and lay down again, putting his head on his paws and watching Tessa whilst she moved to and fro making herself some tea. The kitchen was warm and presently he dozed. Tessa sat on at the table, drinking her tea, listening to the slow ticking of the clock, staring across at David’s painting on the opposite wall. It comforted her to be in such surroundings; in a family home with an old dog lying asleep in the corner. For this moment in time it was her home, her dog, her kitchen. She sighed, looked again at the piece of paper lying on the table and, slipping quietly from her chair, went to telephone Mrs Carrington.
Six
IN THE END THE Christmas holiday turned out to be very different from all that Isobel had imagined. Out of the unhappiness that had dogged her through the autumn a desperate hope had been born. She became convinced that when Helen came home for Christmas she would have relented a little, become mature enough at least to be prepared to communicate with her mother. The few telephone conversations Isobel had with Simon confirmed that Helen was growing up and Isobel allowed herself to believe that the season of goodwill might extend its promise of happiness to her. Simon agreed to have a serious talk with Helen and, when they had discussed the best approach and Isobel had made her points—as much for Simon’s ears as Helen’s—as to her regrets and guilt, she suggested tentatively that he might meet her for a Christmas drink for old times’ sake.
He hesitated so long that her pride almost made her say, ‘Forget it! Don’t bother! Another time, perhaps?’ but her need kept her silent and he reluctantly agreed. As she
went about her work she buoyed herself up with the knowledge that, as yet, Sally had not moved in with Simon. Their relationship might still come to nothing. As she shopped and cooked and spent her two days a week at the bookshop she allowed herself little fantasies in which Simon realised that he still loved her and that Sally had merely been a kind of sop to his injured pride; a consolation. She imagined Helen coming home at the end of a busy, happy term with a sense of fulfilment and contentment which might blossom into a generosity towards her mother. All these things were possible and Isobel clung to them.
The blow fell two weeks before Christmas when Isobel and Simon met for their drink. She was at the Crabshell before him and her heart described its usual upward leap as she saw him come in. She stood up and waved to him across the crowd and he smiled in recognition and grimaced comically at the noise and the quantity of people crammed into the bar. Her spirits soared; it was going to be all right, she just knew it. He pushed his way to her table and gave her the usual kiss on the cheek. His face was cold against hers and he wore a thick jersey over his jeans.
‘What a row!’ he said. ‘Is the whole of Kingsbridge here?’
‘I think so.’ She felt so happy she could only smile and smile at him. She was still clutching his arm and he made no move to shake her off.
‘You were very lucky to get a table,’ he told her.
‘Aren’t I clever?’ She grinned at him and his expression softened as he looked down at her. There was that strange feeling of familiarity accompanied by the knowledge that they were, somehow, strangers which excited Isobel and made her heart bump.
‘Very clever,’ he acknowledged. He moved a little away from her and she was obliged to release him. ‘Are we eating?’
‘I thought so.’ Isobel sat down again, glowing with this new happiness. ‘I’ve just come from the shop. It’s been hell today. Everyone ordering books. We’re really busy.’
‘Well, that’s good, surely?’ Simon sat down and picked up the menu. ‘It would be worrying if you weren’t busy two weeks before Christmas. What are you eating?’
Isobel shrugged. The food was of secondary importance. ‘I think I’ll have some pasta. The seafood tagliatelle is good. What about you?’
‘Steak and kidney pie.’ Simon shut the menu and looked towards the bar. ‘I’d better order if we want it this side of Christmas.’ He glanced at her glass. ‘More wine?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘Not just yet.’
She watched him as he fought his way to the bar and then stretched herself with a kind of nervous excitement. She’d been into Rainbow and treated herself to a new outfit she couldn’t afford: a long skirt in soft lambswool and angora with a matching wrapover cardigan which belted tightly round her narrow waist and was worn over a cotton polo-neck jersey in the same earthy shade. The tweedy terracotta colours lent a glow to her paleness and she had been so delighted with the result that she had bought a pair of dark brown leather ankle boots to finish off the ensemble. Her dark hair was loose, held in place with a twisted silk scarf and she felt a delicious sense of luxury and confidence. She sipped her spritzer and saw that her hand trembled a little.
When Simon returned he was carrying a glass of wine as well as his pint. ‘I decided I would,’ he said, putting it beside her. ‘I’m not sure I can face that again in a hurry.’
‘Very sensible,’ she agreed. ‘So how are you? How’s the play coming on?’
Simon always produced the sixth-form play at the end of the Christmas term and he was perfectly happy to discuss it at length. They were still talking about it when the food came. Simon unwrapped his knife and fork from their paper napkin and said, ‘Bon appetit’ and Isobel raised her glass to him and finished her spritzer, revelling in their new-found intimacy. She realised that she had missed lunch and that she was very hungry, and she forked up her pasta with relish. Simon asked after Mathilda and she made light, as she always did, of the strange relationship she had with the old woman in her isolated cove. She told him about Mathilda’s plans to divide her property between her unknown relations and Simon frowned a little.
‘But where would that leave you?’ he asked her. ‘After all, she’s getting on a bit, isn’t she?’
Isobel felt her nervousness returning. She put down her fork and swallowed back some wine. ‘She says I’ll have the right to stay put,’ she said, trying to sound unconcerned, ‘but it was a bit of a shock. I’ve got to think about it, of course. Have you …? What are your plans? Any news? When’s Helen home?’
Simon finished his pie and pushed his plate aside. ‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk about,’ he said.
He looked so serious that Isobel took another gulp at her wine and picked up her fork again. ‘I’m longing to see her,’ she said, spearing a shrimp. ‘Have you mentioned anything to her yet? About … you know. Me longing to see her.’
‘The thing is,’ he said slowly, ‘the thing is—she isn’t coming home.’
‘Isn’t … ? But why not?’ Isobel felt a jolt of disappointment but, underneath the disappointment, a tiny hope flared up that she and Simon would spend Christmas together.
‘A girl she shares with has parents who have a house in Italy,’ he was explaining, ‘and she’s invited a group of them to go home with her. There’s skiing, apparently and goodness knows what and naturally Helen can’t resist.’
‘Well, I can’t say that I blame her.’ Isobel’s hope was expanding. ‘I can send her present to Durham. With luck she’ll get it before she goes.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ He smiled at her, relieved by her philosophical reaction. ‘Anyway, she’ll be back after the New Year. She’s coming home then for a week or two.’
‘Well then,’ Isobel grinned at him, warmed by his smile, confident that all was going to be well. ‘That just leaves you and me.’
His face was suddenly suffused with colour. He looked so distressed that Isobel put down her fork, a sudden anxiety seizing her.
‘I shan’t be here either,’ he said abruptly. ‘Sally and I are going to the Lakes. When I heard that Helen wasn’t coming down we decided to have a little holiday. Her parents live near Kendal.’
They stared at each other. Her disappointment was so great that Isobel was silenced. She had been so sure … This is the second time, she told herself. The second time I’ve made a fool of myself in a pub. Pride made her pull herself together and she nodded, trying to smile.
‘I’m really sorry about Helen,’ he told her. ‘Maybe when she comes down later on …’
She knew that he was offering her a way out; that she could pretend that it was only Helen she cared about.
‘It would be wonderful,’ she said quickly. ‘It means so much to me, as you know.’
‘Of course.’
She couldn’t bear the pity in his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll send her present on, then.’ She racked her brain for something to say and smiled at him quickly. ‘Look, I really ought to be getting back. I must make supper for Mathilda and …’
She was on her feet gathering her belongings together and he stood up awkwardly, unable to help her. Politely, like strangers, they wished each other ‘Happy Christmas’, uttered meaningless inanities, kissed briefly and then Isobel found herself on the quay, the cold frosty air cooling her hot cheeks. She hitched the long strap of her bag over her shoulder and stared down into the inky water which reflected the fairy lights strung along the embankment. The pub door swung open and a gust of noise and laughter spilled out, light shafting across the quay towards her. Hastily, lest Simon should come out and see her with the tears wet on her cheeks, she turned aside and hurried away to the car.
MATHILDA WAS SITTING AT the kitchen table, eating rice pudding directly from the dish, a book propped against the sugar bowl. She glanced up as Isobel came in, brows raised questioningly.
‘I thought you were dining out,’ she said. ‘Oh dear. Have I got it wrong? I’m afraid I’ve nearly finished this delicious pudding.’
Desper
ate though Isobel was she gave a short laugh at the sight of Mathilda’s comically rueful expression. ‘You might have put it on to a plate,’ she said, ‘but at least you remembered to eat it. It’s too much to hope that you had some macaroni cheese first?’
‘Much too much,’ agreed Mathilda cheerfully. ‘Was there some? Never mind. This is extremely filling.’
Isobel shook her head at her and sat down at the table. She knew quite well that everything was now finished between herself and Simon and the overwhelming misery that had engulfed her when he had first told her about Sally was flooding back. She had been a fool to allow herself to hope; to persuade herself that the affair with Sally was a passing one …
‘Is something wrong?’
Mathilda’s voice broke in upon her thoughts and Isobel pressed her lips firmly together lest she should burst into tears. She shook her head, trying to smile, and Mathilda stood up and went across to the Rayburn.
‘Tea, I think,’ she said reflectively.
She pottered to and fro, giving Isobel time to regain her control, and presently the younger woman laughed. It was a rather desperate sound, which almost immediately turned into a sigh, but Mathilda turned to look at her enquiringly.
‘I was just thinking,’ said Isobel. ‘The song is quite wrong. All that business about love being lovelier the second time around. Remember it? Something about it being much more comfortable with both feet on the ground? Quite the reverse, in my case.’
Mathilda was silent. ‘I don’t think I know it,’ she said at last.
This time Isobel’s laugh held a note of genuine amusement. ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Now if it had been by Hugo Wolf or Benjamin Britten …’
Second Time Around Page 5
