Second Time Around

by Marcia Willett

  Bea gazed out over the Exe estuary. The September day was misty and the silvery sea, creeping in over the mud flats, merged with the soft grey sky. She leaned forward to watch a group of dunlin running before the tide; to smile at the sight of a heron hunched in solitary contemplation. A sense of peace stole into her soul and she settled back contentedly, deciding to enjoy her little holiday. The lawyer had written to her offering to meet her at the station in Plymouth but she had refused, saying that she would take a taxi to his office. There was no earthly reason why she should go to see the house but there might very well be a few items of furniture that would be useful if she were going to be setting up in her own flat. Her thoughts drifted back to Tony Priest but she forgot him when the train pulled in at Dawlish and she saw seagulls perched on the breakwaters and the sea breaking against the great sandstone rocks. It was years since she had made this journey and she gave herself up to the pleasure of recognising certain landmarks.

  As the train approached Plymouth, Bea put on the jacket of her grey flannel suit, checked the contents of her handbag for the lawyer’s letter and lifted her small case from the rack. She was one of the first off the train and the first into a taxi. The offices of Murchison, Marriott were situated in one of the city’s Georgian crescents and Bea looked at the tall house approvingly as she paid the driver. Inside, at the reception desk, a young woman telephoned the news of her arrival and led her upstairs. She opened the door and smilingly bade Bea enter.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ James leaped up to greet her and then paused as Bea turned from thanking the receptionist and fixed him with a piercing, assessing stare. The years swung back and he found that he was hastily smoothing down his hair and surreptitiously wiping the toes of his shoes down the backs of his trouser legs. ‘Good grief,’ said James involuntarily. ‘It’s Matron!’

  ISOBEL BUMPED DOWN THE track towards the cove feeling tired and irritable. The day at the bookshop had started badly when she found the brewer’s lorry parked outside The Hermitage, blocking Mill Street whilst the driver sat enjoying a cup of coffee in the bar. This amiable young man nodded cheerfully at her and said that he would call her when he had finished unloading. Cursing, Isobel left the Morris—Mathilda’s bequest to her—parked behind the lorry and hastened into the shop. The day had gone from bad to worse. She had been driven to curtness by a customer who wanted a book on gardening without knowing its title, the author, or its publisher but was convinced that Isobel must know which book it was because it had been so well reviewed. At lunchtime she lost her purse—although it was found and dropped into the shop just before closing time—and later in the afternoon she was ticked off by a mother for reproving her child who was pulling books off the shelves and dropping them on the floor. The door banged behind mother and child and, with a speaking glance at Pat and Laura, one of the two regular assistants, Isobel went through to the back of the shop to make coffee. The return of her purse cheered her a little but she was glad to get out into the fresh air of the early autumn evening.

  She knew that it was tension that was making her so crotchety. Will, who was staying at the Royal Castle in Dartmouth, had made it clear that he was unwilling to sell the house and James had written to Tessa to tell her so. Unfortunately, having no other point of contact, he wrote to the house in Cobbold Road where the letter sat with her other post until she should return. Meanwhile Tessa was in Wales, dog-sitting two Weimaraners, longing to telephone James but afraid of being a nuisance or of hearing unpalatable news. Isobel also knew that, as a result of Tessa’s pleadings, James had agreed to write to Beatrice Holmes again with the suggestion that she might like to choose some keepsake from amongst Mathilda’s belongings, and in the hope that she might fall in love with the house whilst she was so engaged.

  As she turned the Morris into its usual parking place she saw that James’s car was already parked at the bottom of the track. She climbed out and stood undecidedly near the door into the kitchen remembering how she would once have gone in, shouting cheerfully to Mathilda, drawing curtains, checking that Mathilda had eaten her lunch. Swallowing hard she stared out to sea, watching the breakers crash against the shelf of sand and thinking of past evenings by the study fire playing Scrabble. The sound of a car’s engine made itself heard above the sound of the surf and she turned to see Will’s hired car pulling in beside James’s Peugeot.

  Her heart lifted at the sight of his cheerful countenance and raised hand, and she went to meet him, her loneliness abating a little.

  ‘Have you met her?’ he called with a conspiratorial glance towards the house. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Met who?’ Isobel began to feel excited. ‘Is she here? The schoolteacher? ’

  ‘James phoned to say she arrived yesterday,’ he told her. ‘She’s come down to see if there’s anything she wants. Clever ruse, that.’

  ‘But even if she likes the place,’ argued Isobel, ‘what then? Could you all squash in together?’

  ‘Well, I can’t afford to buy her out,’ said Will gloomily. ‘I had no idea it would be so valuable. It’s fifty years behind the times inside.’

  ‘It’s the position,’ said Isobel, equally gloomily. ‘If you sell it the developers will move in. Oh, I can’t bear it!’

  Will smiled at her encouragingly. The whole affair had made him feel years younger. He had spent the last two weeks exploring the area and he was becoming more and more attached to the beautiful South Hams. One day he and Isobel had taken a picnic up on to Dartmoor. She had navigated, showing him the thickly wooded river valleys and the high bleak uplands with their outcrops of granite. There were still a great many holidaymakers about and, unable to find a quiet place to park, they had abandoned the idea of the picnic and Isobel had directed him to the small grey moorland town of Chagford where they had lunched in the Ring O’ Bells, looking out over the market square. Afterwards they drove down to Fernworthy Reservoir, a tiny shining lake hidden amongst tall encircling pines, and had walked at the edge of the water and watched the mallard paddling idly in the reeds. Later, Will fetched the hamper and they drank their coffee at one of the picnic tables, nibbling the buns that Isobel had made. The sun was hot, dazzling from the surface of the reservoir where a rowing boat rocked quietly as its occupant bent over his rod.

  Isobel talked non-stop about Mathilda until Will gradually built up a shadowy picture of his cousin and had become even more determined to hold on to her house in the cove. They discussed ways and means of dividing the house so that he and Tessa could share it and had almost discounted the third beneficiary until they learned the value of the house and cottage.

  Now, as they stood together on the beach, Isobel smiled back at him. His silvery grey hair, like Mathilda’s, was always ruffled and slightly untidy and he had an eager look which gave her confidence and hope. The door opened and James appeared followed by a tall well-built woman in a grey suit. Her glance at them was keen and Will instinctively dropped his arm lightly round Isobel’s shoulders as they moved forward to meet her. James was looking surprisingly cheerful and Isobel’s spirits rose as she shook the woman’s hand.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing?’ James was saying. ‘This is Matron. From my prep school. I simply couldn’t believe it. She hasn’t changed a bit.’

  ‘Which only goes to show,’ said Bea, shaking Will’s hand, ‘what an awful old bat I must have been in my forties.’

  ‘To an eight-year-old anyone over twenty is decrepit,’ said Will consolingly. ‘I’m your cousin, Will Rainbird. But I can’t call you Matron … ’

  ‘Sorry,’ said James hastily. ‘This is Miss Holmes.’

  ‘Bea,’ she told Isobel, smiling at her. ‘How d‘you do?’

  ‘I never thought of it being you,’ said James. ‘I didn’t recognise the name. We always called you … Matron.’

  She smiled at his hesitation. ‘Or Busy Bea?’ she suggested. ‘And other less complimentary things with an emphasis on the B?’

  Isobel burst out laughing at James’s
discomfited expression. ‘I’ll leave you to discuss in peace,’ she said. ‘You know where I am if anyone wants anything. Come in for a cup of tea if you feel like it.’

  Bea, puzzled, watched her walk away and turned to James. ‘Is she not my other cousin?’

  ‘Sorry.’ James looked even more confused. ‘I should have introduced you properly. That’s Isobel Stangate. She rents the cottage. I haven’t been able to contact Tessa yet.’

  ‘I see.’ Bea looked thoughtful.

  ‘So,’ said Will, more heartily than he had intended. ‘So what’s your verdict?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Verdict?’

  ‘Now that you’ve seen the place,’ he said, ‘what d’you think of it?’

  ‘The position is excellent,’ she said slowly, ‘if you like deserted coves. I’m sure it will fetch a good price.’

  He stared at her in disappointment. ‘You still want to sell then?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘What else do you suggest we do with it?’

  ‘I hoped we might keep it,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Keep it?’ She looked at him as though he were mad. ‘For what purpose? ’

  ‘To live in,’ mumbled Will, embarrassed by her penetrating stare. ‘I’d like to hang on to it. So would Tessa. We hoped you might feel the same.’

  Bea looked at James as though waiting for him to enlighten her. ‘They both love the house, you see,’ he explained rapidly, rather feeling that he was excusing a particularly muddy rugby shirt or a lost sock. ‘They were wondering if the place couldn’t be kept and used by the three of you.’

  Bea frowned a little, as though she were doing a particularly difficult mental calculation. ‘You seriously imagine that the three of us could live here together?’ she asked. ‘But why? There’s nothing here.’

  She glanced around her. The tide was swirling in across the sand, bursting in white foam against the rocks, filling the pools; above the cliffs away to the east a new moon hung, just visible in the deepening blue of the night sky.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Will slowly, ‘it all depends on what you mean by nothing.’

  Bea looked sharply at him but James intervened. ‘Shall we take advantage of Isobel’s offer of a cup of tea?’ he asked diplomatically. ‘And then I’ll drive you back to Plymouth.’

  Bea hesitated and then nodded. Will stood for a moment, watching the sky change colour as the darkness gathered and the stars appeared, and then followed them across the beach to the cottage.

  Twelve

  THE FARM GATE STOOD open. Tessa applied the brakes and the two dogs in the back of the car were caught off balance, claws scrabbling. She reversed back along the lane and sat for a moment looking in at the close-cropped turf. She had found that farmers rarely objected to people walking their dogs in fields where there were neither crops nor stock but she always felt safer where the gates were open and the grass very short. She had once been surprised by a flock of sheep being driven into an empty field whilst she and her somewhat excitable charge were at the furthest corner from the gate. It had been an interesting moment.

  Here, however, it seemed that the field had been well and truly cropped and Tessa reversed back to a wider part of the lane where she could park safely. She had also learned never to block gateways with the car. The farmer might arrive on a tractor at any moment to feed the field with some kind of fertiliser and be justly annoyed at being denied entry. The clumber spaniel—who bore the unlikely name of Sidney—looked anxiously from the rear window. He hated travelling backwards; it gave him a feeling of insecurity to see objects hastening towards him. He moaned briefly.

  ‘Shut up, Sid!’ muttered Tessa, as she negotiated the verge and the thorn hedge. ‘Don’t be such a baby. Harry doesn’t make a fuss.’

  Hearing his name, the Jack Russell who had been standing on his hind legs—forepaws on the wheel arch as he peered eagerly from the side window—let forth a series of staccato barks. Tessa, clad in jeans, gumboots and a warm padded jacket, climbed out and released them and then stood for a moment to breathe in the sharp early morning air. Sidney, happy to be free of the confined space, padded to and fro along the verge, sniffing amongst the brambles and the faded willowherb. Harry, scenting rabbit, vanished into the field, his excited barks echoing in the quiet spaces of the Wiltshire uplands.

  ‘Come on, Sid.’ Tessa slung their leads round her neck, pushed her hands into her pockets and followed Harry into the field.

  Sidney, his noble mien managing to convey a wounded expression at being called Sid, lifted his leg against a large dock and ambled slowly in her wake. Inside the field Tessa felt a familiar sensation as she gazed across a rolling expanse of chalky fields and gentle dun-coloured slopes. Small cottages, slate grey, nestled in the folds of the hills and mist clung in the valleys. A charm of goldfinches, feeding on thistle seed, swirled up into the cool air and a robin in the branches of an alder sang a stave or two before dipping over the hedge and out of sight. The welling up of joy in Tessa’s heart reached the point where she knew it must be expressed in some action lest she burst with gratitude at the beauty spread out before her.

  She began to run down the field, calling to the dogs, arms outstretched. Harry joined in, skittering round her feet, barking madly whilst Sidney watched from his refuge under the hedge, pained at such unrestrained and plebeian behaviour. The field descended to a small stream, trickling between nut and alder trees, and Harry paused to drink copiously, stumpy tail wagging furiously, short legs planted foursquare. Sidney approached cautiously and Tessa bent to stroke his silky white coat and large domed head.

  ‘It’s not right, is it, old boy?’ she murmured. ‘Leaving you with a ratbag like Harry. Poor old chap.’

  Sensing sympathy and a proper awareness of his dignity, Sidney sighed deeply. He consented to drink a little, one drooping eye on his regenerate companion. Tessa watched, smiling to herself. The decision that Harry’s owner, a newly divorced woman with two small children, should join Sidney’s mistress—also divorced with two children—on a holiday in France had been made at the last moment. It seemed that the two women could share the driving and the expense of the villa which could accommodate them all at a pinch; but what about Harry? Rather reluctantly, Tessa agreed that she would look after both dogs and hoped that Harry would be able to adapt to his new surroundings. Fortunately there was an outhouse where he could sleep, so leaving Sidney in possession of the kitchen and his rather smart beanbag. Harry, unused to such niceties, sniffed about and settled down happily on his torn old blanket to the marrow bone with which Tessa had the foresight to supply him. Sidney had observed these proceedings somewhat dolefully from the safety of the kitchen door but Tessa had been firm with him.

  ‘It’s no good, Sid,’ she said, shutting the outhouse door firmly and going with Sidney into the kitchen. ‘Your missus said, “no bones.” That’s what comes of being so aristocratic, see? Your digestion’s too delicate. Can’t have you throwing up on this nice carpet.’

  Sidney watched anxiously from his beanbag, fearful that this strange young woman who addressed him so disrespectfully might also forget his night-time Bonio. Tessa pottered, unaware of the distress in Sidney’s breast, but talking to him all the time. Finally, however, she opened the cupboard and took out the familiar box. Sidney heaved a relieved sigh as Tessa placed the biscuit beside him, tugged his long ears gently and wished him good night.

  Now, as they climbed the grassy slopes to the gate, Tessa was feeling more confident that she could cope with them both and her thoughts slid back inevitably to the house in the cove. She had not been able to meet Beatrice Holmes but Tessa knew now that Bea had no desire to keep the house although James had asked her to think about it, which she had agreed to do but with no real hope of changing her mind. Meanwhile, Will and James were trying to think of some way of buying her out. Between jobs, Tessa had fled down to Devon to meet them. The meeting was held at James’s office.

  ‘I know you wanted to meet at
the cove,’ he told Tessa when she and Will had been introduced. ‘But I felt it best that Isobel should be left out of this discussion.’

  The two Rainbirds looked at him and he felt an almost hostile reaction. Part of him was pleased that Isobel had made such a favourable impression on them but it did not give him confidence in what he was about to suggest.

  ‘I like Isobel,’ Tessa said. ‘She’s like one of the family, isn’t she? She’s told me so many things about Mathilda I feel I knew her, too.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Will beamed at her, liking this girl who seemed barely more than a child but who had carved her niche with such determination and courage. ‘Must have been quite a girl, Mathilda!’

  ‘Yes.’ James leaned his elbows on his desk. ‘Yes, she was. And Isobel is a very nice woman but we have to consider this from all angles. The point I wish to make is this. If we could sell the cottage it would probably raise a significant sum towards buying Matron out. Sorry.’ He shut his eyes and shook his head. ‘She’ll always be Matron to me.’

  Tessa, who had heard the story from Isobel, grinned but almost immediately looked serious. ‘But Isobel has the right to stay on in the cottage,’ she pointed out. ‘And even if she hadn’t, where would she go?’

  James stared at his desk top, hating himself. ‘I think that if she knew that the sale of the cottage would make it possible for you to hang on to the house then she would look elsewhere for accommodation. There are other houses for rent, you know.’

  ‘We couldn’t ask her to go,’ cried Tessa—to Will’s relief. ‘How could we? She cared for Mathilda and she loved her, too. She misses her dreadfully. She loves the cove as much as we do. It’s her home.’

  Will watched her gratefully, glad that it had not been left to him to defend Isobel’s position. ‘There’s another point, too,’ he said. ‘Would we want strangers living in the cove? In such close proximity the whole atmosphere of the place could be ruined.’