Indian Summer

by Marcia Willett

  ‘It’s his medication,’ he tells her. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  She bustles off out of the kitchen and across the hall into the parlour, which has been turned into a bedroom for Billy. He hears their voices – and just for a moment he, too, travels back to the past: to the glamour and the excitement of those weekends at the smithy.

  ‘Come and help us, Philip,’ Mungo would say. ‘I’m in a muddle and I’ve just remembered that Ralph is coming down on the four fifteen. Any chance you could fetch him?’

  It might be Ralph, or any of Mungo’s actor friends. Or it might be Izzy, and that was the best, of course. Driving back with Izzy from Newton Abbot was heaven on earth. If he closes his eyes he can see her: that expression, half anxious, half delighted. ‘Oh, Philip,’ she’d exclaim, ‘how wonderful! I thought Mungo might forget me but I know you never would.’ She’d tuck her hand into his arm and reach up to kiss his cheek and he sometimes felt that he might topple over, all six foot three of him, weak with joy and love. She was so small, so delicate: a little waif with her mini-skirts and Mary Quant haircut. He’d take her case, open the car door for her and help her in as if she were a princess.

  ‘Tell me all the news,’ she’d say. ‘How are Camilla and Archie and the babies? What’s been happening at the farm? Has Smudgy had her kittens?’

  Izzy made him feel strong and reliable and important. At the smithy nobody cared that he was the son of Archie’s tenant farmer; Mungo made sure that he was part of the scene. Only Ralph liked to put him in his place with subtle hints and jokes about his size and his West Country accent. Oh, he knew that he wasn’t really one of them; he was bright enough to realize that he was very useful to them, and he was careful to keep a little distance and slip away at the right moment. He always knew when to make himself scarce. Yet he valued his position. He was fascinated by them all: the way they talked to each other, quoting chunks from plays, singing, even dancing. Izzy especially loved to dance and sing, and the others would make a chorus around her. Oh, it was a wonderful thing to see, just like being at the theatre. Sometimes, afterwards, she’d slip round to where he’d been standing, just out of the circle, and take his hand as if she were a child.

  ‘Do you think we’re all crazy?’ she’d ask him wistfully. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Philip, being rooted. Belonging.’

  He never knew quite how to answer her. His love for her, and his tenderness, seemed to flood up from his heart, choking the words in his throat and making him speechless. He’d hold her hand tightly and then Ralph would come sliding round, smiling that knowing, cruel smile.

  ‘Come on, Bathsheba,’ he’d say. ‘Stop tormenting Gabriel Oak and give us another song.’

  Oh, how he hated Ralph, then, but Izzy would squeeze his hand and smile up at him with a little shake of the head as if to say, ‘Don’t mind Ralph.’ She’d slip away, going with Ralph back to the group and he’d be left alone.

  Standing here, if he concentrates hard, he can just catch the faintest whiff of the flowery smell of her. Izzy: reaching up to kiss him, leaning sideways in the car to laugh with him, singing in Mungo’s kitchen.

  ‘You OK?’ Mags is in the doorway staring at him, brows creased, summing him up.

  ‘Yeah.’ He stares back at her, not giving her an inch. ‘Why not?’

  She shrugs. ‘You looked a bit funny standing there with your eyes closed.’

  He thinks about Billy rambling in his mind, talking about the past, about things that need to be kept secret. Mags likes to know a secret; she’s good at ferreting out private thoughts and hidden deeds and then dropping her knowledge into conversation like tiny bombshells. He must be watchful.

  ‘So how is he, then? Not away with the fairies this morning?’

  Mags shakes her head. ‘He’s very quiet. Just staring out the window. What did you do with that bib I made him? He’s still dribbling quite a bit.’

  ‘Chucked it out. He’s not a baby.’ He’d been seized with rage when he saw Billy sitting there with a bib tied round his neck looking like an oversized child. ‘He knows how to wipe his mouth. No need to humiliate him in front of his friends.’

  He hates to see his handsome older brother with his twisted face; the eye and mouth drawn helplessly downwards, like a statue that’s had a careless hand dragged across its face before the clay has hardened. He’s given him an old, soft flannel so that Billy can take a swipe at his chin from time to time.

  Mags bridles, chin drawn in, shoulders shrugging. ‘Sorry, I’m sure. I had no idea that he’d be receiving visitors just yet.’

  ‘Not visitors. Friends. Archie comes down to see us. And Camilla and Mungo.’

  He watches her expression change; the indignation falls away and her expression becomes speculative. She glances out of the window as if, even now, Archie might be striding into the yard, or Camilla.

  ‘I’ll give the kitchen a clean out,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘And the parlour.’

  He watches her sardonically. He can read her like a book. One: if she stays long enough she might see Archie, or Camilla or Mungo. Sir Mungo. Two: if any of them should come she’d want the kitchen and the parlour to be clean, everything spick and span.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he says easily. ‘If you’ve got the time. I shall be cutting the grass in the orchard.’

  ‘You’re always in that old orchard,’ she says.

  ‘That’s right. Good place to be in this hot weather. Do you want that tea or not?’

  ‘It’ll be stewed by now,’ she grumbles. ‘I’ll make fresh and take some in to Billy.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he says firmly. Billy has to have a special cup now and he hates to see Mags holding the spout to the misshapen mouth, brightly urging Billy on as if he’s a two-year-old.

  The sunny parlour has been made into a bed-sitting-room so that Billy can look out into the orchard when he’s resting. He can walk a short distance with a stick, and there’s a wheelchair to help him get further afield, but mostly he likes to sit at the window with old Star, the grey and white Welsh sheepdog, curled beside him. Star looks up at Philip with those strange blue eyes when he comes in with the tea. Her tail gives a little welcoming thump before she settles again, her head against Billy’s legs. He wonders if Billy can feel the warmth of her head penetrating that dead, dragging leg and he is moved with sorrow and frustration. Wasn’t it only yesterday they were young and strong and fearless: courting pretty girls, working the land, bringing up sons? Now those girls are dead and gone and their sons are farming their own land further up the valley with boys of their own.

  Billy is smiling at him, eyes crinkled up even though his mouth isn’t obeying him. He takes the plastic mug very carefully in his left hand and raises the spout shakily to his lips.

  ‘She’s giving the place a right going-over in case Sir Mungo comes to visit you,’ he tells Billy. ‘How about a little walk?’

  Billy nods, indicates the wheelchair, and presently they go out into the yard with Star following close behind them.

  ‘I see Mags is here,’ says Mungo, as he and Kit drive along the lane a little later. ‘Poor Philip must be hating it but at least she’s making it possible to have Billy home again. It’s a pity she’s such a tiresome woman. Not surprising, really. She was one of those whingeing, whining children that was always trying to get us into trouble. She’d sneak and tell tales. Billy and Philip used to avoid her like the plague and I used to tell her stories about hobgoblins and witches to try to scare her away from our hide-outs. She’d always find us, though. Ah, and there’s James. Give him a wave. Oh dear, the shorts are a mistake with those legs. Not a pretty sight. I suppose I ought to see if he’d like to come in for a drink some time. Mustn’t disturb the muse, though. Have you read his book? Camilla lent it to me when she knew he was coming. She’d bought it specially. Very loyal of her.’

  ‘I don’t know. What did you say his name is? Is it good?’ Kit waves obediently at a small, thin, whippy man, probably early f
orties, who raises a hand in greeting as he comes out of the cottage door.

  ‘Absolutely dire, sweetie, but don’t say I said so. Plot not too bad, a bit derivative, but one-dimensional characters, all very stereotypical, straight out of central casting. Don’t slow down.’ He lowers the window and shouts a greeting, then mutters: ‘That’s right. On we go. Don’t need him just at the moment when we’re off on a jaunt.’

  Kit accelerates away, laughing at Mungo’s waspishness, aware of the twinkle in his eye. She is still mentally trying opening conversational gambits in order to bring Jake into the conversation. It’s much more difficult than she imagined and she wonders if she’s crazy even to attempt it. Jake’s letter coming out of the blue has thrown her into complete confusion.

  ‘Shall we stay in touch?’ she asked Jake tremblingly, all those years ago. ‘Just … just letters now and then?’

  He held her hands tightly, reaching across the little table in the coffee bar where they’d arranged to meet. She was unaware of her surroundings, unable to take in the terrible truth that she might never see him again. The door swung open from the kitchen and the music from the radio became clearer. It was Roberta Flack singing ‘Killing Me Softly with his Song’. At the sound of it scalding tears slipped from her eyes and he lifted her hands, holding them against his mouth.

  ‘Oh, Kit,’ he said sadly. ‘How can we? You know how dangerous it would be.’

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she gasped. ‘I’d no idea how much I needed you, Jake. How can you leave me now?’

  ‘Please,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘For God’s sake, Kit.’

  The waitress put the coffee down, forcing them to draw apart, and Kit stared round her in the gloom, wiping her eyes.

  ‘Why did we have to meet here?’ she asked, trying to sound normal. ‘It’s a dump. I could have come to your flat.’

  ‘Coming to my flat doesn’t work any more,’ he answered grimly. ‘We always end up in the same place and it leads on to one more meeting. I’m flying over to Paris tomorrow, Kit.’

  She stared at him, watching his long-fingered hand holding the spoon, stirring the black liquid round and round and round.

  She thought: I know now why people talk of dying of a broken heart. Whatever is the point of life without him?

  ‘I’ve got to try,’ he was saying. ‘You must see that. I made this muddle. It’s not Madeleine’s fault. She’s the victim of our muddle. I owe it to her to give it everything I’ve got. It would be wrong to try to hold on to you, too. We had our chance and we blew it.’

  She shut her eyes. It was as though he had struck her, brutally emphasizing all that she’d had within her grasp – and lost. She picked up her cup and gulped at the hot bitter coffee, burning her mouth.

  He watched her, seeing her anguish, making up his mind. ‘I have something for you,’ he said at last, reaching into his jacket.

  ‘You said “no presents”.’ Her mind was already leaping to and fro, trying to think what she might give him, wishing she’d brought him some keepsake.

  ‘I can’t take anything from you now,’ he said. ‘I want nothing I might have to hide or explain away. Women can be very perceptive about such things.’

  ‘But you have a whole past behind you.’ She couldn’t hide her pain. ‘Are you going to throw away all the presents you’ve ever had?’

  ‘No,’ he said impatiently. ‘Naturally not. But I have no guilt about anything in my past. It is only from now forwards things must change. Anything you gave me now would be charged with emotion and memories. I couldn’t bear it. I know I’m cheating with this, but you’re not going to be married. Not yet anyway, and then this will belong to your past. It belonged to my mother. She gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday and told me that I should give it to the woman to whom I gave my heart.’ He held out a heavily chased silver locket. ‘I remember that she said that this might not be the woman I married and I thought that it was quite a sophisticated viewpoint – for an old-fashioned Englishwoman.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘I always hoped that it would be my morning gift to you but now I see that she was right …’

  ‘You might just as well come right out with it,’ Mungo says. ‘It can’t be that terrible. Come on, Kit.’

  ‘I’m just afraid you’ll think I’m a fool,’ she says. ‘It sounds so silly when you say it out loud. I’ve had a letter from a man I was in love with for years; from Jake. I’ve told you about him. We were lovers but he married someone else because I kept playing the field and now she’s died.’

  ‘Is he asking you to meet him?’

  ‘He’s suggesting it.’

  ‘And you feel nervous about seeing him again?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Have you seen him since you broke up?’

  She nods. ‘Just once. About twenty years ago. I met him quite by chance.’

  They are up on the moor now and suddenly she is able to talk, to tell him about Jake and Madeleine. She drives slowly through the immense landscape, its sense of infinity setting her free to speak without reserve. Mungo listens, as he always does, in silence: no interruptions, no questions, no reaction except an attentive silence. She slows the car, dawdling on an old stone bridge to watch the clear water slipping between smooth round boulders, and reaching into her bag she takes out the locket to show him.

  ‘I wore it for years,’ she says. ‘And then we met again.’

  She is silent for a moment and then she tells him about the meeting: taking her time over it, reliving it.

  She bumped into Jake in Dover Street. He was coming from the Royal Academy and she’d been lunching with a client at the Arts Club. The shock galvanized them into a moment of silent stillness. At last she stretched out her hand and grasped his sleeve.

  ‘It is you?’ It was partly question, partly disbelief, and he smiled with complete understanding, covering her hand with his own.

  ‘If it’s you, then it’s me,’ he said – and, at such a silly, Jake-like answer, they both dissolved into laughter.

  It exploded out of them, a bubbling issue of joy, buried for sixteen years and now bursting up from somewhere deep inside to greet the autumn sunshine. They clung to each other – though at arm’s length – bound by convention, yet subtly acknowledging the danger of this unexpected meeting. She guessed that each would wait for the other to make the first move.

  ‘Oh, Jake,’ she said, ‘you’ve hardly changed. How dare you look so good? You must be fifty. Oh, I can’t believe this …’

  ‘But you have changed,’ he answered teasingly. ‘There’s rather more Kit than I remember …’

  ‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘Don’t look at me. I’m old and haggy.’ But inside she was singing a tiny prayer of thanksgiving that it should be today, when she was all dressed up for lunch, that they should meet.

  His glance travelled over her in the old Jake the Rake manner and she felt the long-missed gut-melting excitement weakening her as she took his arm, unable now to meet his eyes. They walked along together towards Piccadilly and he pressed her arm close to his side.

  ‘It suits you,’ he murmured.

  ‘What does?’ She sounded almost aggressive, suddenly sullen, frightened by the strength of her emotions.

  ‘Middle age.’

  She felt him laughing silently, hugging her hand close, and she laughed too, the tension running out of her.

  ‘Pig!’ she said, without rancour. ‘OK, so I’ve put on weight.’

  ‘But I mean it.’ He took her hand from his arm and touched it briefly with his lips. ‘You’re beautiful. How thoughtless of you, Kit, still to be so attractive.’

  ‘Oh, Jake,’ she said sadly. ‘I’ve missed you so much … Where are we going?’

  ‘Who cares?’ he said. ‘This looks OK,’ and he steered her into a coffee bar and settled her at a corner table.

  They sat there for hours – or so it seemed – yet only briefly did they mention the present. He took her left hand, running the ball of h
is thumb along the third finger.

  ‘No one?’ he asked softly, without looking at her, and she admitted it harshly, ashamed that he’d retained his power for so long whilst she had been displaced so completely … How had he managed?

  ‘And you?’ she asked reluctantly, cursing herself, wishing she could be proudly indifferent. ‘Madeleine …?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded, almost absently, still staring down at their joined hands. ‘Madeleine and four little girls.’

  The silence was full of bitter memories – she could almost taste the sharpness on her tongue – but when at last he looked at her she realized that, after all, none of it mattered. He was still Jake – and she was Kit; the two of them together as they’d always been, back in another life where Madeleine and her four little girls had no place. With that one long look the intervening sixteen years vanished into the smoky atmosphere that drifted about them. How swiftly the old intimacy was established between them. Heads together, chuckling away, they drank endless cups of coffee until Jake glanced at his watch. Kit seized his brown wrist, covering it with her hand.

  ‘Don’t say you have to go.’

  ‘A meeting,’ he said. ‘At the Bank. I shall be late. Are we going to do this again?’

  The tension was back. Warily they watched each other, waiting. Neither could quite bear to say goodbye; neither wished to be the one to break the rules.

  ‘When do you go back?’ She tried to make the question casual.

  ‘Madeleine is in Florence with the girls for another fortnight.’ She translated it not as an answer but as an invitation. He waited.

  ‘Perhaps lunch tomorrow, then?’ It was an effort – after all, she had her pride – but lunch still sounded respectable. Surely two old friends could have lunch together without suspicions being roused?

  ‘Lunch?’ He was laughing at her. ‘Why not? Lunch would be good. Shall I pick you up?’

  ‘No,’ she answered quickly, much too quickly. ‘No, I shall be with a client tomorrow morning. What about Le Caprice? At a quarter to one?’