‘I’ll see the boss mid-morning,’ he told Hugo, ‘and then be on my way.’
‘Be careful,’ admonished his cousin. ‘Don’t let that crazy car get away with you. You still drive far too fast. No rolls at zero feet.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jamie answered. ‘I’m not planning on it.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ said Hugo.
Jamie smiles, remembering Hugo as a small boy at school with his unruly mop of hair and wide eyes: angelic in his blue cassock and white ruff, devastated by the death of his mother. His own parents were abroad – British Council – and he and Hugo often travelled together to the house on the quay for half terms or to meet up with his family for holidays. The house was a constant, a point of reference in their lives, and he rather envied Hugo for being able to retire there, looking after Uncle Ned, taking the dogs for walks up on the cliffs.
But then again, he thought, look at me. Squadron Leader James Tremayne Retired: emphasis on the ‘Retired’. He buries the thought at once, not wishing to let the resentment rise again.
Jamie wonders how much Hugo misses his life in London, how easy it’s been for him to move on. It will be good to have a catch-up.
Back on the road, after half an hour’s stop at Gordano, he switches the CD to Jacques Loussier’s Play Bach and heads south. He’s slowing down for some roadworks on the hard shoulder when he notices the brown tourist sign indicating left to Wells Cathedral, Glastonbury Abbey and Tor at Junction 23. On a sudden impulse, as he reaches the junction, he checks his mirror and swings on to the slip road, then turns left towards Wells. He’s surprised at himself – he’s not given to unconsidered actions – but he surrenders himself to it, driving roads he hasn’t travelled for forty years, until at last he arrives in the town.
He parks on Cathedral Green, climbs out and stands looking at the cathedral, remembering how he always thought that the two towers look unfinished, as if their steeples have been whipped away. A small boy whizzes past on a little scooter and young mothers stroll with buggies. He leans into the car for his stick, and locks the door. As he crosses the grass he can hear the faint sound of music and he sees that there is a new public entrance, very smart in wood and glass. He follows the corridor in, drops a five-pound note into the begging box and now he is in the West Cloister, the big door is open, and he can hear the organ: Bach’s Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in C minor, which he’s been listening to in the car but in a very different form. It is quiet in here but not still. People are moving around, some with guidebooks in their hands, some going about their church business, and a group of singers are arriving, mustering round their conductor, discussing their programme.
Jamie stands, leaning on his stick, gazing up at the magnificent scissor beams supporting the pillars of the crossing tower. He’s forgotten how spectacular, how unique, it all is. And it’s odd that everything should appear bigger than he remembers. Usually it’s the other way about: places seem so much smaller after years of absence. It’s as if it’s all been waiting for him, unchanged, unmoving, for the last forty years. Then quite unexpectedly his memory plays a trick and he sees the nave full of parents: mothers in smart outfits, heels clicking on the flags, fathers with city suits bundled under warm overcoats. The choirboys, jostling, whispering as they wait, and the choirmaster muttering, ‘Settle down, boys, settle down.’ The dying away of chatter, complete silence, and then ‘Once in royal David’s city’ … That lone, pure voice. The year he was Head Chorister it was Hugo’s voice …
Suddenly the clock strikes the quarter-hour, jolting him back from the past. He remembers the clock – another old friend – the jousting knights that herald each fifteen minutes of the day, rushing round the clock face whilst the Quarter Jack bangs out each quarter with his heels. Tourists stop to listen, whilst the members of the choral society have now assembled themselves into a group in the choir stalls.
He hoped, way back, that his own children might come here to school; that he and Emilia would come to hear them perform. Perhaps they would have played the piano, as he did, sung in the choir, and his heart aches with a sense of emptiness, of loss. The young organist, with his co-opted page turner – both, no doubt, from the school – has finished his Bach and is quietly playing the hymn ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind’. To Jamie’s surprise he is able to remember the words to the first verse ‘… forgive our foolish ways, re-clothe us in our rightful mind, in purer lives thy service find, in deeper reverence, praise …’ but now the group is ready to rehearse. The conductor raises his hands. The voices rise: ‘My soul, my soul, there is a country …’ Hubert Parry’s Songs of Farewell.
Jamie stands, listening. How is it that music can throw you back to the past like this, reminding you of lost hopes, failed dreams? He sees again the bleak, utilitarian office and the sombre face of the senior medical officer as he delivered his verdict.
‘I think it’s time to face facts, Jamie. We’ve done everything we can; you’ve taken every test available. I don’t know how long it will take for these symptoms to subside – if they ever do. I can’t even say for sure what it is that’s wrong. I can’t pass you fit for duty, let alone flying duty. Realistically, I think it’s time for you to think about what you’re going to do next.’
The rest of the interview was just noise as far as Jamie was concerned.
‘… be sure to support you … access to medical care … write to your Squadron Commander …’
He became aware that the doc had finished speaking. There was nothing left to add.
‘Thank you, sir.’
He stood, put on his cap and, as he prepared to salute, realized that the Wing Commander was already up and out of his seat, his hand extended in friendship. They shook hands.
‘I’m sorry, Jamie. You will let me know if you need anything.’
He nodded, turned and walked out through the medical centre into the car park. It was raining …
The voices of the choir rise: ‘… Thy God, Thy life, Thy cure’ – and the anthem ends. Jamie wheels abruptly, goes out and across the Green to the car. He gets in, makes a three-point turn, and drives back out of the town towards Glastonbury. Before he reaches the M5 he pulls into the side of the road and takes out his phone.
Got delayed. ETA 18.00. En route.
He waits for a moment, guessing that Hugo will be on the alert for messages, and almost instantly a text pings in:
Three green lights. Cleared for landing.
Jamie smiles – Hugo always gets RAF jargon wrong – puts his phone away, and heads for Cornwall.
By the time he arrives, nearly three hours later, he is exhausted; near the limits of what his disability will permit. He pulls in beside the Volvo and sits for a moment, with the engine switched off, before he climbs out of the car and stands still, head bowed, steadying himself. He breathes in the fresh salty air, listening to the gulls, but before he can set off towards the front door it opens and Hugo is there, coming out, hugging him.
‘What kept you?’ asks Jamie, disguising his uprush of affection at the sight of his cousin, pretending casualness.
‘You can hear your car coming a mile off,’ answers Hugo. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’
Jamie struggles between truth or a bluff and decides on the truth.
‘I stopped off at Wells,’ he says. ‘Made a detour and went to see the cathedral.’
Hugo is staring at him in pleased amazement. ‘Really? What a fantastic thing to do. It’s weird, isn’t it, going back? I’ve done it once or twice. Went in for choral evensong a couple of times.’
‘I was too early for that,’ says Jamie. ‘But the members of a choral society were practising. They were good. It was very … moving. They sang Parry’s Songs of Farewell.’
Hugo smiles at him, his eyes full of understanding. Very quietly he begins to sing: ‘“My soul, my soul …”’
‘Shut up,’ says Jamie, thumping him on the arm. ‘I’ve had enough nostalgia for one day.’
He ope
ns the passenger door, heaves out his bags, and together they carry them into the house.
Ned stands up as Jamie comes into the kitchen and stretches out his hand. Since Jamie was a small boy they have shaken hands at meetings and departures, and even now Ned cannot quite bring himself to hug these boys of his, much though he loves them. His generation was not brought up to hug and he feels uncomfortable with it. He grips Jamie’s hand, pats his shoulder, noticing that his nephew still has that tough youthful look that is part of his genetic inheritance. He feels a mix of pride, affection and a huge sympathy, though he shows none of these things but merely makes enquiries about the journey whilst Hugo holds up a bottle of gin with an expectant look on his face.
‘A small one,’ answers Jamie in response. ‘I’m still not good with alcohol but a small one would be great. After all, I shan’t be going anywhere.’
Ned thinks of, and dismisses, several questions that seem banal in the light of Jamie’s health problems and is relieved when Jamie crouches to make a fuss of the dogs, allowing himself to be licked and welcomed by Mort and especially Brioc. From a puppy upwards, Brioc has always had a very special affection for Jamie. Out of all the family he is Brioc’s favourite. Nobody quite understands why, but it is necessary for Jamie to make a special fuss of him before standing up to take his glass.
‘He stopped off at Wells,’ Hugo is saying. ‘Went to have a look at the old place. Pity he didn’t catch a choral evensong. I must admit it made me quite weepy when I did that.’
As the cousins begin to reminisce, to banter and joke, Ned watches them with love, and a terrible sadness, as he tries to imagine Jack being here with them; his own boy, the victim of war at so young an age. He is glad that Hugo and Jamie are not noticing his pain, which strikes so fresh, so sharp, despite the passing of the years. These two boys – he still thinks of them as boys – are a comfort to him but his own son is irreplaceable. The ghost boy has grown with him through the years. He’s imagined him as a married man, a father, at moments like this with Hugo and Jamie.
Hugo is handing him a glass and he takes it and raises it to Jamie.
‘It’s good to have you home again,’ he says – and he sees, just for a moment, an odd expression on Jamie’s face: a mix of surprise, pleasure, and finally acknowledgement that, yes, this old house on the quay, with its warren of rooms, is his home.
‘Thanks,’ Jamie says. ‘To be completely honest I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Handing in my ID card and then going back to the cottage seemed a tad tame. Anticlimactic, if you see what I mean. Coming down here just felt the right thing to do.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ answers Ned. ‘And I hope you’ll make it a long stay. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’ He sees the flash of bleakness in Jamie’s eyes, glimpses the younger man’s suffering, and swiftly attempts to deflect it. ‘For instance,’ he says, sitting down again, ‘I’ve always wondered how you managed to remain being called Jamie throughout your career. I always understood that the RAF could only manage words of one syllable.’
He sees the smile that begins in the corners of Jamie’s eyes, his amusement and acknowledgement of the old inter-services raillery.
‘I won’t disillusion you,’ he answers. ‘“Never let the truth get in the way of a good dit.” Isn’t that what you say in the navy?’
‘Oh, stop it, both of you,’ groans Hugo. ‘You’ve only been here five minutes, and don’t say, “He started it,” either. Perhaps I should have joined the army and kept you both in your place.’
‘The army!’ Jamie begins to laugh. ‘You know what they say in the army? “Mind over matter. We don’t mind and you don’t matter.” No, I should think the BBC was quite cut-throat enough, from what you’ve told us over the years. Are you missing it much?’
‘He doesn’t have a chance to miss it,’ Ned answers, before Hugo can speak. ‘Most of its employees seem to spend half their time down here.’
‘Once a meejia man, always a meejia man, darling,’ agrees Hugo. ‘I need my fix.’
Jamie begins to laugh and Ned sees that he is back on firmer ground, the bad moment has passed. He relaxes more comfortably in his chair and sips appreciatively at his gin and tonic.
The front door opens, a voice shouts, ‘Hi, only me,’ the dogs rush out, and Hugo says: ‘Oh, good. Now you’ll meet our Prune.’
Ned watches Jamie’s face as Prune comes into the kitchen escorted by Mort and Brioc. That look – assessing, slightly wary – is typical of a man who is slow to give his trust. Prune is looking similarly cautious. They shake hands and Hugo hurries to smooth over the awkward moment by asking Prune if she’s had a good day, if she’d like a drink.
‘Not that sort,’ she answers, glancing at their glasses, rolling her eyes. She looks at Jamie and ventures a joke. ‘It’s rather like being a student again, living here. But you knew that already.’
His eyes narrow with amusement and he holds up his glass. ‘Why else would I be here? The question is, how long will the gin hold out?’
She shakes her head reproachfully. ‘That is such a First World problem.’
There is a little surprised silence, then Jamie roars with laughter, and Ned realizes that he’s been holding his breath, hoping so much that Jamie and Prune will hit it off together.
‘Our Prune is very fierce,’ Hugo is telling Jamie. ‘Very sensible about what she drinks and eats.’
Jamie raises his eyebrows. ‘Knitted cabbage?’ he asks her sympathetically – and she bursts out laughing.
‘I can see I shall get no help from you,’ she says. ‘It’s like being back at home with my brothers. Thank goodness for Dossie.’
‘Dossie?’ Jamie looks enquiringly.
‘Dossie is the most amazing cook,’ Hugo tells him – and Ned detects the least hint of embarrassment in his voice. ‘She runs a business called Fill the Freezer and keeps us supplied with delicious food.’
‘But not knitted cabbage, so don’t worry,’ says Prune. ‘Lots of pies and puddings and cake. And she’s gorgeous, too.’
‘I like the sound of Dossie,’ says Jamie, with a grin. ‘When do I get to meet her?’
Ned sees the fleeting expression on Hugo’s face – anxiety? resignation? – and guesses what he must be feeling. If only Hugo had been more proactive, grabbed his opportunities, he might be in a much stronger position now with Dossie. As it is …
‘Any time you like,’ Hugo is answering nonchalantly. ‘I’ll send her a text and ask when she’s got some spare time.’
‘And,’ adds Prune, with a rather touching indifference that fools nobody, ‘I was wondering if I’d invite Ben over some time, if that’s OK? I know you already know him but I’d like to show him where I live.’
‘And knit him some cabbage?’ enquires Jamie teasingly. ‘Who’s Ben?’
‘Shut up about the knitted cabbage,’ answers Prune without rancour. ‘He works at The Chough. I suppose you know The Chough?’
‘Yes, I know The Chough,’ agrees Jamie.
‘Of course you can invite him,’ says Hugo. ‘We all like Ben.’
‘And Dossie,’ Jamie jokes. ‘Don’t forget Dossie.’
They begin to laugh, to make plans. Hugo starts to text, whilst Ned listens and watches with the now familiar mix of pleasure, pain, joy and sadness. Already he is beginning to wonder how Dossie and Jamie will react to one another.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAMIE TURNS IN his sleep and startles into wakefulness as something wet and warm lathers his face enthusiastically.
‘Christ!’ he mutters, hauling himself up, and then falls back again with his eyes closed as Brioc watches him, panting in expectation. This has been the routine since Brioc was a puppy: when Jamie is home Brioc is allowed to sleep in his bedroom.
Now, Jamie wipes his face with the back of his hand, opens an eye to look at the hopeful Brioc and then glances at his watch and groans.
‘Seriously?’ he asks. ‘You are seriously suggesting you want to g
o out at half past five in the morning? What is it with you, you crazy dog?’
Brioc’s tail switches to and fro across the floor, and with another groan Jamie pushes back the duvet and sits up. The room spins, rolls, twists, and he grips the edge of the mattress in frustration. Without light his eyes cannot help him to find stability, and the only alternative is to wait until his inner ear calms and his brain takes control again. At these moments he might as well be at sea and he knows if he stands he will fall.
‘Shit,’ he mutters.
Brioc stands and moves to put his head on Jamie’s thigh as if to provide reassurance, and his presence is welcome in this fluid world. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he drags on his clothes. Then he reaches out for Brioc, who waits obediently beside him whilst Jamie stands, balancing by gripping the dog’s big furry ruff and leaning against the side of the bed. Still holding Brioc’s collar he makes his way across the room, picks up his old leather jacket and opens the door. Mercifully it is lighter on the landing. Glancing down he gives a jerk of his head to Brioc, who slips noiselessly out and down the stairs, to stand hopefully at the front door, watching Jamie, who follows him slowly, holding the banisters. In the hall Jamie steps into his boots, picks up his hiker’s stick and then lets them both out into the half-light of early morning. He knows that old Mort won’t want to be disturbed yet and that Brioc will enjoy this moment alone in his company. He can’t understand why Brioc has singled him out for this special affection but he values it.
Together they skirt the little harbour and climb the track to the cliff. Looking out to sea, then inland across the fields, Jamie feels an overwhelming sense of gratitude that he has this to come home to, especially now when his career, his life, his health, are all in transition. The deep rural silence, the overarching sky, the sense of infinity, comfort him. Cushions of pink thrift and purple mallow edge the stony path, and he can hear the strange, eerie cries of the baby gulls, which are packed on rocky shelves, out of sight on the cliff side below him, whilst their parents circle and scream above his head.
Homecomings Page 9
