‘I’m sorry about barging in like that, mate,’ he said to Hugo afterwards. ‘I had no idea. I should have walked straight out again …’
And Hugo said something like, ‘Well, it wouldn’t have mattered.’ There was a bleakness, a bitterness, but he’d made no fight of it. And I’d never have pushed it, thinks Jamie, if I’d believed he was really in love with her.
‘The thing is,’ Hugo’s saying, as he taps out his message, ‘she hates going into the empty house so I often send her a text when she goes home.’
And that just about sums Hugo up, thinks Jamie: the kind, thoughtful, caring brother. He feels a huge relief that his cousin and Dossie are in no way an item; that there is nothing between them except a really close friendship. No way could he have poached … He gives a little inward laugh at the way his thoughts are hurrying ahead.
‘Time for a drink,’ he says. ‘Anyone feel like joining me?’
It’s raining as Dossie drives back towards St Endellion. As the windscreen wipers swipe to and fro she mutters to herself.
‘Stop being such an idiot. Get a grip.’
She’s hoping that she didn’t let it show how much she’d have liked to stay on, sitting at the table with Hugo and Ned and Jamie, talking, sharing, feeling so relaxed. She really hopes that Jamie didn’t see that moment of hesitation that betrayed her neediness when Hugo invited her to stay to supper; that he had no idea of the confusion of her emotions. She’s wondering now if she imagined that little flash of interest in his eyes when he first glanced up at her; the way he watched her with that inscrutable yet slightly amused expression.
Perhaps she’s been a fool not to stay, but some small vestige of pride, of independence, got her to her feet and out of the kitchen. She’ll be sorry when she gets home to the empty house, knowing that she could have stayed there with them all. And part of her guesses that she won’t have fooled Jamie for a single moment.
She thinks about him, so unlike Hugo in almost every way: wary where Hugo is enthusiastic, assessing where Hugo is open, confident and cool where Hugo is anxious and eager to please. Hugo’s warmth and generosity of spirit makes him lovable and attractive but Jamie is altogether a tougher proposition. Dossie shivers a little at the prospect of getting to know him and gives herself a mental shake.
‘Get a grip. Get a life. Get a dog,’ she mutters. But somehow the familiar mantra doesn’t bring her any comfort.
As she drives out of the village, past the old church that crouches like an ancient grey dog, hunkered down against the Atlantic storms, she sees a woman in the churchyard. Dossie recognizes Rose Pengelly, the Tremaynes’ cleaner, and slows down to hoot and wave to her. She’s liked Rose the few times she’s met her at the house with Ned and Hugo; she likes her quick wit and her fondness for the two men. She and Hugo, especially, have a very easy relationship, which stretches back to their teenage years. And Rose is such a beautiful woman: amazing bone structure, tall and slim and strong. She must have been an absolute knock-out when she was a girl.
Dossie knows that Rose comes from generations of fishermen and guesses that there will be many of her family in that stony churchyard. She waves again and drives on.
Rose waves back as she crosses the churchyard, wondering if Dossie has been to see Ned and Hugo, whether she’s met Jamie. So far as she can tell, Dossie seems to be handling Ned and Hugo with no difficulty, but Jamie will be a different story. Jamie’s like his cousin Jack: he’s trouble. Smiling to herself, Rose crosses the churchyard with its wind-bitten grass and dry-stone walls, to the corner where the Tremaynes are buried. Lady T and the Admiral together, Margaret alongside them and, beside her, a stone memorial to Jack.
‘If I die,’ he said to her, one early autumn evening up here in the churchyard, ‘I want my ashes to be scattered at sea so that I can travel right round the world.’
‘If?’ she queried, mocking him. ‘You mean you ain’t mortal like the rest of us?’
He laughed, tugging her by the arm away from the quiet graves, out into the woodland where the trees were almost bare, flayed to the bone by the westerly winds. He pulled her down with him, rolling together with her in the crisp gold and scarlet leaves, holding her close. After they’d made love he always said the same thing. Raising himself on his elbow above her, he’d smile down at her, and say: ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she’d retort, pushing him off, straightening her clothes. ‘One in every port.’
‘You’ll always be my first love, Rose. That’s special,’ he said to her once. Serious, he was. Meaning it. ‘There’s only ever one first love. Remember that.’
That’s all she’s got of him now, as she stands in the damp churchyard. She drops a little spray of bluebells on to Margaret’s grave, pauses before the headstone. Lt John Edward Tremayne RN. 1959–1982. ‘They shall not grow old …’ His body lies in Blue Beach Military Cemetery at San Carlos in the Falklands.
Rose wraps Margaret’s scarf more closely around her throat.
‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ she murmurs.
She turns away and begins to hurry back to the village, her head bent against the rising wind and the rain, back to the small terraced cottage that has belonged to her family for generations. The door opens straight into the little sitting-room, with the small Victorian fireplace and her mum’s old rocking chair. She passes through into the kitchen, wondering what to eat for supper. She guesses that Dossie has been with the Tremaynes and wonders how she and Jamie will get on.
‘Trouble,’ she says aloud. And she smiles to herself.
Jack, Jamie, Hugo; she loves them all, one way or another. Her glance falls on a pink silk rose, beautiful, though faded now, which stands in a tall narrow glass vase on the window-sill, and she begins to laugh. How many years it is since Hugo sent her that rose all the way from London; sent it to Lady T because he didn’t know Rose’s address.
‘It’s from Hugo,’ Lady T said, puzzled, ‘to thank you for something special you did for him. Some ironing, was it?’
Rose still remembers it clearly, not long after Jack was killed and about the time that Jamie got engaged to Emilia. And it was nothing to do with ironing. But the next time Hugo was visiting, the subject was raised again. His mother was shocked that he should have asked Rose to do his ironing and Rose’s pride, her anxiety that Hugo might be regretting that brief moment of shared intimacy, had made her quick to step back.
‘It was just the once,’ she said to his mother, there in the Tremaynes’ kitchen, and Hugo, smiling, answered, ‘And I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of it.’ Even now, she doesn’t know if she hurt him.
It’s good to have him back; home where he belongs. Rose touches the silk petals with a gentle finger and turns away to prepare her supper.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EACH DAY EMILIA walks: on the beach, on the moors, on the cliffs and in the lanes. And as she walks she knows, absolutely knows, that something wonderful and earth-shaking is about to happen. So certain is this belief that she is able to be calm, to wait. She goes to the Relish café and though she doesn’t see Hugo she knows that it will happen, that one day she will walk in and he will be there and everything will change.
So she walks and revels in the miracle that is nature. Never before has she been so close to it, never experienced it at first-hand over a period of time so that she sees how it changes almost daily, how profligate it is. Here on the peninsula the weather can alter in moments from a Mediterranean warmth, with clear skies and exotic wild orchids blooming in a ditch, to gale-force winds driving streaming clouds that bring rain, and even hail, to beat down fragile blossoms and rip the sea to shreds.
She wanders in deep, hot lanes where the scent of bluebells is dizzying; sheep barge and jostle at a field gate and then scatter at her approach. She pauses, shielding her eyes, to watch the flight of swallows as they dart in and out of an old barn. Then she hurries aside as a tractor rattles past, raising her h
and in response to the farmer’s salute.
Down on the shore, on a wild windy morning, she stands in awe at the power of the sea; tall, green, glassy waves shouldering in to smash themselves against the high, granite cliffs, whilst gulls scream to make themselves heard above the tumult. She watches a dog dashing in and out of the waves, and then it stands on the sand, shaking itself, so that a million splinters of light sparkle in the sunshine. And later, on a calm sunny afternoon, the sea lies flat as a metal shelf whilst tiny boats painted like wooden toys rock gently across its smooth, shining surface. So warm, so inviting does it look that she takes off her shoes and socks, rolls up her jeans, and ventures into the shallows. Oh, how icy it is: her feet are numbed in seconds. Quickly she steps back on to the sand, sitting down to dry her feet and ankles with a handful of tissues from her bag and pulling on her socks, grateful for their warmth. Getting up, she stamps to and fro, laughing at her foolishness, and all the while this certainty, this expectation that something good is about to happen is like a bank of coals heaped around her heart, warming her.
As she crosses the sand to go back to the car she sees a child with its mother walking at the water’s edge – ‘Please, Mummy, please can I paddle?’ ‘No, it’s much too cold.’ – and she suddenly remembers Lucy, at the playground, pleading to have one more turn on the swings, the slide, the roundabout. ‘Please may I go round again, Mummy?’ And her own answer. ‘No, you can’t. I’m afraid it’s too late.’ Emilia smiles to herself, watching the mother and child at the shoreline.
She drives away towards the moors, which are so magical at this time on long, light summer evenings: a cobweb of a moon hanging in the east, a stampede of ponies appearing unexpectedly around a rocky outcrop, the wavering cry of an owl hunting in the woods below. She pulls on to the short cropped grass and gets out. She’s learned to be prepared for these moments – to have a flask of tea or coffee, a few biscuits or some cake – so as to be able to linger when the magic is too strong to ignore.
She pours hot coffee into a mug and leans against the car. The rural silence is still a surprise to her: no traffic, no sirens, no voices. In a distant farmyard a dog barks, the owl cries again, and then silence. It’s odd that she isn’t afraid; that she would be much more anxious standing alone in a London street at sunset than she is here in this bleakly beautiful landscape.
Emilia sips her coffee and allows herself, at last, to look at her life: at the mess and the muddle, the triumphs and disasters, the lies and deceptions. How simple and clear it seems, out here in these empty spaces; here everything falls into perspective. Here she need not feel guilty or anxious. She is able to examine her actions, understand the motives, and be quietly calm.
How easy it would be now to sit with Hugo and talk to him about the past, to explain her regret over leaving Jamie, how she was simply overwhelmed by the loneliness, the emptiness, that assailed her; that she was too young to cope with the sudden change from her boho London life to existence on a married patch surrounded by unsympathetic women. He would understand her need to flee back to that familiar scene each time Jamie went away and, because she was so lonely, the dangerous attraction when she met Nigel. Of course she was foolish and selfish, but she was naïve and inexperienced, and shouldn’t youth be forgiven much? She longs to talk about Lucy; the shock of finding herself pregnant, the indecision, and the doubt. Surely Hugo would understand? She remembers his gentleness, his eagerness to please, and she longs to have his absolution … but there is more that she needs.
Emilia finishes her coffee, packs the Thermos and the mug away, and stands for a moment with her arms crossed, her hands tucked under them. The sunset glow is all around her and she is filled with confidence and hope. Her hope is simply that Hugo will bring her to Jamie. The time is right. She is alone and she longs to put things right. She tries not to dwell too much on whether Jamie might be married with a family; she doesn’t want to think about that. It seems impossible that now, when she needs him, he won’t be there. And she has so much to give him now: a daughter and a grandson. She hugs herself at the prospect of being able to offer him such a reward; to repay him for the pain she caused him. Nobody will be hurt; the timing is perfect. And Hugo is the person to lead her to Jamie. She can remember very vaguely that they had relations in Cornwall, some old uncle and aunt; somewhere they used to go on holidays from school. She feels certain that this is where Hugo is staying and she wishes now that she’d listened more carefully, but it was so long ago and didn’t seem particularly important at the time. She simply cannot reproach herself. It’s odd, this feeling of absolute certainty that everything is working together for good: Tom and Lucy buying the cottage in Rock, Lucy meeting Hugo.
Emilia gives a great sigh of happy anticipation, climbs back into the car and drives slowly away towards Rock.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JAMIE IS PLAYING the piano, jazzing Bach’s Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in C minor, when the dogs begin to bark and he hears the front door close and a voice calling, ‘Hi, it’s me.’ Prune must be home unexpectedly, he thinks, but he gets up and goes out, just in case. As he comes carefully down the stairs, holding the banisters, he stops in surprise. Dossie is standing in the hall with a cold box in her arms. They stare at each other almost in consternation and then Dossie says: ‘I’ve got the supplies to go into the freezer. Is that OK?’
‘Of course,’ he answers. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting you. Hugo didn’t mention it. He’s taken Uncle Ned for his check-up at Derriford Hospital.’
He leads the way into the kitchen, pushing the door open for her, shushing the dogs, and then takes the box. They smile at each other across it and he feels unusually self-conscious as his hands close over hers as she transfers the box to him.
‘I’d forgotten about the appointment,’ she’s saying quickly, as if to cover their moment of self-awareness. ‘Or I might not have known. I’m making deliveries all round today. With the Bank Holiday coming up the holiday cottages are filling up and needing supplies.’
He stands the cold box on the table, and then grips the back of one of the chairs for support, feeling pleased that she’s turned up unexpectedly but slightly less sure of himself without Hugo and Uncle Ned to make everything normal between them.
‘I’m not sure what happens next,’ he says. ‘Do you actually put all these away or does Hugo do it? I mean, is there some sort of system I don’t know about?’
She has a delightful way of smiling that is infectious, as if he’s made some sort of joke.
‘Are you kidding?’ she asks. ‘Does Hugo even know what the word “system” means? I usually put it all in so that he knows that main meals are on the left and puddings on the right, but I think he just takes things out randomly and they eat whatever it is that comes to hand.’
‘Like some kind of lucky dip?’ Jamie suggests, amused.
‘Exactly. They probably have banoffee pie three days running and then pheasant stew for a week.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ he says.
She’s already unpacking the box and carrying the individual packets into the small utility room where the freezer is. He can see that each carton is clearly labelled: cottage pie, shepherd’s pie, fish pie, beef stew.
‘What’s the difference between a shepherd’s pie and a cottage pie?’ he asks.
‘Oh, come on,’ she answers. ‘One has a shepherd in it and the other has a cottage. Do keep up!’ And then she laughs and says, ‘Shepherd’s is lamb and cottage is beef. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.’
He passes the containers to her, reading each label.
‘What luxury,’ he comments. ‘Does Hugo do any cooking at all?’
‘This is just basic stuff,’ she answers. ‘Things to fall back on. He makes all sorts of exotic things. Do you cook? Or did you just dine in the mess all the time?’
‘Not quite all the time. I can do a few things but it’s not really my forte.’
It’s odd how comfortable he feels in h
er company, as if he’s known her for ever, yet with an extra dimension of excitement that leads him to say: ‘So since you do this cooking all the time, would you like to go out to lunch just for a change?’
Dossie pauses, her hands full of packets, obviously taken aback.
‘Oh,’ she says blankly.
She glances up at him and then looks away again. Aware that he is standing very close to her in the small utility room, he moves back into the kitchen. She puts the last containers into the chest freezer and closes the lid.
‘Well, that would be very nice,’ she says. ‘If you really … I mean, what about the dogs?’
He is rather touched by her sudden confusion – her jokey poise seems to have deserted her – and he gives a little shrug.
‘I think they’ll manage for an hour or two on their own, won’t they?’
‘Yes,’ she says, though rather doubtfully. ‘I expect they will. Well. Thank you.’
‘And you haven’t any more deliveries to do?’
‘A few. But they can wait a little longer.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘In that case, I have control. We’ll go to The Chough.’
She looks at him and then starts to laugh. ‘Your car or mine?’
‘Oh, mine,’ he says at once.
‘Wonderful,’ she says. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Mike had an MGB roadster back in the day. I haven’t been in one since then. I loved that car. It was British racing green. Just like yours.’
For a moment he is disconcerted. He doesn’t know quite how to react, remembering how Hugo told him that Mike was killed in a racing accident, but it’s clear that she knows what he’s thinking because she’s smiling at him.
Homecomings Page 12
