But Lucy has gone with vague promises of being back sometime in the summer, though making it clear that the next time she comes to the cottage it will be with Tom and Dan and that they will want some time to themselves.
Emilia carries her bags downstairs and out to the car. She goes back in for one last check around, picks up her handbag and her jacket, and pauses. She breathes in, puzzled, looking around her. That drifting miasma of bitterness, of disappointment, insistent like the faint smell of damp, seems to hover in the air. Emilia shrugs, locks the front door behind her and gets into the car. She fastens the seat belt and then sits staring despondently before her. In a last desperate bid, she takes her phone from her bag and checks it. Nothing. Though she has texted Jamie three times, made a call, which was not answered, there has been no message from him since that very first one. She sends one more text and waits hopefully.
Presently, she puts the phone away. Just for a moment she hears Lucy’s voice: ‘Please may I go round again, Mummy?’ and her own voice in response: ‘No, you can’t. I’m afraid it’s too late.’
She wants to scream, to shout that it isn’t fair, just as Lucy did all those years ago, but instead she starts the engine and drives away.
The three men sit in the drawing-room after lunch, the dogs stretched out beside them.
‘It was a shock,’ says Jamie. ‘She’s so like Ems as she was when I first saw her back in your rooms in Bristol. I can’t get over it.’
The other two wait, not knowing what to say, how to respond.
‘I felt exactly the same,’ says Hugo, after a moment. ‘I think we all did. Even Uncle Ned in the pub. It’s not that unusual, I suppose, but … she’s such a pretty girl …’ His voice trails away.
‘I like her,’ says Jamie. ‘I liked the way she handled it. Meeting us like that with no warning. She has courage.’
‘So,’ says Ned, ‘you hope she gets in touch again?’
‘Yes.’ Jamie nods. ‘I hope so. But I don’t dare think about it, really.’
Hugo watches him anxiously. He’s afraid that the shock and the emotion might trigger Jamie’s vertigo, make him ill, but the damage has been done … if it is indeed damage. Maybe it will all come good.
‘And you were right,’ Jamie says to Ned, ‘to let me use your phone. Another text this afternoon. She says she’s going back to London.’
‘Thank God,’ says Ned. ‘Now we can all sleep easy in our beds.’
Hugo feels a pang of sympathy for Emilia, and it seems that Jamie senses it.
‘It was necessary to be tough,’ he says. ‘Ems could ruin everything because she’ll only ever see it from her own point of view. Can you imagine what Lucy must be feeling right now? She must hate me, dammit. The shock of being told something like that. She needs time. She doesn’t need to be harried and pushed. Maybe in the future, when we’ve all got used to the idea …’
Another silence.
‘It was odd,’ says Hugo thoughtfully, ‘wasn’t it, that Brioc went up to her in that way? He never does that to people as a rule. It was as if in some way he recognized her scent, that it was familiar to him.’
Jamie raises his head, frowning, thinking about the implications of Hugo’s remark.
‘It’ll be OK,’ says Hugo encouragingly, knowing that it means nothing but longing to be of comfort, and Jamie smiles.
‘Yes. Maybe it will. Play for us, Hugo. Play the “Widmung”.’
Hugo stares at him in surprise.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks.
But Jamie nods at him. ‘That’s where it all started.’
Hugo gets up and goes to the piano. He sits for a minute, his head bowed, and then he begins to play.
Rose lets herself into the house, hangs up her jacket, but before she can call out she hears voices from upstairs and then music. She knows at once that it is Hugo playing and, as she listens, she is drawn towards the sound of it, her head tilted upward, trying to catch every note as she hesitantly climbs the first few steps. She remembers how, once before, she did this; finding Hugo at the piano, watching this stranger, this hitherto unknown Hugo, controlled, passionate, remote. Rose holds tightly to the banister to prevent herself from hurrying up the stairs and going in to the drawing-room. The music is unbearably moving, and she wants to weep, to love, to share all her emotions. She remembers how Hugo looked as he played; how they’d made love, and now, foolishly, she longs for it to happen again.
The music stops; there is a murmur of voices. The drawing-room door opens and Hugo is there at the top of the stairs, with the dogs behind him. He hesitates when he sees Rose, his expression alters, and in that moment she knows that he, too, is remembering. They look at each other.
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she says, hearing her voice tremble, ‘how music takes you back, like you’re right there, however many years ago?’
He descends the stairs, still watching her.
‘I hope it was in a good way?’ he says. ‘What it was you were remembering, I mean.’
Rose’s heart beats fast but she mustn’t go too quickly. She must be sure of him.
‘Oh, it was very good,’ she says. ‘I had this pile of ironing given to me. Unexpected, different from what I usually do. Just what I needed right at that moment.’
He’s smiling now and, to her delight and relief, he stretches out a hand to her and she takes it and follows him into the kitchen.
He turns to look at her, still holding her hand.
‘I never said thank you properly, back then,’ he said. ‘I was just a callow boy. What was I? Twenty? Twenty-one? You were so beautiful and generous and exciting. I couldn’t believe my luck. And then the time passed and I still didn’t know how to tell you. Sometimes I wondered if I’d dreamed it.’
He releases her hand, opens his arms and Rose walks into them. She puts her own arms around his waist, looking up at him.
‘There were too many barriers,’ she says quietly. ‘Lady T and the Admiral. Me a fisherman’s daughter …’
‘And there was always Jack, wasn’t there?’ he says gently.
She holds him a little tighter. ‘Not that afternoon,’ she says. ‘That was just you and me.’
‘Jack told me and Jamie that if we even so much as looked at you he’d kill us,’ Hugo murmurs. ‘But I didn’t think he’d mind. Did you? Not then.’
He hesitates, his head bent, his breath warm on her cheek and she thinks of Jack, laughing down at her: ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
‘I’ve still got that rose,’ she tells Hugo. ‘Perhaps you should come and see it sometime. To remind you.’
She can feel him begin to chuckle.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ he says. ‘You know? When Jamie talked about the ironing? It just took me right back there.’
‘Me, too,’ she answers. ‘And your aunt Margaret coming in and being cross with you.’
‘And you,’ he reminds her, ‘said very firmly that it was just the once. So I took the hint, though it’s been tough, sometimes.’
‘And there was me,’ she says, ‘thinking you were glad to be let off the hook. You’d definitely better come and see that rose you sent me. It’s time we cleared up any misunderstandings.’
‘You can’t imagine,’ he says, ‘how nice that would be. I think there might be a few rocks and stormy weather in the months to come and it’s good to know that there’s a safe harbour somewhere.’
‘You’re right.’ She reaches up to kiss him, then pushes him away, laughing back at him. ‘And a man always needs to get his ironing done.’
Hugo pulls her back to him so as to hug her, and then gestures at the kitchen.
‘I came down to clear up the lunch things. We left it all in a bit of a muddle. Slight crisis. Shall we do it together?’
‘No. I’ll clear up.’ She gives him another push towards the door. ‘Go back and play to them. I like to hear you play while I work.’
‘I’ll play for you one day, Rose,’ he promises her. ‘One day I s
hall play the “Widmung” just for you.’
He hesitates, and then goes out, and she crouches to embrace the dogs, who lick away Hugo’s kisses, just as once, long ago, she kissed away his tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DOSSIE STANDS IN the kitchen, the table and the work surface covered with the results of her working day: pies and puddings, soup and cakes. Soon things will be divided up into cartons and foil containers, labelled and packed away into the huge industrial freezers in the utility room.
She’s listening to a CD Adam has given her: Tom Odell’s Long Way Down. It’s odd how music has always played a large part in her love affairs and now the track ‘Supposed To Be’ makes her think of Jamie, replaying in her mind the few times they’ve spent together alone. Generally either Hugo or Ned – or both – are with him. The last time she saw him was at The Chough when he texted to suggest lunch and she replied that she and Adam were already there.
Dossie wanders to the doorway and out into the garden. How odd Jamie had been that day: edgy, witty, almost hyper. She wanted to believe that it was for her benefit, a kind of showing off, but it went deeper than that. Occasionally she caught Ned glancing at him, a watchful, slightly anxious glance, and briefly she wondered if it might be the effect of Jamie’s disability or maybe it was to do with medication. She noticed that he didn’t drink, though his appetite was normal, and that he took care to have a chair back available to hold on to when he was standing talking to Ben. She’s begun to be aware of these small things: his collapsible stick that he always has with him, the proper walker’s stick he used when they strolled down the lane to the church when he and Hugo came over for supper, that he drinks very little alcohol. She wonders now if he had an ulterior reason for offering to let her drive back from The Chough that day; just as he’d asked Adam to drive home from Truro.
Like Ned, she feels angry and sad that Jamie’s career should end so suddenly. She thinks about him – his wit, his courage, his bloody-mindedness – and has little fear that he will control his disability. She feels real respect for him – and much more than that. But she is frustrated by not knowing how to proceed. She cannot seem to move beyond a general friendship with all three of them, though she wants to believe that there is something more between her and Jamie. She doesn’t think she’s misread the signs but she is too nervous to proceed. Given his situation, does he want a relationship? Her growing love for him makes her too aware, too cautious. She knows it but she is unable to help herself. She can’t bear to get it wrong again. And suppose there’s someone else? Another woman back in Oxfordshire?
Dossie turns and goes back inside. As she dumps a pile of container lids on the table she sees that she has a new message on her phone and she seizes it hopefully. The text is from Hugo.
Jamie has taken Ned to the dentist in Wadebridge. Are you working or shall I come and share a cuppa with you? xx
Dossie is ashamed that she is disappointed that the text is not from Jamie. How easily she and Hugo might have slipped into a quiet, happy relationship if his cousin had not turned up. But here she is again, heart beating fast when a text comes in, needing to see him, to hear his voice. She remembers the old test of love: ‘Do you need to see him? Do you need to touch him? Do you need to hear him?’ and she shouts: ‘Yes, I bloody do!’ and then bursts out laughing at her foolishness and taps out a text.
Yes please. Do come over. Just finished work. Kettle on. xx
She doesn’t stop to wonder if she should send kisses to Hugo. How perverse life is, how complicated. She begins to pack and label the food she’s prepared and is nearly finished by the time she hears Hugo’s car. He comes in, the dogs running ahead, and she quickly wipes her hands and then crouches to greet them, kissing their silky heads, hugging them.
‘Adam not here?’ asks Hugo.
As she looks up at him – tall, good-looking, that sweet smile – she wonders why she just didn’t keep her life simple. She stands up and hugs him, too.
‘Sorry, I’m all doggy now,’ she says. ‘No, Adam is in Truro. He’s got an interview at Jacksons this afternoon. He’s very twitchy but I think he’ll walk it.’
She washes her hands, puts water down for the dogs. Hugo walks about, hands in his jeans pockets. He looks thoughtful, preoccupied, and she is suddenly filled with apprehension.
‘Let’s have tea outside,’ she says.
‘If you like,’ he answers, but she can see that he’s not thinking about the tea and that this is not the usual jolly visit.
‘What is it, Hugo?’ She leans back against the Aga, watching him. ‘There’s something. What is it?’
He doesn’t argue or deny it; he sits down on one of the chairs at the table.
‘I want to talk to you about Jamie,’ he says.
Adam walks up Lemon Street, crosses the road and turns into the little twitten where he knows there’s the excellent bistro near the cathedral. He feels elated, excited, and he wishes he had someone with whom he could share this moment. He’s texted Dossie, but for once she hasn’t responded as quickly as she usually does, and he decides he’ll stop for a coffee and calm down a bit before he drives home.
It’s that quiet time in The Place: lunch long finished, dinner a way off yet, a few people having tea, reading the papers. He orders a double espresso at the counter and sits down. The woman at the next table glances briefly at him, smiles, in that friendly, easy way that they do down here; it would never happen in London. He smiles back at her and looks at his phone to see if Dossie has responded: nothing.
Adam feels restless. He glances around the bistro and then sideways at the woman. She’s probably in her early forties, thick blonde hair wound into a knot, a pretty profile. He longs to speak to her, not with any attempt to pick her up but simply to connect, to release some of this pent-up happiness. As if she guesses his thoughts she turns and looks at him, smiles again. The waitress brings Adam’s coffee, the blonde woman asks her if she might have some more hot water, and this frail connection makes Adam brave enough to say: ‘The last time I was in here it was packed.’
‘You need to pick your moment,’ she answers. Her voice is nice; friendly, on the edge of a smile. ‘I dash over here for my tea break sometimes because it’s so quiet.’
‘You work here? In Truro?’ he asks, pleased.
‘Uh-huh,’ she nods. ‘Not a grockle.’
He laughs at the West Country word for tourist and feels the need to justify himself.
‘I’m a local boy,’ he tells her, ‘though I work in London. At least …’ He hesitates and she looks at him enquiringly, eyebrows raised.
‘At least …?’
‘I think I might have just got myself a new job.’
‘Here? In Truro?’
She’s almost parroting his words and they both laugh. Her hot water arrives and she pours it into the teapot.
‘It’s an amazing stroke of good luck,’ he tells her. ‘Can’t really believe it.’
She purses her lips, consideringly.
‘So nothing to do with having the right qualifications, being good at the work, fantastic track record, then?’
He laughs – he can’t help it – struggling with this new sensation of being approved, assessed as being viable, and having this odd conversation with a beautiful woman.
‘There might be something in that,’ he admits, ‘but it was all a bit on the spur of the moment. I decided I’d like to move back and I thought I’d chance my arm.’
She nods her agreement. ‘Don’t ask, don’t get,’ she says and raises her teacup. ‘Shall we drink to it? Or would that be premature?’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Not premature. Well, I’ve got to go back and give in my notice and sell my flat, but they’re OK with that.’
‘“They” being? Or am I being pushy?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, you’re not. Jackson-Stops, in Lemon Street.’
‘Really?’ Her face lights with pleasure. ‘That’s great. I’m with the holiday cot
tage letting company round the corner.’ She stretches out a hand to him. ‘My name’s Jemima Spencer.’
‘I’m Adam Pardoe,’ he says. Her hand is warm and her clasp is firm. ‘That’s good. I shall come and look you up when I start work. Be afraid. Be very afraid.’
‘You do that,’ she says. ‘We can come here and have our tea breaks together.’
She finishes her tea, stands up. ‘Back to the grind. It’s not really, though. I love it. See you, Adam.’
She walks out, hitching her bag strap over her shoulder, and he watches her go, enchanted; hoping that he’ll see her again. He finishes his coffee in a daze, wondering what else the day might hold in store for him, and glances at his phone but there’s still no answer from Dossie.
Hugo drives home, following the familiar lanes, still wondering if he’s done the right thing, but fairly confident that he has. It’s been easy to see that the shock Jamie has sustained has dulled his perceptions to life around him; that he’s preoccupied, full of conflicting hopes.
‘And if she does decide to contact me?’ he asked suddenly, bitterly, ‘what’s it going to be like when she finds that the glamorous pilot Ems has probably told her about is, in fact, disabled, unviable and unemployed?’
Hugo was dismayed, unable to think of words to sustain or comfort. And, anyway, Jamie wouldn’t want them. Everything he could think of to say sounded trite.
‘You’ll just have to leave that up to Lucy,’ he answered casually, almost indifferently. ‘She doesn’t come across as shallow or stupid to me. Rather the contrary. Isn’t it who you are that counts?’
It was at that moment that it occurred to him that Jamie might also be feeling anxious about how Dossie would consider him in the long term. Hugo noticed that, though she continued her flow of messages to him, she never texted Jamie except in response to one of his. Was Jamie playing it cautiously because he feared she might see him in the light that he’d just described: disabled, unviable, unemployed?
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