On Tuesday morning the cottage in Chapel Street is filled with sunlight: clean, newly painted, empty, it waits now for new life. Kate stands for a moment in the narrow, well-fitted kitchen that looks onto the garden where a path leads towards the shady pergola at its far end. She passes through the hall into the sitting-room with its glass-fronted alcoves on each side of the charming Victorian fireplace. Across the passage is a room with two walls lined with bookshelves, which will make a useful living-room. She will put the big table in here – the kitchen is too small to eat in – and make it all very comfortable and welcoming. Upstairs she pauses on the landing to look down over the garden. Tall, pale Japanese anemones grow in the long border under the garden wall, and nasturtiums sprawl across the winding path. The Rambling Rector has covered the pergola and its rosehips glow orange and scarlet in the October sunshine.
Three bedrooms, one no bigger than a boxroom, and the bathroom are set about the small square landing. Kate comes downstairs and sits on the bottom step. Even here, it seems, ghosts wait. This cottage has been owned or rented by other naval couples – people whom she knows – and she sees them passing through these rooms, calling to each other on the landing above, eager with plans, excited about the future, waiting – as she waits now – for the removal van to bring her furniture out of store. She remembers other naval quarters, hirings; tiresome married quarters’ officers and helpful removal men. Jess, with her army background, will be familiar with all this.
Kate wonders what Jess will think of the cottage, of Johnnie and Lady T, and Cass and Tom, and feels again a strong sense of misgiving. Well, it is too late now: she glances at her watch and gets up. The removal men will be here very soon and the hard work will begin, but she has remembered the essentials for a happy move: the kettle, mugs, teaspoons, milk, tea, coffee and sugar are all waiting in the kitchen to be unpacked.
* * *
‘You know we love it when you come home,’ says Cass to Oliver, as they drive together into Tavistock, ‘but I have the oddest feeling that this time you have an ulterior motive for being here. Are you going to tell me what it is?’
Oliver shrugs, looks blank as he negotiates the narrow bridge over the River Meavy. He remembers how, years ago, he scraped his father’s car on these unforgiving stones when he was learning to drive – and the row that followed.
‘I like to see for myself how you’re both doing,’ he says, ‘that’s all. I’m being filial. It’s not new.’
‘Mmm.’ Cass is sceptical. ‘But you usually dash off after a day or two of being filial to put another iron in a fire somewhere. This time it’s like you’re waiting for something. Or someone.’
‘Oh, I am,’ says Oliver quickly. ‘I’m waiting to meet Jess. She’s arriving on Friday so I thought I’d stay on to see this Infant Phenomenon who’s won David’s highly prized Award. No harm in that, is there?’
‘No,’ says Cass, but she’s not convinced. She is unsettled, on edge. ‘Only I’d be grateful if you’d stop winding your father up while you’re waiting. It doesn’t help. He’s very upset about Gemma’s threats to leave Guy and your levity isn’t helping.’
‘Sorry, Ma,’ he says. ‘I was trying to lighten him up a bit, that’s all. You usually say it helps to keep things cheerful.’
‘I know I do.’ It’s quite true, but just at the moment she doesn’t know what she wants. Nothing is right. ‘I’m all jangly, Ollie, as if something cataclysmic is about to happen.’ She laughs. ‘I sound like Kate. She’s always the one with the signs and portents, isn’t she? I used to say that it was she who should have been called Cassandra, not me.’
‘Do you want to drop in and see her?’
Cass thinks about it. She is very pleased that Kate might be coming back to Tavistock after three years: she’s missed their close relationship, the impromptu dropping in and meeting up. St Meriadoc is only an hour and a half away but to have Kate near by again would be very good news. Tom has become more grumpy of late: he’s wearying of the hard work that is required to keep the Rectory and its grounds in good shape, and it’s an effort to keep jollying him along. The prospect of Kate close at hand, supporting and encouraging, is wonderful. Or, at least, it was until the subject of divorce between Gemma and Guy loomed. Now she and Kate are skating warily round this subject. It is the elephant in the room, and effort is required to avoid outright comment about who is to blame. Each of them is sensitive, ready to protect her own child, and Cass doesn’t feel up to the stress of the cut and thrust of it this morning. She wants to shop, to buy something elegant to wear from Brigid Foley and browse in Crebers for a delicious treat to eat for lunch; she simply longs to relax and be happy.
‘Kate will be busy,’ she says, ‘getting the cottage right and all that stuff. Moving in is such hell, isn’t it? Especially if Jess is arriving on Friday.’ A pause. ‘How did you know she’s arriving on Friday?’
‘Kate texted,’ he answers.
‘Oh.’ Cass feels slightly hurt. ‘She didn’t phone me. I wonder why not.’
‘Perhaps,’ suggests Oliver, ‘for the same reason you’re not dropping in to see her this morning.’
Cass is silent.
‘I’m going to Book Stop,’ says Oliver, ‘so we’ll park at the Bedford and meet up for coffee or a drink when you’ve finished shopping. Does that sound OK?’
‘Yes.’ She glances sideways at him. ‘Shall you go and see Kate?’
She doesn’t want him to visit Kate. She feels it will put her in a bad light if Kate knows she’s in town and isn’t popping in to see how she’s managing. She feels guilty and restless and cross.
‘No,’ says Oliver. ‘We’ll leave Kate to her settling-in today and phone later to see if she’d like any help tomorrow. I’ll text her. Stop worrying, Ma. We’ve come to have some fun, remember? That’s what you said to Pa, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ Cass says at once. ‘We have. And that’s a good idea about texting Kate. We can come over again tomorrow if she wants us to. Do that, Ollie. Give me an hour and then I’ll buy you a pint.’
‘Sounds OK to me,’ he says.
* * *
Jess is heading west; driving across the motorway bridge spanning the River Exe. She glances quickly at the sheet of paper on the seat beside her, pulls into the inside lane and takes the turning off the M5 onto the A30.
‘The quickest way to Tavistock,’ Kate told her, ‘is to come down the A30 and turn off at Sourton. It’s much more dramatic to drive over the moor but this is quicker and we can explore the moor later if you want to.’
She’d liked Kate at once: they hit it off straight away. There was a direct simplicity about the older woman that appealed and they’d laughed together about how they hated having to dress up.
‘At least you scrub up well,’ Kate commented. ‘My default mode is bag lady. I can’t wait to get back into my jeans.’
Jess grins, remembering. And it’s really weird that Kate should have known her grandparents way back. They’d talked about service life, the moving around and the separation, and it was like they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for ages.
It’s good to be this happy, she thinks: to have won this really prestigious Award, to have a good Honours degree, and to have a whole year off to think about what direction she should take for her future. The Award money has bought her some space – just as it’s bought her this little old car and real independence. Jess can feel her face positively beaming but she can’t help herself: life just hasn’t been this good since Daddy died – and part of it is because she’s going to the place where he was born, where her grandparents met, to chill out for a few months.
Kate, in one of her emails, suggested Jess should come down and explore, meet some of her grandparents’ friends, and offered her this cottage in Tavistock so that she’d have somewhere to stay.
‘You can be alone if you need to be, but I can show you around and introduce you to some people,’ Kate said – which is really cool because she can’t quite decide what sh
e’ll want or how it will be. Sometimes she needs to be alone, have her own space, but it’s good, too, to have a few friends nearby. Meanwhile the sun is shining and she’s in her little car, listening to Jamie Cullum, with nearly all her belongings packed into the boot because at heart she’s a minimalist. And all the while, at some deeper level, she’s noticing the shapes and patterns and colours of the green, rounded hills and small, square fields; the crimson, crumbly earth being turned by a rackety old plough and the grey and white cloud of gulls streaming behind it; tall trees and boxy hedges, their leaves scorching with autumnal fire.
So here she is, on the journey to the west, feeling good.
* * *
Kate waits nervously: she prowls, checking the rooms, wondering what Jess will think and if she will approve. Last evening she phoned Bruno. He answered straight away and she knew he’d been expecting her call.
‘What am I doing?’ she asked. ‘Am I mad or what? I don’t know this girl and now she’s coming to stay. Why did I do it?’
‘Because you felt it was right. Forget what you feel like now. That’s just nerves. What you felt then is what really counts.’
For three years she and Bruno have been friends in the best possible way; they’ve spent hours talking about the messy muddles that have been their lives, trying to make sense of things, admitting failures and fears, laughing and weeping alternately, giving each other courage. She’s missing him now, wishing she’d stayed at St Meriadoc and simply let out the cottage in Chapel Street.
‘It was crazy,’ she said, ‘to bring the rest of the furniture out of store. It’s best to let the place unfurnished. I should have waited until I’d really decided where I want to be.’
‘It needed to come out and be used again,’ Bruno answered calmly. ‘Jess may decide to stay there and be your tenant. Stop panicking, Kate. Leaving the place unfurnished wouldn’t have helped you make up your mind. You’ve got the cottage here – I shan’t evict you in your absence – and being at Chapel Street, actually living there, will help you make your decision properly.’
She pictured him, Celt-dark, wandering about the kitchen in his usual jersey and jeans, preparing his supper; carrying it into that amazing central room with its out-flung window that seems to hang right over the sea. The sofa would be piled with books and newspapers and his collie bitch, Nellie, curled up at one end of it in front of the fire.
‘I miss you,’ she said. She said it quite lightly, feeling a bit of a fool.
‘Missing people is good,’ he answered. ‘Makes you realize how much you love them.’ And then, before she could think of an appropriate answer, he asked: ‘How’s Flossie liking Chapel Street?’
She stared at Flossie, who was curled in her basket beside the radiator. ‘She’s OK. I left her with Cass when the removal men came but she’s settled very well this last couple of days. Cass and Oliver were brilliant yesterday, helping to get the place into shape. I hope Jess likes it.’
‘It’ll be fine, Kate,’ he said gently. ‘Stop worrying.’
He hadn’t said, ‘Move in with me. Let’s be together,’ and, even if he had, how would she have answered him? She was used to having her own space, privacy when she needed it, when her family visited her – and so was he. Being together might ruin everything. They’d been to bed a few times, usually after a long, late supper when the deep level of their shared emotional intimacy required some kind of physical expression, and it had been good. Yet they both held back from the ultimate commitment.
Now, waiting for Jess, Kate sees that he is right; she must trust the instinct that has resulted in inviting Jess here and turning Chapel Street into a home. She doesn’t need to make a decision just yet. Even as she heaves a great sighing breath of relief, and puts her anxieties aside, there is a knock at the kitchen door. Flossie barks and Kate glances at her watch – too early for Jess yet – and then she hears Oliver’s voice and she hurries out to meet him.
‘Shall I be in the way?’ he asks. ‘I wondered if you might be needing a bit of moral support. I can go away if you’d rather.’
‘Absolutely not,’ she says. She is suddenly excited again, delighted to see him. ‘This is just perfect. Much easier for Jess if you’re here too.’
‘It’s a nice little house, Kate.’
He looks in through the sitting-room door at the alcoves full of pretty things and at the comfortable armchairs; and then he crosses the hallway and wanders into the bigger room, which now has the big table under the window and a variety of chairs around it. There are books on the shelves, and paintings hanging, and a long sofa against one wall.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Her confidence is restored. ‘Why don’t I make some coffee? Jess texted at Exeter so we’ve got another half an hour, I’d say.’
‘Shall I open the front door?’ he asks. ‘It’s so much more welcoming, isn’t it, than having to knock and wait? The sun’s simply pouring in and Flossie can sit outside and watch for her.’
* * *
So it is that Jess, driving slowly along the street checking house numbers, first sees a retriever standing eagerly at the gate and the front door flung wide in welcome. As she stops the car, leaning from the open window, the dog’s feathery tail begins to wave and a tall, blond man wanders casually out into the small paved front garden.
She assesses him: is this one of Kate’s sons? He’s very good-looking. Very cool. Mid-thirties, perhaps a bit older? They look at each other, and she feels an odd desire to laugh, to leap out of the car, as if she is coming home to people she knows and loves.
‘Jess,’ he says: not a question, just a statement. And he opens the gate.
The dog is at the car door, tail wagging madly, and Jess gets out, the laugh really bubbling up now, and here is Kate, dashing out of the cottage to welcome her.
‘This is Oliver. He’s the son of friends of mine who knew Juliet and Mike,’ she is saying. ‘And Flossie. Are you going to offer your paw, Flossie? Gosh! It’s great to see you again, Jess.’
And Jess shakes hands with Oliver, hugs Kate and strokes Flossie’s shining, feathery coat, and then they all bundle into the house together.
At once she knows she’s going to like it here. Always, she knows straight off with people and places whether they will be right for her. Even as a child she’s had this strange gift: a kind of second sight, which warns or encourages, and she’s learned to take it on trust.
This cottage, for instance, has good vibes. It’s a home and a place in which to feel relaxed. The dog has climbed back into her basket, Kate is pouring coffee, Oliver perches on the end of the table and asks about the journey.
She likes him; she likes the way he looks at her as if she is Jess, first and foremost, and a female after. It’s as if he sees the important things about her and she intuits that she can trust him. This strange gift has grown more and more crucial since her life was smashed apart, first by her father’s death and then by her mother’s new relationship and her move to Brussels.
Kate passes her a mug of coffee and Jess looks around her. She’s been happy enough at school and at uni but she’s learned to toughen up, to fight her corner. For three years the little house in Bristol, which she shared with her student friends, was home – not the smart flat in Brussels – and since all that finished she’s felt rather rootless and a bit scared. Now here she is, sitting in this sun-filled, comfortable room with two new friends and the dog. Everyone is very relaxed; there is no formality here, no third-degree questioning to discover what she’s been doing or what plans she might have; they’ve simply accepted her into their lives and are giving her space.
Kate is unwrapping a small parcel. She shows the contents to Oliver, and Jess sees that it is a painting.
‘I brought this with me. I thought you might like to see it,’ Kate says, passing it to her. ‘David painted it nearly twenty years ago. He was staying on Dartmoor with a friend of mine and when she died she left it to me. I hadn’t met him then but he told me that it was the fi
rst time he’d really taken an interest in the botanical aspect of painting and that’s when he began to study it properly.’
Jess takes the painting: it is a sketch of an old stone bridge over a river, and a part of the bank beneath it where a group of foxgloves grow against the sun-warmed stone. It has been lightly colour-washed, and sunlight glimmers on the water, which seems to flow and splash even as she looks at it. Deft, tender strokes reproduce the foxgloves, the texture of the crumbling stone and the tiny springing cushions of moss that cling to it.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she murmurs, tilting it, examining it. ‘It’s so accurate and yet so imaginative. How did he do that?’
‘I thought you might see it as a sign,’ says Kate. ‘Or a portent. I mean, it being the one that started him off along the botanical painting path. And the fact that he was around here when he did it.’
‘Do you do signs and portents?’ asks Oliver. ‘Or are you more practical?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jess stares up at them, still holding the painting. ‘Yes, I think I do do signs and portents, actually. But now I’m on my own I have to be careful.’
She feels a fool, wishes she hadn’t said it: it sounds childish. She bends her head over the painting, studying it. To her relief, neither of them reacts: they don’t say: ‘Oh, but you’re not on your own now,’ or other embarrassing things, they just leave her alone.
Oliver is saying, ‘Ma’s talking about lunch tomorrow, if you both feel up for it,’ and Kate says, ‘That might be good. Will you thank her and tell her I’ll phone later on? Flossie will need a walk soon so I thought Jess and I would take her up on the moor when she’s settled in a bit.’
While they talk, Jess turns the painting slightly and reads the words scrawled across the corner: ‘Bless you for everything. It’s been perfect. Love D.’
She feels an odd little twinge of sadness and wonders who the woman was and what happened to her.
Oliver is going and she gets up to see him off. He kisses Kate, smiles at Jess and walks away down Chapel Street.
The Sea Garden Page 5
