Gemma’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well. That’s a very detailed description. I can almost see her.’
‘Kate’s taking her down to meet the Trehearnes. You remember them? Mad Lady T and dear old Johnnie. Apparently they knew Jess’s grandparents back in the day. I felt quite sorry for the poor kid to begin with, but she’s absolutely loving it all. I like her a lot. Pity about the age gap but there it is. Clearly I’ve taken on Unk’s mantle and I’m destined to be everybody’s uncle.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. If I were just out of uni with my way to make in the world I’d think you were a jolly good catch.’
‘I’ll introduce you,’ he says, ‘and you can put in a word for me. Do you want another drink?’
* * *
Tom puts the newspaper aside and glances at his watch; a bit too early for the one o’clock news. Cass is off playing bridge, Oliver and Gemma have gone out to lunch, and he ought to be feeling a sense of freedom and relaxation. Instead he feels scratchy and cross. He doesn’t want to have to think too much just at the moment. Gemma’s return and the arrival of Jess have brought all sorts of memories rushing back, some of them good. He likes to remember those days when he was a young cadet, before he met Cass, hanging out with Johnnie Trehearne and Freddy Grenvile. The Trehearnes were very generous with their hospitality and he went home with Johnnie and Fred from Dartmouth on many occasions for a weekend. The three of them became good friends though he was never quite so keen on sailing as the others. He never let on, of course; it did him no harm at all to be a close oppo of Dickie Trehearne’s son and he took advantage of it.
Seeing Jess has brought it all back. He was knocked sideways by Juliet but she was more taken up with the older ones: Al and Mike and Stephen Mortlake. Now he tries not to admit the fact that he’s slightly jealous of Oliver’s growing friendship with Jess and the way that his elder son attracts women. Anyway, Oliver’s too old for the girl, nearly twice her age. And he’s got far too much money. It’s always been a mystery to him that old Uncle Eustace was so impressed with Oliver; taking him into the business, leaving him his shares. He had a very high opinion of Oliver. And Oliver was very fond of Unk.
‘It’s not the same,’ he said after Unk died. ‘There’s just no fun in the business any more. And it’s grown far too big. I’ve had a very good offer for it and I shall take it.’
And so he had. He didn’t ask advice from his father, talk it through with him, nothing like that. No. Just, ‘I’ve had a very good offer and I shall take it.’
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Cass cried when Tom said this to her. ‘So what? Leave him alone. Why can’t you be proud of him for doing what he does so successfully?’
Tom refolds the paper irritably, glances again at his watch. He was glad when Cass went off to her bridge morning, giving them both a breathing space. There have been quite a few rows lately about Gemma’s predicament and – indirectly – Oliver’s involvement.
‘We’ve lost one daughter,’ Cass shouted, ‘and I don’t intend to lose another. Gemma and the twins stay here until she’s ready to move on.’
She actually said that: ‘We’ve lost one daughter.’
He sees her clearly: Charlotte. She’d never have behaved as Gemma has; she was so sweet and gentle and loving. How he misses her and what a comfort she would have been to him now. He stands up and walks away from the table as if he can walk away from his pain; away from the fear that Gemma might precipitate just such another tragedy.
‘That’s simply nonsense,’ Cass says, exasperated by his anxiety. ‘This is all completely different. The twins aren’t adolescent girls with feverish imaginations, and Gemma isn’t playing the field any more. For God’s sake, get a grip.’
He knows her anger is an outward expression of her own remorse and grief but that doesn’t help. What will happen if Guy takes a firm stand and Gemma has to face the future alone with the twins? He asks Cass this question and she simply shrugs.
‘Other women have managed,’ she says.
And they both know that Oliver would take care of his sister and his nephews. Tom tries to decide why this knowledge irritates him so much; after all, he doesn’t want to see Gemma and the boys suffer. He gropes towards an answer but can’t find it. All he can see is Charlotte on one side, the scapegoat for his and Cass’s misbehaviour, and Gemma, nonchalantly and uncaringly recreating just such another disaster, on the other. It’s as if Charlotte has suffered for them all and his own sense of guilt seeks to assuage her spirit by punishing Gemma.
He needs a drink and it’s time for the news. Tom makes himself a gin and tonic, switches on the television and sits down at the table.
TAMAR
The tide is making; slipping and sliding across the mudflats, advancing on the birds – seagull, shelduck, curlew – that scoop and probe at the edges of the deep-water channel. Downriver the two great bridges, Brunel’s railway and the road bridge, one elegant structure superimposed against the other, are hardly visible in the early-morning mist; they look delicate, ethereal, strong as a cobweb. Along the littoral, the high-tide line is a litter of twigs and broken branches, seaweed and bladderwrack. As the salt water floods into the river’s bed the boats begin to swing on their moorings and a white egret sails across their mast-tops, its reflection clear and dazzling on the mirror-like surface of the rising tide.
Standing at her bedroom window, Rowena peers shortsightedly at the magical scene. Her memory sketches in the things she can no longer see without her spectacles, and fills her deaf ears with once-familiar sounds: the plock of the seagulls’ feet in the mud, the creak of the swinging hulls, the curlew’s evocative cry.
Soon there will be the usual knock at the door and Johnnie, still in his dressing gown, will bring her early-morning tea. She will be brusque with him because it is her way; she has never learned to be tender. Only with Alistair, her first-born, her beloved; only with darling Alistair has she ever been able to be truly loving. They were alike, she and Al; tough, greedy, demanding, passionate. She understood him, gave way to him, shielded him from his detractors and, when he died, part of her died with him. It had been more than forty years since Al died but the past is still fresh; and now the child has come, looking just like her grandmother, and the ghosts with her.
And here is the knock at the door and she shouts ‘Come!’ irritably because she is still living in that moment of meeting Jess, seeing the girl’s bright face and eager ways.
‘Wait,’ she snaps at Johnnie as he puts down the tray on the table by the window. ‘Only a quarter of my head is working.’
Together they hunt for her hearing aids, for her spectacles, and she puts her teeth in, glaring at him as if it is his fault that she’s ninety-two and furious because she no longer functions properly. Johnnie merely smiles at her; just like his father he is sweet-tempered, amiable, patient. And, just like his father, he drives her mad.
He pours her tea for her because he knows that her hands shake, and this irritates her too, and he knows it but can’t help himself.
‘Jess will be here later,’ he says, quite unnecessarily because she has been counting the hours. ‘Isn’t it fun that she’s going to stay? She really loves the old place, doesn’t she?’
Just like his father, platitude after platitude – ‘Five minutes on the bleeding obvious,’ as Al had once put it, making her laugh – but, because Johnnie is pleased at the prospect of Jess’s arrival, she feels a sudden warmth towards him and she smiles as she reaches for her teacup and nods a little thank-you.
He goes out, leaving her to the silence, the river and her tea. She picks up the cup with care, prepared for the trembling of her hand, advances it cautiously to her withered lips, sips the hot reviving liquid. There is a clatter as she puts it into its saucer but her thoughts are back with the child; coming into the house, exclaiming at the great jar of spindleberries on the hall table, delighting at the view, struck silent in the sea garden as she stares up at Circe and out across the balustrade to the great
bridges and the sea.
‘Kate tried to explain it to me,’ she said, ‘and then I had a kind of vision of it…’
‘Vision?’ Rowena asked quickly, too quickly. Jess looked at her, partly surprised, partly embarrassed.
‘Tom told me about the wonderful parties you had here when he was young,’ she said, ‘and, just for a moment, I could see it with little lights strung around and the girls in pretty dresses and the men in uniform.’
Now Rowena nods, remembering: yes, that’s how it was. Warm summer evenings, with the moon just rising, and the pale, moth-like fluttering of the girls’ dresses against the dark silhouettes of their companions, smart in evening clothes. And Alistair moving amongst their guests, debonair and amusing; the girls excited by his presence, their men flattered by his attention. He was too bright, too sharp, to be loved in the way Johnnie – and his father before him – was loved. No, Al’s magnetism was like an electric current that could bring light, heat, power. It could sear and burn too, but it was irresistible.
He and Mike Penhaligon were a wicked pair.
‘We’re going hunting, Mother,’ he’d say, leaning casually to kiss her. ‘Don’t wait up.’ And she’d laugh, egging him on, glorying in his strength and beauty, and Mike, behind him, would laugh too. Once they’d gone, the room would seem a little duller, smaller, and Dickie would irritate her by making some remark about Al being too clever by half; too big for his boots. He was jealous of his elder son, of course; quiet, gentle Johnnie was much more to his liking.
Rowena pours more tea. The china spout of the teapot cracks sharply against the eggshell-thin cup so that tea spills in the saucer. She makes a face, reaches for a tissue and mops up. No harm done. She’s back in the past, remembering Mike introducing Juliet; he was proud, besotted, his gaze hardly leaving the face of the delightful girl, who smiled with proper deference at the wife of an important senior officer. Juliet had smiled with the same sweetness that Jess smiled at her last Sunday, so that she’d gripped the girl’s hand too tightly, trying to hide her shock.
As she finishes her tea she remembers how, more than forty years before, Alistair stood to one side, watching the introduction. For once his guard was down and she was taken aback by his expression; he looked angry, thwarted. Just so had he looked as a child when he’d been crossed, and she experienced a tiny thrill of fear. More than that, she was indignant that Mike had appropriated something that Al clearly wanted for himself. Generally it was the other way: Al was always first, best. Now, it seemed that Mike had won the prize and Al was furious. Next moment she wondered if she’d imagined it. Al was laughing, teasing Juliet, mocking Mike, but Rowena was watchful now. She saw how Al’s eyes lingered on the girl and how the old easiness between him and Mike was gone. It seemed that Mike was the conqueror this time – until that evening of the Midsummer’s Eve party in the sea garden.
Rowena replaces the delicate cup in its saucer and stands up. The small long-haired terrier, nestling amongst the flung-back bedclothes, raises her head and Rowena bends to stroke her with stiff, arthritic hands. ‘Good girl, Popps,’ she murmurs. ‘Good girl.’ She must crack on; get moving. Washing and dressing are arduous tasks that take time, and soon Jess will be here and she must be ready; watchful as she was forty years ago.
* * *
Downstairs, Johnnie drinks his coffee with Sophie in the kitchen.
‘Odd of Mother to take such a fancy to Jess,’ he says. ‘I thought she might like to meet her but I was very surprised when she asked her to stay. I hope it won’t make a lot of extra work for you.’
Sophie shrugs. ‘Much less work than when the girls come home with the children. She looks the sort who will muck in.’
‘I liked her,’ he says, ‘didn’t you? Rather engaging. Must be odd for her to be here where it all began. To be honest with you I never liked Mike Penhaligon all that much. He was a bit of a bully.’ He snorts with amusement. ‘Ditto my dear elder brother, actually.’
Sophie grins at him. ‘I think I’d already guessed that. When people die young it’s too easy to sanctify them, isn’t it? Especially if they die in a terrible accident. The living haven’t got a hope.’
He looks at her affectionately. ‘To be honest, I’d given up long before Al died. Mother was infatuated with him. There’s no other word. Never mind. It’s all over now.’
‘I hope so.’ She puts the list to one side. ‘I shall dash into Bere Alston after breakfast, but if Jess arrives early the sail loft is all ready for her. I’ve made up the bed and given the whole place a good airing.’
‘I still feel badly that you had to abandon your independence in the sail loft and move into the house when Mother had that attack,’ he says.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s much more sensible to be on hand when Rowena has her bad moments, as well as with Will here most weekends during term-time since Louisa went out to Geneva. Any way, it’s a while now since I felt the urge to bring home some lusty young man from the sailing club. Go and get dressed, Johnnie. Rowena will be down for her breakfast and she’ll want you to take Popps for a run.’
* * *
Jess drives carefully along the lanes, paying attention, watching for signposts. She feels excited, nervous and guilty all at once.
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she said remorsefully to Kate after the lunch with the Trehearnes. ‘When Lady T asked me to stay it just seemed right, somehow.’
‘But that’s what it’s all about.’ Kate was quite calm and laid-back about it. ‘That’s what this trip was for, wasn’t it? Exploring, finding out about the past and Juliet and Mike. Lady T and Johnnie will have lots of stories to tell. I’m delighted she responded so positively. You really made a hit.
Jess nodded eagerly, relieved by Kate’s reaction. ‘She was amazed how much like Juliet I am. Just like Tom said. It’s really weird, isn’t it, that people remember her so clearly? No, but it’s just that you’ve been so kind and I do really love it here in Chapel Street…’
‘I know you do. And you can come back whenever you want to. Actually, it’s worked out really well, Jess. Ben and Julian can come over and stay with me for a few days before they start school, and Oliver will probably enjoy a break from full-on family life too, so it’s perfect timing. Go and enjoy yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully. ‘It’s another piece of the story, isn’t it? Mike being such a close friend of the Trehearne family. Everything kind of interlocks and connects so that there are no beginnings and endings. The story just rolls on.’
‘And you are a part of it,’ said Kate.
So here she is, driving down to the Tamar, trying to remember Kate’s directions – and, suddenly, she sees a glimpse of the shining river below her. With a quick glance in the rear-view mirror she swerves into the lane’s edge and brakes, heart beating fast. Why should these little steep muddy lanes, that sinuous curve of water, the sheltering, gently rising hills, cause such a mix of emotions?
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she feels fearful: she remembers that strange sense of déjà vu she experienced in the sea garden and again, oddly, in the sail loft.
‘What a strange-looking place,’ she said to Johnnie, staring at the long stone building with its low roof. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the old sail loft,’ he told her. ‘My great-grandfather was a keen sailing man. Very competitive. He had his own sails specially made. My girls used it as playroom and then Sophie had it as her own private quarters when she first came to live with us. Come and have a look. The boathouse is underneath.’
And he took her into the great light-filled space with windows along each wall and a huge glass door at the far end, set within a balcony. The room seemed to shake around her, the river light quivering and dazzling her, and Johnnie held her arm as if fearing that she might stumble on one of the rugs cast down upon the pale shining wooden floor. A short stairway, at the opposite end to the balcony, leads upwards to the bedrooms on a curving mezzanine floor rather like a minstrels�
� gallery. The kitchen and bathroom are tucked away beneath it at the back.
She tried to make light of her reaction. ‘It’s utterly amazing,’ she said, rather breathlessly, laughing a little. ‘Wow! What a place to work.’
And that’s when Lady T, following behind them, made her offer.
‘Well, why don’t you come and stay with us for a few days, my dear? You could be here in the sail loft since you like it so much, and come over to the house for your meals and whenever you want company. We can get to know you better and you can explore the Tamar and perhaps find some inspiration for your work at the same time. We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Johnnie?’
And he smiled at her, still holding her arm protectively. ‘It would be splendid,’ he said.
Now, Jess lets out the clutch, and drives on. She knows that it is time to step right into the story and take her place among the players.
* * *
Johnnie, with Popps at his heels, lets himself out through the back door, walks along the path between the big walled kitchen garden and the outbuildings to the higher ground where the lawn is surrounded by shrubberies of azalea and hydrangea. The tide is still making and a light north-easterly breeze rustles in the reed-beds; perfect conditions for a sail. Scrubbed down and ready for the winter, Alice lies at her moorings out on the deep-water channel. Inherited from his grandfather, she is Johnnie’s passion. He’s spent years restoring her, working on her, and his greatest joy is taking friends sailing in her.
As he strolls across the sloping land, watching the sun glinting on the cottage windows across the river in Cargreen, he reflects that had Al lived he would have inherited the house when their father died. It would have been Al’s boat out on the river, his children running along the corridors and sitting around the dining-room table; his dogs following that rabbit’s trail over the hard dry earth beneath the tree-tall hydrangeas.
Instead, Al’s bones lie fathoms deep somewhere off the Gribben Head. Johnnie wanders slowly, glancing back at the plain Georgian façade of the house, remembering the games he and Al once played here and down on the river: smugglers, pirates – the games were always water-based. The boathouse and the disused sail loft were perfect for these activities, along with the small sailing dinghy that Al was given on his ninth birthday. Johnnie learned quickly to follow where Al led, to be a good lieutenant: no sneaking or tattling. Al could do no wrong with their mother and he soon saw the wisdom of staying in his big brother’s shadow.
The Sea Garden Page 9
