The Sea Garden

by Marcia Willett

  Gemma finishes her latte and gathers her belongings together. The man at the next table glances up and catches her eye. There is that brief moment, the tiny flicker of recognition, in which each acknowledges that the other is an attractive person and accepts that this quick assessing glance might lead to something more; something fun and exciting.

  Usually Gemma would allow herself to smile a little, wait for some casual comment to skewer the moment so that a light flirtation might be allowed to develop. Instead she thinks of Pa, and of Charlotte, and she picks up her bag and goes quickly out into the street.

  * * *

  Sitting at the back of the church, Kate feels the ghosts jostling again at her elbow. She knows that Jess is very on edge and they’ve agreed to slip in and sit right at the back and leave immediately afterwards.

  ‘We don’t have to go back to the house, do we?’ Jess asked, clearly agitated, and Kate reassured her that she is very happy to keep a low profile.

  ‘After all,’ she told her, ‘I didn’t know the Trehearnes all that well and you’ve only just met them. It’s Tom who is the real connection with the past.’

  So here they are, sitting right at the back, watching people filing in with suitably solemn faces, including Cass and Tom, who are now sitting well forward. Kate stares at their backs while other similar scenes unroll on the screen of her mind: Charlotte’s funeral, and David’s. Even as she remembers, she is aware of the tension of the girl sitting beside her and the way she glances intently at everyone who passes them.

  Kate thinks about the photograph and wonders why it is so important. Natural, one might think, to be interested in your grandfather’s youth, but Jess never knew her grandfather.

  ‘He and Daddy really fell out big time,’ she said. ‘They simply didn’t get on and that’s why Daddy came back to England. He’d always wanted to join the army anyway, but I felt that it must have been very hard on Granny. We went back once or twice when I was a baby and a little girl but I can hardly remember it. Then, after Daddy died, Mum and I went out to Australia to visit some of her relations and we saw Granny again then. She was great fun but a bit kind of remote. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to think about Daddy dying so young. Of course Mike had died by then, too, but she didn’t want to talk about either of them.’

  Kate finds it interesting that sometimes Jess calls Juliet ‘Granny’ but always refers to her grandfather as ‘Mike’. Remembering the conversation they’d had about the photograph, Kate nudges Jess’s arm.

  ‘Stephen Mortlake,’ she murmurs, and Jess looks up swiftly at the grey-haired man who follows his wife into a pew and sits down, looking around him. Cass, glancing back, sees him and gives him the tiniest of smiles.

  Briefly Kate sees the ghosts of the young Cass and Stephen superimposed upon the black backs of the congregation – and then there is a little commotion and bustle and Rowena is with them, being borne towards the altar followed by the family, and Kate stands with Jess beside her and opens her service sheet.

  * * *

  ‘I hate funerals,’ Jess says, as they drive back to Tavistock. She leans forward, hugging her knees, not far from tears.

  ‘That’s because you were so young when someone really important to you died,’ says Kate. ‘It’s a shock at that age to have to face the fact that we are not immortal.’

  She wonders if this is true. She actually has no problems with funerals, hoping that whoever has died is now in a happier, more peaceful place. It’s weddings she hates. Happy girls dressed in silly expensive clothes advancing towards nervous, hopeful men in uncomfortable suits, all believing that they are entering the world of Happy Ever After and making promises they cannot hope to keep.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ she wants to shout. ‘It’s all a myth.’

  She doesn’t say this to Jess.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ she says instead, ‘to be made aware of the awful finality of death when you’re only thirteen.’

  To her horror, Jess begins to weep. She draws her feet up onto the edge of the seat, wraps her arms around her knees and hides her face in them. Sobs shake her body, and Kate wonders whether she should stop the car or whether it is better to drive on. Instinctively she carries on; she will take Jess up on to the moor in the hope that its immense majesty and sense of infinity will soothe and heal her as it has healed her, Kate, in the past. They hurry through the town, out onto the Princetown road and pass Mount House School. At the cattle grid Kate turns left onto the little track beneath Cox Tor and reverses the car into a small unused quarry.

  In the back of the car, Flossie begins to whine eagerly. Jess raises her head; her face is blotched and red and her eyes are swollen. She stares around her.

  ‘Come on,’ says Kate. ‘Let’s take Flossie for a walk up to the tor.’

  Jess’s eyebrows shoot up; she almost manages a smile. ‘In these shoes?’

  Kate looks down at herself, forgetting that they are more smartly dressed than usual.

  ‘I’ve got some walking shoes under the seat,’ she says, ‘and gumboots in the back. We’re about the same size. It’ll do our heads good to look right out. It never fails to give a sense of perspective.’

  They change their shoes, scramble up the side of the quarry, and set off towards the tor.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ mutters Jess. ‘It takes me unawares. Silly, isn’t it? Not at the funeral itself – I was OK with that – but afterwards I just suddenly thought about him, how he was, and I just couldn’t bear it. I still miss him just as much as ever. And now…’

  ‘Now?’ prompts Kate gently when Jess falls silent.

  Jess shakes her head; she crosses her arms, hugging herself, and stops to look around her. Flossie has raced ahead, scrambling among the scree and the ancient hut circles, following a trail. Kate stops too. She looks out to the west, towards Cornwall and the sheltered, magical valley of St Meriadoc, and Bruno in his strange stone house on the cliff.

  Jess has scrambled higher now and is looking away to the south, far beyond the granite jumble of Pew Tor and the slate roofs of Horrabridge, where a narrow shining ribbon snakes inland from the sea.

  ‘Is that the Tamar?’ she calls, gesturing with her arm. ‘That river?’

  Kate climbs up to join her and they stand together looking towards Plymouth.

  ‘Yes, that’s the Tamar,’ says Kate. She watches the girl’s face with its oddly wistful expression. ‘You know, I think you’ve lost your heart to that river.’

  Just for a moment Kate thinks that Jess is going to confide in her, to tell her the real secret, but instead she smiles and gives a little nod.

  ‘I think I have,’ she says.

  TAMAR

  After the funeral it seems as if everything goes into mourning for Rowena. The long spell of fine autumn weather changes: Atlantic fronts sweep in from the west, bruise-coloured clouds piling and toppling into downpours of rain. Rivers run high and fast, burst their banks, and smash small ancient bridges. In waterside communities, cottages are flooded and shops and cafés are under water; the local news is filled evening after evening with woeful stories of damaged stock and ruined carpets. Westerlies of gale force propensities sink small boats and fell trees, which crush cars beneath their flailing boughs.

  Then, suddenly, all is quiet again. The storms race away to the east and a waning moon, cast about with a shawl of stars, rises in the clear night sky. The temperature drops, hoar frost whitens bare twigs and fallen leaves, and puddles creak and splinter underfoot as ice begins to form. Unprecedented low temperatures for early December are forecast and there are hints of a white Christmas.

  In the drawing-room, Johnnie switches off the television and looks at Sophie, who is sitting in a big armchair with her legs tucked beneath her, writing a letter. Her fine fair hair falls forward across her cheeks and she frowns slightly as she writes. He settles himself more comfortably in the corner of the sofa, reaching a hand to Popps, who is curled beside him. Popps is missing Rowena and is trading on it by dem
anding more attention and extra treats. Sophie is allowing her to get away with it because she feels that, in ministering to Popps, Johnnie is allowing himself his own form of grieving.

  ‘She’s missing Mother, poor old Popps. How she loved this little dog, didn’t she, Sophes? She had such a soft spot for the dogs.’ And he’d give Popps another little treat and stroke her head and murmur to her.

  ‘Snow’s forecast,’ says Johnnie. ‘Going to be another cold night. Black ice warning.’ He chuckles. ‘How Mother hated that expression. Black ice. “What does it mean?” she’d say. “How ridiculous!”’ And he chuckles again with affection.

  Sophie nods. The house seems oddly empty without Rowena’s stringent, critical presence, and she is glad that Oliver will be over tomorrow – and Jess is coming back, too.

  ‘I wonder if it’ll be a bit cold out in the sail loft for Jess,’ Johnnie says, as if he reads Sophie’s mind. ‘Should she be in the house, d’you think?’

  ‘I did mention it.’ Sophie puts aside her letter. ‘Especially after she’s had that wretched cold since the funeral, but she really wants to be out there. I think she needs to be, somehow.’

  Johnnie looks puzzled and Sophie casts about for some reason that Johnnie might be able to accept. She believes that Jess is coming to terms with something personal, something private, and that the sail loft is a good place for her to be while she’s doing it.

  ‘Her work,’ she says. ‘You know what creative people are like. They need their own space. She’s trying to get a portfolio together while she’s here. The sail loft must be a perfect place for that, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Johnnie agrees. ‘I hadn’t thought of that aspect of it. And she can come inside if the weather gets colder. Old Fred’s back this week, too.’

  He looks thoughtful and Sophie frowns.

  ‘I still think it was rather odd of him, just taking off like that,’ she says.

  ‘He said something about meeting up with an old friend.’ Johnnie shrugs evasively. ‘You know Fred. Fairly typical.’

  ‘I suppose so. Oh, and Oliver’s coming over tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ Johnnie sits forward. ‘I want to talk to him about this scheme of Guy’s. Oliver’s emailed me a few things. I really think it could work.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘It may well be a great thing for all of us. It’s something we can all be a part of, isn’t it? You, me and Fred. Even Will, when he’s around.’

  ‘It would bring new life in,’ Johnnie says. ‘People coming and going and all sorts of offshoots like the RYA courses, which Fred and I are qualified to run, and skippering the boats on the day-runs. We could all take a turn at that. Lots to talk about, of course, but I feel very positive about it. I can’t wait for Fred to come back so we can tell him about it.’

  Sophie laughs. ‘He’ll be in his element. And it’ll be so nice for Guy to have you both encouraging him. So long as the figures stack up.’

  ‘Oliver’s looking into all of that,’ says Johnnie. ‘He’s got a head on his shoulders, that fellow. No wonder he’s made a packet.’

  Sophie feels a little thrill of pride. ‘I haven’t actually discussed it with him,’ she says, unable to resist talking about him but not quite knowing what to say. ‘He’s an odd mix, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly sharp when it comes to business. He seems such a laid-back kind of chap as a rule and then you realize that under that amusing veneer is quite a tough nut.’

  ‘I think he is,’ she agrees. ‘He was telling me that one of the things he’s doing is providing the seed capital for a group of young scientists who have found a cheaper way to make solar panels. To quote Oliver: “It’s green, they’re great, and we shall all make money!” He’s insisted that they form a limited company and he has a seat on the board. He says it’s his job to provide the seed capital and the inventor’s job to make things grow.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Johnnie glances across at Sophie as he gently pulls Popps’ ears, wondering whether to take a more personal direction. She catches his eye and smiles defensively, not ready yet for confidences.

  ‘Time for Popps’ last outs,’ she says casually.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Johnnie takes the hint and encourages Popps down from the sofa, and they go out.

  Sophie folds the sheets of her letter and tidies the drawing-room, piling the cushions together and putting the guard in front of the fire, and goes out to the kitchen. She guesses that Johnnie knows exactly what she is feeling but she can’t bring herself to talk about those emotions just yet. She is still trying to form a plan that will enable her and Oliver to move forward without making any drastic changes to their lives. It is very difficult, with Oliver based in London, to allow the relationship to take the usual course of dating, and it would be so odd, now, to arrange to meet him at a restaurant, say, or even in a pub. It’s as if they’ve already moved far beyond that – yet she hardly knows him. Now, with his connection to Guy’s scheme and Johnnie’s enthusiasm for the project, he’s become part of the family and it’s even more difficult to play it in a more normal way. She’s glad that Johnnie hasn’t questioned her or teased her; he approves of Oliver and he’s on her side, and that’s all that matters at the moment.

  * * *

  Johnnie strolls across the lawn. The air is icy and the moon’s reflection swims clear and cold in the calm water of the river. Higher up the valley an owl hoots, a long wavering cry. He stands at the balustrade in the sea garden and stares towards the sea. He thinks about other Trehearnes who have stood here, waiting and watching, and he puts out a hand to Circe, whose skirt is smooth and slippery to his touch.

  Turning, he glances up at Rowena’s window as if he expects to see her light shining out as usual.

  ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ he mutters and, calling to Popps, he goes back across the grass to the house.

  * * *

  When Sophie sees Oliver again she is seized with a most uncharacteristic fit of shyness.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, opening the back door to him, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Johnnie’s in the Growlery getting on with the book but I was about to encourage him with coffee. Would you like some?’

  He nods, and the amusement in his eyes suggests that he quite understands the reason for the shyness and isn’t going to embarrass her by drawing attention to it.

  ‘How is Johnnie?’ he asks. ‘Rowena’s death can’t exactly have been a shock but he must be feeling it.’

  ‘He does. We both do,’ she answers as she fills the kettle. ‘She was such a major presence. It feels really weird without her around somewhere. I think he’s working on the book to take his mind off it.’

  ‘Guy’s scheme will take his mind off it,’ Oliver assures her. He puts a laptop case on the table. ‘Johnnie and I have been exchanging emails but I think he forgets that I’m not a sailing man so I need some translation. But it’s looking good and I like Johnnie’s ideas of diversification. Old Unk, the chap who took me into his business, used to say that to be successful you have to have a widget.’

  ‘A widget?’

  ‘Mmm. The crucial thing around which the business is built. In this case it’ll be the boat itself, of course, but the more things we can think of to utilize the widget the better it’ll be. Johnnie says that he and Fred are Instructor Members for the RYA, which he seems to think will be a positive asset. What exactly does it mean?’

  Sophie’s shyness has quite disappeared now. She leans with her back to the Aga rail and crosses her arms.

  ‘It means that both of them are qualified to teach people to sail, which might be very useful to Guy, although I’m sure he’ll want to become qualified, too.’

  ‘Hang on. Qualified by whom? By this RYA?’

  ‘Yes. It used to be called the Royal Yachting Association but they call themselves the RYA now. They’re the body appointed by the Government to issue certificates of competence and teaching certificates. If you weren’t such a landlu
bber you’d know that they’re very highly respected and their certificates are recognized all over the world. Johnnie could use Alice, and Fred could use his boat, come to that. It’s something they’ve often done as volunteers but at their ages they wouldn’t want to take the responsibility of trying to make it work commercially. You and Guy running the show will give them the chance to become much more involved, won’t it?’

  ‘It sounds like it, but I’d have to check it all out properly. Insurance and so on. And Johnnie would be happy with all these people passing through? He’s really thought about it?’

  ‘He’d be in his element.’ She turns round as the kettle begins to boil and pushes it to one side while she puts coffee in the percolator. ‘He’s at his best when the family comes to stay but, now that the children are older, visits have to be geared to the school holidays, so it’s not like it used to be when they were little and everyone was coming and going a lot. I think with Rowena gone he’s going to notice the draught and this would be a perfect solution.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Well, I’d love it, too,’ she begins, and then hesitates. She’s implying that she’ll be staying here, that they won’t be together, and she feels confused. She makes the coffee, tells herself not to be a fool, and turns to look directly at him. ‘I want us to be together somehow,’ she says firmly. ‘At least, I think I do. But I still can’t see how it is to be done.’

  He comes round the table to her, puts his arms around her and kisses her. She holds on to him tightly and then relaxes.

  ‘We’ll sort it out,’ he says lightly, letting her go, and at once she is full of happiness and relief. He seems to understand her so well, and she feels that she can trust him. She senses that he will allow their love to develop at its own pace, embracing the people around them and the events that are taking place. There will be no dramatics, no upheavals, and she is profoundly grateful. There’s been a sense of sadness and emptiness since the funeral, but Oliver brings the prospect of change and purpose that is all a part of this exciting new love growing between them.