by Connie Monk
‘You’re not going to let yourself miss anything.’ Giles laughed, his voice cutting across her thoughts. ‘I’ve never had a passenger so interested in the scenery.’
‘Of course I’m interested. Giles, don’t you see how exciting it is? Except for during the war, when the school was evacuated to a huge manor house in Berkshire, it was in London – no, not even as exciting as being actually in London; it was stuck in the suburbs. Not that it makes much difference where you are, there’s no chance of being let out and seeing much if you’re at a girls’ boarding school. Apart from that I lived on the Isle of Wight until I came to the farm, so I want to see every single thing. Last year Natalie and I went walking in Derbyshire, but I got there by train. Some of the countryside we went through was lovely, it wasn’t all drab by any means, but train journeys are so miserable, don’t you think? You see hundreds and thousands of houses from the back, mean little back gardens, yards, some with bath tubs hanging on the wall, everything looking so dingy. In a car you see the fronts, you see people. I don’t want to miss any of it. I’ve never been north from Devon.’
Giles took a quick glance at her. She was like a child going to her first party. Was he being fair to take advantage of her juvenile crush on him? For he had no illusions: she was in love with love; she was in love with his association with Burghton and the characters who had peopled her unnatural existence living with an elderly grandmother.
‘I was brought up not ten miles from here,’ he said.
‘You’ve never talked about your family. Are they still around here? Is that why you’ve come this way, so that you can take me to meet them?’ Her interest in the village they were passing through evaporated; he wanted to take her to see his roots, to introduce her to his family: ‘. . . my fiancée, Tessa.’ She could almost hear him saying the words.
‘I don’t remember my father. He was killed on the Somme and my memory doesn’t go back that far. My earliest recollections are of living with a bachelor uncle, my mother’s brother, but mercifully I was sent to boarding school when I was eight. My uncle was the vicar of Saint Agnes church in Moorbrook, over there to the left some ten miles, and my mother kept house for him.’ He didn’t answer her second question.
‘Did you base any of your characters on him in Burghton?’
‘Most certainly not. From what I learnt from him, I just trust he didn’t get the chance of catching a choirboy alone.’
‘Did he beat you? But he could never do that to a choirboy; there would be awful trouble in the parish.’
‘Beat me? Good God, no. Smarmy, over-kind, then when he thought he had my trust – but never mind.’
Tessa frowned, knowing there were things implied which he assumed she understood.
‘Are they alive, he and your mother?’
‘My mother moved out while I was at university. She never told me why and I didn’t ask. She was still relatively young and got a job as a sort of personal assistant to Julian Masters’ secretary. In those days Julian used to live in the village and I dare say he took her on to give her an escape route. Anyway, she was still quite young – she’d married at eighteen so must have been in her thirties. She married a captain in the Canadian Army in nineteen forty-three and lives in Alberta. I haven’t heard from her for years. We hardly knew each other; she was no more important in my life than I was in hers. I did have a letter about a year after she went to Canada, saying she had a daughter.’
‘And your uncle? Has he retired?’
‘Gone to the home in the sky for clergy. I dare say he’ll find companionship.’
‘I don’t understand. You sound so bitter – so, almost, full of hate.’
Taking his eyes from the view ahead on the fortunately straight road, he turned to look at her.
‘I hate hypocrisy, pretence.’ But was that true? The question sprang into his mind uninvited. Was he not being hypocritical in his treatment of this precious, innocent girl? No. He must genuinely love her or why would his conscience trouble him? Through all the affairs he’d amused himself with over the years, never once until now had he looked to the future and felt guilty. Aware that Tessa was waiting, uncertain of what was behind the story he had told her, his expression changed. Looking straight ahead at the still-empty road, his face broke into a smile and, peering at him, she felt reassured. ‘I know just the place for lunch,’ he told her. ‘A pub I’ve known since I was first old enough to frequent such places. They do remarkably good food.’ Taking her hand in his he raised it to his lips and gave it a kiss that held more pleasure than passion. ‘We’re on our holidays and what better to set us on our way than a pub lunch in the garden of the Cat and Fiddle?’
‘Two weeks, Giles. Today it feels like eternity. Do you know what I’d like more than anything? I’d like us to just keep driving until we got to Gretna Green. Two weeks would turn into all the years of our lives.’
‘No, Tessa, it wouldn’t bring happiness. You couldn’t start the rest of your life knowing you had deceived people who love you.’
‘But for two weeks we can pretend.’
Giles imagined the cottage that awaited them at journey’s end. This certainly wasn’t the first time he’d booked it, and neither was Tessa the first companion he had taken there. But he had never felt even the slightest twinge of guilt. Don’t look ahead to things that may never happen, he told himself. Even though Tessa’s adolescent love was something he’d never known from anyone else, surely it was up to him to make sure that tonight was so rapturous for her that hero worship was turned into mature love.
‘Here we are,’ he announced as the swinging sign of a cat playing a fiddle came into view. There were one or two bicycles leaning against the side of the building, just one car already in the car park and, completing the rural scene, a pony and trap. As Giles got out of the car a portly, middle-aged man wearing a butcher’s apron tied round what at one time had been his waist, came out of a side door then, recognizing him, waved a greeting.
‘That’s Jack Milton,’ Giles told Tessa, ‘the landlord. Just wait there. He and I go back a long way.’
She waited as he said, watching in the driving mirror as he and the landlord shook hands. In a minute Giles would bring his old friend over to the car to be introduced; in anticipation she glanced in the mirror to make sure she looked her best. She heard their voices but not their words, and there was no sign of their coming towards her. She frowned, her confidence again threatening to desert her. Then Giles came back alone.
‘Out you get,’ he said, opening the door for her. ‘I told Jack I wanted that table by the stream and he’s seeing that we have an umbrella to shield us.’ Ever the optimist, Tessa’s spirit rose. ‘Jack’s wife is Swiss. I said we’d have fondue; she makes the best sauces I’ve ever tasted.’
Once they were seated at their table, a barmaid brought out the umbrella, which Giles took from her and fitted into the table. While they waited for the fondue they strolled by the stream and then out came the same barmaid carrying the pot of hot oil, the flame from the heater flickering in the breeze. She was followed by a girl too young to have left school, who must have been employed to do a Saturday job, bearing a tray with a selection of home-made sauces, two long-handled forks and two dishes of raw meat cut into cubes. So the feast commenced. It was Tessa’s first experience of fondue and she forgot her disappointment at not being presented as the future Mrs Lampton as they cooked their meat, sometimes losing it in the oil and catching the wrong piece, dipping their catch inelegantly into the delicious sauces.
‘This is the best possible start to a holiday,’ she said as she dug around in the oil for her lost piece of meat. ‘So much more fun than ordinary food with a knife and fork, don’t you think?’
‘That, my dear Tessa, is why I brought you here.’
‘We’ve made a memory. When we’re very old we shall look back and remember every second of it.’ Not the most tactful remark she could have made, as she realized when she saw his sudden frown. ‘When w
e’re very old’ was a reminder to him of the gap in their years, and even more of the gap in their experience. The words seemed to hang between them.
At two o’clock The Cat and Fiddle closed, but it was nearer three and the other tables in the garden were empty; whether there to eat or simply drink the occupants had all gone.
‘Here’s the car key. You can get in while I just go round to the kitchen to say hello to Heidi. She’s lost none of her skill.’
Tessa felt like a child. ‘You run out and play while the adults talk,’ he might have said to her. Watching him walk away, the joy of the last two hours evaporated. She wished she could hate him for being so insensitive but she couldn’t – it wasn’t in her power to hate him. So, alone, she walked back to the car and sat waiting. In fact, he was only two or three minutes, even though to her it seemed much more. Then he appeared; his smile as he got behind the driving wheel was all it took to chase away her momentary blues.
In Bridgnorth they stopped again and wandered around the delightful old town where they found a tea room and ate scones with jam and cream. Pouring the tea banished any lingering feeling of inferiority and when, as they walked back towards where they’d left the car, he disappeared into a florist’s with a brief ‘Wait here’, emerging a minute or two later with a bunch of hothouse roses, her happiness was plain to see.
She had never before seen the hills of Shropshire.
‘So lovely, you can see for miles. It’s gentle and yet it’s – what’s the word? – strong, that’s it, it’s strong. Devon is gentle with its narrow lanes. Craggy places are harsh, don’t you think? But this is, yes, it’s strong, strong and kind. Have you been here before, Giles?’
‘Many times. The cottage is isolated, but it’s a far cry from my work place in Downing Wood. It’s centuries old but has been thoroughly modernized, mostly before the war but they have done a few things since. It has its own generator for electricity and a bathroom as good as I have in my London flat, but the low ceilings have their original beams, and there’s the original open fireplace. You’ll like it.’
And when, half an hour later, he opened the heavy ancient front door, he only had to look at her expression to know he’d been right.
‘Giles,’ she turned to him, so full of emotion that she could find no words. ‘Giles,’ she said again, putting her arms around his neck and burying her head against his shoulder.
He held her close against him, then raised her head so that he could see her face.
‘You think this can be our home for two weeks?’ he asked softly, a teasing note in his voice.
‘I think I could stay here forever and ever. It’s so right, all the lovely old oak furniture and such comfy-looking chairs. It’s a proper home. You like it too?
‘Come upstairs and see the rest. It’s not large but I agree with you, it’s so right. And so it should be; the owner is an interior designer. He lives in London but has this for when he wants to escape. I’ve known him for years. He only rents it to friends. Come up and see the bedrooms. I’ll bring the cases.’
He’d said ‘bedrooms’. Did he mean that they wouldn’t share? Again she felt unsure of herself, out of her depth. At the top of the narrow staircase he dumped their cases and steered her towards one of the bedrooms, stopping on the way to open the door of a modern bathroom with off-white tiled walls and bathroom fitments.
‘This is bedroom number two,’ he said, ushering her into a delightful room in total keeping with the living quarters downstairs.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said hesitantly then, holding his gaze and feeling her nails biting into the palms of her clenched hands, ‘but Giles, we don’t want two rooms. Isn’t that why we came away? I thought that was what you wanted.’ There! She’d said it. Now she turned her face away, feeling so uncomfortably hot that she was sure he must notice. She felt his hands on her shoulders, then drawing her close he tilted her face.
‘Did I will you to say that?’ he whispered.
‘Tell me, Giles.’
‘Tell you I want you more than I thought possible to want any woman? We’ll find paradise together, Tessa, my sweet Tessa.’
‘Show me our room,’ she whispered, her mouth so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath.
‘I want to take you there now, this minute. I want us to feel the warmth of the evening sun on our bodies. I want to be deep, deep inside you.’
‘Why do we have to wait?’ She guided his hand to her breast, silently begging him to do what he’d done before. If only she knew more about what would make it wonderful for him too, but she only knew about kissing and that people made love to get babies. Nothing had prepared her for this aching yearning that made her legs feel like jelly.
Without releasing their hold of each other they moved towards the main bedroom, Giles walking – shuffling, rather – forwards and Tessa backwards. Once inside he kicked the door closed, not because there was any chance of their being interrupted, but because it seemed to shut the rest of the world away. Then he unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off her shoulders. Next came her bra before together they pushed the rest of her clothes to the floor and she kicked off her sandals. She seemed to stand outside herself, savouring every second yet not completely part of it all. Her sheltered life had left her unprepared for the sensations, both physical and mental, that made a stranger of her even to herself. Already she was unbuttoning his open-necked shirt. The situation held a quality of unreality; it belonged in her dreams. Yet even her dreams hadn’t prepared her. Giles pulled off his undergarments, letting them fall to the floor next to hers. Shoes, socks, and then, like her, he was naked.
‘The sun’s gloriously warm still,’ she said softly, frightened of breaking the spell. How trite her words sounded. Would he know that she had hidden behind making the first comment to come into her head rather than let him guess that the nearest she had even come to seeing a naked man was in pictures of statues? Perhaps he understood her sudden discomfort. No, the spirit he was sure lay dormant waiting for him to bring it to life would know nothing of false modesty.
‘And you’re gloriously lovely. You’re just as I’ve imagined,’ he said softly, drawing her closer.
Her momentary unease had gone as suddenly as it had come. Leaning against him she felt the warmth of his body.
‘I can feel your heart beating . . . bump, bump, bump,’ she muttered, her lips moving against his shoulder as he held her.
‘Every pulse in my body is beating, throbbing.’
‘And mine,’ she breathed. She had the strangest feeling: half fear, half yearning. Taking his hand she carried it to her breast, longing for him to do what he’d done that evening in the cottage. Instead he dropped to his knees, pressing his head to her groin. Involuntarily she gasped. This was something she hadn’t expected; momentarily she was lost. As his warm mouth caressed her she was taken over by something out of her control; she pressed his head closer, closer. Then he raised one hand to her breast.
‘Want . . . want . . .’ she breathed.
Kneeling up straight he leant against her, gently moving her backwards to the bed.
‘And I want you.’ He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. ‘Now . . . now.’
If Tessa was on strange territory, so too was Giles. His life of casual affairs had satisfied him physically; there were no sex games he hadn’t played. But no woman had excited him as Tessa did, even though in experience she was little more than a child. As he moved her further on to the bed he looked down at her, so perfect, so eager. He must be gentle, he told himself; the first time would hurt. But there was nothing gentle in the need that drove him.
In her nightly imaginings she had never felt this strange aching feeling that tingled even in her arms and legs, a yearning for something still unknown.
And then it happened. Yes, it hurt, but the pain was exquisite, it was as if he were branding her, making her his own, now and forever. She was filled with joy as, with her legs wrapped around him, sh
e arched her back to force him ever nearer. There was something primitive and wild in the way she moved beneath him. Then, for both of them, control was gone, nature was supreme. She had been born for this moment.
Afterwards as they lay close, fighting for breath, she managed to force out the words, ‘Was like – was like – never knew – be like that.’ Then, after a huge gasp, ‘Sort of sacred, glorious.’
He didn’t answer. They were free agents; there was nothing to get up for. So, as the sun started to sink behind trees on a faraway hill, they both slept.
Much later, bathed and dressed for the evening, he took her out to dinner. White damask tablecloth and napkins, champagne, candles; it was an evening like no other.
Back in the car, before he switched on the engine he held his cigarette case to her, then lit first hers and then his own. For a few seconds they sat back in their seats, seeming to savour the moment.
‘This evening . . .’ she began, groping for the right words.
‘Yes? This evening?’ He turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised as he waited.
‘It’s hard to find the right words.’
