His mother had been distraught, angry, condemnatory. Even now Milo’s gut churned with a remembrance of his helplessness and humiliation.
‘We’ll manage somehow,’ he said now – and felt Nick’s shoulder sag with relief. ‘I’ll have to think how,’ he warned him, ‘and you must promise to use this experience to get your relationship with Alice on to a new footing. If she wants more than you can provide then you must tell her that she must get out and earn it herself.’
Nick nodded earnestly – he looked ill with relief – and Milo knew that his son’s readiness to agree to reform was simply a reaction to his thankfulness: nothing would change. He sighed.
‘Lottie will be back soon,’ he said. ‘Do you want this kept as a secret between you and me?’
Nick shook his head. ‘I told Im,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind Lottie knowing that I’m a stupid immoral prat. She’s my aunt. It won’t be news to her, after all.’
The bitterness in his voice, the emphasis on the little phrase he’d used before, wrenched Milo’s heart; at the same time he felt impatient with Nick’s foolishness and anxious at how he might be able to help him.
‘Would it be better,’ Nick was asking diffidently, ‘if I go back to London?’ He smiled, a rather forced hangdog grimace. ‘You won’t be able to be really rude about me to Lottie with me sitting there, will you?’
Milo smiled too, remembering Lottie’s remark about Hugh Grant and the Scotch. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he answered. ‘It’s never stopped me before. She’s your aunt, after all.’
Nick looked at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, Dad. I mean, really, thanks. You’ve saved my life.’ He got up. ‘I’ll go and unpack. Is it OK if I have a shower?’
Milo watched him go and then poured himself a drink. He sat down at the table and began to think how he could help Nick. He was still sitting there when Lottie and Pud came back. She raised her eyebrows and he nodded and pointed towards the ceiling.
‘Twenty-three thousand,’ he muttered – and her eyes widened in horror. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s pretty desperate this time.’
‘You seem quite calm about it.’ Lottie kept her voice down. ‘How on earth will you manage?’
He gave a little shrug. ‘I was thinking about what we were talking about earlier. My idea of selling the Summer House to Im and Jules. After all, neither Sara nor Nick could complain now if I sold it to them at a very competitive rate, could they?’
Lottie looked anxious. ‘But is it right for you, Milo? The Summer House is a bit of an insurance policy, isn’t it? That’s what you always said, anyway. A buffer against old age or illness.’
‘The Summer House will be difficult to let again without doing a great deal of modernizing. If I sell it I can buy two small letting properties in Minehead or Dulverton – much more sensible – and Im and Jules will have a home. They won’t care that it’s a bit run-down, and I’ll have the rental incomes to boost my pension.’
Lottie frowned. ‘It sounds quite sensible,’ she admitted cautiously.
They heard Nick’s footsteps, exchanged a quick glance. ‘It’s OK,’ Milo said, ‘he wants you to know,’ and Lottie turned to greet her nephew. She hugged him, aware of the fear and despair beneath his relief, seeing in his shamed glance a question: did she know yet? Would she condemn him?
‘It’s good to see you, Nick,’ she told him.
He smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Lottie. It’s good to be home. I thought I’d just take a little walk. Get some fresh air and stretch my legs.’
He went out, gently closing the door behind him, and Lottie sat down opposite Milo.
‘Very tactful of him,’ she said. ‘Pour me a drink, please, Milo, and start at the beginning.’
Nick walked down the drive, his head bent against the cold wind, hands in his pockets.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he said to himself once or twice rather drearily, but he felt no real lightening of spirits.
He would have given anything to be back at that point in his life before he’d succumbed to fear: to return to that particular moment and do it all differently. He still felt ill with regret and shame though his gut-churning terror of discovery had receded.
The whole length of the drive he argued with himself; trying to justify his actions. It was easy now, he told himself despairingly, to imagine that he would have had the courage to tell Alice that they were overdrawn in every possible area: that they could no longer go on living at such a rate and that together they must face serious cutbacks. At the mere thought of such a confrontation he felt sick again in the pit of his stomach, fearful at the prospect of her contempt at his failure. And here was the real nub of the thing: not that she might be at fault for her extravagances and snobbery; only that he was to blame because he couldn’t provide for them. Dimly he recognized that he was overanxious to retain the goodwill of his family and friends; that he was diminished by their criticism. Because of his need to please all the people all the time he’d allowed himself to make bad decisions, trying to double guess what would make this friend or that member of the family happy. This invariably led on to secret resentment, yet he continued to be driven by this need.
As he turned out of the drive into the village street, he began to recall numerous occasions in his life when his desire to remain popular, loved, admired, had been stronger than the instinct to be true to himself. He was easily swayed, too unconfident to have the courage of his own convictions. Oh, he could brazen things out if necessary, put on a swagger to cover his uncertainties and give the impression of being confident and cheerful. He was so successful at this Jekyll and Hyde existence that sometimes he’d wondered if he were schizophrenic. He was good at being very jolly; a bit of a clown. Alice had responded to it.
‘You make me laugh,’ she’d said once, early on in their relationship. ‘I like that.’
He’d been flattered; determined to keep up this aspect of his character, thus retaining her approval and love.
Now, as he strode on through the village, past the pretty cottages with their tall, stone chimneys, out towards Allerford, he knew the reason why his brief relationship with Im had been so magical. She’d accepted him for what he was – and there’d been the confidence of consanguinity.
‘We were like cousins,’ she’d said, and it was true, but that loving closeness had been incomparable and precious during that brief period of their love affair. She’d been eighteen and had her first job working at a racing stable near Newbury; he, an immature thirty-year-old, had been doing well in futures trading after a few disastrous early career moves, and driving down from London at weekends to see her.
Here was another area in which he yearned to reinvent the past; to have another shot at something he’d rejected out of fear.
‘Nobody must know,’ Im had said to him anxiously. ‘What would your mum say if she suspected?’
Her fear had infected him and even now he could remember the terror he’d felt at the prospect of telling his mother that he was in love with Imogen. All too often, right through his life, his mother had expressed herself forcibly on the subject of the ‘usurpers’. As a child he’d walked a stressful line between his mother’s potential wrath and his easy, natural love for his father and Lottie, and for Matt and Imogen. Yet he’d always needed his mother’s love and approval too, fearful that she might cease to love him just as she’d ceased to love his father.
‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ the small Nick had asked anxiously. ‘It’s because of me that you and Daddy don’t want to be together any more,’ and neither of them had been able to give an adequate explanation to the contrary, though his father had remained unwavering in his love and attention to him; more stable and reliable than his mother, who had been given to angry tirades against his father in those early years after the divorce.
Looking back, he guessed that this was because his mother had been the one who’d left, and had felt guilty – and was trying to justify herself to her son – but he knew now that he’d simp
ly been far too young to understand the complexities of adult relationships. He’d worked hard to sustain the fragile connection that remained between his parents.
Nick passed West Lynch Farm and suddenly turned aside, through a little wooden picket gate. He walked up the path that led to the small stone chapel, and let himself in. Sitting in the back pew he gazed upon the scene that was so familiar. Here he’d sat as a child with his father at Christmastime and at Easter, during holidays from boarding school, and more recently with his own children. The silence and the atmosphere of peaceful prayerfulness brought him unexpected comfort and he began to dread the moment that he must stand up and go back into the depressing reality of his life. He bent his head, trying to think of some appeal, some prayer that he might make, but the only word that came to his confused mind was ‘Help’. He prayed it anyway. ‘Please help me,’ he muttered, then, after a little pause, he stood up and went out into the cold March evening.
CHAPTER TEN
During the night the temperature dropped below freezing and by morning the daffodils along the banks each side of the drive were weighted down by the thick frost, lightly iced like some exotic lemon pudding. Catkins hung like stalactites in the chill air.
Lottie stood at her bedroom window wrapping herself into her thick woollen dressing gown. Overnight a lamb had been born in the field below the house: a tiny grey-white form, like a stone on the ground, with two ewes standing over it. A jug-handle ear suddenly showed and then sank again into the huddle of skin and bone. A magpie landed nearby and the ewes faced up to it. It hopped closer and Lottie leaned from the window, flapping a shawl, so that it hesitated and then flew away. The two ewes gently nudged the inanimate form and now a crow flew in, landing near the little group, swaggering forward. Once again the ewes faced up to it, one of them making a little run forward, but it stood its ground and Lottie opened the window again, clapping her hands to frighten it away. But now, at last, the lamb was on its feet, staggering, pitifully weak, and the ewes shielded its trembling body, bending their heads to nuzzle it. The magpie was down in a monochrome flash, seizing the bloody afterbirth in its beak, dragging it away whilst the disgruntled crow watched from a low bare bough.
Lottie stood at the window for a little longer, until she believed the lamb to be out of danger, and then went out of her room. She paused on the landing to look up the stairs that led to Matt’s quarters in the attic; empty again now. It was odd that from his earliest visits Matt had claimed the attic for his own. Even as a small boy he’d loved the isolation and privacy of his eyrie whilst glad to know that the people that mattered to him were not too far away. Lottie and Imogen shared this staircase whilst Milo’s bedroom was at the other end of the house with Nick’s room and the spare room.
As she went down the stairs, through the parlour and into the breakfast room she wondered how Nick was feeling this morning. Supper had been a sombre affair: Milo in a quiet and rather uncommunicative mood, whilst Nick grasped gratefully at any conversational opening.
The trouble was, thought Lottie as she bent to receive Pud’s morning welcome, that at times like these almost any subject was likely to lead eventually into dangerous waters. She’d cast around in her mind to find a topic that might not somehow refer to Nick’s family or work and finally decided to sacrifice Matt’s pride on the altar of social necessity. They’d talked about the difficulty of following a successful novel and a film with something equally good, if not better, and the pressure he was under. Nick had been sympathetic and thoroughly agreed with Lottie’s idea that Matt needed a break away from London and the constant reminders of his failure to come up with the goods.
‘He’s coming down again at Easter,’ she’d said. ‘He can’t find a place to rent at the moment so he’ll be here for a while. He’d like to take a couple of months off.’
She’d smiled at Nick, not actually seeking his approval but hoping that he wouldn’t feel in any way dispossessed by the prospect of Matt being around for such a long time.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he’d said at once. ‘Perhaps he’ll find inspiration once he’s away from all his usual haunts. I loved Epiphany. It’s such an amazing book, isn’t it? The Lord of the Rings meets Harry Potter. It’s packed with images and plots and ideas. I should think he’d need years to write another one like that. Or perhaps he wants to do something different this time?’
She’d shaken her head. ‘I don’t think he knows what he wants to do. He’s trying too hard to come up with something. He needs time with Im and Rosie. Normal family life.’
‘And his mum’s death. He needs time to adjust to that, too. Poor old Helen. It’s probably worse for Matt and Im that she had such a troubled life.’
She’d been touched by his intuitiveness, smiled at him with warm affection, and he’d smiled back; such a genuinely sad, little self-aware smile that she’d wanted to get up and go round the table to give him a hug. And then Milo had stirred, poured more wine and begun to talk about selling the Summer House. She’d tensed with trepidation but it was clear that this was not a new idea to Nick, and when Milo had suggested that he might let Im and Jules have it for a sum they could afford she could see that Nick was genuinely delighted.
It was also clear to see that Nick’s ready generosity on Im’s behalf had afforded Milo a grim kind of amusement. She’d been able to read his thoughts without difficulty; after all, the only one who would be down on the deal would be Milo himself – but Nick was so relieved, so anxious to show himself willing for the sale of the Summer House to benefit Im and Jules, that it didn’t occur to him to sympathize with his father’s financial loss. Across the table she’d watched Milo struggling with himself, reminding himself that this was what he’d wanted to do in the first place before he’d known about Nick’s dilemma, and finally resisting making any sarcastic observation that would humiliate his son further. She’d raised her glass to Milo then, silently acknowledging his private battle, and he’d understood and grinned back at her, admitting the temptation with a small, slightly shamefaced wink.
As she and Pud made the morning pilgrimage to the bird table, Lottie felt a lightening of spirits: the difficult moment was over and Nick was out of danger. She wondered how Milo would broach the subject of the Summer House to Imogen and tried to imagine her delight. A chill current of air shivered the stiff leaves of the rhododendron bushes and touched her cheeks; she huddled the collar of her long, knitted dressing gown higher around her neck and hurried back into the house.
To the relief of all three of them, Nick left in the middle of the morning. Milo had made the necessary call to his bank and had written out a cheque, which Nick had accepted with incoherent mutterings of gratitude and promises never to do such a thing again. All three of them were embarrassed, none of them knowing how to say goodbye in a normal manner. It was clear that Nick was longing to be gone, however much he tried to convince them that this was solely because he needed to get the cheque paid in and the accounts finished. Then, once he’d handed over the cheque, Milo had a sudden and violent resurgence of irritation at Nick’s ‘criminal stupidity’ and made him promise that he would resign from the post of golf club treasurer. Nick, looking slightly injured, told him that he’d already decided to do that as soon as the moment was right.
Since this little scene took place in the breakfast room with Lottie present, she tried to smooth over the awkwardness by offering to make Nick a sandwich or some coffee before he went, but he shook his head, smiling at her, and went away to fetch his overnight case.
Milo looked uncomfortable, slightly regretting his outburst but resentful at having to feel remorse. Lottie grinned at him.
‘“Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind”,’ she quoted softly.
‘Shut up!’ he muttered back, but they were both smiling when Nick came back into the room.
He looked from one to the other, his spirits lifting with relief, and they all went out together to the car.
‘Honestly, tho
ugh,’ Milo said, still aggrieved, as they waved Nick off down the drive. ‘That my son should behave so … well, so dishonourably, dammit. I can still hardly believe it.’
‘He genuinely meant to pay it back,’ Lottie said gently. ‘He told me that he was so horrified when he saw the size of his bonus that he was physically sick. Try to see it through Nick’s eyes. It was as if he were simply borrowing it for a few weeks. That’s how he saw it. I’m not condoning it, Milo, of course I’m not, but it wasn’t the action of a criminal. We’ve all been tempted at some time, haven’t we, and done things that other people might consider dishonourable?’
Milo opened his mouth to retort that he had never been in such a position, and shut it again, suddenly wondering how many of his friends saw his relationship with Venetia in the same self-forgiving light that he himself considered it. Perhaps some of them might well have considered that it was dishonourable to have an affair with his crippled friend’s wife.
But it wasn’t quite like that, he told himself defensively, and saw that Lottie was watching him with those strange eyes narrowed slightly as if willing him to make the connection.
‘I might take Pud for a walk,’ he said abruptly. ‘Up to the post office to get my pension. Anything you need?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
He hesitated. ‘Shall you tell Im about the Summer House? Or shall I?’
‘Oh!’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘I imagined you’d want to. Whichever you like.’
‘You do it,’ he said. ‘Go and see her and tell her that they can have it. You know what they can afford.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’ll find Pud while you get your coat, and then I’ll phone Im.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Imogen was sitting on the sofa in the Cellar Bar of the Dunster Castle Hotel, a cup of coffee on the table before her and Rosie in the buggy beside her.
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