The Summer House

by Marcia Willett

  And the conversation turned on children, and children’s children, and Milo settled back into the corner of the sofa and reached for the newspaper, wondering how he was going to explain to his bank manager that he wouldn’t be selling the Summer House very quickly after all.

  ‘Matt came over today,’ Im was telling Jules. ‘Lottie looked after Rosie and we went down to Porlock Weir and had lunch at The Ship.’

  ‘Was that good?’

  It was clear that Jules was having to make a great effort to be interested and Im was filled with a sudden desire to hit him on the head with something heavy. She was, after all, working very hard to be reasonable about the Summer House, despite her utter misery about it; not nagging, or referring to it, but trying to restore the harmony that had once existed between them. And instead of responding, of being grateful to her for reacting in this positive way, he remained distant; polite but cool.

  ‘It was very good,’ she answered crossly, getting the ironing board out with a rather unnecessary vigour, plugging in the iron. She surveyed the full washing basket with distaste, half wondering if he might offer to help out. He’d always been good about his own shirts but refused to attempt her things or Rosie’s. Instead he glanced at it all and put his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I might watch the television for a bit,’ he said, and went out.

  She banged the iron to and fro, feeling miserable and resentful. It should be Jules who was feeling guilty for denying her the Summer House instead of behaving as if, in some way, he were the injured party.

  ‘He’s being totally irrational,’ she’d said earlier, to Matt in the pub. ‘It’s like he’s the one who’s had the biggest disappointment of his life instead of me. And I’m deliberately not saying a word about it.’

  Matt had drunk some beer; he’d looked thoughtful.

  ‘But how are you not saying a word about it?’ he’d asked at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she’d said indignantly. ‘I’m being jolly noble about it, if you ask me.’

  Matt had put his pint down and pretended to sniff the air. ‘Do I smell a martyr burning?’ he’d asked of nobody in particular, and she’d kicked him on the shin, just as if they were both small again.

  Im took another garment from the basket, picked up the iron and ploughed more furrows up and down the board. She’d been delighted to get a text from Nick telling her that he’d be down on Friday. She’d phoned him the morning after she’d phoned Matt and told him the truth about the Summer House, and he’d been full of sympathy and given no hint of any anxiety on his own behalf. A voice in her head had told her that actually he had no reason to be anxious; that, no doubt, the cheque had already been paid in and it was Milo who would need to be anxious, but she was too pleased to hear Nick’s words of love and understanding to heed it much. She couldn’t wait to see him.

  Im folded Jules’ shirt, aware of his silent presence across the hall, remembering how she’d planned to tell him about her idea to start an internet company sourcing family holidays on Exmoor and specializing in riding. Then he’d come in quite late with that tight expression on his face so that all her resentment resurfaced and they’d behaved like two strangers. Im shrugged and took one of Rosie’s little dresses out of the basket. It was up to him to get over it and start being sensible about it all. She’d done what she could and now it was his turn to try to put things right.

  Across the hallway, Jules stared unseeingly at the television. He felt guilty – and more than that: he felt as if he were letting everyone down. After all, Milo wouldn’t have suggested that they should buy the Summer House if he hadn’t considered it a perfectly reasonable distance from the practice. It was always tricky, living up to Milo: he was such a tough old soldier and it was easy to feel a bit of a weakling when he turned his imperious eye on you. And of course it was hard on Im; of course he would love to give her the house of her dreams; but, if he weren’t careful, he knew he’d weaken and back down, and he had a gut feeling that living at Bossington would put a strain on them that would be simply foolish. Mind you, anything would be better than this cold war that was going on. Im was being very restrained but there was an air of condescension, of suffering nobly borne, that was extraordinarily irritating. She was behaving as if they hadn’t come to a joint decision but rather as if she were bearing the brunt of his overbearing selfishness.

  He wondered what they were all saying: Milo and Matt and Lottie. Part of him wanted to get up and go and put his arms round her and say: ‘Oh, come on. Let’s go with it. Let’s buy the Summer House.’ But he remembered those long night-time drives in thick mist or driving rain, or ice and snow, and always with an anxious farmer and a sick animal at the end of it, and common sense held him in his chair. After all, Im hated it when he was called out; hated the worry and the broken sleep, and they’d both been absolutely adamant that they wanted to be as near to the centre of the practice as possible. Now, it was as if he were insisting on something with which she had no patience or sympathy, which implied that the Summer House meant more to her than he did.

  He had no idea how to break the impasse between them and the evening stretched miserably before him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the time Matt found the opportunity to talk privately with Milo it was late the next morning after Lottie had gone off to lunch with a friend in Dunster.

  Milo was in the narrow kitchen assembling the component parts of one of his favourite masterpieces: a terrine. Leaning in the doorway Matt suppressed a smile. The older man looked rather like some great artist preparing a canvas. Tall and lean in his faded butter-yellow cords and soft, checked shirt – he disdained an apron – he hovered above his palette of ingredients. The sage, garlic and lemon zest had been stirred into the softly cooked onion and now waited, cooling on a plate, whilst he chopped the pork fillet, bacon and pheasant and added it to the beaten egg in the mixing bowl. As he worked he recited poetry, anything that inspired him. Today it was The Hunting of the Snark:

  ‘Its flavour when cooked is more exquisite far

  Than mutton, or oyster, or eggs:

  (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,

  And some, in mahogany kegs:)

  ‘You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue:

  You condense it with locusts and tape:

  Still keeping one principal object in view –

  To preserve its symmetrical shape.’

  ‘So you’re cooking a Jubjub,’ observed Matt. ‘I thought it was a pheasant.’

  Milo added the chopped chestnuts and glanced sideways at him. ‘And would any of you be able to taste the difference, I ask myself?’ He pressed the mix into the terrine tin and covered it with foil. ‘My talents are wasted in this household. Lottie would eat baked beans on toast just as happily as she would eat my terrine, and you’re nearly as bad. This will be ready for Nick when he gets down at the weekend. He appreciates good food, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘So do I,’ protested Matt. ‘I just can’t be bothered when I’m on my own. It’s easier to get takeaways.’

  Milo shook his head and took the deep roasting tin half full of boiling water from the oven. ‘Hopeless. Quite hopeless. ’

  Matt took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. ‘I’ve had an idea, Milo, and I wanted to run it past you.’

  ‘“Run it past you”,’ repeated Milo with contempt. ‘What does that mean? “Run it past you.” Good God! Have you ever read the writings that came back from the trenches? Wonderful letters and poetry from perfectly ordinary soldiers, full of evocation and imagery? Can you imagine what we’re getting these days from Iraq or Afghanistan? Assuming that anyone out there can read and write, that is.’

  ‘Emails or text messages,’ grinned Matt. ‘Nobody writes letters any more, Milo. You know that.’

  ‘No need to brag about it.’ Milo stood his terrine in the bain-marie, put it in the oven and glanced at the clock. ‘An hour and a half,’ he muttered. ‘So what’s this brilliant idea, then?
Are you going to take cookery lessons?’

  ‘I’d like to buy the Summer House.’ Matt straightened up, instinctively preparing himself for some kind of rejection. ‘If Im and Jules don’t want it, then I’d like it. If you’re OK with it.’

  Oven cloth in hand, Milo stared at him, frowning; he shook his head slightly, as if to dispel surprise, and drew down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘If you’ve decided to sell,’ Matt hurried on, ‘then why not to me? Then it will stay in the family. I shall have a place outside London to work and to invite my friends; Jules and Im can use it for weekends, and later on, Lottie …’

  He halted awkwardly, not wishing to talk about Milo’s demise, but Milo had understood him and nodded one short nod, as if to imply that nothing more need be said about that.

  ‘If you’ve decided,’ Matt repeated, not wanting to take anything for granted; pretending that he didn’t know about Nick’s problem. He hadn’t been prepared for this sudden onset of nervousness. He wished he hadn’t used the words ‘then it will stay in the family’ as if Milo were somehow failing by not keeping the Summer House; as if he, Matt, were some kind of saviour, keeping everyone together and looking out for Lottie. His love and respect for Milo were enormous and he was beginning to feel deeply uncomfortable. He stared at the older man, willing him to understand, but Milo had turned to pick up his kitchen timer and was pressing buttons.

  ‘You see,’ Matt went on anxiously to Milo’s back, ‘I’ve been looking for somewhere to buy for quite a while. I’ve wanted to invest some of the money in property but couldn’t decide where. I bought my swish service flat in Chiswick because it’s perfect, both to work in and to leave when I go travelling. But I’ve been wondering about buy-to-let, and I’m doubtful as to whether I can cope with tenants and all the hassle, and so this would be so perfect. When I’m not here, you and Lottie can keep an eye …’

  He stopped, feeling sure that he was really putting his foot in it now, casting Milo in the position of caretaker – but Milo was turning, his face showing mixed feelings of delight and relief.

  ‘But it’s a simply brilliant idea, Matt. Are you really sure, though, that you want to invest your money in a house so far from London? I would be delighted for you to have it. It solves a thousand problems. If you’re really sure?’

  Matt could hardly speak, so great was his relief, and not just relief, but pleasure too, that, after all the years of generosity and love that Milo had given him and Im, he was able at last to make some kind of return.

  ‘I’m absolutely sure,’ he answered at last. ‘It answers lots of my problems too. Honestly. Thanks, Milo.’

  He felt odd, as if something momentous had happened; in a state of shock now that an agreement had been reached.

  ‘But you can’t have seen the place for ages,’ Milo was saying. ‘We must ask the Moretons to let you go over it. Well, this is wonderful news and I can’t wait to see Lottie’s face. Come on. We need to celebrate and I’ve got some Bollinger in the fridge that will just do the trick.’

  ‘Should we … I mean, perhaps we should wait for Lottie,’ suggested Matt diffidently. ‘You know. She might feel left out. Shall we wait until she gets home?’

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ answered the brigadier. ‘She could be hours yet. Come on, boy. Get down those glasses and we’ll drink to your brilliant idea.’

  Much later Matt kneeled at his attic window, staring down at the red roof of the Summer House. He was still in a state of shock. Milo had telephoned the Moretons who had said that of course Matt could come down and look around; but they had a friend staying, would tomorrow morning be convenient? If Matt were in a hurry, however … ?

  Milo had telegraphed this to Matt, who had said that, yes, tomorrow would be perfectly fine and, no, there was no great hurry. He’d been almost relieved for the respite. Milo was so happy that he couldn’t wait to get Matt down there and show him around properly.

  ‘I’ve never been upstairs,’ he’d told Milo. ‘But Mrs Moreton used to invite me and Im into the kitchen for lemonade and biscuits sometimes. It always felt warm and friendly, and I love the veranda and the little lawn that edges the stream.’

  ‘It means that we can go on sharing the barns,’ Milo had said with great relief. ‘And you won’t want the gardens carved up. In fact, the less ground you have the better. We can look after it for you.’

  He’d been so enthusiastic, so full of ideas, that the champagne was finished by the time Lottie returned. She’d glanced at the empty bottle and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Celebrating?’ she’d asked without rancour. ‘You might have waited. So what’s happened?’

  Matt had remained silent whilst Milo told the glad tidings. He’d seen at once that she’d had a reservation; her eyes had drifted beyond Milo, as if she were seeing something else besides his delight.

  ‘What is it?’ Matt had asked quickly. ‘You’re not happy about it, Lottie.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she’d said at once. ‘I am. I feel it’s right except … well, I was just wondering how Imogen will feel about it.’

  Now, leaning forward, his arms folded on the narrow window ledge, Matt thought about Im and how she might react. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might feel jealous or angry, but he could see now that it was a possibility. He’d been too taken up with his exciting idea, his own solution to the problem, to think that it might be very hard for Im to see him owning the little house that she loved so much.

  ‘So what shall I do?’ he’d asked Lottie anxiously, as if he were a child again. He’d looked at Milo, who had an expression of irritation on his face.

  ‘If Jules and she have decided not to live there I should think that the next best thing for her would be to have her own brother owning it,’ he’d said. ‘Matt’s said that she and Jules can use it. I think it’s the obvious solution. I think you’re being oversensitive.’

  ‘It just might take a bit of getting used to, that’s all.’ Lottie had defended herself. ‘She’s very disappointed, remember. It all depends how Matt tells her. I’m sure she’ll be delighted once she gets used to the idea.’

  Matt could see that Milo was impatient of this pandering to Im’s delicate sensibilities but he’d agreed that they should postpone telling Im until Matt had been down to see the Summer House.

  Turning back into the room, with its low-raftered ceiling and boarded, cream-washed walls, Matt was aware of excitement building inside him again. He looked around: at the double mattress that he and Milo had dragged up the steep staircase and squashed through the narrow doorway, at the bookshelves that they’d built along one whole wall, at the small painted chest of drawers and at the toys sitting in a wicker basket in the corner. He picked out the teddy bear, worn and bedraggled with hugs and kisses, and inhaled the musty smell of the past; of childhood. Briefly but powerfully, a strong mental jolting of the senses momentarily transported him to another world: he felt great heat, heard the cries of harsh foreign voices, smelled rich scents; he saw himself, a small child, as in a mirror image, and then knife-sharp came the familiar feeling of loss, of being lifted and whirled away …

  Matt stood quite still, holding the bear, struggling with the overwhelming loneliness and the sense of agonizing separation from something precious. It was not new; it would pass. Gently he placed the bear back in the basket and went downstairs.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rosie sat in her playpen, a pop-up book in her hands. Several pieces of the pop-up cards had been torn from the book, sucked, and flung aside; sometimes the whole book would be thrown with all the small strength she could muster. Now, however, she was studying very closely a picture of a rabbit, homogenized and charming, that was driving a small car. Head bent, totally absorbed, she made gentle encouraging noises: ‘Mmmm,’ she murmured approvingly. ‘Bab, bab, bab.’

  ‘Is there a rabbit, darling?’ asked Im. She knew now that this was Rosie’s word for rabbit. Ever since Nick’s present, Rosie had been obsessed by rabbits
: every story must have a rabbit in it; each picture must portray one. If the book had no rabbits then Rosie would become at first tearful and then vengeful.

  Imogen gazed down at the small figure: the wisps of blonde hair curling on the tender white neck, the fat, curving cheeks, the starfish hands clutching the book. Im’s heart seemed to move within her breast, squeezed by love, fear, and inexpressible tenderness. She imagined all the terrible things that might happen to this tiny, vulnerable, defenceless and most beloved person and she bent quickly and caught Rosie, lifting her out of the playpen and holding her close.

  ‘Bab!’ shouted Rosie, twisting in her mother’s arms, outraged by the interruption. She pointed back, down into the playpen, where Nick’s gift lay abandoned, long legs and arms entwined. Im leaned to pick it up.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Here’s Bab. Isn’t he nice?’

  They studied him together: the rather pleading expression in the large eyes, the deprecating half-smile, the debonair bow tie that was woven into his white-bibbed chest. Suddenly Imogen realized that Bab reminded her – very slightly – of Nick himself; the thought unsettled her and she hurried away from it.

  ‘Shall we have a walk?’ she asked Rosie. ‘Just up the lane to the road? Shall we?’

  She joggled her and swung her round, and Rosie chuckled. She dropped the book but hugged Bab to her chest and made sounds that indicated she approved of the idea.

  ‘Come on, then. Coat on. And your nice warm boots. Good girl, then.’

  Presently they were out in the road: Rosie in the buggy still clutching Bab, Imogen pulling on her gloves, checking that she had the door key, glancing up to see if there was any imminent sign of rain. The sky was a pure china blue, patched with inky-purple clouds; dense fingers of golden light probed the turbulent green water of the Channel, and the Welsh hills floated behind a translucent glittering veil, distant and unreal. The lane wound uphill, curving out of sight, and Imogen stood for a moment, staring across the farmland that sloped towards the coast. The hawthorn, sculpted and shaped by the wind, was misting greenly with new leaf, and black buds swelled on the ash. The first cold white stars of the blackthorn blossomed in distant hedges and, everywhere she looked, the gorse flower burned brightly gold.