Rosie’s lavish and unexpected embrace undermined Jules’ icy demeanour and confused him. Rosie was in his arms, chattering unintelligibly about her day, whilst The Dodger began to lap noisily from his water bowl. Im smiled at them all.
‘We’ve been to the sea,’ she said happily. ‘The Dodger was so funny. He was terrified of the sea. I’m so sorry I’m late but I left my mobile here and I couldn’t phone you.’
‘I know that,’ Jules said coldly, unsuccessfully ducking another of Rosie’s hugs. She smothered his head with both arms and then began to wriggle. He set her down upon the floor. ‘I think you’ll find that you’ve got a message.’
Im stared at him, beginning to take in the depth of his anger, feeling a trickle of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
‘A message?’ she asked lightly. ‘How do you know?’
‘I listened to it,’ he said. His intent, accusing stare dared her to question his right. ‘Who were you with today?’
She stared back at him, guessing that Nick had left the message and wondering exactly what he’d said. Answers jumbled together in her head: reasons, excuses, the simple truth. Instinctively she chose the latter.
‘Nick phoned this morning,’ she said, as casually as she could. ‘He’s on his way back from Rock to London, via the High House. He asked if we could meet for a drink. I couldn’t see any harm in it so we dashed over to The Hunter’s Inn and had lunch with him.’
‘The Hunter’s Inn?’
She could see that he was taken aback by her answer; her honesty had cut some of the moral high ground from beneath his feet. She shrugged, trying to look indifferent.
‘It’s a bit of a drive, I agree, but it’s on his route and I wanted Rosie to see the sea. It was a great day out.’
‘So he said.’
Im bit her lip. Should she attempt indignation and accuse him of a breach of trust in listening to her private messages? Surely it would be wiser to pretend that no messages could be that private between them, and ignore the rights and wrongs of it for the moment?
‘Well, then. If you knew who I was with, why ask?’
She could see that he was slightly disconcerted by her apparent lack of guilt and she moved quickly to seize the advantage.
‘Poor old Nick’s still having the devil of a time with Alice, and you know very well that he and I have always been close …’
‘So he said,’ Jules repeated with great meaning.
‘OK.’ She smiled, attempting a calmness she didn’t feel. ‘Supposing I listen to the message so that I know what you’re talking about?’
‘He says that he knows you love each other and that he wishes he’d followed his heart ten years ago.’
Im was conscious of a simultaneous reaction: of fury with Nick and compassion for Jules. She knew that her only hope of winning through this was to maintain her air of indifference for anything Nick might have said.
She gave a tiny snort of laughter. ‘Poor old Nick,’ she said lightly. ‘Of course we love each other. Ever since I was a little girl he’s been like a big cousin to me, and I was the little sister he never had. I admit that there was a point when it nearly tipped into something else – it was obviously going to happen sooner or later when the hormones clicked in – but it never got off the ground. He likes to believe that I would have been the answer to all his problems. It sort of lets him off the hook when things go wrong. You know the kind of thing: “Oh, if only we’d made a go of it I’d never have been in this state.” Alice is a hard-faced cow sometimes so I allow him his little fantasy. It doesn’t do any harm. At least …’ she looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly, ‘it hasn’t until now. Come on, Jules! I can’t believe you’re really making a big deal out of me spending a few hours with Nick in the company of Rosie and The Dodger.’
She could see that he was taken aback by her direct response and she guessed that Nick had said nothing that might get her deeper into trouble. Once again she seized her opportunity.
‘Darling, please don’t let this foolishness upset you. Heavens! You know Nick. He’s mixed-up but he’s quite harmless and I should have thought that you know how happy I am with you here and now. It’s been so good since we moved, hasn’t it? Don’t let some silly, sentimental message from Nick spoil it.’ She went closer to him, heart thudding, gut churning, and put out her hand. ‘I love you, Jules. If you don’t know that by now you never will.’
She allowed just a hint of hurt, even anger, tinge the affection in her voice, and she saw the doubt in his eyes, the relaxing of the muscles around his mouth, and she knew that it was going to be all right. Suddenly she felt exhausted: the long drive and the walk to the beach; the tension earlier with Nick, and now this. She let her hand fall and turned away.
‘I think I need a drink,’ she said, rather low, rather sad, appealing to his chivalry and sense of guilt. He reacted at once and caught her hand.
‘I was worried about you,’ he said defensively. ‘You didn’t say you were going out and then you’d left your phone behind. I wouldn’t normally listen to your messages but I was so worried when you were late that I wondered if it was you phoning. Oh, I know that sounds crazy, but I was worried, Im …’
‘Oh, darling.’ She clasped his hand, put an arm around him. ‘I’m so sorry all this has happened. I should have phoned to tell you where I was going but it all happened so quick and I never thought I’d be late back. Rosie and The Dodger were so knackered when we’d got back up from the beach that I stopped to give her some tea. Oh, Jules, you’re not really worried about poor old Nick, are you? Surely you trust me?’
He was defeated; unable to resist her reasonable attitude which, after all, chimed with Nick’s message. He put his arms around her and she hugged him. Relief flooded her and she felt quite weak.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jules was saying contritely. ‘It was just the way he was talking …’
She leaned back in his arms and looked up at him, feeling badly that he should be apologizing. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Let’s just forget it and have that drink. And then I’ll have to get Rosie to bed. Look at her; she’s knackered. They both are.’
Rosie had climbed on to the sofa and lay sucking her thumb, Bab hugged to her chest; on the floor beside her, The Dodger had curled into a ball and was fast asleep. Im and Jules looked at them and then at each other: both silently acknowledged that there was so much to lose and that neither of them wanted to jeopardize all that they shared. The danger was past and all was well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lottie took the jersey from the knitting bag and laid it out on the sofa. Nick stared at it.
‘You’ve really done it?’ he asked, amazed. ‘Is it for me?’ He reached out to touch its thick warm softness. ‘I can’t believe you’ve really done it.’
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It was a challenge. I haven’t knitted such a big garment for years. It’s come out very well, though I admit that it’s not the weather for it at the moment.’
Nick was already trying it on; rolling down the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt, pulling the jersey over his head, tugging out his shirt collar.
‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ He posed, guying it up, turning round. ‘Thanks, Lottie. I love it.’
She was looking at it critically, clearly pleased by his reaction.
‘It looks very good,’ she admitted. ‘I got the size right, didn’t I? But then you were very patient about being measured. It was great fun to do and I’m glad you like it.’
‘I love it,’ he repeated. He smoothed the navy, ribbed wool, not wanting to take it off. It gave him an odd sense of comfort, of reassurance, and he sat down beside her again, still wearing it.
‘It’s good to see you, Nick,’ she said. ‘We were hoping that we might see Alice and the girls, too. It seems rather a long time since they were here.’
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘You know what it’s like when people invite you to stay. There’s a timetable, and everyon
e has to do their bit, so it’s tricky saying that you’re going off to visit someone else, and it’s a bit of a trek up here from Rock. Anyway, Dad’s coming up to London very soon, isn’t he, so he’ll see them all then. And by then I hope that things will have improved. Alice is still a bit … well, chilly, if you see what I mean.’ He shivered theatrically and grinned at her. ‘That’s why I’m so glad to have my jersey. But I hope for the best. You know what an optimist I am.’
‘Is hope the same thing as optimism?’ Lottie asked thoughtfully. ‘Optimists have expectations, don’t they? That the weather will clear up, or that the political situation will improve. Hope is to do with faith, isn’t it? “Hope is the conviction of things unseen.” Who said that?’
He shook his head. ‘Too complicated for me, Lottie. I think you’re splitting hairs.’
‘Probably. Have you told Sara that Venetia is here?’
He stared at her anxiously. ‘Oh God. I don’t think so but I might have done. Would that be a terrible mistake?’
‘Probably. She resents Milo using the house as what she calls an orphanage and Venetia will probably be the last straw. We haven’t heard from her just lately so you probably haven’t told her.’
‘But you couldn’t do anything else, could you? Poor old Venetia. She couldn’t have been left to fend for herself.’
‘That’s what we thought.’
‘Mum’s a control freak,’ he said. ‘Well, you know that, don’t you? But honestly, I can’t see what business it is of hers.’
‘She’s afraid that if the High House is full of refugees when Milo dies then you’ll have a problem entering into your inheritance, that’s all.’
‘You’re not a refugee, Lottie,’ he said, distressed.
‘Aren’t I?’ She smiled at his expression of dismay. ‘I told you before that I’ve always felt an alien in this world and that Milo rescued me. He offered me a refuge. You could say that that makes me a refugee, I suppose.’
‘Well, it’s not how I see you. Dad needs you. He’s not as tough as he seems, is he? He has a few demons lurking. And now, poor Venetia.’ He fell silent, making connections, looking bleak. ‘Is anyone really happy?’ he asked abruptly.
‘We’re all damaged in one way or another,’ she answered. ‘Some are more damaged than others, and some are more easily able to manage their disabilities. And some refuse to admit to them at all.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Not as long as they don’t despise others who do. How was Im?’
He laughed. ‘The reason that you feel an alien, Lottie, is simple. You’re a witch. How do you know I saw Im?’
‘It’s nothing to do with magic powers; it’s just being able to deduct perfectly obvious things. Did you see her?’
‘Yes. We had lunch at The Hunter’s Inn and then we took Rosie and The Dodger down to the sea. It was great fun; nothing more, I promise. It’s all finished, Lottie. Not that there was much to finish. But whatever you feared, it’s all over. Do you believe me?’
‘Yes,’ she answered him. ‘Thank goodness. But it was dangerous, Nick.’
‘I know, but I can’t help thinking that life would be so good with her. Im always loves me, whatever I do, you see.’
‘She loves you so unconditionally precisely because she’s not married to you,’ replied Lottie candidly. ‘That’s your optimism kicking in again. It’s not based on anything concrete and requires no effort on your part. Optimism whispers temptingly that, if you and Im were together, the future would somehow be a wonderful cloud-cuckoo-land and you’d live happily ever after. Hope, on the other hand, is implicit in rebuilding your relationship with Alice and your children in a quiet, humdrum, day-to-day reality. Hope tells you that, though you can’t see the results, if you have faith and if you are wholehearted, your work will pay off. After all, Alice loves you too, in a realistic, workaday kind of way. Not in a “Let’s have a picnic and go to the beach” kind of way. But it’s a durable love and she hasn’t given up on you just yet. And despite her faults, you love her too.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, after a moment. ‘Yes, I do. But she’s so much harder to love.’
‘That’s because she’s your wife,’ said Lottie cheerfully. ‘Nobody said it would be easy. Why do you think I never married? And now you have the perfect right to tell me to mind my own business. After all, what do I know? Sorry, Nick. Take no notice of my ramblings.’
He laughed. ‘The trouble is, I have a horrid feeling that you might be right.’
‘And, anyway,’ she said, ‘you’d already made up your own mind, hadn’t you? So that’s great.’
‘I’ve ordered Dad’s birthday present.’ He changed the subject. ‘I stopped off in Porlock and went into the Gallery and had a chat with Marianne about it. I’ve chosen a painting of Dunster for him by Anthony Avery. The Yarn Market and the castle on a sunny day, with fantastic light and sharp shadows; you can feel the heat. It’s almost exactly the view from Venetia’s house. I hope he likes it. It’s being framed.’
‘I’m sure he will. I’m planning a bit of a party so I hope you’ll circle the date in your diary in red ink and talk to Alice about it.’
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘It would be good if we could get down for it. How’s Matt getting on in the Summer House?’
‘He’s doing it by degrees. He wants to get it absolutely right and he doesn’t want to rush it.’
‘Dad says that he’s given him some watercolours that some distant rellie painted down there. Judging by Matt’s pad in London, I shouldn’t have thought Victorian watercolours were much in his line. He’s quite stark and modern, isn’t he, usually?’
‘Well, he is. But I think he’s trying to keep with the atmosphere of the Summer House as far as possible, though some of the things he’s ordered are quite modern. It’ll be an interesting mix.’
‘I’m sorry I missed him.’ Nick looked down at his jersey again with pleasure. ‘I’m really pleased with this, Lottie. Honestly.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘It was a labour of love. In its truest sense.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Lottie.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Matt tried to cry out but he couldn’t make a sound; he was shaking Im, shouting at her, yet his arms and legs were heavy and he could barely move. He opened his eyes suddenly and lay in the dawn light; his heartbeat was loud in his ears and he was soaked with perspiration. Breathing slowly, deliberately, he quietened himself, trying to remember the nightmare; reliving it.
He and Im are together on a bus, with Rosie in her stroller. As they stand waiting to get off, a man comes up behind them and begins to talk; all of them join in, laughing. The bus stops and they all climb off and then, at some point, he realizes that Rosie has been left on the bus. His terror is so great he can barely speak but Im won’t respond to his fear. She is silent and angry; she pushes him away, growing more and more remote. He shouts at her: ‘We’ve lost Rosie and it’s all my fault. We must find her,’ and still she stares at him, stony-faced until he seizes her and shakes her.
The dream was fading and his heartbeat was slowing. He pushed back the sheet and climbed out of bed. Apart from the physical reaction to the nightmare he was bitterly disappointed: he had so hoped that the influence of the Summer House was healing him; drawing off the demons. Yet here they were back again; strong as ever. He stood at the window, still feeling the terror and the helplessness. During that glorious period when he’d been writing Epiphany, he’d have gone straight to work; using the demons and the nightmares, turning them into shapes and patterns within the story: laying the ghosts by writing them out into something that could be understood, something apart from him, and therefore able to be defeated.
Now he stood in silence staring out. Gently the beauty of the morning was borne in upon him and he opened the window wider and leaned out into the warm, soft air. A thrush was singing; so heavenly was its song that he could barely believe that this was an ordinary garden bird. He
listened in silence, whilst the heavy sweet scent of the purple lilac drifted and filled the room. The sound of water, ever present, rippled softly and, quite suddenly, once again he had an inner vision of Selworthy Church, shining white, standing high on the hill.
Calmer now, he turned back into the room, took his towelling robe, wrapped himself in it and passed out on to the wide landing and down the stairs. He switched on the kettle and went straight to his portfolio of paintings, looking through them whilst the kettle boiled. Presently he sat down with his mug of coffee and examined more closely the paintings he’d selected. Here was a study of the church itself, and here were several sketches of the churchyard with mossy headstones and long shadows, and bluebells and buttercups growing in the long grass. The smallest painting was of a little statue; a cherub holding a stone vase, painted against a shaded, grey-black oval background. There were primroses in the stone vase, their creamy-yellow petals gleaming with an unearthly light. To one side, lightly sketched in and barely visible, was another face; a child’s.
As he stared at it, Matt was filled with a strong conviction of a presence close at hand, of something important to be done. He sat quietly, not hurrying his coffee, allowing the idea to form in his mind.
Half an hour later he was driving up the lane towards Allerford; it was not yet six o’clock. He drove slowly, the car window down, gazing in delight at the riot of colour in the hedgerows: rosy patches of pink-red campion; the brilliant golden dazzle of bright buttercups; a little azure pool of bluebells. Creamy cow parsley brushed, thick and powdery, against the car, and the hawthorn flowers were tipped with scarlet. Matt saw all these miracles of colour and design through Helena’s eyes now; vivid and entrancing, they drew his gaze again and again.
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