‘Well, it is in a way, but in another it’s a huge relief. It explains all these weird feelings I have. I just wish we had some proof but it’s all so long ago and there’s nobody left to ask. Do you believe that it’s true?’
She stared at him. ‘I believe it if you do. It would explain why Mum was so unhappy. I can understand how terrible it would be to lose a child; and in a foreign country, too. And then Dad as well. And if it makes sense to you and you think you can remember him … Why do you think it was a him?’
He frowned, thinking about it. ‘It just feels right. And I think it explains the photographs.’
‘Photographs? Oh, those ones of you but not me. Where you don’t recognize the clothes and things?’
‘Mmm. I wonder if she did that to try to pretend he was around somewhere. Rather like the ghost in the paintings. A remembrance.’
She shivered again. ‘I think that’s a bit creepy. But if you’re OK with it … It’s just so awful to think we had a brother and don’t even know what his name was or anything. There must be something. What about a birth certificate?’
‘I’ve looked through everything we’ve got and I suppose any evidence must have been very thoroughly destroyed.’
‘Well, I think it’s wrong, if you want to know.’ Im stared out of the window again. ‘I feel we had a right to know the truth.’
‘It depends how desperate she was, I suppose. Try to look at it like that.’
‘I am trying to,’ said Im, her eyes on her daughter. ‘It’s OK, I just need to get used to it. You’ve had a few weeks to accustom yourself to it, remember.’
‘And it wasn’t really a shock,’ he said. ‘I think I was almost expecting something like it, somehow. It explains things, and that helps. I’m sorry to upset you, Im, but I wanted you to know.’
She turned back to him, the tears still shining in her eyes. ‘Of course you had to tell me. I’ll be fine with it. What does Lottie say? She never guessed, either?’
Matt shook his head. ‘It was clearly a very well-kept secret.’ He paused, put an arm about her shoulder, and they stood for a moment, staring out into the garden. ‘Shall we go out and join them?’ he asked at last.
She nodded, and they went out into the sun and wind together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Matt sat on the veranda of the Summer House: he was puzzled and disappointed. He’d really believed that his discovery would begin to unlock his creative powers, that the lifting of his lifelong burden would free up all sorts of ideas. Yet still the block remained, and along with it the insistent suspicion that there was something more to be revealed. Some memory nagged at the back of his mind, preventing true release. But what was it? So certain was he that his long period of frustration was over he’d agreed to Annabel’s suggestion that she should come down for another visit. Now, surely, he’d be able to cast off the shadows and be normal and free with her; that’s what he’d told himself in the new exciting light of his discovery.
‘I’m not ready yet to have Annabel at the Summer House,’ he’d told Lottie, praying she’d understand. ‘I know it sounds weird but I really don’t want to make that kind of statement yet. If ever. Can I move back into the attic for a few days and have her to stay here again? I’m really sorry, Lottie. I know it sounds pathetic but I don’t want to give her any false impressions. And, anyway, the Summer House is still only half furnished. We’d be on top of each other, if you know what I mean. It would be different if we were …’
He’d stopped, feeling wretched and inadequate, but Lottie had quite grasped the situation.
‘I agree that it could give off all sorts of messages,’ she’d replied. ‘Of course she can come here. And you don’t have to ask for yourself. You know that.’
If only he could make up his mind about Annabel: he knew that she wouldn’t be the kind of girl to take any gesture lightly, and that any move beyond their present friendship would definitely be a commitment – and he certainly didn’t feel ready for it.
He sat quite still, emptying his mind, waiting for some creative movement; a fragment of an idea or the ghost of a character. Birdsong and the sound of the brook were his only rewards, and he opened his eyes still feeling confused and frustrated. There was a sudden movement amongst the roots underneath the lilac tree, a little flurry of leaves, and he leaned forward to see what it was. The creature was larger than a bird, pale in colour, striped and patched with sunshine and shadows. The kitten came out on to the grass; it patted a leaf with its paw and then sat back on its haunches. Matt saw its mouth open in a brief pink yawn.
Watching, he was reminded of two things: the marmalade cat in the paintings – and something else, which just at the moment eluded him. The kitten came forward, and Matt got up and went down to meet it. It was so pretty, so sweet; he crouched on his haunches and held out a hand to it. The kitten pressed itself into Matt’s hand, miaowing piteously, and Matt picked it up, stroking it with a finger, speaking to it quietly. A quick check showed that it was male and he carried it back towards the house, still talking: ‘Poor little fellow. Where have you sprung from? Are you hungry?’ and all the while he was thinking about the cat in the painting – and the other thing that remained just out of range.
In the kitchen he broke some bread into a bowl with some milk, put it down on the floor and watched the kitten eat gratefully. He had no idea what other nourishment he could offer but the kitten seemed satisfied at the end of his meal and began to examine his surroundings. Matt hunted through his portfolio of paintings until he found the cat in the chair; marmalade just like this one. He looked at it, wondering if there were some clue that might somehow trigger the memory. There were several more paintings featuring the cat and he looked for them, hoping that they might show something important. Here he was, sitting with his tail curled around him, watching George playing; and here was another of him crossing the lawn, tail held high; another showed him sitting in a patch of sun-barred shadow, which gave his coat a stripy, tigerish look, and his satisfied expression appeared rather like a wicked smile.
The pang of recognition startled Matt, but he couldn’t place it. The kitten was back, winding himself around Matt’s ankles, his purring the sound of a boiling kettle. Matt bent to pick him up and held him for a moment against his cheek, still puzzling over this mystery.
‘Come on,’ he told the kitten. ‘We’re going for a little walk.’
Milo was in the garden trying to decide whether the grass was dry enough to cut. He greeted Matt absent-mindedly but peered into the hessian shopping bag that Matt held out to him.
‘What is it? Good grief; a kitten. Didn’t know you were going into livestock.’
‘It wasn’t my intention. He turned up just now and I don’t quite know what to do with him.’
‘Do you have to do anything? Maybe he belongs to someone in the village and he’s just taking a stroll through your garden.’
‘Well, you might be right.’ Matt was surprised at how disappointed he felt. ‘Do kittens do that?’
‘My dear fellow, how should I know? Never been a cat man. Maybe Venetia knows. She had cats at one time. She’s around somewhere. Now, what d’you think about this grass?’
‘I think your sit-on mower will simply tear the ground to pieces,’ Matt said. ‘It’s pretty wet.’
Milo made a disgruntled face. ‘You’re probably right. Don’t let Pud see that kitten. He might think it’s lunch.’
Matt laughed. ‘Pud wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly. Come on, kitty. Let’s find Venetia.’
She was pacing the paved terrace outside the open french windows of the parlour.
‘Look,’ she cried gleefully. ‘No stick! But I can’t do it for very long without tiring. It’s too frustrating for words. The trouble is that when you get old it takes so much longer to heal.’
‘I think you’re doing wonderfully well,’ he told her. ‘Best not to rush it, isn’t it? I need your help, Venetia.’ And he held out the bag.
; ‘Ooooh,’ she said softly. ‘But he’s so sweet. I didn’t know you had a kitten, Matt.’
‘He just turned up this morning and I don’t quite know what to do with him. I’ve given him some bread and milk.’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me sit down so that I can see him properly. Come on into the parlour.’
She sat down on the sofa and Matt put the bag on to her lap. The kitten walked out cautiously, enquiringly, and Venetia laughed.
‘He’s beautiful, and perfectly well cared for. Where has he come from, d’you think?’
Matt shrugged. ‘Milo thinks he’s wandered in from the village.’
Venetia frowned. ‘Unlikely, I should think. It’s quite a long way from even your nearest neighbour and he’s not old enough to go so far from home. How odd. Still, Milo might be right. You’ll have to put a notice up in the village and one in the post office at Allerford. He’s a beautiful little fellow and someone must be missing him.’
The kitten jumped on to Venetia’s shoulder and walked along the back of the chair. Matt watched him.
‘D’you think he might have been dumped?’
Venetia’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘In Bossington? Unlikely, isn’t it? Don’t people usually do that on motorways ?’
‘Well, it might not always be that easy to get to a motorway. Perhaps he was a present to someone who simply couldn’t cope with him but dumped him in a village in the hope that someone would find him quickly and look after him.’
She looked at him, smiling. ‘That’s a very plausible story. Anyone might think you were a writer. I believe you’ve lost your hard heart at last, Matt. You want to keep him, don’t you?’
He chuckled. ‘My heart isn’t that hard. And yes, I do rather like him.’
She caught the kitten and held the little, wriggling body. ‘I confess I do, too. Much better than that rather tiresome Annabel.’
Matt managed to resist pointing out that Annabel was none of her business; after all, deep down he agreed with her.
‘She’s coming down again tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so I hope you won’t tell her so.’
‘Much better for everyone if I did,’ answered Venetia sharply. ‘Finish it once and for all. And don’t tell me to mind my own business. You’re simply dithering, Matt. You know you are.’
Matt sat down beside her and took the kitten into his own hands. ‘How can you be so sure of anything to do with the heart?’ he asked. ‘You said just now that I have a hard heart because I don’t fall in and out of love or have messy affairs. I hate emotional mess. How can you tell if someone is really right for you, Venetia?’
She sighed. ‘My mother had a good answer to that one. And to making other decisions, too. She used to say, “If in doubt, don’t.” You’re clinging to Annabel because you’re afraid you might be missing out on something if you tell her to go, but meanwhile you’re not growing any fonder of her, are you? Well, love doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t have to be love at first sight, but if it is love then there’s always some evidence of it. Do you remember the old rule? “Do you want to see her? Do you want to touch her?” And if you don’t, then it isn’t love.’
‘To be honest,’ he said, letting the kitten climb on to his shoulder, ‘I don’t think about her for days at a time. I just feel guilty because I think I ought to be able to respond in some way to her.’
‘Oh, don’t be foolish,’ Venetia said impatiently. ‘And anyway, she simply isn’t right for you. Take my word for it.’
She smiled blindingly at him and he began to laugh. ‘How simple you make it sound.’
‘It is simple. Make up your mind to it and do it. Now, much more interesting, what are you going to do about this little chap?’
Later, Lottie appeared at the Summer House carrying a small cage.
‘Milo wonders if this would be any good?’ she asked. ‘Pud used to travel in it in the car when he was a puppy. You could go and see Richard in Antlers and get a litter tray and some proper food. Where is he?’
Matt led her into the sitting room and pointed. The kitten was curled on the velvet seat of the wooden chair, fast asleep. They stood together, watching him.
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ Matt said at last. ‘It’s just like the painting.’
‘You think there’s something else.’ It was a statement. ‘Something you still don’t know.’
He nodded. ‘It’s so frustrating. I thought it was all over, you see. And though it was tragic I was getting used to it because at some level I’d already known about it, if you see what I mean.’
‘And why do you think it isn’t all over?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He turned away and wandered out on to the veranda. ‘Because I thought that all the nightmare stuff was bound up in it, I suppose, and that, once I knew, I’d be able to write again. And I still feel as desperate as I did before any of this happened. If I can’t write now I never will.’
‘But that’s not quite logical, is it?’ she asked gently. ‘After all, you wrote Epiphany without knowing any of this, didn’t you? In fact, it sprang out of all the things that you call the “nightmare stuff”. You’re beginning to understand your past; things are being revealed to you. Maybe the new book will follow when you’ve had time to assimilate all these things thoroughly.’
‘I still feel there’s something else.’ He sat down on the edge of the veranda steps. ‘Something more. The kitten reminded me of it, and I looked at the paintings again.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
He sat disconsolately, his arms on his knees, staring down the garden, and she felt a great wave of compassion for him.
‘It’s not over yet.’ She spoke without thinking, and saw the muscles beneath his shirt tense. ‘Try not to strain towards whatever it is. It will come to you. I know it will. Give it time and try to enjoy Annabel’s stay.’
He snorted. ‘Venetia thinks I should finish it.’
‘It’s not Venetia’s business. Are you very fond of Annabel, Matt?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he answered moodily. ‘I feel like Prince Charles when he said: “Whatever love means.” I just can’t concentrate on anything, that’s the trouble. I feel like this whole business is crippling me emotionally and I don’t want to live this way. Why am I like this, Lottie?’
She spoke strongly to him. ‘I think that you had a twin, and that something traumatic happened when you lost him. Clearly it affected Helen very badly but because you were so small nobody understood quite the effect it might have on you. Your “nightmare stuff” is a direct result of that trauma, but simply knowing the truth might not be quite enough to put an immediate end to it or to result in a sudden burst of creativity. Give yourself a chance to adjust properly to knowing rather than just suspecting. And perhaps you’re right, and there’s one more piece of the puzzle to unravel. You’ve waited over thirty years, Matt. You must be patient for just a little longer.’
She paused for a moment, but he didn’t respond, and she cast around for some lighter topic.
‘I have a feeling that you’ve got this kitten for life, you know. We’ll ask around in the village, just as a formality, but meanwhile shall we go into Porlock and get some food and stuff from Richard?’
He nodded, turning and smiling at her, trying to cast off the weight that pressed upon him, and her heart went out to him.
‘Isn’t it lucky that the Moretons were cat lovers and there’s a flap in the back door? What will you do with him whilst Annabel’s here?’
Matt stood up. ‘I’ve thought about that,’ he said, ‘and I’ve decided to make a test out of it. I shall put food down for him in the kitchen for the next two days but I shan’t make him come up to the High House. I’m hoping that between us all we can keep an eye on him. If he’s still here when I get back then I’ll know he’s meant to be here. What d’you think?’
‘It seems reasonable to me.’ Lottie thought about it. ‘It would be better for him not to be too confused about wher
e he lives right at the start, and cats are very independent, aren’t they? We’ll check with Venetia. She’ll know. It’ll be interesting to see if he’s still here when we get back from Porlock, or are you going to lock him in?’
‘No. He came of his own free will, and he can go again if he wants to. I feel very fatalistic about this.’
She nodded but, despite his determination to give the kitten his freedom, she could see that Matt was hoping that the kitten would still be there when he came home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It was very sunny; very hot. No breath of wind stirred the young, green herringbone bracken. A fuzzy, black and gold bee hung, heavy laden, in the mouth of the foxglove’s bell, and the soft warm air was thick with the nutty scent of the gorse-flower. Out in the Channel two container ships hovered on a glassy sea that was all one with the white sky: a shuddering, shimmering wall of heat.
Across the vale, on Hurlstone Point, a shining arc of light dazzled and gleamed. The curved, silken wing of the hang-glider lifted gently, turning and drifting high above the cliff. Magically, other wings – green and scarlet and silver – joined the first; gently, slowly, they soared and swooped in an aerial dance.
Matt had raised himself on his elbow, watching through the binoculars. He was lying on a rug beside the car on which were the remains of a picnic. A few feet away, Annabel was trying to tempt a robin with some crumbs.
‘He’s quite tame,’ she was saying, kneeling up on her heels, pushing back her hair. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’
Matt felt as if his mouth were full of dough; or of some substance that prevented him from speaking naturally. Ever since they’d left the High House she’d been acting a role; she was determined that he should see her as The Helpmeet. The conversation at breakfast had turned on the subject of writers, the difficulties of living with someone who inhabits another world, and Matt had come in for a great deal of good-humoured teasing.
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