The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  Davina called on me, and quite regularly, but I never told her anything. Luckily, there’d been only enough pills in the bottle for me to knock myself out for a few hours, no more, nothing more sinister. By the time she’d found me I was—to all intents and purposes—lying asleep on my bed. The debris in my room—the result of a huge argument with Charlie, I’d said. Yes, I’d been hysterical. And yes, yes, I’d packed; I’d planned on returning to my mother’s, for that night at least, I’d told her.

  “Men! They can be such beasts . . . and they’re all the same,” she said, looking at me, holding on to my hand. “You know, I sometimes feel like running away too . . . but where could I go?” She shrugged. “Where could either of us go? Other than back to our mothers,” she added, rolling her eyes. “All marriages are hard work, bloody hard work, darling . . . all of them. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But the sad truth of the matter is,” she went on, “women like you and me . . . we’re not meant to be . . . independent, on our own. We’d be no good, no good at all . . .” She looked down into her lap. “Sometimes I think we’ve simply been bred to be sold, to be breeding machines . . . to be owned.” She looked up at me with a queer smile. “We’ll never be free.”

  After she left that day, I pondered on her words, for there was more, much more than a grain of truth in them. Had I ever been free? I’d never, not once, had any say in my life, my destiny. It had all been decided long ago, by my parents, and then by Mama, and then, after my marriage, by my husband. I’d always been owned—but never by me.

  I think most of that year passed in a blur, for I have no recollection of anything of note, only the solitude and quietness of my life. But I know that it was almost exactly a year—exactly a year after Davina’s party—when the by-word-of-mouth invitation came.

  He’d contacted Charlie regarding some legal issue to do with his ever-increasing property empire, or that’s how Charlie saw it.

  “He’s very kindly invited us down to Deyning. I think he’s having quite a crowd . . . housewarming sort of thing. I said I’d have to check with you, of course, but he said he thought you’d be interested to see what he’s done with the place. You quite liked him—when you met him at Davina’s—didn’t you? Thing is, he’s potentially a very good client for us . . . and he’s looking to break away from Chester and Goring.”

  I didn’t look up at him; didn’t say anything.

  “Clarissa?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You know I had a sneaky feeling you didn’t like him; could tell . . . could tell at that party. I saw him trying to win you over, flirting with you.”

  “He didn’t flirt, Charlie. He doesn’t flirt.”

  “Hmm. I think he was a tad starstruck. Understandable, I suppose . . . when one bears in mind his background and yours.”

  His comment irked me. I looked up at him. “Actually, yes . . . yes, let’s go. I rather would like to see the old place again.”

  “Bravo!” he said, clapping his hands together. “You won’t necessarily have to see much of him, you know . . . there’ll be quite a houseful. Anyway, I shall let him know.”

  “Who’s the latest girlfriend?” I asked, flicking through the pages of a magazine; knowing there’d be another.

  “Oh, someone called Nancy, I think.”

  He still hadn’t married and I wondered if he ever would; if he would ever commit to someone and live a domesticated life. I’d heard he was back in London, and, according to Davina, and others, he seemed to have the Midas touch. He’d recently acquired a number of central London properties, all at upset prices, and, apparently, planned on converting them into smaller dwellings, flats and new modern offices. Davina predicted that one day Tom Cuthbert would own great swaths of central London. She’d told me he didn’t attend too many parties, that he spent all of his time working, seemingly in the pursuit of money. But she’d seen him a few of times of late, each time with a different girl on his arm. He’d asked after me, she said, but that was all. “Do tell her I asked after her.” And to me it sounded perfunctory, cold.

  And hearing his name was wonderful and awful at the same time. For each time I heard it, there he was: Tom. And yet how I longed to be the one to say it, to own it, but now, now it belonged to everyone. Tom Cuthbert. That shining light, the hope, the proof, surely, that someone could emerge from the darkness intact, erect, head high, sane, undamaged, still beautiful, whole. And so each time I heard his name I said nothing.

  . . . But haven’t you heard, dear? Oh my, good gracious, the man’s the toast of the city! . . . and such humble origins . . . but of course it’s a changed world now . . . an unfathomably queer character . . . doesn’t wear his fortune comfortably . . . new money must be such a tremendous burden . . . one gets the distinct impression it’s rather something of an ordeal for him . . .

  It was a beautiful midsummer’s afternoon when Charlie and I drove through the old white gates of Deyning. As our car motored up the driveway, I asked Charlie to slow down. I wanted to take it all in, I said. I felt as though I was in a dream, as though I might wake up at any moment. But then what would my reality be? To wake up and discover that I was married to Tom, and not Charlie? To awake and find myself young again, back at Deyning with my family . . . and that Tom had only ever been the figment of a dream? How things had changed. And I suddenly wondered what my father would have made of it all, had he been alive.

  My mother, of course, had heard, eventually, through a friend, that a businessman named Tom Cuthbert had bought Deyning. It took her six months to mention it to me, believing, as she did, that she was the initial bearer of this astonishing piece of news.

  “Yes, Mama, I know,” I’d said to her. “I heard some time ago.”

  “Really? And you never told me . . .”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want to know.”

  “And do you see him, cross paths with him? He certainly seems to have elevated himself . . . seems to be mixing in rarefied circles these days.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen him,” I replied.

  She stared at me but said nothing.

  “He’s done very well, Mama.”

  “Obviously.”

  It was too much for her. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to me about him. It would mean undoing so much, which had, in her mind, been done. After that terse exchange I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Charlie and I were going down to Deyning as Tom’s guests. It was easier to lie. We were off to Charlie’s sister’s place in West Sussex, I’d said.

  Tom and his new American fiancée, Nancy, had invited about twenty or so of us to their Saturday to Monday house party, but the only other people I knew who’d be there were the Blanches. I was curious to meet Nancy. Davina had told me she was as rich as she was beautiful—in that American way.

  When we pulled up outside the house there were quite a few cars, more than I’d ever seen at the place, but I didn’t want to go inside. Not yet.

  “I think I’ll take a stroll,” I said to Charlie.

  “Is that not rather rude? I think we should announce our arrival, say hello first, don’t you?”

  “You go and say hello. I need some fresh air,” I said. “I shan’t be long.”

  I walked slowly, following the path around the house to the south terrace. I noticed the rose garden, completely replanted. It looked just as it had back in our day. And the parterre too, restored and put back as it was before the army had trampled across it. Then, as I neared the terrace, I could hear voices and laughter, and I turned and headed back toward the stables. I crossed the yard, went quickly through the gate, and as I walked down through the meadow I realized I was walking into a memory, and I felt a great swell of unharnessed emotion rise up in me. Everything looked just as I remembered, just as it had always been, only more beautiful, so much more beautiful. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was the sound of my brothers’ voices in the distance, but by the time I reached the chestnut tree I was crying. I sat down on a wrought-i
ron bench, and the certain knowledge that Tom had put it there only brought on more tears.

  When I heard my name, I didn’t look up. The last person I’d expected to appear was him. I’d imagined he’d be busy entertaining his newly arrived houseguests, but of course he knew where to find me. And I felt embarrassed to be sitting there, alone and crying. He crouched down in front of me.

  “Clarissa . . .”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. I simply nodded, and tried to smile.

  He took hold of my hand. “I knew it would be hard for you—coming back here, but I wanted you to see the place, see what I’ve done. It’s all as it used to be, isn’t it?”

  I nodded again.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to me.

  I don’t know how long we were like that, me sitting on the bench, him crouched in front of me, staring at each other. But words were superfluous, and everything that passed between us in those few silent minutes swept us back, and opened us to each other once more.

  “We should go back,” I said, eventually. “You’re our host, Tom. You’ve all these people to amuse and entertain.”

  “But there’s only one person I want to be with, and she’s right here.”

  I shook my head. “No, don’t say that. You can’t say that. I’m here with Charlie. And you . . . you have Nancy now, and a house full of guests. Please,” I said, standing up. “We need to go back. Charlie will be looking for me.”

  “Yes, there’s always someone looking for you, Clarissa.”

  I said nothing, and we walked through the meadow in silence, then, as we reached the track back to the gate, he stopped. “It’s all for you.”

  I looked at him. I didn’t know what to say, wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Then I heard my name and saw Charlie standing at the gate.

  “Come along, I want you to show us around the house.”

  “I wish no one else was here but us. Shall I ask everyone to leave now? Tell them I only invited them all to get you here?”

  “Please, Tom. Charlie’s watching us.” I glanced back at the gate and waved. “Please . . .”

  Minutes later, he was guiding Charlie and me through the house; my old home, now his. And he was as attentive to Charlie as he was to me. As we entered each room, I was aware of him watching me, searching my face, waiting for my reaction. And each time I turned to him—to smile—a look of anxiety would melt from his features, and he’d smile back at me. He took time to explain the work carried out in each room, pointing out the detail and craftsmanship. Charlie was impressed. And Tom had done a magnificent job, particularly in the library. There, he’d improved on my father’s design. Rather than the former dark wood paneling and shelves, there were now modern pale oak shelves and paneling; unadorned windows, allowing daylight to flood the room; and in the middle, two sofas and an ottoman. As he explained to Charlie what he’d done with the room, the room he now used as his study, I wandered over to his desk in front of the window. I looked out toward the South Downs. This was his view. This is what he looks out upon; this is what he sees. I wished Charlie wasn’t there, and when I turned and looked back at Tom I knew he was thinking the same: wishing we could be as we once were.

  Finally, he showed us to our room: my old room.

  “I know this was once Clarissa’s room . . . and I thought you might like to stay here again,” he said, glancing at me as he opened the door.

  I stared at the twin beds, a panic rising up inside me. I hadn’t actually thought about the fact that Charlie and I would have to share a room.

  “Still pink,” I said, referring to the décor, and moving across the room to the window.

  “Yes. I don’t suppose it’s altered too much since you were last here,” he said, sounding awkward for a moment.

  “Fit for a princess!” Charlie said, and all three of us laughed.

  I stared out through the window, beyond the ha-ha, still dividing the formal gardens from the parkland and fields, to the purple hills in the distance, suffused in midsummer sun. Nothing had changed; nothing had altered. The landscape ahead, windless and still, just as it had been that last summer.

  Yes, all the same . . . all the same.

  “Well, the view’s certainly not changed, but for the electricity cables,” I said, and then I turned and looked about the room.

  Our bags had already been unpacked, our clothes put away. I noted the crystal vases of roses on almost every surface, and then, on the table next to one of the beds, a book. I walked over, picked it up: a volume of Emily Brontë’s poems. He’d remembered. All those years and he’d remembered. And I wanted to run over to him, wrap my arms around him.

  I looked up at him. “Thank you, Tom.”

  He smiled. “I’d better get back now. But I look forward to seeing you both in a little while,” he said and disappeared out of the door.

  “Nice chap, eh?” Charlie said, testing one of the twin beds.

  “Yes, charming,” I replied, returning to the window.

  I looked down to the terrace below. I could see Davina, in full flow, and a crowd of people I didn’t know. I wondered which one of them was Nancy, but I saw no female who particularly caught my eye, and I heard myself sigh. I saw him emerge. I watched him stride over to a group sitting at a table; watched him run his hands through his hair as he listened to one of them speak, then throw back his head and laugh.

  Tom.

  He looked so at ease, so confident, and so casual too: dressed in pale trousers, a white open-necked shirt with a dark blue paisley silk cravat. I watched him speaking, wondered what it was he was saying. I lifted my fingers to the pane, ran them down over his shape.

  “Right-o then, I think we should go down and be sociable now, don’t you?” Charlie said.

  “You go. I’ll freshen up and follow you down.”

  He came over to where I stood, and I felt myself freeze. “I do realize that this must be very, very difficult for you. To be back here, I mean; very strange . . . can’t imagine.” He tried to put his arm around me.

  “I’m fine, really I am,” I said, moving away from him and looking about the room for my vanity case.

  “You don’t mind then . . . if I go down?”

  “No, Charlie, you go down,” I said, placing the small case upon a bed, and wishing he’d leave the room.

  “So, how long will you be?” he asked.

  “Not long,” I said, without looking up at him.

  As soon as he left the room I sat down upon the bed. I was going to have to share a room with my husband—for two nights. Oh, he was fine now, perfectly civil, but what about later? I closed my eyes. What was I doing here? Why had I come back?

  I rose from the bed, walked over to the window and looked down again. I saw Charlie on the terrace now, leaning on his stick, standing with Tom; and I could almost hear him telling Tom that I was taking a moment to myself. Then I saw Tom look up to the window and I quickly moved away.

  When I eventually left the room and went downstairs, outside on to the terrace, Tom was nowhere in sight.

  “He had to make an important telephone call,” Charlie said, by way of explanation, and I immediately felt the light grow dimmer.

  I helped myself to a cup of tea and sat down next to Charlie, who was talking to an Austrian couple. He introduced me to them, but I was distracted and uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated. I looked about for Davina, who was standing by the steps talking to a man. She saw me, raised her hand, but made no attempt to move, and so I sat in silence sipping my tea, smiling from time to time at a stranger, and wishing I were back at home. I wished Tom would reappear and take me off to the lake; wished he’d row us across to the island where we could be alone. And I lost myself in a daydream, remembering that time at the end of the war, when we’d spent so many afternoons there on our own.

  It was Davina who interrupted my reverie, standing in front of me with another woman.

  I stood up. “Clarissa, thi
s is Nancy, Tom’s fiancée,” she said.

  She was not at all as I’d imagined: handsome rather than pretty, with a strong masculine jaw, and tall and dark, like me. She told me she’d heard a lot about me, but it later transpired that this was from Davina, and not Tom. “How very odd Tam never mentioned to me that you once lived here too,” she said in her New York drawl.

  I shrugged. “Well, perhaps he forgot,” I suggested, smiling.

  “It’s not like him to forget anything,” she said, and laughed. “Anyway, I better go see where he’s gotten to.” She leaned toward me. “He’s hopeless,” she whispered. “No good at small talk, you know.”

  I smiled. Yes, I know, and neither am I.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tom never reappeared on the terrace that afternoon and it wasn’t until a few hours later, over cocktails in the ballroom, that he emerged, looking more handsome than I’d ever seen him, and with an altogether different demeanor. He was in an irreverent mood, playful and witty. As I watched him with his assembled guests, I tried to remember the shy young man I’d been introduced to in that very same room, so many years earlier. But there was no trace of him, he’d gone, and in his place was someone quite sure of himself, and of his position in the world. Handsome, rich and charming, in control of everything, he enthralled us: each and every one of us.

  I was standing by the open casement doors, listening to an unfeasibly tall, good-looking American with one of those ridiculous names: Hudson D. Weiner Junior. He asked me to call him Hud, which struck me as a little familiar at the time, but Americans were very friendly in that way, still are. We were all drinking champagne cocktails and a gramophone was playing some new American jazz music. It was Hud who told me it was American; I really wouldn’t have known. When he asked me to dance, I laughed.