The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  “As a rule, Hud, we don’t normally dance before dinner,” I said. “But perhaps later.”

  “I bet you say that to all the guys,” he replied, leaning over me, his arm against the wall.

  “Only the Americans,” I said, smiling.

  I saw Tom looking over, watching us, and I smiled back at him, but he turned away.

  I could hear Charlie on the other side of the room, his voice already a little too loud. And I could see Davina, a cigarette dangling from her painted lips, gesticulating wildly in over-animated enthusiasm. Hud was regaling me with a long and overly detailed story about a bear he’d once shot, and moving closer all the time. I could see Marcus, Davina’s husband, sitting at the grand piano with a petite, dizzy-looking blonde—flirting, threatening to play. I glanced back at Tom, leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking, talking to a couple I couldn’t recall having seen earlier. He saw me look at him, threw his cigarette down into the fireplace, said something to the couple and walked toward me.

  “Weiner!” he called out, stemming the flow. “I hope you’re not boring the beautiful Clarissa . . . and not another of your bear stories, eh?”

  “Ha! Cuthbert, you old rogue. I thought I was doing rather well there.”

  Tom looked at me. “I’m afraid I have to steal her away from you now, Weiner.” And before the American could say anything, Tom took hold of my hand and led me out through the open doors behind us.

  Outside, on the terrace, a few people sat about smoking, and I wondered if he was going to introduce me to one of them.

  Someone called out, “Aha! Tom!”

  “Back in a jiffy,” he replied, without pausing to look at them. So I smiled at them, shrugged as he led me past them. I wasn’t sure where he was taking me or why, and I wasn’t sure who was watching us. But he must have sensed my apprehension because he said, “Don’t panic, Clarissa. I shall return you to your rightful owner in due course.”

  We descended the stone steps and proceeded across the lawn, then through the parterre. He kept hold of my hand, marching so quickly that I had to run with every few steps. Then I saw something at the end of the pathway, and I stopped, pulling my hand from his.

  I turned toward him, my hands over my mouth, incredulous.

  “A tent . . . an Arabian tent . . .”

  I looked back at the tent, began to walk toward it, slowly. The sides of the canvas were pinned back, a dozen or so flickering lanterns encircling it upon the grass. Standing to one side was the solemn-looking older man I’d seen earlier; Tom’s man, I presumed, his valet. I noted the bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on a stand to his side.

  “Good evening, sir . . . ma’am,” the man said, nodding at Tom and then at me.

  “Good evening, Walter,” Tom replied, and then the man picked up the bottle and released the cork.

  I turned to Tom.

  “Go on . . .” he said, smiling back at me, “take a look.”

  I stepped inside the tent, running my hand down the richly colored tapestries draping its interior walls. A vividly colored rug and large cushions lay about the floor, and in the center a brass-topped table with a lantern and two champagne glasses set upon it. I sat down on a cushion and looked up. Above me were hundreds of minuscule, glinting gold stars, sewn into the richest, deepest blue.

  I shook my head. “It’s beautiful, Tom,” I said, staring up at the stars as he stepped inside the tent, holding the bottle. “But what’s it for?”

  He laughed. “It’s for you, of course. I told you, it’s all for you.”

  I turned to him. “Tom . . .”

  I was speechless, didn’t know what to say. And really, it was all too much.

  “But it’s perfect . . . perfect, and so beautiful,” I said again. “And exactly like the one . . . the one I’d imagined.”

  He said nothing but glanced over at me as he poured champagne into a glass, smiling. I lay back against a pile of cushions, propped myself on one arm and watched him. How could I not love him? His ingenuity, the romance of him. I took a sip of champagne and stared back at him, unable to stop smiling.

  “I can’t believe you did this for me . . . can’t believe you remembered.”

  “Of course I remembered. You never did get your Arabian tent, did you? Anyway, it’s for you. It’s yours.”

  I laughed. “But, Tom, I have nowhere to put a tent. I live in a town house—with a garden not much bigger than this,” I said, gesturing. “It would be pointless . . . impossible. But I love it. I love it and I want to sleep here, under these stars.” I put down my glass, lay back once again to look up at the stars glistening in the fabric above our heads, and for a few minutes neither one of us spoke.

  Then he said, “You didn’t come.”

  And I knew what it was he referred to.

  I closed my eyes. “I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t come, it was impossible,” I said.

  “I waited for you. I waited all night.”

  I turned my head, looked up at him. “It wasn’t meant to be, Tom.”

  He shook his head. “It could have been.”

  And then I saw myself: saw my deranged self, hurling china figurines, scent bottles, silver-framed photographs and brocade cushions at my locked bedroom door. He has no idea, I thought, no idea. “I wanted to come, I wanted to . . .”

  “Then please, come here later . . . later tonight,” he said.

  I’d been no more than a foolish girl when I’d told him I wanted to sleep in an Arabian tent on the lawn, and here we were, so many summers later. He was sitting cross-legged, close to me, staring down at me, and without thinking I reached out to him. He took my hand to his mouth, kissed it. “Tell me you’ll come here later . . . please.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, my eyes fixed on his. “I’ll try.”

  He kissed my hand again, ran his nose over my wrist. “You smell of my dreams, Clarissa Granville.”

  Tom.

  I had left my moorings, was already adrift, floating out across a lake with him, and nothing else mattered, no one else mattered, to either of us. They were the reeds beneath the water, hampering our crossing to that place where we could be together, and alone.

  When we walked back up the steps on to the terrace everyone had disappeared and all was silent.

  “Oh dear,” he said, with affected solemnity, and we walked on, quickly, through the ballroom, into the lobby and toward the dining room, where people were filing through the doorway in a noisy huddle of smoke and laughter.

  “I say! Here they are!” Davina called out. “Darlings! We did rather wonder where you’d disappeared to . . . were about to send out a search party.”

  Davina, as unsubtle as ever.

  “Ha! I was showing Clarissa the new tennis court. Do you play, Davina?” Tom said, moving swiftly ahead of us, with smiles and nods. “We should have a game, tomorrow . . .” he called back to her.

  Nancy, standing at the doorway to the dining room, smiled at me as I passed her, but it was a queer sort of smile, and it made me feel guilty. More than guilty, it made me feel wicked.

  I was placed next to him, on his right, with Davina directly opposite me, on his left. The meal was an ordeal for me, and I suspect for him too. We’d begun our subterfuge and each time I caught his eye I felt a mix of guilt and longing. I took another glass of champagne rather than wine, and I could feel its effects. Any resolve I’d had was melting fast, and in its place was a yearning; a yearning I’d not known since I was sixteen years old. I watched him as he spoke with Davina, smiling and laughing; I watched him as he stood up and made a toast, and then sat back down and looked immediately to me. Yes, yes, I was proud of him, and yes, I loved him and wanted him. I knew I’d risk my marriage for him. I knew I’d risk everything for him.

  Thankfully, Davina was as verbose as ever, but I was aware of her scrutiny, not of one of us, but of us both. And each time Tom turned and spoke to me, no matter how mundane the words, he looked at me in such a way that though I couldn’t take my ey
es away from his, and though I couldn’t see Davina’s expression, I could feel her watching us and I knew she’d see that something had passed between us. From time to time I caught Charlie’s eye, sitting at the opposite end of the table, a few places away from Nancy, and I tried to smile back at him. He looked happy enough, I thought; he was enjoying himself. And Nancy? I’m not sure what she saw, or what she thought. In his toast Tom had thanked her for her help and complimented her on her “exceptional” organizational skills, but he could have been speaking of an employee, I thought, not the woman he was about to marry.

  After dinner, the men adjourned to the smoking room for brandy and cigars, and we ladies removed ourselves to the drawing room for coffee. There, Nancy came and sat down next to me. She asked me about my childhood, and then quizzed me on Tom: if I’d seen much of him growing up at Deyning, and when I’d last seen him. I was vague about the old Deyning days, and very specific on when I’d seen him last. “Oh, golly . . . not for almost a year. In fact, it was at Davina’s we last saw each other,” I said, and then added, “But we hadn’t seen each other for many years before that.”

  She told me of their wedding plans. It was to take place toward the end of the summer, at the church down the road, and afterward a “small” reception—there, at the house. “Perfect,” I said. “And any honeymoon plans?”

  “Oh, I don’t suppose so. Tom may be marrying me but he’s already married—to his work!” she replied.

  “And so . . . will you live here?” I asked.

  “Between here and the place in London,” she said, and then added, “and as and when we have children, Tom wishes them to be brought up here, in the country.”

  I remember thinking, so they’ve discussed it; they’ve made plans. They shall have a family and live here at Deyning. And I could suddenly picture it all, it was so easy. I saw them in years to come: Tom, surrounded by a large brood of dark-haired children, playing with them out on the lawn; up a ladder, decorating a Christmas tree; and Nancy, the matriarch, chatelaine of Deyning Park, Mrs. Tom Cuthbert; reliable and efficient, organizing their lives.

  “Do you have children, Clarissa?” she asked.

  “No, sadly, I don’t,” I replied, and for some reason I smiled as I said it.

  A few minutes later I excused myself. It was after midnight, and the conversation had turned to babies and children, which I always found difficult. For years I’d practiced smiling inanely as other women spoke of their children. I’d feigned empathy and interest, nodding attentively, and sympathizing with them in their tribulations: oh, the ordeals of raising a family! I’d laughed at their funny stories of little Johnny’s antics, sat in silence as they’d discussed schools, and the neatly planned paths for their offspring. But sometimes, sometimes it became too much. And as I climbed the stairs at Deyning that night I struggled to hold back my tears, for I could never join in those conversations. I was a mother, yet I was no one’s “Mummy.” And I knew, knew the moment I left the room, that Davina would take it upon herself to explain my sad predicament; explain to those straining ears how there were no babies—no children for the Boyds. Not now, and, perhaps, not ever. And in my head I could hear their momentary sighs of sadness.

  No, no babies for Clarissa.

  It must have been after one when Charlie came to bed. But I pretended to be asleep, and within seconds he was snoring. I lay there for almost an hour wondering what to do. I knew I had a choice: I could remain in my room, or I could go to Tom. But would he be there? And what if someone saw me, saw us? But it was late and everyone had had so much to drink . . . surely they’d all be asleep.

  The room was dark but for a strip of light under the door. I reached for my robe, hanging on the back of the door, then opened it and stepped out on to the landing. I stood perfectly still for a moment, struck by a sense of déjà vu. The last time I’d done this was the night before Tom left for war, when my parents had been downstairs and I’d used the back stairway. I could feel my heart pounding, hear Charlie’s snoring beyond the closed door, or was it snoring from another room? And somewhere, giggling, and muffled voices. If I met anyone, I’d say I couldn’t sleep; that I was going to find a book in the library. I moved quickly down the carpeted staircase, across the marble hallway—tiptoeing on bare feet—and then on, along the polished wood floor to the ballroom. There was a lamp on, and a casement door stood open. I hurried through the door, across the flagstones and down the steps. It was a glorious clear, starry night, and I was seventeen again.

  In the distance I could see the lanterns, still flickering around the outside of the tent, a glow inside. He’s there, I thought, he’s there. I ran along the path through the parterre and across the velvet pile of the lawn, and then, breathless, I pulled back the canvas. A lantern on the table still burned and the smoke of a cigarette lingered. He’d been and gone. While I’d dithered, he’d been waiting for me and now he’d gone. My heart lurched. I stepped back out of the tent unsure of what to do, and then I looked up into the night sky, closed my eyes and made a wish: make him come back to me, make him come back . . .

  I felt a hand upon my shoulder—and there he was.

  “I thought you’d gone,” I said, turning to him, almost in tears. “I thought you’d gone,” I said again, wrapping my arms around him.

  “Never,” he said, lifting my face up to his. “Never,” he repeated, leading me back inside the tent.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was light by the time I walked back through the garden toward the house. The air was warm and a cloudless sky stretched out high above me: a transparent wash of pink, pale blue and yellow. I stood on the terrace for a moment, looking back at the tent, and the bucolic vision beyond. Patches of mist hung over the sleepy hollows of the fields and the lake in the distance, and not a leaf stirred. I’m not sure I’d ever looked out upon that cherished landscape at such an early hour before. And it struck me how timeless and ethereal it was in its stillness.

  Tom had made me return to the house first, and I tiptoed up the staircase and back to my room, closing the door behind me as quietly as I could. Charlie lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring. And as I climbed into my bed, I heard another door close, and wondered if it was Tom returning to his room. I longed to go back to him, to lie with him and wake up in his arms. Our night together had been so short, and ahead of us—another day of pretense.

  I didn’t wake until almost midday, stirred by voices—including Charlie’s—outside on the terrace beneath the open window. The pink and white floral curtains remained drawn across each of the four tall windows but a very particular light, a bright Sussex morning light, so familiar to my senses, flooded through them and into the room, and I stretched out like a cat, savoring its warmth and energy. And still echoing in my head—my name: a deep, desperate whispering in my ear; against my skin; on my neck, my shoulder. And I stretched out once more, smiling.

  I decided to take my time getting ready. I ran a bath and lay in it until the water was almost cold, reliving the events of hours earlier: his words, his touch, his love. When I finally dressed and went downstairs—the book of Emily Brontë’s poems clutched in my hand—it was a somewhat depleted group sitting outside under the awning on the terrace. I’d missed breakfast but Nancy kindly organized some coffee for me. Tom was nowhere to be seen, and I chose not to ask where he was. Davina said, “We’ve all been looking at the Arab tent, Clarissa. Have you seen it? You must go and take a peek, darling . . . it’s quite magical. Apparently Tom’s only just had it put up—in time for this weekend, so we’re quite honored. I think I might even sleep in it tonight!”

  “Oh, yes I shall. I’ll go and take a look later,” I said.

  “Sleep well, dear?” Charlie asked, as he sat down next to me.

  “Yes, perfect, thank you. And you?”

  “Now what do you think? I don’t even remember coming to bed! Though I must say, I’m quite astonished that my head doesn’t hurt more this morning. Champagne, wine and brandy�
�not a very clever mix . . . but you, you’ve slept almost twelve hours,” and he looked at me, almost tenderly, and patted my hand.

  “Yes, I must have been more tired than I realized.”

  “It’s called beauty sleep, Charlie boy. Not that Clarissa needs it—or perhaps that’s her secret . . .” Weiner said, from behind sunglasses.

  He was sitting next to Davina, in polka dots, and I could tell immediately they had a thing going. Their deck chairs were pushed up together and they spoke in whispers, punctuated by giggles. I looked around for Davina’s husband, Marcus, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was with Tom, I thought.

  It was a perfect day, with a bright blue cloudless sky. I moved away from the table, where Charlie sat reading the newspaper, walked along the terrace and down the steps to a swing-chair set out upon the lawn. I sat back in it, gently rocking myself, and closed my eyes, listening to the conversations behind me. I could hear Nancy, who’d appeared back on the terrace, announcing that we were to have a picnic on the island in the middle of the lake. There were three rowing boats and if we organized ourselves into groups of no more than four we should, she said, be able to do it with each of the three boats making two trips. Those playing tennis would be back soon and we’d set off then, she said. That’s where he is, I thought: playing tennis.

  A little while later, as people began to assemble, ready to set off to the lake, I heard his voice and looked up from my book. In tennis whites, and looking unbearably handsome, I listened as he told people to go on ahead, he’d catch up. He glanced across to me, turned as if to go inside the house, then turned back again and moved quickly across the terrace, and down the steps toward me.

  “Let them all go on ahead,” he whispered, standing in front of me, shining with sweat, still breathless from his game.