The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Don’t be confused by sex,’ she’d told him – but he hadn’t listened. And then he’d had the nerve to criticize Raymond. At least Raymond, for all his faults and failings, had never let her down. Mutt had been right about that. He’d been steady as a rock. OK, yes he was tight-fisted, but she and Joss had always been his first concern and even if friends joked a bit about his always being last to the bar, or winked knowingly at his readiness to drone on about his latest financial wheeling and dealing, well, fair enough. To be honest, she’d often slipped things on to his shoulders; used him as an excuse.

  ‘Oh, Caroline, The Ring Cycle? I should have loved to, but you know old Ray. The opera simply isn’t his thing, he’d be dead with boredom before the end of Act One …’

  ‘A villa in Tuscany for a month? Six adults and nine children? Sounds utter heaven, but, darling, can you imagine old Ray …?’

  ‘What a brilliant idea, Rowena. A little shop in the High Street selling hand-painted pottery and some old furniture … A partner? Me? Oh, sweetie, it sounds so exciting but can you see dear old Ray coughing up? No chance, I’m afraid. I’ll come and fleece the punters for you any time you like, but a partner? I should have loved it but it’s got to be No, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Jenny? That plan you had for a joint eighteenth party for Joss and Sarah. Dear old Ray simply won’t wear it. He wants his girl to have the great moment all to herself … I know. I know, but you’ve got two more coming up, remember. She’s his only chick and he doesn’t want her to share the honours. You know what fathers are like … Yes, I thought he’d be glad to halve the cost too, but there you are. Aren’t men simply extraordinary? You never know where you are …’

  Oh, he’d got her off the hook time and time again because she knew herself: she’d have given in. She hated to see people disappointed or hurt; longed to help out, make them laugh, bring comfort. Right over the top. ‘You are a twit,’ people would say to her, but lovingly as if they didn’t mind her being a twit, and that was nice because it was always such a surprise to find that people loved her. As if it were some kind of special present that needed to be treasured. The trouble was that she’d got into such states about it all until she’d found that dear old Ray, quite unwittingly, could protect her from herself. But she’d made it up to him; she’d pulled her weight. All those dinners for clients or influential people, everything perfect, just as he liked it, nothing too good for them. She’d smiled, listened, flirted, whilst often she was simply screaming with the boredom of it all, but nobody ever guessed. Even dear old Ray didn’t realize how excruciatingly dull she found his associates – but then he wasn’t sensitive to other people or their needs. Bruno had been right about that. He was too heavy-handed, ready with a patronizing little pat, kindly in many ways, but never seeing a real need. Though there had been a time when his obtuseness had stood her in good stead. He’d never guessed about Tony: he’d never noticed a thing. Oh, how she’d loved him: secret meetings, breathless telephone calls, little notes. She’d felt alive, her muscles loosened with desire, free and wild with happiness. Only the thought of darling, innocent Joss had held her steady – and dear Bruno. She’d sat in the rocking-chair in that great room downstairs, hair down, feet up, talking, talking. And he’d given her tumblers of whisky and mugs of coffee and let her pour out her feelings. God, she’d really loved Tony. But after all, it hadn’t lasted. All that passion – and it had died just as quickly as it had flared up, and she’d been very glad, then, to have Ray and all his security at her back. Glad that she hadn’t succumbed to Tony’s crazy pleadings, given in to his suggestions that she should leave it all and go away with him. What a disaster it would have been: Tony would have abandoned her just like all his other women. Not that she’d stayed with Ray just for security – of course not. She loved him …

  Emma turned restlessly on to her back. The trouble was that deep breathing and imagining the garden hadn’t worked at all and here she was at – what was the time? – nearly two o’clock and still wide awake. She’d lie quietly and offer a little prayer for Mutt. What was it that Mutt had always said at bedtime when she and Bruno were children? ‘The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.’

  That was a good prayer for Mutt at this particular time. Take a deep breath and offer it up for Mutt. The Lord grant her a quiet night and a perfect end – and watch over her, dear Lord, and over darling Joss too, up at Paradise tonight looking after her … It was funny how she’d felt that Joss should be left with her grandmother this evening. It was one of those strong feelings she sometimes got, a premonition, that had made her feel rather odd and a bit weepy. Of course, Mutt and Joss had always had that special closeness. Joss would come home from weekends at Paradise with stories of terrific fun with all her friends and old Mutt being a great hostess, never embarrassing, and everyone adoring her. People said that about grandparents – that they were often more relaxed with their grandchildren than with their own – but she’d known exactly what Joss meant. Mutt was great fun, always ready for a little jolly and especially good with young people, so it was odd that she was kind of buttoned up when it came to family things. Of course, losing Daddy out there in India must have been utter hell but Mutt could never quite understand how important it had been that she, Emma, wanted to know every little thing about him and all that had happened out there. Things like where they’d met and how they’d felt and what it was like when he proposed … Of course it must be painful, she could see that, but it meant so much. Yet every time she broached the subject Mutt would come over a bit odd, although she was more ready to talk about the hospital and the work. Even Bruno never wanted to talk about India.

  ‘It’s my past too,’ she’d say, rather plaintively, but neither of them would ever really sit down and have a good talk about it all, and there were very few photographs to fill in the gaps, though the ones they did have showed that Daddy had been a very attractive man. Well, Bruno was just like him and so that helped her to imagine him. She thought she could remember certain things, just little flashes here and there, but she could never be certain whether it was real or something she’d liked to have happened. All she could really remember was her life here at St Meriadoc.

  How happy they’d been, she and Bruno, growing up here. So safe and happy with darling Mousie and Rafe down in The Row. Sailing in the Kittiwake and picnics up the valley by the well. Then later, with Bruno bringing his naval friends home and giving lovely parties in The Lookout. Mutt had been wonderful then; letting them do their own thing, never interfering, encouraging their freedom. Yet there was that little feeling, a sense that Mutt was always wanting her to be worthy of Paradise … No, that wasn’t fair. It was more that the little estate – or the bit that she, Emma, would inherit – was not just a right but also something that must be deserved. It mustn’t be taken for granted.

  She and Bruno had always joked about it all. ‘I’ll have Paradise and you have The Lookout,’ she’d said. The rest of the estate had never come into it until Ray turned up. He’d immediately seen the possibilities of development, never ceased to hint about it after every trip to St Meriadoc, and it would be utterly exhausting if she ever had to fight off his juggernaut tendencies in regard to the cove …

  Emma sat up, crossly punched her pillow into shape, and lay back against it. She was supposed to be praying for Mutt, not carving up her estate. Perhaps if she were to do that thing of stretching and relaxing every single muscle. Starting with her toes …

  And, anyway, Bruno would sort it all out. When it came down to it, even Ray wouldn’t seriously consider ruining The Row after all these years. Especially with poor, darling Pamela so used to the peace all around her. It would be unthinkable – and now there were problems with George … Feet next. Stretch and relax. Ah, that was good.

  Joss wouldn’t be drawn about George but she didn’t need Joss to tell her that Penny and George had never been right. She’d had her suspicions right from the beginning, never mind how everyone had said wha
t a darling Penny was. There’d been a withholding of something, a reserve that made it very difficult to really know her or really love her … Now stretch out each leg. Ye-es. Now the other one. Very good. What was she thinking about? George. What a duck he was; a lovely man. Such a dear little boy he’d always been. He and Joss had been such chums, always off on their bikes or out in that little dinghy. What a pity children had to grow up … Ooh, how good to stretch the arms right out … And again. Mmm. Who had she thinking about … Joss? … George?

  She slept at last, arms flung wide, breathing peacefully.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was a light shining from beneath the parlour door. Bruno stood for a moment in the hall, considering. Some instinct had brought him over the cliff to Paradise but now he waited, uncertain of the next move. This unexpected sense of confusion, caused by his instinct abruptly switching off, was similar to the dislocation he experienced when the two worlds of imagination and reality collided. Thinking about Mutt, remembering the past, he’d forgotten about Joss. Even as he thought about her, the parlour door opened and she came out into the hall. At her gasp of surprise and alarm he raised his arms, as if in a gesture of reassurance, but she continued to stare at him as if she were seeing him for the first time or adjusting to some new situation.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I had a feeling about Mutt and just came on up. I haven’t got used to you being here yet, I suppose. Sorry to frighten you.’

  She came towards him, out of the shadows, and he saw that she was struggling with some strong emotion. Bruno reached out and took her by the shoulders.

  ‘What is it? Is it Mutt?’

  Joss shook her head and then nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it is in a way.’ Her eyes, blurred by tears and shock, slid away from his and then anxiously fixed themselves on his face again as if seeking reassurance. Some familiar quality of compassion in his look seemed to give her confidence and he felt her shoulders sag a little as she relaxed in his grip.

  Without speaking he led her into the drawing-room and pushed her gently into the corner of the sofa. Carefully he piled charred logs and embers together, then, picking up the bellows, puffed life into the fire with gentle, rhythmic movements. Grey ash glowed bright, a tiny flame pulsing and trembling whilst blackly scorched wood scintillated with a hundred flickering sparks. Huddled in the chair, her hands pressed between her knees, she watched him silently whilst her tired brain rocked with the effort of assimilating this new knowledge: Mutt, for all these years, had been living a lie yet Joss’s heart went out to her and tears rose once more to her eyes as she recalled the words and phrases her grandmother had written so long ago.

  Bruno laid down the bellows and looked at her.

  ‘Want to tell me?’ he asked.

  That detached part of him saw the imperceptible withdrawal, the tremor that tensed her knees and shoulders; noted that some indefinable fear made it impossible for her to meet his eyes. He hesitated, still crouching before the fire, realizing that her dilemma was one that related directly to him. Somehow, he intuited, the trustful ease with which she’d always approached him was damaged: his reliability was in question. Still crouched, he swore silently and then rose to his feet in one quick movement, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Perhaps you found something,’ he hazarded, rather as if they were playing some kind of guessing game. ‘Some document that’s puzzled you.’ A quick glance at her troubled face gave him no assistance. Suddenly he remembered Emma’s remark about the American. ‘Or maybe it was a photograph.’

  She swallowed, biting her lips, but still avoiding his eyes and he sensed something else besides this new lack of confidence in him. His hands clenched into fists as frustration rose inside him. ‘Come on, Joss,’ he wanted to say. ‘Help me to help you,’ but her white, unhappy face and restless eyes restrained him. There was an uneasiness about her that suggested guilt and suddenly he had an idea.

  ‘I suppose you haven’t by any chance come across a copy of Mutt’s will?’ he asked lightly. ‘I must admit it would simplify things if you have.’

  She stared at him then. ‘Would it? I can’t imagine how.’

  Her voice was almost childishly defiant and she shrank back into the cushions as he came to kneel beside the arm of her chair.

  ‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘Don’t play games. Tell me what you’ve found.’

  ‘Letters,’ she said, eyes wide and dark. ‘I wasn’t going to read them and then I found I simply couldn’t resist. Mutt asked me to find them …’

  Her voice trailed away into silence and he frowned.

  ‘Letters? What kind of letters?’

  ‘She wrote to her sister but never posted them. There must be more than a dozen of them. They explain it all. How she came here and who she really is.’

  Bruno closed his eyes for a second. ‘Christ!’ he muttered. ‘I don’t believe it. Letters!’

  They stared at each other. His shocked expression restored her as nothing else could have done and she drew her legs up into the chair, leaning closer to him, as if she saw that he might need some kind of consolation too.

  ‘I can’t take it in,’ she told him. ‘Nothing is what I thought it was. I just couldn’t grasp it to begin with but, after a while, how it affected me – all of us – didn’t matter so much as what I felt about Mutt.’

  She hesitated as if hoping for some response, perhaps encouragement, but Bruno remained silent. There was something else in his face besides horrified disbelief, and after a moment she identified it: he was angry.

  ‘Letters!’ He swung himself to his feet and went across to the fire. Picking up the poker he stabbed it furiously against the logs. ‘All these years of secrecy, of promising to protect Emma from the truth and remembering to think twice before I speak, and meanwhile she writes it all down in bloody letters and leaves them lying about. My God! I simply can’t believe it.’

  Huddled in her chair, Joss watched him anxiously. Despite her own shock during those first moments when she’d looked at Bruno and thought, But he isn’t my uncle and nothing is what it seems, she’d felt an overwhelming compassion for her grandmother: a strong identification with the young woman who’d written those letters, full of self-doubt and guilt but – having set her hand to the plough – trying not to look back.

  ‘They weren’t lying about,’ was all she could think of to say in defence of Mutt. ‘They were underneath lots of things in a drawer’ – but she knew that it was a feeble protest.

  ‘In a drawer,’ he repeated contemptuously. ‘Oh, well, that’s perfectly all right then. No-one is going to be looking for anything in a drawer, are they?’

  She got up and went to him, taking his arm. ‘You need to read them,’ she said. ‘They aren’t just casual letters dashed off for fun. It was Mutt’s way of retaining her identity and trying to assuage her guilt. I can understand that. I expect she simply couldn’t bring herself to destroy them and then, as the time passed, they sort of faded and she forgot them.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘I’m not getting this right.’

  Bruno was watching her unsympathetically. ‘What about my identity?’ he asked. ‘All my life I’ve denied my mother and my sister. I’ve lied and prevaricated and thought it worth it for certain reasons. And now it’s blown wide open, all gone for nothing, because Mutt has an urge to commit her qualms to paper. Why letters, for God’s sake? And if you write letters, why not post the bloody things? Perhaps she has posted some and other people know the truth.’

  Joss dropped his arm. ‘It’s not like that. You must read them, Bruno. Remember that she simply asked me to find them and if I hadn’t read them nobody would be the wiser. Please. Just keep an open mind until you’ve read them. After all, they won’t be telling you anything you don’t know except for the way Mutt felt right at the beginning.’

  There was a silence. It was clear that Bruno was making an immense effort to take hold of his temper: a muscle jumped in his jaw and his eye
lids drooped, giving him an uncharacteristically brooding look. Joss felt a twitch of fear. He seemed like a stranger and her sense of disorientation returned: they were not related, nearly everything that she had been told about her family was untrue, but even as she looked at Bruno she suddenly had an inkling of what it must have been like for him. Any guilt she was experiencing was quenched by her instinct that this was the right course to take.

  ‘Read them,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t judge her until you’ve done that.’

  He took a deep, barely resigned breath and nodded. ‘OK. Where are they?’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ she said quickly. ‘They need to be read in order. Build up the fire and I’ll make some coffee.’

  He looked impatient, as if he felt he was being manipulated and wheedled into a receptive frame of mind, and she accepted the fact that her behaviour must seem almost patronizing. How could she, knowing the truth for a brief few hours, presume to advise Bruno, who had lived with it for fifty years? Before she could apologize or explain her feelings he had turned away and was piling logs into the grate. She hesitated for a second or two and then hurried out, down the hall and into the parlour. As she sorted and piled the letters her hands shook and she paused at one point, listening, wondering if she’d heard Mutt’s bell. There was only silence.

  Bruno was sitting beside the fire, leaning forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. Joss dragged forward the small round table and placed the letters beside him. He glanced at them and then at her; his eyes crinkled a little.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ His voice was gentler. ‘It’s been one hell of a shock for you too, I imagine.’

  She nodded, biting her lip, and he shrugged and shook his head as if in despair at the situation.

  ‘I’ll get that coffee,’ she said – and left him to it.

  In the kitchen she was seized with a sudden fit of shivering: her hands trembled and her teeth chattered.