A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  My mind was spiralling. Prison. Unlikely. But not out of the question. ‘Hugo can’t lose his job, he runs it, owns it,’ I whispered, forcing myself not to go there.

  ‘He will if Bellingdon goes under.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  Tommy shrugged unhappily. ‘It’s big, Flora. Big. And with Fleming on the case … and obviously Shona has responsibilities.’

  I turned to her, aghast. ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘What, report a huge whitewash story pertaining to the most sensitive coastal issue of the day? As a Cornish journalist?’ She widened her eyes at me.

  I seemed to have no saliva left in my mouth at all. I managed to steady myself before I spoke. ‘So – you met Ted today, and then texted Tommy, and then met here, in the most secluded spot in South Cornwall. What had you both decided to do? Before I came in?’

  ‘Talk to Hugo, obviously,’ said Tommy. ‘But the problem is, Shona’s now compromised. Because she asked me, and I told her what I know. What I’ve just told you.’ He looked beseechingly at me. ‘Don’t ask me to be any other way, Flora.’

  I stared at him. Looked down at my hands. ‘No. I know. You had to. But … you told her in confidence? As an old friend?’

  ‘How could I demand conditions? Guilt-trip her in any way? I have asked her to hold her fire, though, and she’s agreed. But she’s in a hole, now, Flora, because of me. Because I couldn’t lie to her.’

  They both looked at me, horribly worried: Shona about what it would do to me, and by extension Peter, and Tommy about what he was doing to his friend. But there was certainty there, too. And an element of – not defiance – but steadfastness. They would do this, eventually. And no amount of argument or pleading from me would make things any different. These were decent people, loyal to their friends, but loyal to their own integrity and morals, too. More so. They had to be. And when I examined my own conscience, I knew, despite my initial panic, that I couldn’t ask them, and indeed wouldn’t want them, to be any other way.

  ‘I’m giving you the worst-case scenario, Flora,’ said Tommy, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. His earnest face was close to mine. ‘Because I want you to go there in your mind. Yes, Bellingdon could collapse, but I give you my word, if Hugo fesses up, I’ll do everything in my power to make the collateral damage as limited as possible. I’ll be with him all the way.’

  His blue eyes were steady and true. Eyes, I realized, I’d come to respect and very much like to see around these days. They made me feel safe.

  ‘Thank you,’ I breathed. I took a great gulp of my drink to steady myself.

  As I set my glass down, a bearded chap stuck his head around the corner. He blinked in bewilderment.

  ‘Blimey. It’s like something out of Poldark in here. Planning a shipwreck?’ Shona’s soundman stared round in wonder.

  Shona drained her glass. ‘Mike. Right. Gotta go. Stay in touch, Tommy.’

  She got up and wriggled into her jacket. Before she went, though, she reached out and grabbed something from the table, which I realized was a tape recorder. She looked at me.

  ‘Tommy asked me not to turn it on and I didn’t. It’s all off the record. But Flora …’ She looked searchingly at me. Pleadingly even.

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘I know.’

  She nodded. ‘Good.’ I swallowed hard. She gave Tommy a steady look. ‘Tell her the rest,’ she told him firmly.

  27

  ‘What did she mean?’ I asked him. ‘Tell her the rest?’

  Tommy looked at me. He sat back in his chair. He seemed about to speak, then, abruptly, he reached for his glass, drained it and stood up. ‘Let’s get out of here. This place is driving me nuts. I feel like the Spanish Inquisition is going to appear at any moment, brandishing sabres. Anyway, I’m driving and one bourbon is enough. I need to walk it off.’

  He plucked his linen jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged into it in an easy motion. I finished my drink and followed suit.

  He was quiet and pensive as we left and I felt somewhat intimidated by his air of preoccupation and seriousness, so that, despite all my natural inclinations to seize his arm and cry, ‘What? What?’, I followed him silently outside. We fell into step beside one another down the precipitous cobbled street, which took a degree of concentration in itself. Gordon had simply nodded curtly as we departed, but I’d noticed, as I shut the door behind us, that he’d watched us go through the front window with more than his usual interest, curious, perhaps, at people even more taciturn than himself. We headed on down to the harbour, watching our steps on the cobbles. The silence was dreadful and I was full of fear for what it held, but just when I could bear it no longer, I realized I had to be the grown-up here. Help him along a bit. Give him some time. And not just wait in anticipatory silence, but fill the gaps, conversationally.

  ‘Busy little place, isn’t it?’ I ventured, keeping my voice steady. I nodded towards the buzzing port as we approached, clanking with fishing boats and machinery and men bringing in their catches, shouting to one another as they hauled up brimming nets. Seagulls screamed overhead, poised to plunder. Tommy glanced up gratefully from his shoes, pleased, I could see, that I was going to give him a certain amount of time to collect his thoughts.

  ‘It certainly is. Your man at the bar told me it’s the largest fishing port in England.’

  ‘Gordon did? That’s uncommonly garrulous of him. He’s a silent soul.’

  ‘Only when I told him I was waiting for Shona. She’s something of a local celebrity, clearly. Let’s walk round to the end of the quay.’

  As we followed the jetty, the seagulls seemed to increase their screeching and the mainsails slapped and jangled all the louder, as if someone had hit the special-effects button in a Radio 4 play. Appropriate, I decided, under the circumstances, since I felt I was taking part in a drama of someone else’s creation and direction. Certainly not mine. That fear of the unknown and lack of control suddenly made me unable to tell Tommy that, despite the new restaurants, it was still fishing that kept this port afloat, or even about the colony of artists who’d settled here in the thirties for the light and made it famous. Instead, I just let the cacophony of seaside noises be the soundtrack to his contemplation. We walked down the long quay around the harbour in silence, skirting the mooring lines tied to huge bollards, heading out to sea. Finally we found a bench, right at the end, looking towards the horizon. I’m sorry to say that the moment my bottom hit the salty wooden slats, I reverted to type.

  ‘What did she mean, Tommy?’ I asked nervously. ‘Tell her the rest?’

  Tommy leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He narrowed his eyes into the watery blue distance. After a moment, he spoke.

  ‘Did you ever wonder why I was so against you marrying Hugo?’

  I blinked in surprise at his profile, but he kept his eyes on the small blue fishing boat chugging slowly towards us.

  ‘Yes, of course. You didn’t think I was right for him. Not good enough.’ I hesitated. ‘No, OK. That’s harsh. That’s what I told myself then.’ I struggled to verbalize the truth, which had taken years to admit, even to myself. ‘You knew he wasn’t in love with me. Knew he was in love with Christina.’

  ‘Correct. But still only halfway there. He loved you, Flora, but he wasn’t in love with you. He loved Christina, sure, but he wasn’t in love with her either.’

  I frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Hugo’s gay, Flora.’

  I stared at him. Went very cold. It seemed to me I turned to stone on the bench. It was as if Prospero, or Merlin, or some higher celestial being, even, had lightly touched my shoulder and petrified me. I couldn’t speak. Tommy let me attempt to absorb it. He waited in silence.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ I quavered eventually.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ he said with quiet certainty.

  It obviously couldn’t be true. But nonetheless, I was aware of something of great magnitude rolling in, as if from the sea be
fore us: huge, dark and inexorable, not the sunny horizon I stared at. Something forceful and tremendous and indisputable. Nevertheless, I doggedly disputed it.

  ‘But … he married me. Christina … Married twice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how …’ Even as I tried to form some sort of question, I knew it was rolling in fast, this force of nature, and to stop it was like trying to hold back the tide. I also knew that this was the huge piece from the jigsaw puzzle of my life that I’d never found. It had been hiding under the lid of the box, or under the table, for years. And somehow, it had finally slid into view.

  ‘But – hang on – no!’ Suddenly my mind wouldn’t have it. It was too old, this brain of mine: too set in its ways. It could be a strong force, too. I rounded on him furiously. ‘What d’you mean, he’s gay? You can’t just say that, how do you know?’

  ‘I found him in bed with a guy at Oxford. I was in college with him, remember. Same staircase. Opposite room. I know.’

  I was shocked by the sudden visual freeze-frame, but – at university. Years ago. I scrabbled around in my brain.

  ‘But – but that could just have been a one-off! An experimental thing – you know – an undergraduate fling, or even—’

  ‘No, he’s gay. Or at least was fluid, back then. More so now, I think. More craving a man. Or indeed men. Exclusively.’

  A hole opened up inside me. Gaped wide. It all made terrible sense. The love for me, indisputably, but the lack of real love. And the paucity of sex, of intimacy.

  ‘But why marry Christina?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘Because she’s sexually ambivalent, too. Can’t you see that?’

  I stared. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Look at her, Flora. Think about her.’

  I caught her in my mind’s eye: in her jeans, same few unisex-style shirts rotated every other day. Blue, green, yellow. I thought back to when I first met her, flying over that stream on a rope, short hair, trainers, huge smile.

  ‘Just because she looks – you know – boyish. That doesn’t mean she’s gay, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘No, of course not. And many very beautiful, very feminine women are gay. But she’s kinda androgynous, don’t you think?’

  She was. She really was.

  ‘But … do you know?’

  ‘Oh, I know she has girlfriends, if that’s what you mean.’

  I got up off the bench. Then I sat down again abruptly. ‘How do you know that, Tommy? Have you walked in on them, too?’

  ‘No, but Peter has.’

  ‘Shit!’ I got up again. Swung round and stared down at him. ‘What? What?’

  ‘Sit down, Flora.’ He reached up and took my arm, gently. I sat, tremulously. I felt numb. Horrified.

  ‘Peter sailed with me two years ago at Cowes, remember? Crewed my Laser. He told me he’d come home unexpectedly and found Christina curled up on the sofa with another girl, watching TV. Arms around each other. Nothing graphic, fully clothed. But he knew at once what it was. Also, a friend of his – Adam? Who’s here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘Who’s gay, had asked Peter about his father. Once, when he was pissed.’

  ‘God. He knew.’

  ‘Apparently. And Peter asked me, when we were sailing, what I thought about his father. Whether he was. I had to tell him the truth.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘So Peter knows,’ I whispered.

  ‘Has done for two years.’

  ‘And was he …’ I stalled. Couldn’t speak.

  ‘Confused. Upset, obviously. But not as much as you’d imagine. Because he’d left it a year before he spoke to me. So he’d got his head round it, to an extent. More so, now. We email. I ask him how he’s doing.’

  I stared at him, stupefied. Then out to sea. I swung back again.

  ‘So why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me?’

  Tommy was silent. ‘Why, Tommy? Why didn’t I know?’

  ‘Peter didn’t want you to. He thought you’d be too hurt by it.’

  ‘What, like … like I’d turned Hugo, or something?’

  He shrugged.

  I went cold. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Flora.’

  ‘No, but – shit. I did.’

  ‘I said don’t be ridiculous. Human beings don’t work like that. You know that. But that may be why he didn’t tell you, because he knew you’d think that. You, with your guilt. And he didn’t see any reason for you to know.’

  I felt as if all breath had been sucked from my body. Felt limp. Lifeless. There I’d been, carrying on as normal. Life, my life, had been going on, as usual. Peter at school, me at home, painting, seeing Mum, chatting to Celia. Yet all the time, it was different, the picture, to the one I thought I was seeing. The treachery struck me as colossal. Unforgivable. Such deception. And yet, all in the name of protection. Protecting me. My brain scrambled to keep up.

  ‘And – and why didn’t you tell me, all those years ago? Why, Tommy?’

  Tommy leaned forward on his elbows again. He massaged his forehead with his fingertips. ‘Ah, shit, that’s the million-dollar question. But it was so hard back then. And so much more complicated. We were all so young, and as you say, was it just an undergraduate thing? I know now it wasn’t, but didn’t know for sure back then. And was Christina gay? I thought so, at least guessed so, and, as you know, I even had a go at talking to Hugo, just before your wedding. You walked right in on us. I questioned whether he was really in love with you, and doing the right thing, but even I couldn’t say – shit, buddy, aren’t you gay? Using Flora as a beard? Conveniently acquiring a wife – and let’s not forget – a child? All of which is fine, don’t get me wrong, if it’s out in the open, but don’t you need to tell her?’

  I licked my lips. Swallowed hard. ‘No, not then. Not at that precise moment. But maybe before? When we got engaged? Presumably he knew you knew – you’d walked in on him?’

  ‘He hadn’t seen me. Neither of them did. There was a lot of noise, and they – they both had their—’

  ‘Yes, OK,’ I interrupted quickly. Backs to me. I got up again. Walked to the edge of the quay. I folded my arms and held myself tightly, as if I’d crack. Then I bent my head and stared down into the dark water. Swirls of coloured oil from the boat’s engines on the surface made it impenetrable.

  ‘So …’ I came back and sat down again. He kept his profile to me. I plucked a salty strand of hair from my mouth. ‘I mean … why? Why all of it? Why didn’t he come out?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  Tommy turned his head to look at me properly. Gave me a penetrating gaze. It took me a moment but then we communed silently.

  ‘Belinda.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t you think? Hugo’s always been such a mummy’s boy. So in thrall to that powerful mother of his. And Hugo is not … a strong man.’

  ‘He’s weak,’ I agreed. I swallowed. ‘Lovely, but weak.’ It had taken me a long time to finally admit it to myself. ‘And even had he been strong, that conversation would have been terrifying.’

  ‘Exactly. And hence why he’s always lived in London. Miles away from sharp eyes, from Trewarren. Where he can have something of a secret life. And Christina can, too.’

  I looked out to sea, computing it all. Digesting. Suddenly I sank my head down into my hands and tugged hard at my hair. I gave a low moan. ‘Oh shit, Tommy, if only I’d known!’

  ‘Really?’

  I jerked upright, furious. ‘Yes! Yes, really! Fucking hell, my whole life – or a lot of it.’ I stared wide-eyed across the sea. A lie. Longing for a man who wasn’t there. Didn’t exist. I struggled to explain. ‘I wouldn’t have found it so impossible to get over him. Wouldn’t have always yearned, put my life on hold. Which I did. Ask Celia, I did.’

  ‘But I didn’t know that, Flora. I lived in the States. Or, if I did know, or at least guessed, from what I gleaned from Peter – I … yeah
, OK, I dodged it. I’m a man, for Chrissake. It’s what we do. I mean – OK, maybe I should have come across when he left you and married Christina, told you then. But I had all these strange loyalties to Hugo, too. He didn’t know I knew – how could I tell you without his say-so? He should have fucking told you. Told you then. Should have set you free. He should have damn well told everyone. I mean, shit, no one knows.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Least, not so far as I can tell. I mean, sure, his gay friends will, obviously, but it seems to me, for Hugo, it’s like something out of the nineteen fifties. Still is, for some poor people. Young folks, though, mostly, with soccer-mad brothers, fathers, in tough neighbourhoods, secretly liking guys. And yet Hugo, who is all grown up, is still one of them. And, Flora, I guess I also thought – darn it. She was married to him for two years. She must have had an inkling, surely?’

  He looked at me imploringly. I met his incredulous bright blue eyes in his sculpted, narrow face.

  ‘Not a clue,’ I told him, equally incredulously, as I considered this. ‘Not one single iota.’ I looked away and stared blankly back down at the water. ‘And I agree, you would think, wouldn’t you …?’

  I recalled our early days together: at schools miles apart, then universities at either ends of the country. Talking a lot, meeting occasionally. Later in London, in the flat; happy if tense times. The bedroom. Hugo turning the light out, saying sorry, he was tired.

  ‘I mean – he wasn’t highly sexed, sure, but I was pregnant for a lot of our marriage. Then after a baby …’ I swallowed. ‘I just thought he’d stopped fancying me. After Peter. I’d read about it. And it had been … a difficult birth. Peter didn’t exactly slip out. I wasn’t gagging for it myself, for a while. Later I was. Then he left.’

  I tried to imagine what I’d have felt like if I’d known he was gay. Fluid, as Tommy put it. I turned to him. ‘Do you think they had an arrangement? Hugo and Christina? D’you think they discussed it?’