The long-delayed visit to Jessie and Harry was not the happiest ending to their week’s holiday. By the time they’d driven home in yet one more October rainstorm, they were far too exhausted to do more than share their distress that their oldest and closest friends were now so unhappy in the life they’d made together.
They woke to soft autumn sunshine which cheered them after the sadness of the previous evening. To their great surprise, just as they were finishing breakfast, there was a phone call from Harry. He wanted to know if either of them would be at home, were he to come up the following day. Andrew said Clare most certainly would be and was surprised when Harry rang off immediately without further explanation.
‘Do you really think he has another woman?’ he asked, as he went back to his coffee.
‘No, not for one moment,’ Clare replied, ‘but the alternative is actually worse.’
‘What on earth do you mean, love? Surely Harry having another woman is bad enough. The situation last night was grim.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Clare sighed. ‘But this is like the way she behaved before James was born. If Harry hasn’t got someone else and she insists he has, then it’s far harder to do anything about it.’
‘I never thought of that,’ said Andrew bleakly. ‘What you mean is that she’s being paranoid.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, though I may not have known the word four or five years ago,’ she said sadly. ‘We might be able to do something if it is an affair, but I don’t think it is. In fact, I’m sure it’s not,’ she added, as she carried their breakfast dishes to the sink.
‘Oh well, you’ll find out soon enough,’ he said philosophically, as he stood up. ‘Can you just remind me why we’re clearing out the stable today. Are you expecting a horse?’
He was pleased when she managed a laugh. After doing his best last evening to help her keep up appearances, with Jessie either sharp or actively silent, he couldn’t wait to get to work and forget about the whole thing.
‘No, dear. I am not planning to practice for next year’s point to point in my spare time, but I have bought a second-hand freezer. Dobsons are replacing theirs in all their retail outlets with newer models and the old ones are going at a very good price. The electrician is coming tomorrow. We need a level space. No dust, straw, or cobwebs, and clear access to the garage for a new cable,’ she explained. ‘Failing that, it’s a trench from the kitchen which will be more expensive and make a horrible mess.’
‘For ice-cream?’ he asked curiously, for Dobsons were one of the leading producers in the province.
‘Yes, we can keep some ice-cream,’ she agreed, knowing his weakness for raspberry ripple. ‘But I’m more concerned with scones, cakes and sandwiches. If we have a run of birthdays we can stockpile and not be so hard pressed on the day. That sort of stuff defrosts very well, I’m told, but we’ll have to experiment. I can’t see defrosted sandwiches being as good as freshly made, can you?’ she asked, as they pulled on their old anoraks and made for the stable.
The high-pitched whine of a power drill next morning told her the electrician had got started. Given he was a friend of John Wiley, and would come to her if he had a problem, she could forget about him until Harry appeared and concentrate on the paperwork that had accumulated during their week off.
There were invoices to deal with, a pile of post and an end-of-month Bank Statement. She knew how preoccupied she was when she found she’d annotated the statement, then filed it in the wrong binder. She spoke severely to herself, tried not to think about Jessie and Harry and kept glancing out of the window for the first sight of his BMW as it rounded the curve of the drive.
When a rather battered, small yellow car appeared just before eleven o’clock, she failed to recognize it until Harry unwound himself from the driving seat and strode up the steps.
‘Harry, how lovely, it’s stopped raining just for you,’ she said, as she led the way back into Headquarters, a bright fire burning on the hearth to greet him. ‘Come and sit down,’ she added, picking up the phone and dialling zero. ‘Coffee’ll be here in a minute or two.’
‘Clare, I’m sorry about Saturday,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Jessie excelled herself, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, it was bad, wasn’t it? But it’s not the first time she’s been like that, is it?’ she said steadily, pausing to smile up at Bronagh, who placed the coffee tray neatly between them and disappeared without a sound.
‘Before we go any further, Harry, there’s something I have to ask you,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want you to be cross with me, but is there another woman in your life?’
‘Apart from you?’ he asked, looking bemused.
‘Apart from Jessie,’ she replied, relief already flowing over her.
‘What?’ he asked, looking amazed. ‘What are you talking about?’
Clare smiled and shook her head. ‘I had to ask, even though I thought the chances were remote. Jessie told me you had another woman.’
‘Oh, not you as well?’ he sighed, dropping his head in his hands. ‘She’s made heavy hints to my mother and told our doctor it’s one of the girls at the Gallery,’ he went on. ‘There isn’t anyone, Clare. I’m not sure I’d even have time these days.’
‘I must admit I’d thought that myself,’ Clare said, grinning cheerfully. ‘Now, come on, eat up your nice warm scone and let’s see what sense we can make of it. This isn’t the first time Jessie has given you and me a bad headache, now is it?’
‘No, it certainly isn’t. Do you remember when she was carrying James and she thought she was going to die? I had to ask you to come home from Paris to help me out.’
Clare laughed aloud. ‘Oh Harry, forgive me laughing, but have you forgotten that if I hadn’t come to try to help you, I would not now be sitting here? That’s when Andrew and I met up again and fairly, I have to say, I think Jessie had a hand in that. I’ll swear she sent Andrew that message to go out to Drumsollen to meet you when she knew you’d dropped me here to spend the morning with June.’
‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ he said, beginning to look a little easier. ‘These scones really are very good,’ he said, managing to sound almost like his normal self.
‘Specialite de la maison,’ she said grinning. ‘Now, I need to know more, Harry. Don’t spoil your coffee, but tell me when you think it got going and anything that’s made it worse. I’m no psychologist, but I probably know more about Jessie than anyone except you.’
Harry did his best, but Clare knew that inevitably he missed just the details that might help her because he was seeing with a man’s eyes. He told her of all the things he’d done to try to please her, making the house as comfortable as possible and seeing she had proper domestic help. He’d wanted her to have an au pair to help her with Fiona and James, but she’d said she didn’t want any foreign girl messing up her children.
As more and more detail emerged, Clare’s heart sank. There was no doubt Jessie was rejecting all Harry’s offers and ignoring his very existence when she could.
‘I do feel so sorry I haven’t been able to see her, Harry,’ Clare said, when he’d told her all he could think of. ‘That may be part of the problem. I do phone her nearly every week, but she doesn’t phone me. Jessie’s never been much use talking except face-to-face. Can you pinpoint any event at all that might mark the beginning of all this discontent?’
‘She got very cross about the work I wanted to do on the house,’ he said, casting around for an answer.
‘Change,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that’s part of it, Harry. Jessie’s always avoided making decisions. She tends to go along with things and then, suddenly, she’s had enough and pulls back and looks around for someone, or something to blame.’
Harry brightened visibly, said he felt she’d put her finger on what they were looking for. They talked for an hour or more, gathering together all they’d learnt from that earlier episode when Jessie had failed to cope so dramatically, had taken to her bed and frightened the life out of Harry who thought he was going to lose her. At least this time she was more angry than depressed, which might make changing things much more possible.
‘Clare dear, you’ve been great, as always, and I’ve taken it all in, but I must get back to town,’ he said, at last. ‘I’ve an important meeting this afternoon. Is it all right if I phone you during the day from the Gallery, so we can talk properly?’ he added. ‘Then I can let you know how things are going. I’ll see about the gynaecologist chappie and enquire about that man who was so good with Ginny. Which do you think would be quickest way back to Belfast, bus from Armagh or train from Portadown? Are you very busy or can you give me a lift?’ he went on, as he stood up.
‘Lift, Harry?’ she asked. ‘You did come by car, remember?’ she added, laughing. ‘Is your car out of action?’
‘No, no. Mine’s fine. Jessie wanted me to bring you hers. You remember she said on Saturday night, she didn’t need it anymore and you could have it. It was when you were telling us about the sandwich delivery scheme,’ he added, seeing the blank look on her face.
‘I thought she was just being unpleasant and dismissive,’ Clare replied honestly. ‘I certainly didn’t think she meant it. But what about her, Harry? Giving up her car is the last thing we ought to let her do. That would be very bad news?’ she said anxiously.
‘No problem there, Clare,’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘I’d promised her a new car. It’s on order. That one is too small. It has got a decent boot, but she needs something with a hatchback for the children and all their stuff. It would do for sandwiches though, wouldn’t it? She thought it would. She said if you had it you might come up to Belfast more often . . .’
‘Harry! Did she say THAT?’
‘Yes. Yesterday morning, when she asked how soon could I take it up to you,’ he replied, looking baffled.
Clare shook her head and threw up her hands. ‘Harry, that’s the best news yet. It means she knows she’s in a mess and she expects me to sort her out. Come on, I’ll drive you to Portadown. It’ll be quicker for you by train. Give me a moment to have a word with June and Bronagh.’
As she walked on to the platform with him a short time later, he turned to her and said simply, ‘Clare, what would I do without you?’
‘You’ve helped me out more than once, don’t forget that. It’s what friends are for,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like even a nominal sum for Jessie’s car? I could manage that.’
‘Definitely not,’ he said firmly. ‘I was about to ask you to let me pay for some bodywork repairs and a respray. Jessie can be a bit careless, though she’s a perfectly good driver,’ he added, as they heard the Enterprise from Dublin signalling its eminent arrival.
‘Definitely not,’ she repeated, laughing and hugging him quickly. ‘Jessie might get the wrong idea. Not to speak of Andrew. Take care, Harry. It’ll be all right if we can stick it out. Give her my love,’ she added, as he closed the carriage door. She waved as she watched the express departed with a farewell serenade, satisfied that between them, once more, they’d bring Jessie back to herself.
Clare had to laugh as she watched John Wiley inspecting Jessie’s battered motor car. There was nothing he enjoyed more than mending something that was broken, or upgrading something that was not looking its best. Knowing perfectly well what he was thinking, she suggested he do the job on a time and materials basis and insisted he charge her the going rate. He went off happy, knowing he could do a good job for far less than any garage.
So, a trim little dark blue car joined the team at Drumsollen. In it, Clare and Bronagh did the sandwich run five days a week. She drove, while Bronagh hopped out and delivered to an increasing number of offices who ordered regularly, not only sandwiches for lunch, but cakes for an office party, or a treat to take home on a Friday.
Mercifully, the winter was mild and February broke all previous records for dryness, with not a trace of snow in the whole of the month. Clare was able to get up to Belfast regularly and by the time the daffodils bloomed, she had persuaded Jessie to return her visits and to start work on a series of watercolours of the house and gardens to replace the faded prints in the guest bedrooms.
The political climate seemed milder as well. Prime Minister O’Neill entertained his opposite number from Dublin to a lunch preceded by champagne and, according to a Stormont friend of Charles, a main course accompanied by Châteauneuf-du-Pape. This gave rise to a story brought home by Andrew from the Law Courts. Apparently, some member of the very select lunch party had looked at the label before pouring the wine and said: ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell Paisley.’
Whatever the comings and goings in high places, life at Drumsollen proceeded quietly. Clare had more time to herself and was grateful for the car, realizing as she drove off on some expedition or other just how housebound she’d become. She enjoyed her drives to Belfast and as spring moved towards summer she was heartened by the change in Jessie. She has now much less discontent, had begun to lose weight and was looking forward to a Mediterranean cruise Harry had booked as a surprise. She’d delighted him when she told him she’d always wanted to visit Florence and then asked if he’d mind traipsing round the galleries with her.
As June proceeded and Clare herself began to think of their holiday in Norfolk, she began putting together the figures for the end of the month so there wouldn’t be a last minute rush before they set off for the Liverpool car ferry. With only scattered bookings in the second and third weeks of the month and Bronagh now well able to cope with callers, guest, or work person, or delivery, she shut the door of Headquarters and set out on a review of the last two years trading, summer 1963 to summer 1965.
It was a long job because she decided on a full assessment, conducted as meticulously as the team from her French bank would have done, reviewing the status and potential of a business coming to them for funds.
The picture was bleak. They were not insolvent, but they had been running to stand still. Despite their low rates of pay and their own unpaid labour, the turnover of the business simply could not generate a profit in the context of as expensive a piece of property as Drumsollen, with its unavoidably high maintenance costs. Of course, she must tell Andrew. But should she tell him now or after they’d had their holiday? In the end, she decided they should enjoy what they could, before they faced what would have to be done, and done soon.
‘What are those little fellows down by the water’s edge?’ she asked, gazing out over the smooth, empty beach to the calm, shimmering blue sea beyond. ‘The ones that run like clockwork toys,’ she added, when he let his binoculars drop on his chest and gazed at her abstractedly.
‘Oh those,’ he said, coming back to earth, having been totally absorbed by the kamikaze dives of terns hunting along the seaward shore of Blakeney Point. ‘Dunlin,’ he went on. ‘Lovely little fellows. Do you want to look through the glasses?’
‘No thanks. I can’t bear to put anything between me and them, or between me and the sky, or me and the sea. I feel as if I’ve been let out into the light and I never want to go back in again. What is it about the light in Norfolk? Am I imagining it, or is it only because of the sunshine and the blue sky?’
‘No, you’re not imagining it,’ he said, moving closer on the warm sand of a hollow in the dunes. ‘Think of Gainsborough, though he is actually Suffolk. But it is different. You’ll see it in all the painting and watercolours from this area. There’s an exhibition of East Anglian painters in Norwich next week. We could go when we visit the cathedral,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘Not sure you’ll be able to drag me away from the coast,’ she said, laughing. ‘For a real landlubber I seem to have taken a great liking to the North Sea. Maybe it’s because it looks more like the Mediterranean than the Atlantic,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Don’t let it fool you,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve been here in January when the waves pounded the shore so fiercely the beach was inches deep in foam. Looked like the Fire Brigade were out on an exercise.’
‘And there were dreadful storms here in 1953, weren’t there?’
‘When Aunt Bee had to hang out her top window with a lantern to attract a passing lifeboat,’ he added, picking up his binoculars again.
Clare laughed gaily. ‘Now that I’ve met her younger sister, the story is even better,’ she responded, shaking her head. ‘I expect they both acquired the same ladylike accent when they went to Cheltenham Ladies College. Joan told me they say “gels” instead of “girls” and are taught to be very polite. I can just imagine Bee hailing the boat and courteously enquiring if they could possibly fit in one more.’
‘Has Joan lapsed into broad Norfolk yet?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I thought, given how long it takes the pair of you to wash up, or do anything else for that matter, she’d have displayed her talents by now. When she does, get her to tell you about singing the hymns in the local dialect one Christmas Eve in Cley, when she was sitting beside some very posh people from London who’d come down to visit the Lascelles.’
‘What were you looking at this time?’ she enquired, as he put his binoculars down again.
‘A seal,’ he replied promptly. ‘If we were to go down and walk out along the beach, he or she would probably follow us. They are noted for their curiosity.’
‘I’ve never seen a seal, not a live one.’
‘Come on then, I’ll take you to a favourite place of mine. We can leave our stuff here, there’s not a soul within miles to pinch it. Besides, they don’t in Norfolk. You won’t need shoes,’ he continued, pulling off his own and stuffing them into his rucksack.
They tramped off hand in hand to the water’s edge and then paddled along in the shallow water where the sand was firmer. A few yards away, the dark head of the seal bobbed up and down, watching them out of great, soft, liquid eyes. As they moved along the beach it followed, never taking its eyes off them. Only when Andrew turned right along what appeared to be a low sandbank did their companion disappear.
‘You are now walking on what will be the end of Blakeney Spit in a few years’ time. It’s all right, we can’t be cut off by the tide, it’s falling. Besides, I want you to see the point where West meets East,’ he added, as he strode on ahead of her.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing down at her bare feet a few minutes later.
To her great surprise she saw that tiny wavelets were flowing over her feet from different directions, the ripples intersecting in a herringbone pattern which glinted and sparkled in the strong sunlight.
‘That’s how the whole spit was formed,’ he explained, sounding totally delighted. ‘The opposing currents cancel each other out and the waves deposit the beach materials they’re carrying to form new land.’
She did listen, and she did follow his explanation, but what she was most aware of, here in the midst of the waves, a hundred yards or more from even the deserted beach, was a sense of space, of openness, of being able to breathe after some long confinement. It was a disturbing feeling and one she could not explain to herself, never mind to Andrew.
Arriving back in the early evening, they found an ancient station wagon parked under Aunt Joan’s hedge. After he’d dropped their car in the space behind, Andrew peered at the dusty rear window, trying to read the curling garage sticker. He was rewarded for his curiosity with a paroxysm of barking from a ferocious Irish terrier who leapt to his feet and danced up and down, snarling and showing his teeth.
‘My goodness,’ said Clare, totally taken aback. ‘I’m glad that window is only half open. I think it would like to eat us,’ she said, as they moved briskly past.
‘Ah, there you are, my dears,’ said Aunt Joan happily, meeting them at the garden gate. ‘I’ll just tell Rory who you are.’
She disappeared round the back of the station wagon. Silence broke out immediately, so they turned back to see what was happening. Aunt Joan had opened the hatchback and was being greeted ecstatically by Rory.
‘Now then Rory, this is Clare, and this is Andrew,’ she said, passing over a biscuit which disappeared instantly. ‘Say, How do you do?’
Rory had the most lovely brown eyes. He stared lovingly up at Clare and raised one rather dusty paw for her to shake. She had never seen such an expressive look on a dog’s face in all her life.
‘There now, Rory, go back to sleep,’ said Joan, rubbing his ears. ‘I’m sorry you can’t come in but poor old Bassett is frightened of you. Not your fault, old chap, but cats are like that. You do understand, don’t you?’
By way of answer, Rory lay down, put his head on his paws with a look of resignation and composed himself for sleep.
‘Now, come you on in, as they say in these parts,’ continued Joan, as she led the way up the garden path. ‘Phillida is here. I must say Rory is an even better early warning system than the hinge of that gate,’ she added, as Andrew closed it behind him to the sound of a high-pitched whine. ‘Poor dear Rory. Bassett is quite neurotic about big dogs, but then perhaps she is suffering a trauma none of us know about.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ said Phillida, getting up to greet them as they arrived in Joan’s small, overcrowded sitting-room. ‘Glad to meet you,’ she said abruptly, as she shook their hands vigorously.
Clare looked down at a small, robust woman with a brown and wrinkled face, whose iron-grey hair appeared to have been cut with blunt kitchen scissors. Under a green flak jacket, she was wearing a crumpled white shirt, army surplus trousers and short Wellington boots. Her accent suggested that she too had been a pupil at Cheltenham Ladies College.
‘How are you getting on with that dreadful man, What’s-his-name, the Reverend who Roars, I call him. Is he going to go on stirring up trouble?’
The bluntness was disconcerting, but the candour so open and direct, Clare knew the question was meant seriously.
“Fraid so, Phillida,’ Andrew replied. ‘But we’re trying to ignore him for the moment.’
‘The newspapers and television do exaggerate the problems,’ Clare added. ‘All they need is a burning bus and they film it from every possible angle, so you’d think it was a whole fleet. It’s bad for the province and bad for our business too, of course.’
‘The guest house.’ Phillida nodded sharply. ‘Used to run one myself. After the war. The first war,’ she added ruefully. ‘Couldn’t stand being polite to people all the time. Prefer animals.’
When they had all stopped laughing, Joan asked Phillida whether she would now stay to supper. ‘You’ve had a good look at them. Do they pass muster?’
‘I’ll stay,’ replied Phillida firmly. ‘But only if supper will stretch?’
‘Not only will supper stretch, my dear Phillida, but there is a very special bottle of wine these dear people brought. Assuming my fridge has not packed up again it should be properly chilled by now. I’ve had it in there since this morning, hoping your curiosity would get the better of you.’
‘Splendid. Can I do anything to help? Or can I be idle and lie in this very comfortable armchair and ask Andrew about his pond.’
‘One more marvellous evening,’ said Clare, as they opened their bedroom door, crossed to the window, and squeezed into the small space from which they could look down across Joan’s garden to the wheatfield beyond.
‘No sign of our friend yet,’ Andrew said, as he scanned the dark edge of woodland that ran along one side of the pale, moonlit field.
They stood together watching, hoping to see the barn owl that had delighted them evening after evening in the last week, its ghostly shape swooping backwards and forwards quartering the field from margin to margin. Joan had told them its nest was only a few fields away in an old outhouse and it was now hunting to feed its young.
‘I think Phillida took rather a fancy to you, my love,’ said Clare quietly. ‘She’s quite a character, isn’t she?’
‘Mmm,’ he said, agreeing. ‘One of what Uncle Hector called a heroic generation of women. Ten years younger than him, but then his wife and most of his friends were.’
‘It must be strange to have friends you’ve known for fifty or sixty years,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Or even seventy, in Hector’s case,’ she added, doing the sum. ‘I wonder if we’ll still have Jessie and Harry, Mary and John, Lindy and Charles, when we’re old. People who know all about us and don’t need to be told this or that, because they’ve been there all along the way, seen what we’ve done and know what’s happened to us. Like Joan and Phillida.’
To Clare’s surprise, he did not reply. His eyes were focused on the dark patch of Joan’s garden just below the window. For a moment, she thought he might have spotted some night creature about its own affairs.
‘Clare, there’s something I have to tell you,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I should have told you sooner, but we had such a rush to get away and once we sailed down the lough, I couldn’t bring myself to spoil it,’ he went on. ‘But I have to tell you before we go to Mary and John tomorrow, otherwise I’ll not be able to be honest with them either.’
‘What is it, love? It can’t be that bad. I don’t think you’ve had time to have another woman any more than Harry has,’ she said lightly, trying to encourage him.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No other woman. I told you that years ago. It’s the one thing I’ve ever been sure about. I do try, you know,’ he went on quickly. ‘I do try to be clear about things and to make decisions, but even with all your encouragement I still find it hard. And when I get things wrong I still feel I’ve let you down.’
‘Why not let me be the judge of that, Andrew. If I feel you’ve let me down, I’ll tell you.’
She waited, wanting to help him but knowing she must give him time to find his own words.
‘I told you there would be a large lump sum coming in from all the work I’ve been doing for Charles and that, in the meantime, my salary wouldn’t amount to very much because Legal Aid doesn’t pay very well.’
‘Yes, you did explain. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is there won’t be a large sum of money from Charles, because we’ve already had it. He’s been paying me advances every month, so I’d still have a salary.’
‘And what about the Legal Aid work? You’ve been so busy with that you’ve been bringing work home.’
‘Yes, I know. It has been hard work, but there won’t be any money from it. I probably could have guessed it wasn’t going to work out. I kept hoping it might, but it hasn’t. All the cases I took, except one, involved Catholics. All the requests for Legal Aid, except one, were turned down.’
‘Oh my poor love, you really should have told me sooner,’ she said sympathetically. ‘But I do understand. I’ve something to tell you too, but I didn’t want to upset us any more than you did when we were trying to get away. Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’
‘Because your news is as bad as mine, I’m sure,’ he responded, more steadily than she expected. ‘Even I know that if I have no breakfasts to cook before I go to work, we’ve no bookings, and if we’ve no bookings, we’re not making any money. Is that it?’
‘More or less.’
‘So we’ve failed,’ he said, the familiar despair colouring his voice.
‘No, Andrew, we have not failed,’ she said emphatically. ‘Our business project may have failed through no fault of our own, but that is a quite different matter.’
‘But how are we going to pay for this holiday?’ he asked, a hint of desperation in his tone.
‘Perfectly easily,’ she answered. ‘When we did make a profit, two years ago, I put the money in a high rate, fixed interest account. It paid out the day before we left. We earned more in interest on that money than we’ve done by two years hard work,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘But the money is there and it gives us time to think. We haven’t failed. We have each other and we’re happy and we’ve learnt a lot. That’s not failure, Andrew, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said putting his arms round her and holding her close. ‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ he went on, in a quite different tone. ‘Don’t move too quickly. The barn owl is on one of the fence posts below us. That’s the nearest he’s ever approached the house. Do you think he might be a good sign, like a rainbow?’
She disentangled herself very cautiously and looked down at the large bird who was scanning the grass beneath him.
‘Good heavens, Andrew, I think you are becoming quite fanciful. Do you think it’s catching?’