WILLIAM WALKS ALONG South Street, heading for the car park, raising his hand in farewell to fellow members of his singing group who are also on their way home. It has been one of those magical evenings when the group finds a mutual understanding of the music, a common feeling for what the music demands from the singers, and the resultant harmonies resonate and project in a way that usually seems beyond their reach.
It’s an exhilarating sensation; addictive. One of the tenors was exultant: ‘Wow! We really nailed it!’ Another buffeted William lightly on the shoulder: ‘How about that?’ And ‘Quite good,’ agreed the music director, ‘but we’ll do it again and, this time, tenors, watch your entry on the twenty-fifth bar. You were late!’
Singing energizes William, makes him feel alive. Even seeing someone coming out of the door of the house where he and Fiona and Andy lived for twenty years cannot quench his high spirits. He is able to remember the good times now without bitterness, and this evening, after such jubilation, he can even think about Fiona’s proposal to rent Tim’s cottage with equanimity.
He guesses that Sam has made it clear that there is no future for her with him and that Fiona is realizing how much substance she has jettisoned for the shadow. Fiona has always been intense, living in the moment, unaware of the emotions of the people around her. She sees each situation only from her own point of view and is incapable of imagining how differently it might affect someone else, yet she could always make him laugh.
Her sense of humour and vitality energized him in the same way his singing has this evening. He felt twice as alive with her; it was as if she coloured his naturally drab grey camouflage into bright colours. Often her strongly held convictions made him uncomfortable – everything was black and white, simple – and after a while he ceased to argue with her, to put a different point of view. Fiona was impatient with the weak or the slow. There were no excuses for failure: to be a runner-up was to be the first of the losers.
William digs into his pocket for his car keys, wondering what she will do next. There will be another plan of campaign, he is sure of that. It half occurs to him that she might want to come back to him and anxiety grips him suddenly. He wonders whether he could withstand such a campaign and whether he would want to. He snorts at the foolishness of the thought: why on earth would she want such a thing? Is it conceivable that she could cast her spell on him again?
He knows that Kat is considering taking up Miche’s offer. What if Kat moves to London and Fiona decides that he has plenty of room for her to stay at weekends, at Christmas? He suspects that once Kat is back amongst her old friends and associates she will spend very little time at Brockscombe. It has been a time of healing for her, of rest and renewal, but she has always remained in training as if she knows that one day the call will come and she will return to her work.
William climbs into his car. Deliberately he calms himself, takes a few deep breaths and relives the joy of the singing, the comradeship of the group. He starts the engine, drives out of the car park, and as he goes he begins to sing.
When he arrives home Kat is sitting at the kitchen table, her elbows propped on the table, Miche’s chapters spread around her. She glances round as he comes in and he sees that there is a little glow, a brightness that lights her from within. He knows the signs and he experiences the usual twinge of envy at Kat’s ability to embark on a new flirtation, to fall in and out of love, leaving very little distress or despair in her wake.
‘These spring evenings are so beautiful and so melancholy,’ she says. ‘Can you hear the thrush? Heartbreaking, isn’t it? In a good way, though.’
He dumps his case on a chair and laughs at her. ‘How can heartbreak ever be a good thing?’
‘I think it can,’ she answers seriously. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to break, so as to make space and give room to grow. It enlarges the possibility of emotions and reactions.’
‘Very philosophical,’ he says. ‘So who is he?’
She laughs too, beaming at him with affection. ‘Darling William. I shall miss you if I go to London.’
The fear returns and he fetches a glass, then sits down and reaches for the bottle of wine that stands open on the table.
‘And will you go?’ He is surprised at the realization of how much he will miss her.
She considers his question, shuffling the papers, and he is struck by the gracefulness of her hands even in such a simple gesture.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says at last. ‘Francis thinks I will. He thinks I should.’
William wants to feel irritated by Francis’ interference – what does he know? – but he doesn’t underestimate his wisdom.
‘Miche has unsettled you,’ he says. ‘But even if you were to go you’d come back from time to time, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ answers Kat candidly. ‘I’d want to. I’d think I would but then again I know how easy it is to get caught up in things.’ She looks at him rather sadly. ‘You know how selfish and unreliable I am, darling.’
He smiles at her. ‘None better. But aren’t we all? I was thinking, driving home, that if you went then Fiona might want to move in with me.’
Kat sends him a shrewd glance. ‘And?’
‘And nothing.’ He fills his glass and raises it to her. ‘So I say again. Who is he?’
‘A rather nice man that I saw in Thrive this morning. Very sexy.’
‘And what else?’
‘His girlfriend called him Jeremy.’
He raises his eyebrows. Kat doesn’t usually trespass. ‘Girlfriend?’
She makes a face. ‘Putative girlfriend. Working at it. All bright and sweet and wriggling about like a puppy.’ She sips her own wine and sighs. ‘Such a pity if he falls for it. She’s deeply ordinary.’
‘So what next, then?’
Kat shrugs. ‘Who can say? I’ll probably see him around. Apparently he’s just moved to Totnes so our paths are bound to cross sooner or later.’
‘Meanwhile you enjoyed ruffling the water. Making a few waves.’
‘Something like that.’
She stacks the sheets together, smiling to herself, and he watches her. Perhaps this Jeremy might be the reason she’ll need to stay; perhaps things might go on just the way they are now: he and Kat, Charlotte and Ollie, Tim. Silently he raises his glass to this private dream, takes a sip then sets the glass down.
‘I’ll just pop in on Francis,’ he tells her, ‘to see that he’s OK and have a chat. Shan’t be long and then we’ll have supper.’
Next door, Charlotte checks on Ollie and goes downstairs to make some supper. One of the dreary things of living alone is that eating becomes a chore. It feels unnatural to sit down in lonely splendour to a properly cooked and served meal; chewing solemnly, resisting the urge to read, or watch the television. How much easier it is to snack. At least now she has Ollie she has someone to share breakfast and lunchtime, but supper is still a solitary affair. Sometimes Tim comes in and they share a curry or a pizza. And she has Wooster – his tail wagging now as she comes into the kitchen – and the comfort of his big, solid presence.
She hears William’s car, wishes it was Andy coming home, opening the front door and calling out to her. And she would call back, ‘Shush. I’ve just got Ollie off,’ and he’d give her a hug and they’d talk about how the day had been. Andy is like his father: easy-going, cheerful, competent – and she misses him dreadfully.
‘I might get a foreign posting next,’ he told her. ‘How d’you fancy Washington?’
She stands at the window looking out at the gardens at the back of the cottages, not knowing how she’d fancy it.
‘What would we do with Wooster?’ she asked, parrying the question. ‘We couldn’t leave him behind.’
And Wooster got to his feet as if he knew what they were talking about and came over, pushing his head against their legs.
‘Oh, we’d get him there somehow, wouldn’t we, Wooster, old fellow?’ Andy said easily, bending to pull his ears. ‘There would be quarantine, of course . . .’
Charlotte knows that she would miss her family, and it’s good here, with William and Aunt Kat next door, and Tim. What she’d really like is for Andy to get a shore job in the dockyard, a ship in refit, so that he could come home each night, except when he was duty officer, and they could just be a little family all together. They’ve had so little time together since Ollie was born and it would be good to find out what it was like to be a family, to get used to it, before they set out on such an adventure.
These long light evenings unsettle her. She heats soup, cuts some bread, feeling restless, melancholy, so that when her phone buzzes she reaches for it with relief. It’s Mattie sending a cheerful message and a photo of her with another girl having supper together. Charlotte sends a reply. She’s hoping that Mattie will be offered the job at the BBC in Bristol. It would be good to have her closer – and maybe there might be something developing between Mattie and Tim, though they behave as if they’re just good mates – but if Andy is posted to Washington it won’t make much difference. She types: When are you coming down again?
Mattie replies: Soon. I’ll let you know when I get a date for the interview.
Feeling more cheerful, Charlotte finishes her supper, settles down at the end of the kitchen table with Wooster at her feet and opens her laptop. As so often during these long evenings, her work is her refuge.