AT THIS TIME of the year, Tim thinks, the countryside looks like a half-finished watercolour. Patches of paint-bright gold, tissue-delicate pink, milky-white green, all washing along ditches, through hedgerows and over bare branches. Through farm gates he catches glimpses of the distant moors rough-sketched against a pale sky; sheep like white stones dotted randomly around an emerald-green field.
Driving with Aunt Kat to Totnes, he is still taken aback by the beauty of it all. He enjoys being driven; it gives him the opportunity to gaze without any anxiety of being distracted or causing an accident.
‘It must be wonderful,’ he says, ‘to be able to paint.’
Aunt Kat, who is negotiating the narrow bridge across the River Dart at Staverton doesn’t answer immediately. She waves to the driver waiting to let her through, who responds cheerfully, and then accelerates up the hill, climbing out of the valley.
‘I could take a photograph, of course,’ he carries on, ‘but it wouldn’t be the same. But why not? The photograph would record the scene exactly as it is at this moment so what’s the difference?’
He glances at Aunt Kat who, he can see, is thinking about it. She frowns, shakes her head.
‘Perhaps the photograph leaves no room for imagination,’ she suggests at last. ‘The camera never lies and all that. Though these days that’s not quite true, of course. Is there more scope for the imagination in a painting? It’s the artist’s own view; his unique take on it.’
‘You mean he can add things or subtract what he doesn’t like?’
Kat smiles. ‘Something like that. It reminds me of a story about F. J. Widgery, the landscape artist, who was painting a moorland scene somewhere on Dartmoor. A hiker paused to look at the work in progress, then he studied the view and looked again at the river in the painting. “But Mr Widgery,” he said, puzzled, “there’s no water down there.” “No,” replied the great man, “but there should be.”’
Tim laughs. ‘Perhaps that’s it. The artist is in control. I’m a control freak.’
He falls silent, remembering that he is no longer in charge; that he has been taken over by something beyond his control. He tries to accept each day as a gift but it is hard, on days like these, to know that you might never see another spring. Just now he is glad to be with Aunt Kat. Her warmth and vitality give him courage. She accepts him without questioning or curiosity about his past. He is Mattie’s friend.
As they drive into the town, head towards the car park, he thinks about Mattie. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s fallen in love with her, simply and naturally, as if their earlier friendship in London had always been leading up to this. He loves her but can’t tell her, and now it is clear that she is wondering how their friendship might go forward. She isn’t nagging – Mattie’s not like that – but she feels, understandably, that their relationship has changed since that weekend at Brockscombe.
‘Coffee first?’ Aunt Kat suggests. ‘I think it’s warm enough to sit outside, don’t you?’
She goes inside The Brioche to order and comes back smiling at some exchange she’s had with Nat or Jai, looking about. She is watchful, excited. Tim studies her with interest, wondering what’s on her mind. He is getting used to the friendliness of the West Country: the way strangers smile, say ‘Good morning’. Few people avoid eye contact, conversations arise out of mere nothings; he is able to watch little children with amusement without fearing that their parents will suspect him of anything worse than being charmed by their antics.
Tim sits in the sun and pretends that he is not under a death sentence. He watches the market traders across the road in the square, the awnings and stalls giving it a medieval air, and sips his coffee. A boy and girl, teenagers, walk past linked closely together: her hand is tucked in the back pocket of his jeans and he cups her face, turning it towards him for a kiss. Tim’s heart is pierced with envy at such simplicity. He is distracted by a little commotion at the other table. A man stands there moving the empty coffee cups around, shifting plates. He looks distressed.
‘My phone’s gone,’ he says to them. ‘I must have left it here on the table when I went just now. Did you see who took it?’ He glances up and down the street, as if he might see the thief sprinting away. ‘Did someone sit here after I’d gone?’
‘Wait,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Have you checked to ask if it’s been handed in?’
He stares at her frowning, as if he can’t understand her meaning.
‘Handed in?’
‘Mmm.’ She nods at him, slightly amused at his incredulity. ‘It’s possible. Why don’t you check?’
Still frowning he goes into the café. Tim is fascinated by the little by-play. He glances at Aunt Kat, who raises her eyebrows, gives a little shrug. The man reappears, his face radiant. He is so happy that he actually seizes Aunt Kat’s arm and gives it a little squeeze.
‘You were right,’ he cries. ‘Someone handed it in. It’s amazing. My God! I love this place. Thank you.’
He dashes away to join his companions and Aunt Kat laughs and then straightens up a little, her eyes fixed on someone beyond Tim’s shoulder. He waits until the person Aunt Kat is watching is beside him and then turns his head and glances up at the man, who is smiling at Aunt Kat.
‘Hello,’ she says lightly, almost challengingly. She seems amused.
Tim is aware of the newcomer’s caution. He looks down at Tim and murmurs something about the beauty of the morning. He’s wearing a knapsack and carrying a newspaper. Aunt Kat makes no suggestion that he should bring another chair and join them, she simply watches him with the same amused expression, and he hesitates, then nods awkwardly and goes into the café.
‘Do you know him?’ Tim asks, puzzled by the encounter.
‘Not yet,’ answers Aunt Kat serenely, ‘but I intend to.’
Tim bursts out laughing. ‘You were making him nervous.’
‘Was I?’ She glances through the windows to the interior of the café. ‘Excellent.’
He continues to chuckle as he drinks his coffee in the sun and then, quite suddenly, the terror swoops to engulf him and he wants most terribly to live; to be able to contemplate the years ahead with a reasonable hope of survival: to sit in the sun, drinking coffee and laughing with Aunt Kat.
‘“For who plans suicide sitting in the sun?”’ he murmurs.
Aunt Kat is watching him curiously. Her previous amusement has died from her face.
‘I was just thinking aloud,’ he says quickly, casually. ‘A fragment of poetry just came into my mind. Are you a reader, Aunt Kat, or is music more your thing? I often think with poetry, if you see what I mean. Not mine, sadly. Other people’s. Does this kind of scene evoke dance, movement? Do you want to create something new out of it?’
And so he distracts her until she is smiling again and he feels that his secret is still safe.
Whilst Tim goes off to the bookshop and for a look around the market, Kat remains at her table. She’s refused his offer of more coffee and sits watching the passers-by, the delivery men, the market traders. A youth on a skateboard jumps and jitters down the middle of the street, weaving around the shoppers, swooping out of the path of a car, and she watches his grace and agility with delight. Patterns form themselves in her head, a sequence of movements – and then Jeremy is standing beside her, smiling down at her with that same half-cautious look in his eyes.
‘Hi,’ she says, filing away the skateboarder for further use and gesturing at Tim’s empty chair. ‘Have you had some coffee?’
‘Yes,’ he says, hesitating with his hand on the chair. ‘Yes, but . . . would you . . .?’
‘Yes, please,’ she says at once. ‘Thank you. I’d love another Americano.’
He puts his rucksack on the chair and goes back inside to order. Kat waits, surprised at how pleased she is to see him, recognizing that tiny quickening of the pulse.
‘Jeremy,’ she says, when he returns. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He looks surprised, pausing for a moment before, putting his rucksack on the pavement and sitting down. ‘But how did you . . .?’
And then she sees him remember; a twinge of embarrassment makes him awkward.
‘Actually, I prefer Jerry,’ he says almost confidentially, as if he is somehow excluding the woman in the café that other day from any kind of intimacy.
Kat beams at him. ‘Jerry,’ she repeats. ‘Hello, Jerry. I am Irina Bulova.’
He gazes at her. Her deliberate phrasing is not lost on him and, after a moment, recognition dawns in his eyes.
‘You’re the dancer. The choreographer,’ he says, in awe. ‘I had a feeling I’d seen you before. Goodness! I saw that programme on the television . . . Wow!’
Kat laughs at his expression. Channel 4 had made the programme when Gyorgy died. It was surprisingly successful, giving them both a kind of iconic pop-star status within the world of dance.
‘But actually,’ she says, mimicking him, ‘I prefer Kat.’
‘Cat?
‘My name is Katerina,’ she tells him. ‘My father was a Polish fighter pilot. He was injured when his plane crashed, and my mother was the nurse who looked after him. Irina Bulova is a useful name for a dancer. But to my family and friends I am Kat.’
‘I feel very privileged to be counted as a friend on such short acquaintance,’ he says rather formally.
Kat regards him thoughtfully, wondering if he is quite as ready as she imagined for a delightful flirtation. She is used to the quick reactions of artistes, the easy relationships of the theatre, and often takes a short cut through the defence mechanisms and social niceties that are used as protection to mask the real person behind them. Some people find this invasive, threatening, others are relieved to set aside their reserve, to connect at a deeper level. Often Kat finds herself the confidante of long-buried fears, grief, remorse, even on the shortest of acquaintance.
The coffee arrives, which gives them both a moment to regroup.
‘Are you settling in?’ she asks, and laughs at his expression. ‘I’m afraid I was earwigging that morning in the café. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I’ve got a very nice top-floor flat in one of the new blocks down on the river. Amazing views.’
He lifts his cup, sips his coffee, and she can see he’s trying to decide if he might invite her to see it; whether it looks presumptuous or might give the wrong impression. Kat wonders if she were unwise to give him her professional name. Sometimes, being famous can cause an imbalance in a relationship.
She tells him about Brockscombe, making him laugh as she describes the set-up, and sees the tell-tale signs as he relaxes: his lifted shoulders dropping, his fisted fingers loosening. Some people hate to be looked directly in the eye but Jerry meets her gaze openly, questioningly, and it is as if they are greeting each other at a very deep level of understanding.
Kat doesn’t invite him to Brockscombe or ask about his past; she doesn’t delve or probe. She talks about a new production she’s seen at the Theatre Royal, a recent biography of a famous actor, a concert at Buckfast Abbey. Jerry talks of his own past productions with his students; his delight when one of them was given a part in a television sit-com. He mentions a film he’s hoping to see and she responds with enthusiasm, quoting some of the reviews.
‘Perhaps,’ he says, ‘we could go together?’
‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’d love it. I’ll give you my phone number.’
She notices his breast rise with the silent sigh of relief and delight, and she smiles secretly to herself. Game on.
After Kat has gone, Jerry continues to sit at the table thinking about the encounter. He feels exhilarated, in a kind of delightful shock, so that he doesn’t see Sandra until she is very nearly beside him. Instinctively he reaches for his rucksack, prepares to rise so as to make his escape, but her evident delight at meeting him foils his attempt.
‘How very nice,’ she says, and indeed genuine pleasure glows in her round, pretty face.
‘Hello,’ he says.
He can’t think why he feels this way: a kind of embarrassed guilt, as if he has been caught out in some unworthy act. She is looking hopefully at the empty chair and he sees the exact moment that she notices the two empty mugs and her slight change of expression from delight to – what, exactly? Suspicion? Irritation? His natural reaction is one born out of pure good manners though he is kicking himself for giving in to it.
‘Have you had coffee?’ he asks her. ‘Would you like one?’
Her face brightens at once.
‘I’d love one, Jeremy. And you? Look, I’ll go and get it this time. My turn. Americano, isn’t it? Aha. You see, I notice everything!’
He can see that she’s pleased by this tiny familiarity, that she sees it as progress and, as he waits, Jerry thinks again of Kat and how their minds meshed together in an exchange of ideas, experiences, jokes, though he suspects that Kat wouldn’t remember what kind of coffee he drinks. The exhilaration possesses him yet again and he has to make a huge effort to concentrate on Sandra once she returns. He feels a tiny unworthy sense of triumph that he has withheld from her the shortening of his own name. It makes the sharing of it with Kat – with Irina Bulova – even more special. They’ve exchanged telephone numbers and he wonders who will be the first to make contact.
‘Don’t think I don’t understand,’ Sandra is saying, ‘that I don’t know how hard it is, managing on your own.’ She sighs sympathetically, chin drawn in, eyes registering care and understanding, and he wants to stand up and walk away from her unasked-for sympathy. ‘I always say that it doesn’t get better, you just learn how to deal with it.’
He mutters something, and he can see that she thinks he is simply being brave, and then his phone beeps twice and he reaches into his pocket with a little shrug of apology, glad of the interruption.
Did you really want a third cup of coffee?
He reads the text through again and instinctively glances around, peering into the buzz of people in the market square. He wants to laugh out loud, to punch the air, but he can’t. He merely texts back one word: No!
Trying to suppress his laughter, he settles back to talk to Sandra.