ON THE DAY of Andy’s homecoming Charlotte wakens early. For several days she has been preparing for him: the house is clean, special food is cooked, she’s had her hair cut. She thinks about what she might wear but keeps changing her mind. It’s hot enough for a pretty cotton frock but she’s more comfortable in her jeans and it’s important that she feels relaxed.
She sorts out some little denim dungarees for Oliver, a T-shirt, and his favourite sunhat, then has another look through her own wardrobe. She knows it’s crazy – Andy won’t mind what she’s wearing – but she can’t seem to help herself.
Confiding at last in Aunt Kat doesn’t help either.
‘I want to look nice for him,’ she says, ‘but casual, too, if you see what I mean.’
‘Oh, darling, it won’t matter a bit,’ says Aunt Kat, true to form. ‘What ever you’re wearing he’ll simply be looking forward to taking it off as soon as he can.’
Charlotte can’t help laughing, though, if she’s honest, this is one of the things she’s worried about. It seems so long, well, five months, since they were together and she feels very nervous of any kind of intimacy. Perhaps if they’d been married for years it might be different but it’s still all rather new and she doesn’t know quite how to handle it. The other wives have talked about it. Some say that the children help to normalize things very quickly; others say that it’s a good idea to have a bottle of wine open and ready. They all joke about it but Charlotte knows that, in the end, you’re on your own.
It would be easier, she thinks, if the ship were actually coming back: all the families down at the dockyard to welcome them home; the sense of achievement and celebration. It’s rather different, this flying home just for a week’s leave, arriving at Heathrow at ten o’clock, and catching the train that will get him into Totnes just after lunch.
She guesses that everyone will be embarrassingly tactful, keeping out of the way, giving them privacy, and she’s beginning to dread the whole thing. Oliver remains delightfully normal, happy and placid, as she dresses him in his dungarees. He looks so sweet, so cute, that she picks him up and hugs him tightly, and has to resist the desire to burst into tears.
Andy sends a text to say that the train has left Exeter and Charlotte puts on her favourite dress – then takes it off again and pulls on her jeans and a shirt. At least this way she feels normal, calm, in charge of things. She picks Oliver up and carries him out to the car. Wooster follows, though she’s been in two minds about leaving him at home because it’s so hot. Now she decides that she will take him. He’ll help to break the ice.
She locks up, climbs into the driving seat and drives slowly out of the courtyard and through the narrow lanes to the station. As she drives she talks to Oliver, and to Wooster, who sits staring out of the back window with his ears pricked as if he guesses something special is happening.
‘Daddy’s coming home,’ she says to Oliver, glancing at him in her driving mirror. ‘We’re going to meet Daddy. We’ll go for walks, won’t we, Wooster? It’s going to be fun.’
With a thumping heart she parks the car in the station car park. She’s early but this gives her time to prepare. She puts Oliver in his buggy, leaves the windows down a bit for Wooster but then, on second thoughts, she lets him out and puts him on his lead. His large comforting presence gives her courage.
Wheeling the buggy, Wooster beside her, she walks slowly through the gate and out on to the station. The voice on the Tannoy is announcing the arrival of the London train and now her heart is beating fit to suffocate her, her legs are trembling, and she holds on to the buggy so as to keep herself upright.
The train snakes round the bend and slows down; doors are flung open and the voice on the Tannoy is still speaking. People are stepping off the train, greeting friends and relatives, hurrying for taxis, and she stands back by the fence watching, looking for Andy amongst the crowds.
And suddenly he is here, coming towards her. He’s beaming at them, at her and at Oliver, and at dear old Wooster, with delight and love and absolute confidence. His grin, his stride, his patent love for them, are all so dear and familiar that suddenly her terrors vanish like mist in the sun. He greets her first, hauling her into his arms, saying, ‘God, it’s great to see you, babe,’ kissing her, and then he’s crouching by the buggy, gazing at Oliver, one hand stretched to Wooster, who can barely contain his joy.
As Charlotte watches them the pieces of their life together fall back into place and her anxieties retreat into the shadows. She wonders how she could have feared the future with him, wherever it might take them.
‘I’m sure he recognizes me,’ Andy’s saying, and she bursts out laughing.
‘Of course he does,’ she says. ‘Wooster certainly does.’
He puts an arm about her and they go slowly along the platform on their way out to the car and home to Brockscombe.
‘I can’t go back yet, darling,’ Kat is saying, after lunch in Jerry’s flat. ‘Andy will only just have arrived and they need a little time to reacquaint with one another. It’s tricky to know quite how to play it and poor Charlotte is very nervous. They haven’t seen each other for months. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea,” and all that stuff. Luckily, Oliver likes a nice long nap in the afternoon. The timing will be perfect.’
She’s keeping it all rather light and bright today. After her run-in with Sandra she doesn’t know quite how to play things, and the sight of that cushion, left like a gauge of war flung down upon the sofa, has unsettled her.
‘I suppose it could be quite odd, having your father and your aunt living next door,’ Jerry is saying thoughtfully, ‘but it won’t be for long, will it? Didn’t you say that he’s being posted abroad?’
‘To Washington in the autumn.’
Kat would like to leave the table and go to sit on the sofa with him but the cushion is like a warning signal. ‘Keep Off’ it says, and she feels unable to ignore it.
‘And you’ll be going to London?’
This direct question from him unnerves her further. She’s skated round it, laughed about it, discussed the pros and cons, but now the moment has come and she can longer procrastinate.
‘I think I shall,’ she says casually. ‘It’s an offer I can’t really refuse but I shall come back quite often. And you’ll come up, won’t you? We could have a lot of fun.’
He smiles at her. ‘I’d like that.’
He stands up to make coffee and she watches him. He’s such a nice shape, such a sexy elegance in his old jeans and faded blue cotton shirt, and she feels suddenly terribly sad.
‘So how will William feel about it all?’ he asks. ‘You gone. His little family gone. Will he stay there?’
Kat is silent for a moment. William has told her all about Fiona’s offer, and how Francis has responded, and this is also contributing to her sense of unease and sadness.
‘What William would really like,’ she says, ‘is a flat or a small town house in Ashburton, so that he can walk to the office, walk to the pub and walk to his choir group. He’d have his chums in for supper. He’s a very sociable chap, William. I don’t think he should stay at Brockscombe – even if he could.’
‘What d’you mean, “even if he could”?’ Jerry puts the coffee pot on the table and sits down. ‘What would stop him?’
‘If Francis dies it will all be sold. It’s simply a question of time.’
Melancholy overwhelms her: she is unable to keep up her cheerful façade. Jerry watches her compassionately. He stretches out his hand and holds her wrist but he doesn’t speak. She knows, then, that he never will. He won’t be the one to deal the blow. When the time comes he will simply let the inevitable happen; he will take the easiest and least painful course. But not now, she thinks. Not yet.
She stares at his hand; at the long fingers curled around her wrist.
‘You know I don’t feel much like coffee,’ she says, ‘and the sofa looks unfriendly. Shall we go to bed?’
She’ll miss that look of his: that look of gratified, surprised pleasure. She’ll miss his tenderness and strength and the fun of it all. He stands up, still holding her wrist, and she smiles at him.
‘But remember,’ she says, ‘no rushing. We’ve got to give Charlotte and Andy plenty of time.’
In the middle of the week of Andy’s leave, Fiona throws caution to the wind and travels down a few days earlier than planned. She can’t wait to see Andy.
After all, she tells herself, William and Kat are there, right next door. Why shouldn’t I be around?
But she doesn’t tell anyone she’s coming and she won’t ask to stay with William. She books herself in at the Cott, then texts William once she’s settled in.
Having a drink in the bar. Come and join me on your way home.
He texts back saying he’ll be half an hour and she beams with pleasure. Everything is going her way. First of all, Francis has agreed to consider an offer – though nothing must be mentioned to anyone until after Andy’s leave – and secondly, the buyer’s wife’s mother knew Liz and remembers Brockscombe and is fulsome in her praise of it.
Fiona sips her little special cocktail and broods on the future. She can imagine William alone again, in a comfortable, accessible town house, where she can stay whilst she begins her work on Brockscombe. It will be just like old times. She knows that it’s all come as a bit of a shock to William but she’s certain that when he’s got over it he’ll be as excited as she is. This summer, the barbecues, these occasional visits, have been more fun than she’s had for a long time and, though she’ll miss Andy and Charlotte and Ollie, they’ll be back again after two years with Andy probably based in Devonport and all of them living quite close. Meanwhile, she and William could fly out to visit them in Washington. She feels almost drunk with the prospect of it.
Yet when William arrives she can see that he isn’t in the same happy mood. He orders a beer, carries it to the table and sits down, looking at her unsmilingly.
‘I thought you weren’t due until the weekend,’ he says.
‘I know,’ she says, smiling winningly at him, ‘but I simply couldn’t resist. I’m longing to see Andy. Be fair, Wills. You’re all here having a great time together, why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because it’s not quite like that,’ he answers. ‘We agreed we’d give them this week to themselves. I’m out all day at work and Kat is spending a lot of time with her friends. What will you be doing?’
She stares at him, her smile fading. He looks unfriendly, unwelcoming, and her heart sinks a little but she’s determined to win him round.
‘I don’t plan to be a nuisance,’ she says, trying to look slightly hurt. ‘Anyway, I wanted to see you as much as Andy.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? What about?’
She frowns. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Wills? I wanted to ask how things are going. What plans Francis is making, for instance, and what you intend to do now that he’s taking the offer so seriously.’
‘Ah, the offer,’ says William. ‘Well, yes, I think he’ll go through with it if the price is right.’
‘And what about you?’ She makes certain that she looks concerned for him, caring. ‘What will you do, Wills?’
He takes a pull at his pint, purses his lips as if he is struggling with some terrible dilemma, and for a moment she feels a flash of irritation with him, but she continues to watch him affectionately and he gives a little shrug.
‘Well, I plan to buy a town house in Ashburton,’ he says.
She gives a silent sigh of relief. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she says brightly. ‘I’m glad. I never thought you should have left the dear old Ashbucket. And will there be room for me to stay? While I’m working at Brockscombe?’
His look baffles her. If she didn’t know him better she’d say it was a mix of contempt and pity with a dash of amusement.
‘I expect we’ll probably be able to fit you in,’ he says affably. ‘We’ll have to see.’
‘We?’ she repeats quickly. ‘Who’s we?’
He looks at her quizzically, as if she’s missed a trick.
‘Why, me and Francis, of course,’ he says. ‘He’s got to go somewhere, poor old fellow, and I wouldn’t want him to be alone. We’ll have to get something sorted out for his wheelchair and all that, of course. But perhaps you might be able to draw up the plans for that as well.’
She ignores this little dig whilst she assembles the facts. This is a blow, but of course Francis won’t last long and he’ll be very generous . . .
‘And then there’s Maxie,’ William is saying.
‘Maxie?’ She frowns, puzzled. ‘Who on earth is Maxie?’
‘You remember, surely? My elder brother, Maxie?’
She stares at him. ‘But I thought he was just a half or a step, wasn’t he? And wasn’t he disabled or something and lived in a home? You never encouraged me to visit him with you. I assumed he was dead.’
‘No, no. Not dead. Maxie still lives in a special needs home near Exeter. He has the mental age of six or seven but he’s a lovely guy. Francis invites him to Brockscombe for his weekends out but now he’ll have to come to me.’
She stares at him, her plans slowly crumbling around her. ‘But why would you do that, Wills? Why make life so difficult for yourself when you could be enjoying yourself?’
He laughs at her. ‘Why indeed? But why should you think I won’t be enjoying myself? I enjoy being with Francis and with Maxie. I enjoy singing and going to the pub with my friends.’
‘You know very well what I mean,’ she answers bitterly. ‘Don’t try to be clever. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘No, I know that. You’ve always made it clear, Fi, that you are the clever one. And yes, I very nearly did fall for it again but you’ve done me a favour. It is better to jump than to be pushed, and thanks to you I’m sorting out my future. And now,’ he glances at his watch, ‘I must be dashing. I’m babysitting Ollie whilst Charlotte and Andy go out to dinner.’ He swallows the last of his pint and stands up. ‘I’ll leave it to you to let them know you’re down. Meanwhile you’re still welcome to stay at the weekend.’
‘I’ll make my own arrangements, thanks,’ she answers angrily.
‘Suit yourself. See you around.’
He goes out and she continues to sit, consumed with rage and humiliation. She tries to see where it all went wrong but it’s beyond her. William is impossible; he always was. She wants to scream and break things. Instead, however, she orders another drink and prepares for a long evening alone.