That evening, after Davy has gone back to Plymouth, Julia puts their tea things in the dishwasher and comes through to the front of the house and into the drawing-room. It’s an elegant room with tall sash windows and comfortable sofas. Taking the matches from the high mantelshelf, she kneels down before the brass fender and lights the kindling and twigs that she laid there earlier. As the wood catches and flares she builds a little pyramid of logs above them and sits back on her heels to watch the fire burn into life. Kneeling there on the rug she’s glad now that Martin never came to the house. It’s odd but somehow she misses him less here because there is no memory of him. They both agreed that no risks should be taken. There must be no chance of being surprised by a friend dropping by or a child coming home from school unexpectedly early. Holidays were especially difficult with her boys at home for weeks at a time. How strict their love has been; how hedged about with rules.
Except, she thinks, for that very first time, when they met and their normal rules of behaviour went up in flames just as this fire is burning in front of her now. Her experience with Bob hadn’t prepared her for this kind of conflagration. That had been a romantic attraction kindling slowly into a warmth of love that sustained her as he made his busy, noisy progress through life, and supported his devotion to his career, his aircraft, his promotion, until that flight that had gone so disastrously wrong. His sons are very like him: Laurence already passed out from Sandhurst, Ollie a keen sportsman. They strove to emulate him and were so proud of him. Even his death was glamorous in its terrible tragic way.
Slipping sideways a little, tucking her feet beneath her and supporting herself on one hand, Julia allows her memories more freedom. It was strange that she should meet Martin at The Garden House on a blowy March day. She can remember the journey across the moor: daffodils growing in the ditches and along the dry-stone walls on the road to Princetown; creamy curds of blackthorn blossom in the hedges; a sheep with one small black lamb. The tawny grasslands flowed away to high bony outcrops of rock that looked like sleeping dinosaurs.
The sun was shining as she got out of the car at The Garden House, looking around with pleasure at the camellia blossom, smiling at the woman who greeted her at the visitors’ entrance. Julia walked along the paths, glancing across the cloudy treetops in the valley to the distant hills of Cornwall, delighted by the unexpected display of purple tulips in the Walled Garden. She resisted the little wooden seats, placed in secret, sunny corners, and decided that she needed coffee. It was chilly, too cold for the terrace, but when she went inside she saw that the coachload of people she’d been avoiding on her walk had the same idea. She stood for a moment looking around at the chattering groups and then her gaze lighted on a man sitting alone at a small table for two. It was clear that he saw her plight and with a smile and a slight tip of his head, he gestured towards the empty chair. She went towards him gratefully.
‘I didn’t expect it to be so busy,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I thought for one terrible moment that I might have to go without my coffee.’
He laughed, shaking his head in mock horror at such a prospect, and she sat down opposite, liking his friendliness. A young woman came to take their order, assuming they were together, and looked slightly surprised when neither knew what the other was having. Julia shrugged herself out of her coat, feeling rather pleased to have such agreeable company, but it was he who moved it a stage further.
‘It’s difficult to enjoy a cup of coffee with a complete stranger,’ he said. ‘Shall we introduce ourselves? My name’s Martin Haynes,’ and he offered his hand across the table.
She hesitated for a moment and then decided to use her married name rather than her professional one. It was possible that he’d read some of her articles and she wanted to keep this on a private basis.
‘Mine’s Julia Grant.’
She took his warm hand in hers and he gripped it for a moment and then sat back in his chair.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling ridiculously light-hearted. I was on my way to see a client at Yelverton and halfway there I had a text from the office saying that the appointment had to be cancelled, so I have a whole morning to myself. It’s like having an unexpected half-holiday from school.’
She laughed at his enthusiasm. ‘So why did you choose The Garden House? Are you a keen gardener?’
He shook his head. ‘Not so’s you’d notice, but I love visiting gardens, especially this one. The atmosphere here is wonderful and, anyway, it was just down the road from where my client lives.’
She guessed that, although he was ready to give his name, he wanted in every other respect to remain anonymous; to keep this moment as something odd and special between two strangers. She understood this and decided to play along with it.
‘My mother was a volunteer here,’ she said. ‘After she died I was given permission to dedicate a bench to her. Do you have a favourite place?’
He sat back to allow their coffee to be put on the table before he answered her.
‘Oh, it’s got to be the seat by the Nancy Fortescue,’ he said. ‘Down by the lake.’
She smiled. ‘Clearly you’re a Swallows and Amazons man,’ she said.
‘Definitely,’ he said, putting sugar in his coffee, ‘except that I get seasick in the bath. But I love Arthur Ransome.’
She fell silent, looking around her, suddenly shy. She was oddly attracted to this stranger, so quickly at ease with him. Yet she didn’t want to exchange the intimacies of their lives. She didn’t want to hear about his wife and children, or to tell him how Bob died, and see his inevitable awkward embarrassment and listen to his expressions of sympathy. She just wanted to go on sitting with him, happy in his company. It was extraordinary, and the odd thing was that she knew he felt the same way: totally at ease, discussing the Charlotte Marlow paintings on the wall beside them, a film they’d both seen recently; she at the Barn Cinema at Dartington, Martin at the Wharf in Tavistock.
‘So which is your favourite part of the garden?’ he asked, watching her across his coffee cup, his brown eyes bright, interested.
‘I like all of it at different times,’ she answered. ‘I’m fickle. I don’t have favourites.’
He finished his coffee, still watching her. ‘Good,’ he said, as if approving of her answer. ‘In that case, let’s go and look at that amazing view across to Buckland Monachorum church, shall we? It gets me every time.’
Julia leans forward to place another log on the fire and kneels upright. She’s stiff and as she stands up she flexes the hand on which she’s been resting her weight. Bertie is stretched out just behind her and she steps across him, kicks off her shoes, and sits down in the corner of the sofa, curling her legs under her.
How strange that day was: strange and life-changing. They walked away from the tearoom after a slight wrangle about allowing him to pay for her coffee.
‘But why should you?’ she asked. ‘After all, I interrupted your solitude. I should be paying.’
‘It was so nice to have the company,’ he said as they headed into the gardens. ‘It’s such a waste to feel happy all on one’s own.’
She laughed, shaking her head. ‘You’re crazy.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘This morning I am crazy. I’m not sure if it’s the sunshine or that ephemeral rainbow over there. But spring does that, doesn’t it? New life, new hope.’
He glanced at her, almost anxiously, as if suddenly visited by a doubt that she might not be as much in tune with him as he believed. It was a strange look: confident but tinged with doubt.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I have this mantra: “I can do anything as long as the sun is shining.” Add into that primroses, bluebells and daffodils, and what can go wrong?’
His smile was full of relief. ‘It’s nearly bluebell time. Where’s your favourite place for those? Mine’s all around Burrator Reservoir.’
She shook her head. ‘Holwell Lawn. Above Widecombe-in-the-Moor. Spectacular.’
‘Never been there,’ he said.
She decided to test him a little. ‘You must check it out. And afterwards you’ll need coffee or a drink at the Moorland Hotel.’
‘Is that what you do?’
She nodded. They walked in silence for a short while until they reached the Summer Garden and then he stopped and gestured across the Wildflower Meadow valley towards the old church tower set amongst the trees. As they stood together, she knew that she must go. She guessed that he hadn’t picked up on her very gentle hint about meeting for coffee at the Moorland Hotel because he was married and instinct warned her that it was best to leave before he started to explain why the morning couldn’t continue along these delightful lines or why there shouldn’t be other meetings. She felt strangely desolate but she was smiling as she turned from the contemplation of the view.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a three-year-old golden retriever waiting patiently in the car and I’ve promised him a walk on the way home. I mustn’t push my luck. Great to meet you, Martin.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thanks for my coffee.’
She hated the look of disappointment on his face; the surprise. He held her hand longer than he should have done and she wanted to say: ‘Come with us. Follow us in your car.’ But she knew that there was an impediment to the continuation of this strange meeting. Turning away from him, she hurried back the way they’d come, towards the car park, huddling herself into her coat as a sudden heavy shower of icy rain crashed all about her.
In the car park she stripped off her wet coat and jumped into the car. Bertie was on his feet in the back, tail wagging, and she was glad of his large welcoming presence.
‘Good boy,’ she said, putting up the windows. ‘Good fellow. Away we go then. Lucky we had a walk coming over because you might not get one on the way back if this carries on.’
Hail battered against the windscreen, stopped suddenly, and the sun shone out as she drove away.