‘So what’s the plan?’ asks Davy at breakfast on Saturday morning, buttering toast, reaching for the marmalade. ‘What excitements do you have in store for me?’
Julia smiles. Davy always likes to have some jaunt planned, though nothing too strenuous. Not for Davy a yomp across the moor or the cliffs. He likes something more civilized, which might include a gallery or a National Trust property, but which definitely includes some kind of sustenance. Julia has an idea, though. She wants to go back to The Garden House, to revisit those places she went with Martin. The prospect of going alone fills her with a kind of dread, yet she’s got to get herself back to the garden.
‘I was thinking.’ she says casually, ‘that we might go over the moor to The Garden House. It’s the most amazing garden and the acers will be really spectacular just now. There’s a café and they make delicious cake. I think you might enjoy it. What d’you think? It’s a lovely morning now all the mist has blown away.’
‘Perfect,’ Davy answers, contentedly. ‘I haven’t the least idea what an acer is, but I trust you utterly, darling.’
Julia laughs at him. ‘You’ll love it. That’s an order, as dear old Bob used to say. I’ll give Bertie a quick run up the lane now and then we can give him a walk on the moor on the way back home.’
Davy waves his piece of toast in acknowledgement of the plan. ‘Sounds good to me. I am so enjoying this, Jules. Thanks for rescuing me this weekend. I’ve been feeling pretty low and sorry for myself, and now I know what you’ve been going through for these last few weeks I’m quite ashamed of myself.’
‘Well, don’t be,’ she says swiftly. ‘Nobody has a monopoly on feelings and it’s not a contest. I’m really glad I told you, Davy. And, OK, The Garden House is somewhere I first met Martin and it’s a pretty special place for me. It would be really good to go back there but somehow I don’t want to go on my own.’
Davy puts down his toast and stretches a hand to her across the table. ‘My dear old darling,’ he says feelingly, ‘what complete and utter shit life is. We shall go together. I’d feel very privileged to share this with you.’
She takes his hand and holds it tightly. Davy is exactly what she needs right now. Someone who is not afraid to show his emotions, to enter into her loneliness and grief without uttering platitudes or pulling a sad face.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘The gardens open at eleven so we’ve got plenty of time. It’s about a forty-minute drive.’
Davy, who is still in pyjamas with an ancient fleece jacket over the top, glances down at himself.
‘Why do I feel that there’s a tiny hint there?’ he muses as if to himself. ‘Just one more piece of toast then, and perhaps half a cup of coffee, and then I shall rush away and get ready.’
‘It’s open till three,’ says Julia. ‘We could have lunch there.’
She feels a mixture of excitement and apprehension. How odd it will feel driving the familiar road, parking the car and walking in, remembering which code he’s used. Nancy Fortescue. Sophie’s Place. Moulin Rouge. They each have a special significance. The Garden House was always a bit of a risk, being so close to Tavistock, but after all, anyone might meet an old friend by chance in a garden – and even have a cup of coffee together. After Cakes and Ale was aired there was a little more danger of being recognized but she always wore shades or a hat, and since she and Martin arrived and left separately nobody seemed to be aware of the relationship.
Julia sighs. Today will be different: no Martin, no codes, no meeting. She’s aware that Davy is watching her and she shrugs and makes a little face.
‘Ghosts,’ she says. ‘I’ll take Bertie up the lane.’
She gets up from the table and Bertie, who has been keenly observing the progress of Davy’s toast, ambles out of the kitchen behind her. Kicking off her shoes and stepping into her wellies, Julia pulls on a jacket and opens the back door. The morning is mild and a blackbird is singing in the shrubbery. As she and Bertie set off together, Julia is humming: ‘We are stardust, we are golden…’ There are no sheep with their lambs in the meadow, no cuckoo calling down in the valley – spring seems a long way off – but the early November day is mild and the sky is clear. It will be a good drive across the moor to The Garden House. She knows that Davy will not be blown away by the immensity of the landscape or even by the charm of the gardens. Davy is a city man but he enjoys a little change. He enjoyed producing Cakes and Ale, visiting the small pubs and cafés on the cliffs and in small villages perched around the Cornish peninsula, and talking to the people whose livelihoods depended on tourists visiting these wild, spectacular places.
As she walks, Julia’s fingers grip the phone in her pocket. She knows she should block Martin’s number but can’t quite bring herself to do it. It would be like killing him all over again: blotting him out. And supposing El might need to get in touch? They’d always talked about the children: her boys and El and Freddie. Occasionally they showed each other photographs they’d taken on their phones. Photos of Freddie were rare but there were a few of them, and Julia sometimes wondered what might happen if all four of the children were to meet. Right at the beginning, after the divorce, they were both determined that it was foolish to risk any kind of upset, then, after Felicity married again, it seemed important to allow a period of quiet whilst El and Freddie came to terms with the new situation. And so it continued, probably because there was no obvious, pain-free way where they might all come together happily. So they’d made the pact: when Ollie went off to university a plan would be made.
How odd it is, thinks Julia, as she turns for home, calling to Bertie, to miss someone so much when I saw him so little.
The thing was, of course, that there has always been the prospect before them, something to anticipate: a meeting, a lunch, a visit to Bristol. And now there’s nothing but her Charlotte Marlow painting and his texts.