‘I NEED A cup of tea,’ Evie says to Claude. ‘How about you? Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘But on sunny days you always like to go up into the garden around this time to catch the last of the sunshine,’ he says, throwing his book aside. ‘Just because Ange is around doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to do as you always do.’
Evie wants to put her arms around him to hug him and, at the same time, she wants to give him a shake.
‘I know, but it’s only for two days. For heaven’s sake, Claude, I shan’t die of it.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he grumbles. ‘It’s your house. Your garden.’
‘Yes,’ says Evie thoughtfully. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’m really beginning to take that on board.’
She can feel him studying her as she stands beside him on the balcony, watching the tide making. The boathouse is already in the shadows as the sun sinks behind the hill and she feels suddenly glad that Claude will be here with her this autumn and for Christmas. Last winter, without Tommy and with tenants in the Merchant’s House, she’d felt alone for the first time in her life. She tried to reason it away: to rationalize it. After all, she’d lived alone before she met Tommy, and during those first ten years before they were married he spent most of his time in London. Ah, she reminds herself, but back then she’d had her writing. Her extensive research into those families and their friends and servants who were caught up in the Civil War had taken up so much of her time; the construction of each book, the interweaving of the people and events, the planning and plotting, possessed her. Even once she and Tommy were married she still spent a large portion of each day at work here in the boathouse whilst Tommy relandscaped the garden and oversaw the modernization of the Merchant’s House. After twelve years of snatching precious hours together it seemed a luxury to have so much freedom. It’s odd, though, that this time of the afternoon is still the most poignant time: when she misses him most, longs for his company – and now she can’t help thinking about Russ, too, though she hasn’t thought of him for many years. Both these men whom she loved are dead.
Earlier she’d seen Mikey in Marks and Spencer and was struck again by the elusive resemblance he has to his grandfather. How strange – almost bizarre – it was to see Russ’s grandson in her little local branch of Marks and Spencer. He was friendly, pleased to see her; his father, he said, was back at the flat with a bad headache so he’d dashed out to buy some provisions for supper.
‘If you and your father would like to come for coffee or a cup of tea …’ she began cautiously, but at once he looked uncomfortable and she wondered what to do, what to say, that might put him at ease.
‘I’d like to,’ he said awkwardly, ‘it’s just that Dad’s not terribly well right now. Since Mum died … you know?’
He looked so wretched, so burdened with grief and responsibility that once again she longed simply to put her arms around him and hug him tightly. She wondered how she might strengthen him, or whether her interference might simply weaken him; cause him more difficulties than he was already bearing.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, Mikey. Look.’ She opened her purse and took out one of her cards. ‘This is just in case you should ever need any help or if at any point either or both of you ever wanted to find me. Put it somewhere safe, Mikey.’
He took the card and studied it.
‘It says your name is Evelyn Drake,’ he said. ‘You told me it was something else.’
‘Yes, that’s my business card. I’m a writer and that’s my professional name. But my married name is Fortescue. My husband died a few years ago.’
He looked at her as if he was measuring the grief of an old woman against his own raw experience.
‘I knew your grandfather very well,’ she told him. ‘We were very good friends. So that makes us friends in a kind of way, too, doesn’t it? He would be so pleased to know that I’ve met you. You’re very like him.’
He nods rather ruefully, as if this is not always an advantage.
‘Dad and Grampy didn’t always hit it off,’ he said. He puts the card in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Thanks, Mrs Fortescue. I promise I won’t lose it.’
‘You could call me Evie,’ she suggested. ‘I’d like that.’
His sudden smile lit his face and touched her heart.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s cool. Thanks, Evie.’
She wanted to suggest that they walk part-way home together but had the wisdom to say goodbye to him.
Now, staring out at the river, thinking of Russ and Mikey, and of TDF, she feels Claude’s compassionate gaze but doesn’t look at him lest she should break down and howl with grief. Mentally, as she stares across the river at Kingswear basking in sunshine, she pictures Claude: his kindly, squarish face; the little curling tonsure of gingery-grey hair, small pebble-grey eyes beneath tufty brows, a wide full-lipped mouth.
‘If Claude were a stick of Brighton rock,’ Tommy said, ‘he’d have the word “loyalty” stamped all the way through him.’
She knows how lucky she is to have his friendship and his loyalty. Claude has never judged her or Tommy and, since she’s been alone, he’s given his support every way he knows how. It’s been a huge relief to take him into her confidence over the discovery of the papers in the cartoons. She’s still convinced that there’s something else – something not yet revealed – though she can’t imagine what it is. She wonders if she should tell him about her affair with Russ, the guilt she feels about her youthful, selfish indifference to Pat, but, even as she wonders whether she should attempt it, they hear a knocking on the door, which opens, and Ben is calling, ‘Hi. Anyone in? Are you coming over for a drink?’
She turns with relief, smiling at Claude, lifted out of her grief and anxiety by Ben’s suggestion. He appears in the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ he says again. ‘I just wondered if you were being polite or something. You usually like a cuppa in the garden on a day like this. And I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvi B chilling in the fridge for later. So what about it?’
‘It sounds like heaven,’ Evie admits, ‘but I wasn’t quite sure whether Charlie and Ange might have other plans.’
He shrugs. ‘Kettle’s on. They can join in or not. See you in a minute then.’
He exchanges a glance with Claude, who beams approvingly at him, and goes out.
‘Excellent,’ says Claude with great satisfaction. ‘He’s a good lad, is Ben.’
‘It’s just so heart-rending sometimes,’ she admits, ‘when I see him or Charlie these days. They look so much like TDF when I first met him. God, he was gorgeous. Love at first sight. Do you believe in all that stuff, Claude? Can you imagine it happening to Ben, for instance?’ She snorts with amusement. ‘Or Charlie?’
He doesn’t answer, following her out and waiting whilst she locks the door. Glancing at him, she sees that he looks almost anxious, rather secretive, as if he is remembering something. She climbs the first steep flight of stone steps that leads up to the road above, pausing at the turn before she embarks on the second flight, hearing Claude coming up slowly behind her. They cross the road together and go in at the front door, calling to Ben, who shouts that he is in the kitchen. Charlie is there, too, assembling the tea things on to two trays.
There is no sign of Ange. Evie suppresses a sense of guilt and prepares to enjoy the moment: it’s time for tea.
From halfway down the stairs Ange listens to their voices as they go into the garden carrying the trays and then she slips back upstairs. This little thing is still niggling her; the sense of something missing. It’s difficult, with Ben continually appearing unexpectedly, to have a good snoop round but from the landing window she can see them all on the terrace at the top of the garden, pouring tea, handing round plates, which gives her a moment to herself to check the rooms again.
The drawing-room is unchanged: two comfortable sofas; glass-fronted cupboards built into the alcoves on each side of the timber-surrounded fire; two big sash windows looking across the uneven roofscapes to the river and Kingswear. The china in the cupboards, the paintings, are all in their familiar places, but anyway she knows that what she is missing is something odd; something quirky that has gone from its usual place.
The big attic room on the third floor has never held anything of value, though she has another quick glance. Back on the second floor she checks out Ben’s quarters again and then runs down to the first floor. She ignores the master bedroom, which she and Charlie are using, and looks again into the other bedrooms. These are the rooms she and Charlie used when the children were very small. One had once been a dining-room and off this room was the pantry; big enough to convert into a little dressing-room, with a tiny window on to the garden, and where the girls had slept as babies on those rare visits when TDF and Evie were first married. It’s a pretty little room, with a small painted chest against one wall, a bookshelf with the old childhood favourites stacked along it and a Lloyd Loom chair with an embroidered cushion in its lap. As she stands at the door, glancing in, she suddenly remembers what is missing from the room: the cartoons. On the wall above the cot seven small framed cartoons had hung: beautifully sketched and rather amusing. Someone told her they’d been drawn by Ben’s great-great-grandfather and, on light summer nights when Millie or Alice was not sleeping, Ange would stand by the cot, murmuring to her, or rocking her in her arms, whilst she studied the little drawings. Now the wall is bare and the cartoons have gone.
Ange stands quite still. The cartoons would never have been sold. They are loved and valued family possessions and, as such, they belong to her and Charlie – and to Ben, of course. Perhaps they were moved because of the tenants, though it’s unlikely. The tenants were old friends and the house was let fully furnished. She will ask Evie the question: politely but firmly. The house might be Evie’s, though obviously it should be left to Charlie when she dies, but the cartoons are not. Ange considers the idea of Ben claiming them; after all, they were drawn by his great-grandfather. At the same time, he was Charlie’s great-great-uncle, which means Charlie has a claim, too. Of course, it would be a pity to split them up …
A rather horrid idea occurs to Ange. Supposing Evie has already given them to Ben? Ange is rather surprised at the strength of her anger. It really upsets her to think of Evie disposing of any of the family belongings. She has to control a desire to rush downstairs and up through the garden to confront Evie with the question of the whereabouts of the cartoons. Ange takes a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. There might be a perfectly rational answer and she doesn’t want to look a fool. She knows that Charlie isn’t totally on her side in these matters and she must proceed carefully. Charlie is so laid-back, so easy-going. He has no idea of the dangers of allowing the affection between Ben and Evie to grow even stronger. Evie loves both Charlie and Ben – after all, they are the nearest she’ll get to sons of her own – but it is necessary for Charlie to continue to hold his own place in Evie’s affections. Ange is dismayed by the way Ben has settled in, the easy coming and going between the two households, and she wishes that she and Charlie were staying longer. In a thousand tiny ways she is able to make sure that Ben knows his status as a temporary lodger; she is able to keep him on the back foot by establishing her and Charlie’s rights in the house.
As she makes her way slowly down the stairs she plays with the idea of suggesting to Charlie that he might stay on here in Dartmouth rather than accompanying her to Polzeath. He wouldn’t object to that. Holidays with his mother-in-law and two rebellious teenage girls aren’t exactly his idea of relaxation, but it’s difficult to know exactly how to put the suggestion to him. She can hardly explain that its purpose is subtly to maintain and underline his future role as the owner of the Merchant’s House. And how and when is she to bring up the matter of the cartoons?
As she reaches the hall her mobile phone begins to ring. She runs back upstairs to her bedroom and fishes the phone out of her bag.
‘Mummy. Hi. Everything OK?’
She listens whilst her mother tells her that Millie has twisted her ankle and hurt her wrist in a rather nasty fall and that she’s making rather a fuss about it, though she’s perfectly all right really. When Ange can get a word in, she tells her mother that she will come down first thing in the morning; that Charlie can stay on with Ben for a bit longer, and should she have a quick word with the girls?
Millie is grumpy and whiny – ‘it’s simply so unfair’ – and Alice is out on the beach with the gang, so Ange promises to set off after breakfast and then she goes downstairs and out into the garden.
Charlie watches her approach up through the garden with a faintly sinking heart. He feels he is caught between his loyalty to her and to Benj, and it’s very uncomfortable. At the same time, he still hasn’t recovered from his meeting with Jemima, which had the same effect as drinking several glasses of champagne. He can see that Claude has his eye on him but he doesn’t fear Claude: the old boy is on his side – up to a point, anyway.
Charlie braces himself to prepare for Ange: another little snub to Evie, perhaps, or a barbed remark to Benj? But Ange is smiling an almost rueful, conciliatory smile. It indicates a kind of amused irritation that somehow involves an explanation or change of plan in which he will be involved and expected to comply.
‘A bit of a drama,’ she says, as she reaches the terrace and sinks down on to a chair. ‘Millie’s managed to twist her ankle. No, no,’ she nods reassuringly at Charlie, ‘she’s fine, really, but I’ve promised to get off to Polzeath first thing after breakfast.’
His second reaction, after his relief that Millie is OK, is disappointment that he definitely won’t be seeing Jemima again. The tiny hope that they might meet accidentally in the town tomorrow is crushed and he is surprised at the depth of his feelings. He watches Ange accepting a cup of tea from Benj and tries to get a grip on his emotions.
‘Actually,’ Ange is saying, almost casually, ‘I’m wondering, Charlie, if it isn’t best if you stay here. After all, there won’t be much you can do, and Millie will probably be in a strop so it might be best if Granny and I manage it together. You’ll probably be bored stiff and you’ve hardly had any time here. I can pick you up on our way back next weekend.’
Charlie’s own delight and relief at her suggestion are mixed with an awareness of the reaction of the others around the table. It is clear to him that this magnanimity, Ange’s recognition that he might like to spend time with Benj and Evie and Claude, is rather out of character and he can feel them all registering it in their different ways. He guesses at her ulterior motive but the prospect of a week in Dartmouth is too good an opportunity to turn down and he seizes it, although with carefully suppressed eagerness.
‘Well, it’s certainly a bit of a shame to dash off when we’ve only just got here but won’t poor old Millie think it’s a bit heartless if I don’t come too?’
‘Oh, no.’ Ange shrugs off any need to consider Millie’s wounded feelings. ‘She’s not ill, after all. She’s just cross and feeling sorry for herself. And Alice won’t mind. After all, they’ve been home for the last six weeks so it’s not as if you haven’t seen anything of them. I just feel that playing nursemaid isn’t your scene and you might as well be enjoying yourself here.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ he pretends reluctance a little longer. ‘Yes, it would be fun to spend a bit of time exploring the old haunts.’
The joy fizzes up in him again – he can drive out to Torcross, maybe see her walking the dog – and sinks a little as he remembers that he won’t have a car. Claude is watching him, his eyes crinkling a little, as if the old bugger knows just what he’s thinking, and Charlie grins back at him. He simply can’t help himself.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Ange is saying, leaning across the table towards Evie, ‘I was looking for a book – that old edition of The Wind in the Willows – to read last night, just for old times’ sake, and I see that those lovely cartoons have gone from the little dressing-room.’
Charlie feels his insides curl and shrivel. How he hates these confrontations, these veiled accusations. Ange hasn’t been looking for a book; she’s been prying. He is aware of tension around the table. Claude is very wary; he watches Evie who sits up straight, chin lifted, her smile fading. Only Benj seems unconcerned and faintly curious.
‘The cartoons?’ he asks. ‘Great-great-grandfather’s drawings?’
‘Yes,’ Ange says, turning to him quickly. ‘Have you got them?’
‘I have them,’ says Evie calmly. ‘They’re in my study over in the boathouse.’
‘Oh?’ Ange manages to make it a question. ‘They’ve always hung in the little dressing-room. All the children loved them. It was a kind of tradition, wasn’t it, Charlie? That’s what your mother told me. My girls love them.’
Charlie feels hot with embarrassment and anger. ‘Rather a waste, though,’ he says, attempting a casual note, ‘seeing that there aren’t any young to use the dressing-room any more.’
‘But there will be,’ Ange persists, though she pretends to be jolly; light-hearted, almost amused at the prospect of grandchildren. ‘Our girls will have children one day, and Laura. Family traditions are so important.’ She gives a little artificial laugh. ‘But then I’m very hot in the matter of inheritance. You need to be scrupulously fair.’
To his amazement, Evie begins to laugh. ‘You’re absolutely right, Ange,’ she says. ‘You do, indeed.’
Charlie sees that Ange looks taken aback and Claude quickly puts out a hand as if to restrain Evie, who smiles at him.
It’s Benj who saves the day by standing up and saying: ‘So how about a fresh pot?’
Charlie gets up too and says: ‘I’ll refill the milk jug,’ and, filled with relief, follows him down through the garden.