JASON WAKES EARLY in the morning and immediately has a panic attack; the clenched fist in the gut, the sick churning and terrible fear. He reaches out across the empty bed for Helena and is stricken anew with the sense of loss that is fresh each morning and must be dealt with over and over again.
He curls on his side, hands over his eyes, and weeps silently so that Mikey doesn’t hear him. Something good must happen soon or he really won’t be able to carry on; something positive to change the direction of his life and fill him with hope. Money is becoming a real problem. His meagre savings are vanishing quickly now that he has no job, and the mortgage must be paid or he’ll have to sell the flat.
He remembers that last night, before he fell asleep, he’d been hatching a new idea about Evelyn Drake. From down amongst the darkness of his anger and his hatred, a worm of a plan had wriggled up into the light. Suppose he were to screw her for money for Mikey? Not immediately, of course, but by first cunningly allowing her to become friendly with the boy. Watching them together on that bench it was clear that she was drawn to Mikey – no doubt because he is very much like his grandfather – so why not encourage it? Then, perhaps, he could remind her of her obligations; allow her to make amends for her disgraceful behaviour thirty-five years ago.
Jason stretches himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He feels slightly calmer, distracted by this new plan. Last night, after a quick double whisky – as a special treat he’d taken Mikey to supper in the Royal Castle – it seemed a brilliant idea, but this morning he can see flaws. There isn’t much time, for a start, and how is he to effect a meeting with her? The familiar sense of despair, of disablement, begins to blot out his weak grasp on optimism and he drags on his old towelling robe and goes quietly into the kitchen to make coffee and take his medication.
Sometimes he wonders if his medication is messing with his brain, and he knows he ought to make an appointment to see his GP, but now that Helena isn’t here to make him go he keeps putting it off. His doctor asks too many questions. He’s fine; he’s absolutely fine as long as people leave him alone and he keeps taking the happy pills. And today he should hear about the library job at the university. Russell Dean is still revered in Bristol and Jason had no compunction in using his connections. The interview went well – though it was the least bit tricky explaining why his job in the bookshop had come to a rather sudden end without saying that it wasn’t his fault that the manager there was a complete loser – and he was fairly confident that he was in with a chance. He explained that he would be away for a week, and they agreed to phone his mobile, so he must be ready for the call. The signal in the flat is poor so after breakfast he and Mikey will go out into the town.
Jason breathes deeply: he feels sure that his luck is turning. He knows that he shouldn’t be drinking, that Helena would be gutted, but he’ll be fine. This isn’t serious stuff and, anyway, he can handle it now. It won’t be like it used to be; he’s changed. It’s just that he needs a little treat now and then and, hell, he deserves it, doesn’t he? After all he’s been through? With Helena gone and Mikey away at school, what’s he supposed to do? Life’s so bloody empty, so pointless, without that little drink to lift his spirits; to make him feel good. He needs something to look forward to; everyone does.
Jason swallows his tablets and drinks his coffee. He thinks about his plan for Evelyn Drake, his spirits rise again, and the black dog draws back a little into the shadows.
After a rather uncommunicative breakfast at the boathouse, Evie is beginning to get quite worried about Claude. He seems edgy, almost irritable, at the prospect of meeting Jemima again and when Evie asks him if there’s a problem he gets quite cross.
‘Of course not,’ he snaps. ‘Why should there be?’
‘You tell me,’ she answers pacifically. ‘I thought you’d like to see her again. You don’t have to be here, you know, if you’re not in the mood.’
He looks so anxious that she wonders if he’s feeling well; or it might be that he’s been cast down by one of his little grieving bouts. She’s always prepared for that; for moments when memories of his and Jilly’s earliest days here in Dartmouth come back to haunt him. This isn’t quite the same, however: this is less like grief and more like fear.
He decides to walk out to the Castle, saying that he might call in on the boys on the way back, and Evie is relieved to see him go. She glances at her watch: it’s not much after nine and the walk will probably take an hour and a half. Plenty of time to prepare for Jemima’s arrival.
She clears the table on the balcony ready for coffee, tidies away newspapers, piles up books, and looks around to see that all is in order. It’s always a delight when people visit the boathouse for the first time. She loves to see their expressions when they walk into the big room, pausing to exclaim before being ineluctably drawn out on to the balcony. This room is at its best on a sunny morning like this: full of brilliant, refracted light and watery reflections. She wishes that Mikey could see it; he was clearly loving Dartmouth so much. It’s so strange to meet him here – Russ’s grandson – and to be reminded of that earlier part of her life. She would like to talk to Mikey about his grandfather, about his pioneering television work, his great success in making dry-as-dust history fascinating. She’s honest enough to know that it’s not a purely altruistic desire. She’s quite aware that it would make her feel better about her own role in Russ’s life; that it would bring a kind of healing.
Ben texts: he and Charlie are off on a jaunt to Totnes and is it OK to use the garage when they get back, just for today. Parking is at a premium in the town so Evie texts suggesting that he can use the garage for the rest of the week.
When Claude comes back still looking preoccupied, saying that the boys aren’t at home, and she tells him that they’ve gone off to fetch the car and have a morning in Totnes, he looks so relieved that she thinks he might actually be about to pass out.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asks curiously.
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Honestly. I think I’ll just stroll down to Pillar’s and get the newspaper. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Take it slowly, Claude. That’s quite a walk you’ve just had.’
He grimaces, acknowledging the truth of this, but before he can answer there’s a ring at the doorbell and Jemima comes in through the open door calling, ‘Hi. Anyone at home?’
Evie hurries to meet her, drawing her in, exclaiming with pleasure. Jemima smiles warmly at Claude and then looks beyond him and says: ‘Oh, gosh! Wow! This is … Wow!’ She walks forward into the room, gazing around her, the flowers she has brought for Evie still clasped in her hand.
Evie beams at Claude, who seems to relax at last, taking a deep breath and letting his shoulders drop. It’s as if he’s suddenly given in to something, accepted the inevitable, though Evie still can’t guess what it might be. Jemima has walked through to the balcony and stands at its rail, leaning forward, still exclaiming with delight.
‘God! This is just amazing,’ she says, turning back to them. ‘Sorry. Gosh! Sorry, I was completely blown away. Look, these are for you.’ She hands over the flowers, her face bright with the pleasure of the moment, and Evie feels touched by her warmth.
‘Coffee?’ she asks. ‘Or do you prefer tea?’
Jemima shakes her head. ‘Coffee will be great. Thanks. Gosh! I thought my old flat in Salcombe was pretty good when it came to views but this beats it hollow.’
She wanders back out on to the balcony and whilst Evie finds a vase for the flowers, makes coffee, it is Claude who goes out to join their guest.
Now that Jemima is here all his anxieties have faded away, dissolved in her warmth. He watches her face – such a lovely, sweet face – as she looks with delight at the river scene.
‘You lived in Salcombe?’ he asks, hardly able to take his eyes from her. There is an aura of joy about Jemima that fascinates him. He can utterly see why Charlie has become entranced.
‘I rented a flat there for a while,’ she is telling him. ‘Right on the water like this. It belonged to the RNLI and then they needed it for their staff so I had to go. I lived in Kingsbridge for a bit but I missed living by the water so much that when the little bit of cottage came up in Torcross I went for it.’
‘Do you rent it?’
‘Goodness, yes! I couldn’t hope to afford a house in Torcross. Even one as small as mine.’
She turns as Evie comes out with the tray of coffee, a plate of pains au chocolat, and gives a sigh of pleasure. ‘How wonderful to sit here and have your coffee and watch the river. Have you lived here very long?’
‘Twenty-five years,’ Evie tells her. ‘I’ve been very lucky. But I’m wondering if it might be time to move on.’
Claude stares at her in astonishment but Evie pours the coffee quite calmly. Jemima is exclaiming in sympathetic dismay at the prospect.
‘Oh, but why? How could you bear to leave it?’
‘I suppose it might depend on where I might go,’ Evie says. ‘I’m getting a bit creaky, you know. You came down those steps, didn’t you?’
‘They are the least bit ankle-twisting,’ admits Jemima, ‘but even so …’
‘And we lose the sun early,’ Evie is continuing. ‘I’m beginning to find the winters rather long and dark.’
Claude continues to gaze at Evie, taken aback by these admissions to someone she barely knows. The boathouse is Evie’s safe harbour, her beloved home. He can hardly believe she is sitting there saying these things so calmly.
‘I’m the other way round,’ Jemima is saying, accepting a pain au chocolat. ‘I get all the afternoon sun. It does help in the winter, I must admit. But where might you go?’
Evie sips her coffee; she gazes rather dreamily across the river towards Kingswear.
‘Actually,’ she answers, ‘I might go just across the road.’
‘Oh!’ exclaims Jemima. ‘One of those wonderful houses. I don’t feel nearly so sorry for you, then. I work for a holiday letting company and we have one on our books. They are pretty amazing and the views are spectacular. Actually, I met someone who is living in one of them, though he says it doesn’t belong to him. His name’s Ben Fortescue. Do you know him?’
‘You could say so,’ answers Evie serenely. ‘My late husband was his cousin and the house is mine.’
Claude sets down his cup: he feels shaky and unsettled. He no longer fancies his pain au chocolat. He was hoping to avoid all mention of Ben and Charlie, relieved that there was no chance of their arriving unexpectedly, but now it seems that everything is to be revealed. Jemima, too, looks slightly nonplussed.
‘Well,’ she says, and gives a little snort of amusement. ‘That certainly answers my question very comprehensively.’
Evie smiles at her. ‘Fancy you knowing Ben. And why hasn’t he mentioned you to us?’
‘It was only two casual meetings. Once at Stokeley Farm Shop and once in Alf’s. But, since you mention it, we’re all going to the Torcross Boathouse this evening for supper.’
‘All?’ asks Claude rather faintly.
She looks at him with that same luminous joy. ‘Yes. Me and Ben and Charlie.’
Evie looks surprised; pleased. ‘You’ve met Charlie, too?’
Just for a moment Jemima looks slightly discomfited; a bright flush washes her cheeks. She looks away from them, out to the river. ‘Just once,’ she says. ‘He’s so like Ben, isn’t he?’
‘Extraordinarily alike,’ says Evie. ‘They might be brothers.’
Claude glances at her. She looks interested, alert, but slightly amused.
‘How amazing,’ says Jemima, recovering her composure, ‘that you should be his … their …’ She hesitates over the exact word for Evie’s relationship to Ben and Charlie.
‘I’m Charlie’s stepmother,’ says Evie.
Jemima stares at her; her smile has faded and she looks wary. ‘Stepmother?’
‘Mmm.’ Evie nods. ‘But it’s not quite like it sounds. I didn’t marry his father until Charlie was nearly thirty. We were married for only twelve years, though I was his mistress for ten years before that.’
Claude can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. All his terrors of this meeting have now very nearly been fully realized. It only needs for Jemima to admit that she and Charlie have fallen madly in love to cap Evie’s revelations.
Jemima is staring at Evie with an expression in which awe, amusement and respect are nicely blended.
‘Gosh!’ she says. ‘That’s … well, that sounds fascinating.’
‘Does it?’ Evie bursts out laughing. ‘It’s not a particularly unusual story. Would you like some more coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ says Jemima enthusiastically. She leans forward. ‘So where did you meet Charlie’s father?’
Claude gives a tiny groan and pushes back his chair. They glance up at him questioningly, very slightly impatiently, as if he is distracting them from their conversation.
‘Going to get the newspaper,’ he says. ‘No more coffee, thanks. Good to meet you again, Jemima. See you later, perhaps.’
He hurries away from them, stops for a quick dash to the loo, and goes out into the sunshine. As he climbs the steep steps to the road above – heart pounding, legs aching – he thinks of what Evie has said about these steps; about the lack of sunshine in the winter. All true, of course, but even so, just blurting it out like that to a stranger – and telling her she was TDF’s mistress! After all his anxiety, he thinks bitterly, lest Evie should discover Charlie’s meeting with Jemima and his entrancement with her, or Jemima should be taken aback by the boys bursting in unexpectedly, and then they just blurt it all out and settle down for a gossip.
‘Women!’ he exclaims aloud, as he gains the road.
He turns down Bayard’s Hill, making for the Dartmouth Arms. Damn the paper: what he needs is a stiff drink.
After Claude has gone, Jemima settles more comfortably. She’s been aware that Claude was a little on edge once they started discussing the house and Ben and Charlie. She can understand that: he is more reserved, less able to let it all hang out. She likes Claude: likes him a lot. There’s something stable about him; something reassuring.
‘Don’t worry about Claude bolting like that,’ Evie is saying. ‘He always bolts when things get a bit emotional.’
Jemima laughs. ‘Sorry. It’s just that word always makes me think about my dear old late-lamented mum,’ she says. ‘My sister always called her the Bolter. She left Brigid with her father and bolted off with mine, then she bolted again, taking me with her, though. Her last bolt was to Portugal when she was in her seventies. She had a lot of fun.’
Evie smiles at her. ‘Perhaps that’s why you weren’t shocked when I said I’d been Tommy’s mistress.’
Jemima shrugs. ‘Why would I be shocked? So his name was Tommy.’
‘Mmm.’ Evie seems surprised at herself. ‘I usually don’t use it except to myself. That was just between him and me. His wife called him Thomas and his family called him TDF.’
Jemima is fascinated. ‘TDF?’
‘They were his initials. Thomas David Fortescue. His aunts and very old friends called him The Darling Fellow.’
Jemima laughs with delight. ‘I love it. Is Claude one of those friends?’
‘Yes.’ Evie nods. ‘He was the only friend who knew about us. The family live in London, they’re wine importers, but Tommy always enjoyed a visit alone to Dartmouth. I met him just up there at the top of the steps. He was coming out of his house and I’d just finished viewing this one. We went off and had a drink together and that was that.’
Jemima is entranced, almost fearful; her meeting with Charlie resonates in her head.
‘Did he look like Charlie?’ she asks.
‘Incredibly like,’ says Evie. ‘And about the same age.’
‘Then I can understand why,’ says Jemima frankly. ‘Pretty devastating, aren’t they? And did his wife never find out?’
‘Not as far as we knew. I never went to London and Marianne rarely came to Dartmouth except with a little house party for regatta. I stayed well clear.’
‘Did Charlie know?’ Jemima can’t help herself; she wants to know everything. It’s so weird that she should be sitting here with Charlie’s stepmother, and Evie is nice, so open and warm and fun.
‘I asked him later. Once Marianne had died and Tommy and I were married. He was a grown man, married with children of his own. Things were said, accidentally, that must have made him suspect. I decided to be honest with him. He said he’d guessed but he was quite comfortable with it.’
‘She died,’ Jemima says slowly.
‘Mmm. About ten years after I met him. There was never any question of divorce.’
Her look is very clear, very direct, and Jemima stares back at her. It is as if Evie is warning her, preparing her.
‘Did that bother you?’
‘Not particularly. I had my own work, this house, friends. I was very happy with things the way they were. I never really considered myself marriage material.’
Jemima gives a little cry. ‘God, this is surreal. It might be me saying that. I always say I’m mistress material.’
‘And you’ve never been married?’
‘No. There was once when I might have been tempted, but he went back to his girlfriend. I was glad afterwards. I like to be independent. Perhaps I’m just too selfish.’
‘And you’re all having supper together?’
Jemima nods. ‘Safety in numbers.’
Her light remark sounds very slightly bitter and she glances quickly at Evie, who watches her compassionately.
‘What a pity it isn’t Ben,’ she says gently.
‘I like Ben,’ Jemima says quickly. ‘I really like him.’
‘Mmm,’ says Evie. ‘Not quite the same, though, is it?’
Jemima suddenly feels immeasurably sad. She wants to be comforted and reassured and strengthened. It’s an odd reaction to the woman sitting opposite. After all, it would never have crossed her mind to feel like that about her own mother. Frummie was the last person to show any maternal feelings, and Evie doesn’t seem to be in the least motherly either. Yet there is something here, some odd kind of recognition that is almost tangible between them; a connection at some deep level.
Jemima sighs and sits up straighter. ‘Not quite the same,’ she agrees. ‘I know this sounds really strange but I rather think I need them both.’
And suddenly the atmosphere is light again, Evie bursts out laughing and says, ‘Well, good luck with that, darling,’ and Jemima feels ready to cope with anything that might lie in the future.
When she leaves they hug each other and Evie says, ‘Come again soon.’
Jemima nods, and then hurries away to catch the bus back to the car; to prepare for the evening ahead.
When Claude gets back Evie has lunch ready for him. She feels guilty that she spoke so openly with Jemima about things that previously she has only shared with Claude and she realizes that it must have been a shock to him when she talked of moving to the Merchant’s House.
‘I don’t quite know why it all came out like that,’ she says as they sit down together. She can see that he’s still hurt, though he’s been mellowed by a pint of beer, and she decides to be quite honest. ‘It rather surprised me, too, but I feel so at ease with her. I really like her, don’t you?’
He nods, his mouth full of cold beef, and gesticulates impatiently with his fork, indicating that that has never been in question.
‘Of course I like her,’ he says at last. ‘You couldn’t not. She’s so genuine.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ agrees Evie, relieved. ‘You feel you’ve known her for ever. And it was such a surprise when she said she’d met the boys.’
‘Not to me,’ says Claude gloomily.
‘Not?’
He shakes his head. ‘I saw her with Charlie in the town. Just standing there together like they were in a world all of their own. Then they all disappeared into the crowd seconds before Ange came by.’
Evie stares at him in amazement. ‘When was this? You didn’t tell me. And when you say “all” …?’
‘It was on Saturday morning. She had Maisie with her. They were having coffee and ice creams at one of the stalls. Jemima and Charlie were just completely wrapped up in each other. And then I saw Ange coming. I thought if I got there in time I could pretend we were all meeting by chance, if you see what I mean, but they suddenly just vanished into Royal Avenue Gardens.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ She allows herself to sound just the slightest bit aggrieved.
Claude shifts uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t quite know how to put it. He said that first of all she’d mistaken him for Ben.’
‘You talked to Charlie about it?’
‘He reappeared on his own, you see, looking like he’d been hit by a brick. I decided to be open about it, that I’d seen them together, but it was like speaking to a man under a spell and then Ange turned up and that was that. And later there was all that business about the cartoons up on the terrace.’
He looks so anxious, so miserable, that she puts out a hand to him.
‘It’s all a bit of a muddle, isn’t it?’ she admits. ‘I’m sorry I blurted out all those things without warning, Claude. Especially my idea about moving across the road. To be honest, it’s only a tiny idea at the moment and I don’t quite know whether it’s complete madness. That’s why I haven’t mentioned it to you.’
He looks a little happier; they’re on level ground again.
‘The thing that shook me,’ he says, still slightly indignantly, ‘was that you were so open with her about you and TDF on such short acquaintance. I suppose that having seen her with Charlie it was a bit like déjà vu. It was almost like you were encouraging her.’
Evie begins to laugh. ‘Perhaps I was. Nice for Charlie to have a bit of fun for a change. What a pity it isn’t Ben.’
‘And now they’re all going out this evening together.’ He still sounds glum.
‘Safety in numbers,’ she says.
‘We shouldn’t be encouraging them, though, should we?’
She looks at him, smiling a little. ‘You didn’t say that about me and TDF.’
He snorts. ‘It was too late by the time I knew about it. Anyway, Charlie isn’t TDF and Jemima isn’t you. And Ange isn’t Marianne.’
‘Meaning?’
He takes a deep breath, giving himself time to marshal his thoughts. ‘Marianne was a very up-together woman. She had projects, charities, Charlie to organize, the business to keep tabs on. Her life was never just TDF. She was busy, fulfilled, and actually very generous. Look at the way she took Ben under her wing when his mother died.’
‘Are you trying to make me feel guilty?’
‘Of course not,’ he answers impatiently. ‘Don’t for God’s sake start behaving like a woman and taking this personally. All I’m saying is that even if Marianne suspected, I doubt she’d have been the sort to throw a hissy fit. After all, you never took him away from her for very long, did you? A few days here and there throughout the year? And that’s what I mean about TDF. He compartmentalized his life. You were in the Dartmouth file. He adored you, you know that, but you were his life here and you never interfered with his family or his business. And you were rather the same, Evie, weren’t you? You said so yourself. You weren’t jealous or resentful or lonely. You were writing. For most of your life you were totally immersed in another world and a whole cast of characters from which you were quite content to emerge occasionally and have fun with TDF. You were always completely absorbed by your work, almost longing to get back to it. It was your reality and TDF was part of your down time; little jollies before you got back to the real thing. I don’t think Jemima would be like that. If they were to become lovers I think she would want much more of Charlie than a few days here and there, and I’m damned sure Ange wouldn’t be philosophical about it if she ever found out.’
‘And Charlie?’ She’s taken aback by Claude’s speech; slightly unnerved by his insight. ‘What about Charlie?’
Claude is silent for a moment. His gaze is inward as if he is thinking about Charlie; imagining him in this situation.
‘TDF was a very confident man,’ he says at last. ‘He was laid-back, always optimistic, but he was tough, too. He was used to being loved and approved. All the dear old aunts bringing him up to believe in himself but without spoiling him; the security he lived in, his inheritance, gave him total confidence. He was grounded, generous to his friends. He embraced it all: you, Marianne, Charlie, his friends, the business. He had it all. It must have been a colossal shock when he discovered that he wasn’t entitled to his inheritance but deep down it wouldn’t have made any difference to the essential TDF.’
He falls silent and Evie waits, moved by what he has said.
‘Charlie doesn’t have quite the same genetic brew,’ he continues, ‘and he was brought up in a much more protective way. Marianne watched over him like a hawk, guided him, told him what to think, approved his friends – or not. He kicked over the traces once or twice but generally his default mode was to listen to her. To trust her judgement. He’s known Ange from childhood, Marianne loved her, showed him how right Ange was for him.’ Claude shakes his head, as if to get his thoughts clear. ‘I’m not sure that Charlie would be able to sideline all of that. Do you see what I’m saying? He’s very loyal to Ange and his girls. He might think he can live two lives, he’ll certainly imagine that he wants to give it a go, but I’m afraid that it might destroy him in the end.’
There is a silence.
‘I hear what you say,’ says Evie slowly, ‘but I wonder if you’re right.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘I’ll be very glad if you prove me wrong, I promise you.’
‘I agree with you in part, of course I do, when you talk about his upbringing, his deference to his mother, his loyalty to Ange and his girls. But I think there’s an awful lot of TDF in Charlie – look at the way he runs the business – and it just needs something to trigger a different aspect of it. Jemima might be just that trigger. I’m not saying that he would enter into a relationship lightly or easily but I think Charlie has glimpsed something very special, which he’ll be reluctant to ignore.’
Claude rubs his head, frowning confusedly, almost as if he is startled by his own outburst.
‘I love Charlie like he is my own boy,’ he says. ‘I want him to have it all. I just don’t want him to be hurt but …’ He shrugs, makes a face, pulls down his mouth. ‘It’s not up to us. They’re grown-up people. All we can do is to stand by to pick up the pieces if it should go wrong.’
‘I’m not sure I find that very comforting,’ Evie says lightly. ‘I tell you what, Claude. I’m really glad that you’re going to be around. Do you actually have to go back at all?’
He laughs, and she can see he feels better.
‘I only packed for a week,’ he says. ‘I think I shall need a little more than a few summer things as winter comes on.’
Nevertheless, she feels comforted by the prospect of his presence. And, after all, perhaps little will come of it. Regatta madness: nothing more.
Mikey bites into his beefburger, swipes the ketchup from his chin, one eye on his father, who is standing a little distance away talking to Aunt Liz on his mobile. His free hand gesticulates, balls into a fist and pumps the air; Dad has got the job, he is victorious, he is happy.
Mum wouldn’t have let Mikey have the beefburger from the stall – poison burgers, she called them – but Dad isn’t into stuff like that. As long as it’s quick and easy he doesn’t care too much. Mikey tries to think of all the things Mum taught him so as to guide the shopping list when he’s home for the holidays, to make sure they both eat lots of fruit and veggies, but it’s quite a responsibility. Sometimes it feels like he’s the grown-up and Dad’s the child.
That’s why he’s really glad Dad’s got the job at the university and that he’s happy. It’s a bit embarrassing when he’s full-on; Mikey wishes that when he’s happy Dad wouldn’t get quite so over the top, but that’s the way he is.
‘No halfway measures with your father,’ Mum used to say. ‘He’s up or he’s down.’
Before – that’s how he phrases it now to himself, just ‘before’ – he was able to get out of the way, when he wasn’t at school. He’d stay in his room or go out into the garden, slip off to see one of his friends. Now, he isn’t able just to walk away; it seems selfish and unkind to leave Dad on his own, having a strop or feeling mis. Even so, he’ll be really glad to get back to school though it does mean leaving Dartmouth, but Dad has promised that they can come down for half term.
Mikey finishes his beefburger, wipes his fingers on the paper napkin and throws it in the bin. Should he push his luck and ask for a Coke? He’s wondering, now that Dad is back on top, whether he should mention meeting Evie. He doesn’t like having secrets, and he’s afraid Dad might find the card, so it might be better if he were to mention, just casually, that he saw her.
Dad’s finishing his call, coming towards him. ‘She’s really pleased,’ he calls out. ‘That’s great, isn’t it? Don’t we love your aunt Liz?’
Mikey nods, feeling a bit silly with people looking, then takes a chance.
‘Could I have a Coke, please, Dad? Just for once?’
‘Sure,’ he says immediately. ‘Sure you can. We’ll both have one and then how about a visit to the funfair? You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’
They stroll along together, swigging from the cans, and Mikey takes another chance.
‘I met someone who knows Grampy the other day,’ he says, glancing sideways to watch for any negative reaction. Dad can be funny about Grampy. ‘She’s a writer. Evelyn Drake.’ He can’t remember her other name just for the moment. ‘Then I saw her in M&S and she told me she knew you when you were a little boy.’
To his surprise Dad is looking amazed but in a good way, like it’s something he wanted to happen. He doesn’t ask about the meeting, he just begins to laugh.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Fate works in a mysterious way.’
Mikey doesn’t understand but he doesn’t push it.
‘Anyway, she said to say “hello”. She gave me her card in case you wanted to meet her or anything.’
Dad bursts out laughing again, shakes his can at the sky and shouts, ‘There is a God.’
Mikey feels like he might die of shame the way people are staring at him, but he’s also just so relieved that Dad’s OK with it and that it needn’t be a secret any more.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Dad asks.
‘Oh …’ He shrugs; some instinct warns him to be cool about it. He won’t say that Evie thought he looked just like Grampy. ‘I forgot, I suppose. Didn’t think it mattered. So do you remember her?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Dad. He smiles a secret, satisfied smile that makes Mikey feel anxious. ‘Oh, yes, I remember Evelyn Drake very well indeed. And I intend to know her even better. And so will you, my son. Come on. I think this calls for a ride on the big dipper to celebrate.’
Driving with Ben to Torcross in the early evening Charlie wonders if he is living in a dream from which he might wake at any moment: to be here in Dartmouth during regatta week with no family commitments and old Benj to keep him company; Evie and Claude wandering over for tea or a drink; the sounds and smells and the whole atmosphere of regatta. And on top of it the prospect of seeing Jemima again. His conscience reminds him that simply because Jemima texted Ben, that Ben has made the arrangements to see her, it doesn’t mean that it’s all perfectly innocent. It warns him that it is specious to pretend that this is an ordinary, friendly meeting. At the moment, however, he isn’t listening to his conscience. He is persuading himself that just for this one magical week he and Jemima are beyond the conventions; the rules and regs by which other people live. It’s like some kind of fairy story, or a film; he can almost imagine the soundtrack. A tiny miracle has come to pass. One minute he is at Ange’s beck and call, and now here he is driving with Benj along the coast road to Torcross: to Jemima.
‘This is all so weird, Benj, isn’t it?’ he murmurs, gazing at the wide scoop of the bay shimmering in the hazy early evening light. ‘God, it’s beautiful. I always forget how beautiful it is. You are so lucky to be living here.’
And then he remembers that poor old Benj’s marriage has just broken up, he has no home, no money and no security.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘That was tactless.’
Ben grins sideways at him. ‘That’s OK. I told you, I’m fine with it.’
Charlie wrenches his mind away from Jemima and thinks about how Benj is really feeling. He drives his little VW Golf with great confidence, backing up for nervous tourists in the narrow village street of Stoke Fleming, whizzing down the hills. After his own very smart Audi, the battered, elderly Golf leaves a bit to be desired in the comfort stakes but somehow Charlie rather envies his cousin the sense of freedom; of fun and independence.
‘Will you stay in Dartmouth?’ he asks.
‘For the winter, at least,’ answers Ben. ‘As long as Evie is prepared to let me stay. She could get a huge rent for the house next summer. I might look for somewhere else.’
‘I think she likes having you there. She can use the garden and the garage, and the place isn’t getting damp and cold. Do you find it a bit big, all on your own?’
‘I don’t really use the first floor at all.’ Ben changes gear as they start up the winding hill from Blackpool Sands. ‘I suppose I might use the drawing-room in the winter, but it’s slightly imposing. I tend to live in the breakfast room when I’m not working. It would be quite nice to have someone sharing. Someone to chat to in the evenings, especially when winter draws in.’
‘I’ll come and stay,’ Charlie promises, but even as he says it he wonders how it might be achieved. Maybe Ange will encourage it so as to keep tabs on Benj.
They swoop down the hill by Strete Gate and on to Torcross Line, and Charlie is clenched again with excitement and terror. It’s pathetic but he’s really glad that Benj is with him. Rather like having Maisie there, Benj’s presence prevents the whole thing from toppling out of control. He’s not quite ready for that yet. Jemima seemed so strong and confident; so amusing and fascinating. Being with her was like entering into another sphere; a completely magical experience that he longs to repeat.
His mobile beeps and he digs it out of his pocket and checks it. It’s a text from Ange and immediately his stomach sinks and knots into a kind of leaden lump: he feels guilty and remorseful, yet he cannot turn back: not now; not yet.
‘Ange,’ he says briefly. ‘Just to say everyone’s OK.’
He sends a text, switches the phone off – it could be embarrassing if she rings during the next few hours – and stares ahead. The last thing he needs at the moment is a reminder of his family: how uncomfortable it is to be disloyal. Benj is turning into the car park, manoeuvring into a space, digging in his pocket for change for the parking meter.
‘I’ll get it,’ says Charlie.
He gets out and stands for a moment gazing out to sea, stretching and relaxing and concentrating on the evening ahead: on Jemima. Just at this moment, nothing else matters.
Jemima is watching for them. Standing at the window of her sitting-room she sees them leave the car and stroll along the path beside the ley. At this distance she can barely tell them apart though she guesses that it is Ben who leads the way, pointing out the activities of the ducks on the water, pausing to study the scene as if he might be sizing it up for a photograph. Charlie waits, hands in the pockets of his jeans, scanning the houses as if he is looking for her.
She runs down the stairs, through the kitchen and the conservatory, and goes out to meet them. Charlie sees her come out of the gate and his serious expression is transformed with delight. He takes his hands from his pockets and starts forward as if he might cross the road to embrace her. She takes several deep breaths but can’t prevent herself from beaming back at him, though she stays where she is.
Ben is turning and now he is smiling too so that they both arrive together and, to her relief, this prevents any kind of formal or emotional greeting. Everyone has something to say, which all gets muddled up together, and she goes back into her little yard, where Otto is waiting, and ushers them into the house.
The men both stop to speak to Otto, to smooth his head and pull his ears, so that any kind of awkwardness is over very quickly.
‘I did warn you that it’s only a little bit of house,’ she says. She feels breathless, slightly overwhelmed, as they come into the conservatory. ‘Three is definitely a crowd in here.’ Fearing that this might be misconstrued she hastens on: ‘This is my garden.’ She indicates the wide windowledge with all the pretty pots of flowers. ‘You can see the ley and pretend you’re outside.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Ben says warmly, ‘especially with the evening sun pouring in. And the kitchen is through here?’
He goes ahead and Jemima glances at Charlie, who smiles at her so intimately that her heart bangs about as if it is trying to escape from her breast. She hurries after Ben who is now examining the kitchen.
‘I see so many people’s houses,’ he says. ‘They never cease to fascinate me.’
‘But not little ones like this,’ counters Jemima. ‘You only do big, posh places.’
‘Not true,’ he protests. ‘I sometimes do holiday lets. Cottages, barn complexes, that sort of thing.’
‘Do you?’ She’s momentarily distracted. ‘Our photographer’s moving upcountry. Wouldn’t like some work, would you?’
He looks at her quickly. ‘I would,’ he says. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, he’s definitely going. And I don’t think we’ve advertised yet.’
‘Could you ask them? It would be great just at the moment.’
‘With your portfolio, or whatever you call it,’ says Charlie, ‘I should think they’ll bite your arm off.’
He looks delighted at the prospect and Jemima is touched by his partisanship.
‘Of course I will,’ she says. ‘I’m back to work tomorrow so I’ll have a word. Go on upstairs and have a look at the sitting-room and then we’ll have a drink. We can have it up there if you like, or in the conservatory.’
They both opt for the conservatory and she takes a bottle of white Bordeaux from the fridge and puts a plate of nibbles on the glass-topped table. Otto cocks his head hopefully and she says, ‘Leave,’ very firmly. His ears flatten but his tail wags once or twice as if in acknowledgement of her instruction. She’d seen Charlie’s quick look of disappointment when she mentioned going back to work after the Bank Holiday and she wonders how long he will be in Dartmouth without his family. She can hear them coming back downstairs and she takes three glasses from the cupboard.
‘I love your little bit of house,’ Ben says. ‘I see what you mean about the view. You know, I think if I had to choose, I’d rather have a view of the ley than the sea. There’s more going on and you must be able to see the changes of the seasons much better from this side. We’ll have to do a return match, won’t we, Charlie, and show her the Merchant’s House?’
‘Definitely,’ says Charlie.
Jemima can feel his relief that Ben is taking charge, turning it into something manageable and easy and fun. She feels the same and she relaxes, holding up the bottle.
‘Shall we have a drink?’
‘Small one for me,’ says Ben. ‘I’m driving.’ He crouches down to talk to Otto, who struggles up gratefully in his basket and picks up a very battered teddy to offer to Ben. ‘Thanks, old boy,’ he murmurs. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’
Charlie and Jemima stand smiling at each other, separate again just for a moment. He holds out his glass to touch it briefly against hers as if he is pledging something, and she feels quite weak and foolish – and terribly happy.