EVIE SEES THEM as soon as she enters the bar at the Royal Castle: Mikey and Jason sitting together at the table by the window. She was amazed to get a call from Mikey suggesting that they should have coffee together; amazed and very pleased. Claude was out in the town and she was quite happy to enjoy an impromptu meeting at the Castle.
She waves, and Jason pushes back his chair and gets up.
‘Well,’ he says, pale eyes bright, ‘what a turn-up for the books. Evelyn Drake, after all these years. Who’d have thought it?’
She offers her hand, which he barely touches, smiles at Mikey in his corner. She sees at once that Mikey is uncomfortable, wary, and she realizes that this isn’t just a simple reconnection with the past.
‘You’ve got drinks already,’ she says, ‘so I’ll go and order myself some coffee.’
‘I’ll go,’ Jason offers at once. ‘You reacquaint yourself with Mikey. I gather you’ve already met. Fate taking a hand, wouldn’t you say?’
She doesn’t quite know why his question should sound like a threat but she thanks him, says she’d like a cappuccino and sits down opposite Mikey.
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ she says. ‘I didn’t expect it. It’s good to see you again.’
His eyes flick sideways, watching his father go to the bar.
‘I told Dad we’d met,’ he answers, ‘and he thought it might be a good idea.’
He still looks unsure so she smiles at him.
‘And so it is,’ she says warmly.
She hates to see the shadow of anxiety in his dark blue eyes, the tense lines around the still-childish mouth, and she wonders how to help him to relax.
‘Did you say that your aunt owns the flat you’re staying in?’
He nods. ‘My mum’s sister. Aunt Liz. She says we can have it again at half term.’
‘Well, that’s good isn’t it?’
Again that quick sideways flick of the eyes towards his father.
‘I’d really like to come and Dad says we can as long as he can get time off from his new job at the university.’
‘New job?’
‘In the library. He used to be in a bookshop but it didn’t work out for him. I think it was to do with Mum dying. You know?’
His turned-down mouth is tragic, his eyes miserable, and she nods.
‘I know. Maybe this will be better for him. If you ever needed to, Mikey, you could phone me. Or write to me. The address is on the card.’
He stares at her and she looks steadily back at him, trying to communicate her concern without being too heavy or frightening him. Then Jason is with them again.
‘Here we are,’ he says. ‘So. Making friends?’
The almost malicious brightness of his eyes, the tremor of his hand as he sets down the cup and saucer, register with Evie.
‘Doesn’t look like me, does he?’ Jason goes on, sitting down. ‘I’m like my dear mama. D’you remember my mama, Evie?’
‘Yes,’ she says calmly, thrusting down her instinctive fear. ‘Yes, I remember Pat very well.’
Jason’s smile widens. ‘I thought you would. But Mikey looks like his grandfather, wouldn’t you say?’ He beams at her. ‘Now, I’m very sure you remember him, Evie?’
She beams back at him, refusing to be frightened. ‘Of course I do. We worked very closely together. And yes,’ she smiles at Mikey, ‘you do look like him. I noticed it at once. Do you share his interest in history?’
Mikey shakes his head. Evie can see that he is aware that some game is being played that he doesn’t understand and she feels angry with Jason, but she will not let him control this meeting.
‘But you like music and singing?’
Mikey nods, looking happier. ‘Oh, yes. I love it.’
‘Do you play an instrument?’
‘The piano. A bit. I’m going to learn to play the organ.’
‘But that’s wonderful. Am I talking to a future King’s Organ Scholar?’
He laughs, just as she intended him to, whilst Jason watches them almost speculatively, leaning back in his chair with one hand in his pocket whilst the other turns and turns his empty coffee cup. She leads the conversation around to regatta: asks which event Mikey has enjoyed most, which he’s looking forward to. He tells her that he can’t wait to see the Red Arrows and the fireworks tomorrow night, the last night of regatta, and she feels tremendous relief and pleasure as she watches his young face relax, his eyes shine with anticipation of the display.
‘Well, you must come and visit me,’ she says, putting down her cup, glancing at Jason. ‘If there’s not time before you go home then perhaps at half term?’
She feels that she must leave on this positive note, smiling warmly at Mikey, nodding in a friendly way at Jason, thanking him for the coffee. She goes out quickly, still confused by her mixed emotions: pleasure, relief, but still that deep-down tiny sliver of fear.
Jemima comes out of her office, hesitates at the end of Foss Street and turns down towards the Embankment where the ‘waiters and waitresses’ races are taking place, the competitors sprinting along carrying pints of ale. She laughs to see them as she dodges between the cheering onlookers, planning to grab a cup of coffee and a quick regatta moment before heading off to Dittisham. Benj is getting on so well with Jane that she’s decided to leave them to it. Along the edge of the Embankment the crabbing competition is in full swing – eager children watched by encouraging parents resisting the urge to assist their offspring – and preparations are being made for the barrel-rolling competition.
Still smiling, Jemima turns towards the nearest stall selling coffee and comes face to face with Charlie.
‘Oh,’ she exclaims delightedly – just like that first day – and immediately feels an odd kind of constriction. This is the first time they’ve ever been completely alone.
He seems to understand at once; his smile is warm, full of pleasure.
‘Time for coffee?’ he asks, and she nods.
‘I’ve left Benj with Jane,’ she tells him. ‘They were bonding so well I thought it was best just to let them get on with it. So I made them some coffee and decided to get a quick regatta fix before I go off to Dittisham.’
She hesitates while he orders the coffee, wondering if she should suggest that he might come with her. So far their friendship – she can’t bring herself to call it anything else – has taken place within the framework of regatta, supported by the structure of their separate relationships with Benj and Evie and Claude. She tries to imagine how it might be, driving away from the town, alone together in her car; what pressure it might put on them. So far they have done nothing that might be destructive: there is no drama, here; no history.
He hands her the cardboard cup and they both turn away from the stall, standing close together but watching the races that continue along the Embankment, and suddenly she begins to laugh. He looks down at her, amused.
‘Shall I guess?’ he asks.
She nods. ‘Go on, then. Bet you can’t.’
‘You’re thinking “If this were a film, what would the soundtrack be?”’
She reaches out to give him a friendly punch and he dodges and ducks and just manages to save his coffee.
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I?’
She nods, still laughing, remembering the film game that Charlie and Benj play: one of them calling out the title of a film and the other having to hum the soundtrack. She’s been able to join in with that one. She’s a film addict, and it’s been such fun.
Quite suddenly she doesn’t feel like laughing any more. She sips her coffee, keeping her eyes fixed on the race, and feels the warmth of his shoulder as he stands close to her as if he is attempting to comfort her; to convey his understanding. She swallows coffee and tears, willing herself not to ask him to come with her to Dittisham.
‘And who would we be?’ he asks softly; rather sadly. ‘Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard, only in reverse roles?’
‘Brief Encounter,’ she says quickly, as if they are playing the film game, trying to raise their spirits, and they both hum the Rachmaninov Second Piano Concerto theme tune.
He puts an arm around her shoulders and holds her closely for a moment, then he moves away slightly so as to take something out of his pocket.
‘I was hoping I might see you,’ he says. ‘I just found this in the Shopping Village in the Marquee. It seemed right, somehow. Appropriate.’
She takes it: a small oblong of heavy smooth glass, which only just fits into the palm of her hand. It is a sea scene painted in strong, clean colours: stripes of turquoise, purple and blue across which a small white ship sails. Above the yacht, against the lighter blue of the sky, curve the wings of two white birds. The whole thing speaks of strength, simplicity, freedom: it is utterly beautiful.
He takes it from her and holds it up against the sun, so that colours are like jewels and the little scene is vivid with life, then gives it back to her.
‘It’s perfect,’ she says.
She runs her thumb across it, unable to look at him, and suddenly she feels him tense beside her; the current between them is deflected, cut off.
‘Evie,’ he says. ‘Hi. Have you been watching the race?’
He moves to stand between them so that Jemima has time to recover, to swipe the tears from her cheeks, and slip the glass into her bag. She swallows the last of her coffee, throws the cup into the bin beside the stall, and turns to smile at Evie.
‘I’m dashing off to Dittisham,’ she says. ‘See you both later. Thanks for the coffee, Charlie.’
They look at each other and, just quickly, she grasps his hand and holds it tightly, and then she turns and hurries away into the crowds.
Evie doesn’t make the mistake of apologizing to him. He puts his cup in the bin and they walk away together, not hurrying, heading towards home.
‘When are you going back, Charlie?’ she asks him.
He breathes a deep sigh. ‘On Sunday morning. Only one full day left. Ange is driving up after breakfast. Benj says he’ll drive me to Exeter to rendezvous with them at the service station.’
‘I shall be taking Claude to Totnes for the train,’ she says. ‘It goes just after eleven. I can take you on afterwards if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘But I’ve said I’ll be at Exeter by ten thirty. Ange wants to make an early start. Oh, by the way …’
He hesitates, looking awkward, diffident, and Evie wonders what new demand Ange has made.
‘Spit it out,’ she says lightly.
‘Well, Ange was saying that it would be good to bring the girls down for half term.’
Her eyebrows shoot up, partly in dismay and partly with amusement: Ange is really raising the stakes.
‘Really? Was she? Goodness. I can’t remember the last time she brought the girls to Dartmouth. Well, well.’
‘I know,’ he says miserably. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Evie. She’s just got this silly bee in her bonnet about Benj and I keep telling her that it’s none of our business but, well, you know what she’s like.’
‘Oh, I do,’ agrees Evie. She isn’t ready to tell Charlie about her new plan just yet. She’s still in two minds about it, but she’s not quite prepared to commit either. ‘Well, let’s see, shall we? We need to remember that it’s Ben’s home at the moment – or have you asked him already?’
‘I did just mention it,’ admits Charlie, looking even more miserable, ‘and he was cool with it. Says it’s a family house and so on.’
‘Mmm,’ says Evie thoughtfully, ‘and so it is. Are you meeting him for lunch?’
‘I said I’d see him in the pub for a pint after he’s finished with Jemima’s boss.’
‘Well, I expect you’ll find Claude there. In fact he’s probably there now.’
‘Bit early, isn’t it? It’s barely a quarter to twelve.’
‘You know Claude. He says the sun is always over the yardarm somewhere. In fact I might join you all. Let’s sit for a minute, shall we?’
They sit down on one of the benches in companionable silence and watch life on the busy river: the ferry edging out of Kingswear, yachts at their moorings, the guardship with its bunting fluttering.
Evie watches the passers-by: a couple attracts her attention. The woman is small and neatly dressed in tiny shorts and a halter top; her body is honed, polished, and stripped of every spare ounce of weight. Head down, she watches her bare legs as she walks, studying them as if amazed by their quick movement, their sharp bird-bones and smooth bronzed colour. Her man is bow-legged, bald; he wears baggy shorts and an unattractive vest. He struts importantly, chin thrust forward, lips puckered aggressively.
Evie studies them, wondering what it is that brought them together and keeps them together. Human relationships fascinate her. She thinks again about Jason and Mikey. At least there is a chance now of a reconciliation after all these years. It’s clear that Jason is still antagonistic but she mustn’t allow herself to become foolish about it; to imagine things.
‘How did you manage, Evie?’ asks Charlie after a moment. ‘You and TDF?’
She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She puts Jason and Mikey out of her mind and concentrates on Charlie.
‘By not wanting too much, I suppose. What we shared was very precious but completely separate from his life in London. Marianne was rather like Ange, Dartmouth wasn’t really her scene except for occasional weekends with a little house party, but TDF had always spent time here. Oh, just a few days here and there, sometimes alone, sometimes with Claude, but he’d always done it so there was no particular change to his routine. I was busy working, and I’d never been used to a live-in relationship so that was no hardship either. I don’t really know how it worked for TDF but I think like most men he was able to compartmentalize his life to adapt to it. Of course, it was hard sometimes; there are things you want to share with people you love, but you get on with it, don’t you? And then we had twelve years together. That was an unexpected bonus.’
‘And didn’t you find that difficult? Adjusting to being together after all that time apart?’
‘Sometimes. I was still working for the first eight years and TDF was busy modernizing the Merchant’s House and redesigning the garden, so we still had a certain amount of independence. Oh, but it was great to have him here.’ She turns to Charlie, smiling, close to tears. ‘I really miss him, you know. I don’t mean to sound tough and hard but we shouldn’t have been doing it and we wanted to be certain that you and your mother were untouched by it. Of course, you’d already started work. I remember TDF saying that he’d rather have liked you to go to university but that Marianne was not keen.’
‘I would have liked it,’ admits Charlie. ‘But I expect she was right. It seemed a bit silly when my future was already planned out and the job was there.’
And, thinks Evie, some pretty girl might have tempted you away from Ange.
She smiles at him. ‘No chance to sow wild oats?’
He smiles back at her. ‘None at all.’
‘Well, make the most of this moment,’ she says.
He stares at her, his smile fading, and she shakes her head.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘That was totally out of order. I’m really sorry, Charlie. It was irresponsible. I’ve no excuses, except that I love you and I love to see you happy.’
‘But … but I’m not sure I could handle things the way TDF did. He was so tough. So sure of himself. Oh, in a good way and all that, but I think the guilt would get to me, you see, and I don’t have the courage just to walk away from Ange and the girls and my responsibilities in London. And I don’t want to.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘Like most people I want my cake and to eat it, too, but I’m not sure it’s possible.’
She watches him, not knowing what to say.
‘Don’t sound ashamed, for goodness’ sake,’ she says. ‘I’m just so glad you’ve had this week.’
‘Thanks, Evie. Thanks for that. And I love you too.’
She sits in silence, thinking of – and rejecting – things that she might say to him, and in the end she gets up.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’m going to buy you a drink.’
Once she is out of the town, Jemima pulls into the side of the road and takes the oblong of glass from her bag. It seems to her to be a symbol: the strength of the glass, the simplicity of the design, the freedom of the little boat and the two birds: her own little bit of sea.
She holds it up as he did, against the sunshine, tilting it to enjoy the richness of the colours. How will she manage without that adrenalin rush of seeing him, without the joy of being in his company? It will probably be easier for Charlie: he’s going back home to his family, his work, his life in London. She knows that here she will be always looking for him, that she will see him everywhere: along the Embankment, around the Boat Float, walking up Foss Street; coming out of the Royal Castle with Claude; sitting across the table from Benj in Alf’s with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Charlie will be here for ever, caught like a fly in amber, in her memories of this regatta week.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ she tells herself, ‘you are such a drama queen. Get a grip.’
It was funny that down on the Embankment he guessed that she was imagining them both in some kind of film sequence, thinking of the soundtrack. Her old ma had always said that life would be so much easier if it were set to music; that we’d feel nobler if all our dreary little setbacks and emotions were lived to something dramatic like Brahms or Mahler, or heart-wrenchingly evocative like the voice of Nina Simone.
Despite herself, Jemima smiles. Frummie was quite right, though she can’t quite imagine which composer would be the right one for this particular moment. She simply mustn’t let herself dwell on the future: that way madness lies. Moment to moment is the way. She wishes she had Otto with her, sitting in the back, ears alert, hoping for a walk. At least, once regatta is over, he will be able to come in with her to the office again, to lie under her desk waiting for those trips out into the country, up on to the moor, to check out properties, welcome visitors, deal with any problems. She’s not prepared to leave him up in the Park and Ride car park, however, so just this week he has to stay at home.
Jemima tries to concentrate on the positive side to the end of regatta but her gut lurches as she stares at her little piece of glass and sees Charlie in her mind’s eye, holding it up to the sun, turning to smile down at her.
Cursing under her breath, she puts the glass away safely, switches on the engine and drives off towards Dittisham.
They celebrate Ben’s new project in the garden in the early evening once Jemima has arrived, walking across from the office to join them, up on the terrace where champagne is waiting, glasses set out.
It’s best this way, thinks Claude. Tomorrow night, the last night of regatta, this would be too emotional. We can do all this this evening and tomorrow evening something else must happen. Ben and Charlie can take Jemima down to see the fireworks, have supper at the pub, anything rather than all sitting here knowing it’s the last time, wondering where we’ll be next year, and all that gut-wrenching stuff of saying goodbye.
We can laugh now, raising our glasses to Ben, telling him how great it is, all of us being a bit silly and emotional and over the top, and underneath each knowing what the others are really thinking and able to allow ourselves a little bit extra foolishness because tonight we have this excuse. Tomorrow it would be agony.
‘To Ben,’ he cries, as the champagne foams into the tall flutes.
‘To Ben,’ they all cry, raising their glasses.
I’m not sure I can bear it, thinks Evie. That look on Charlie’s face is breaking my heart. And Jemima is being so amazing, so brave, and she looks so beautiful in her pretty long skirt and with her lovely fair hair all over the place. It’s odd, really, that they seem like my children, these three. Dear Ben looking so pleased and proud but trying to disguise it. He’s not used to being the centre of attention and he’s really very touched that we’re all so happy for him. And Charlie, pulling his leg and pretending his own heart isn’t breaking, and my dear old Claude trying to make it special, buying the champagne and celebrating because it’s the last night, really, and we all know it.
‘To Ben,’ she cries. ‘Well done. Now you won’t be able to leave us. What a lovely thought.’ And she raises her glass to him.
Charlie grins at Benj and claps him on the shoulder, and all the while he wants to seize Jemima and tell her he loves her and say that they all belong here together: he and Benj and Jemima and Claude. And how, he wonders, can I ever go away and leave them? How is it to be done? And how can I ever behave naturally again with Ange and the girls and go back to my old life as if nothing has happened? And how am I going to get through this lovely supper that old Benj has planned for us. The last supper. Oh Christ …
‘Congratulations, Benj,’ says Charlie. ‘Fantastic. Go on, my son!’
They’re like my family, thinks Jemima. It’s so weird. Like I’ve known them for ever, and I love them and I never want it to end. And this, really, is the end. Never mind the Red Arrows and the firework display and the rest of it. Regatta is ending here, tonight, in this magical garden with the smell of the lavender and the fizz of champagne, and yes, there should be music to go with this but whatever could live up to it? And I think I’m going to cry at any minute.
‘To Benj,’ she cries, ‘and to the very best, wonderful, fantastic brochure we’ve ever seen. Hurrah!’
And any moment, thinks Benj, this is going to spiral completely out of control and I’ve got to get them all back on track. I love them, and it’s wonderful, and agonizing. I wish old Charlie wasn’t going back but however would it work out if he stayed? And if we drink much more without eating something then we’ll all go right over the top and get maudlin and that would be utterly disastrous. Bless old Claude for thinking of champagne, and Evie for wanting me to stay. God, I am so lucky. But now I must do something. Take Jemima down to help me with the supper, while Charlie organizes the wine? Separate them just for a while and keep them busy? It just needs something to turn it around, but what? Something silly to take their minds off things. I know …
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I shall do my best to make you proud of me. And now it’s nearly suppertime. But first …’ he holds up his glass, strikes a pose, and calls out: ‘An Officer and a Gentleman.’
There is a complete and surprised silence and then Jemima starts singing ‘Up Where We Belong’ in her clear voice and they all join in – Charlie’s light tenor, Claude’s croaky old bass, Evie’s off-tune contralto – and the garden is full of music and laughter.