EVIE CROSSES THE road, opens the postbox fixed to the wall at the top of the steps and takes out her letters. She carries them down with her to the boathouse, lets herself in, throws the letters on the table and goes to open the sliding doors. She likes to come in on sunny mornings, to air the house, and to enjoy a moment of solitude.
Out on the balcony she pauses to look down-river but the wind is too cold to be able to stand for long and she comes back inside, glancing at the letters, shuffling them: two catalogues, a bank statement and another envelope, handwritten. She picks it up, filled with foreboding: the writing is familiar. This is the second letter that she’s had from Jason and quickly she tears the envelope open and draws out the sheet of paper.
His writing is uneven, almost illegible, unlike his first missive, which was almost childlike in its style. She read it many times and remembers it now.
Dear Evelyn Drake,
I need money to get the car through its MOT. If I don’t get it repaired I shan’t be able to bring Mikey home for his exeat. The trains are very difficult and expensive. I know how fond you are of him and that you would want him to have a good time. Could you send me a cheque for four hundred and sixty-eight pounds?
Please help us.
Yours sincerely,
Jason Dean
She dithered over it, but somehow hadn’t had the courage to show it to Claude. Of course, she knew how he would react – and she knew that she might be wise to listen to him as once she had listened to Tommy – but there was an element of authenticity about Jason’s request: the sum was so precise. At last, she’d written the cheque and sent it to the flat in Bristol with a little note; just a few words: ‘Here is the money, Jason. I’m glad to help on this occasion and I hope you both have a good exeat weekend. Evie.’
Now she spreads the latest letter flat on the table so as to read the scrawling, looping writing.
I’ve got a lot of problems, Evelyn Drake, and I really need help like thousands of pounds not just chickenfeed this time. I’ve got to pay the mortgage and I’m behind with all the bills. It’s payback time. Jason.
Evie stares at it in dismay. She guesses that he was drunk when he wrote the letter but sober enough to address the envelope, find a stamp and post it. She puts it into her pocket, checks that the house is secure and climbs the steps to the road.
‘I can’t believe that you were crazy enough to send him money,’ Claude says for the third or fourth time. He simply can’t get over it. ‘Honestly, Evie, what a bloody stupid thing to do. This is demanding money with menaces. You should report him.’
‘Well, it’s not quite menaces, is it, just saying that “it’s payback time”?’
She looks defiant, guilty, and he wants to give her a good shake.
‘Don’t you see that with people like this there would be no end to it? And now you’ve sent him a cheque you’ve as good as admitted that he has some kind of claim.’
‘I haven’t,’ she cries indignantly, though they both know she doesn’t quite believe it. ‘I merely helped to make sure that Mikey didn’t suffer.’
Claude snorts contemptuously. ‘And so where do you draw the line? When he can’t pay the bills for heating? When the house is repossessed?’
‘Oh, don’t, Claude,’ she says, suddenly looking worried. ‘I know it was silly but I felt sorry for him.’
Claude experiences all the irritation that goes with suddenly feeling compassion for somebody with whom you’re actually very cross, and he jams his hands into his pockets and closes his eyes for a moment.
‘Look,’ he says, drawing a deep breath. ‘Look, I know you have ambivalent feelings about Jason. I understand about the guilt, I know you’re very fond of Mikey, but you simply can’t allow yourself to be blackmailed.’
‘But what shall I do?’ she asks miserably.
He stares across the table at her, his irritation evaporating.
‘We’ll compose a letter,’ he says. ‘We’ll keep it short and firm but very clear.’
‘I worry about Mikey. If things are really that bad …’
‘Mikey is not your responsibility,’ he says gently. ‘He has an aunt and an uncle to watch out for him. Remember how you said he phoned them when he was worried about his father at half term and his aunt came straight down? They’ll be keeping an eye. And if they can afford to buy a flat in Dartmouth they can’t be too hard up. Jason must approach his own family if he’s got financial problems.’
She nods but she doesn’t look convinced and Claude feels frustration rising again.
‘You know in your heart that what I say is true,’ he tells her, ‘or you would have shown me that first letter. You knew what I’d say and part of you knew that I’d be right.’
‘Oh, don’t be so sanctimonious,’ she says crossly, and then they both burst out laughing.
‘Well, it’s true,’ he says. ‘Look at this.’ He gestures at the letter. ‘He’d been drinking, I’m sure of it. The same as when we saw him by the Boat Float.’
‘I know,’ she says anxiously. ‘That’s why I’m worrying about Mikey.’
Claude sighs. ‘Well, write to the boy and ask how he is and if Aunt Liz is on the case. You’ll know how to phrase it. Maybe you could ask for the aunt’s address, though don’t say why. Meanwhile we’ll compose a letter to Jason straight away and get it posted. No good leaving any illusions in his mind.’
The sea rests placidly against the shore, each slight swell of its smooth surface lifting the tide just a little further to break in a gentle flurry of foam along the stony beach. A solitary fisherman sits hunched over his rod, basket open beside him, an ancient dog lying sleeping at his feet.
Jemima stands with her back to the sea, her eyes fixed skywards on the murmuration of starlings that forms and reforms in its fluid swooping flight as the flock returns to its roosts amongst the reed beds. The pale sky, luminous with the fading sunset, is reflected in the cloudy waters of the ley where mallard and coot huddle at the water’s edge. Above, on the sheltering hills, gaunt trees, bare branches sketched in by charcoal, are outlined against the ploughed fields. There is no breath of wind.
Otto sits waiting, his eyes fixed on the fisherman’s dog: friend or foe? The old dog doesn’t move: he lies, head on paws, as patient as his master. Black-backed gulls, driven inland by the recent gales, are following a fishing boat, their raucous cries echoing back from steep cliffs and rocky coves. Jemima turns at last and walks on, heading towards her little cottage. She’s finished work early today and the evening stretches ahead: first, a cup of tea by the fire; later, a friend coming to supper.
Maisie has had her last sleepover until she returns from Australia after Christmas and was absolutely incandescent with excitement at the prospect of the holiday.
‘I have four cousins,’ she told Jemima solemnly. ‘Two of them are nearly my age, one’s a girl and one’s a boy, and there are two baby boys. And,’ she added, having paused so as to give Jemima the opportunity to exclaim with amazement and delight at such good fortune, ‘I have two uncles and two aunts.’
‘Gosh!’ Jemima said, suitably impressed. ‘You are so lucky. I haven’t got any uncles or aunts. Or cousins. I bet you can’t wait to see them all again.’
She knows that Miranda’s brothers and their families have made a few trips back to the UK in the last six years but Maisie can hardly remember them and, although they Skype, it’s difficult for a six-year-old really to connect with people she doesn’t know.
‘You’ll have to send me and Otto a postcard,’ Jemima told her. ‘Don’t forget.’
And Maisie promised that she wouldn’t forget, her small face glowing with the joy of expectation.
‘She’s out of her mind with it,’ Miranda said as they walked along the beach. ‘It’s almost impossible to keep her calm until we go.’
But Jemima can tell that Miranda is excited, too; that she can see the possibility of a whole new exciting life opening up before them both.
‘So what about you, Mimes?’ she asked. ‘Are you sleeping with Ben?’
At first Jemima was completely taken aback; she had to remind herself that she and Miranda have these kind of conversations, that their friendship almost demands it. Of course, Miranda doesn’t know the truth; she doesn’t know about Charlie.
‘Just once or twice,’ she said casually. ‘Nothing serious.’
Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘Why not serious?’
‘Well.’ Jemima cast about for an explanation. ‘It doesn’t have to be, does it?’
Miranda shrugged. ‘I guess not, though I can’t think of a good reason myself. I’d grab him with both hands.’
Well, we all know that, Jemima thought rather bitterly, but she forced herself to look amused, laid-back.
‘You know me,’ she said. ‘I don’t do serious. Anyway, I’m wondering about making a bit of a change.’
‘What sort of change?’
What indeed?
‘Well, there’s a job going in the Truro office and I’m wondering whether to apply for it.’ Was she? ‘The same as I’m doing here but it would be a whole new area to explore. And my sister and her husband are in Falmouth, which would be good. I’m going down for Christmas so I might have a little look around at the renting scene.’
She listened to herself in surprise. Miranda looked surprised, too; almost affronted.
‘Well, get you,’ she said. ‘And I thought you were well settled.’
Jemima laughed. ‘If you can think about moving to Australia why shouldn’t I think about moving to Cornwall?’
And then Maisie and Otto came running back and nothing more was said.
Now, Jemima lets herself in, checks that Otto has fresh water in his bowl, and pauses to look at Charlie’s piece of glass that hangs at the window. Lit by the trembling sunset-light the little white boat appears to be dipping its way across the sapphire and turquoise waves, the two birds fluttering above it: strength, simplicity, freedom.
Soon Charlie will be back in Dartmouth. How will that work? Will they meet by accident? Manage a few hours together? One thing is certain: it can’t be like regatta this time around. She feels confused: this little passage of love with Benj comforts her. With no contact, no word from Charlie, it’s as if her precious memories of him are being kept alive by this intimacy. How can she resist it? Yet now, as Christmas draws closer, whenever she contemplates meeting Charlie within a family context she panics.
Otto is watching her hopefully, tail wagging, wondering if she’s forgotten his dinner. She smooths his head, smiling at his anxious expression, murmuring to him. Most of the time he has dried food, very nutritious and healthy – she has to watch his weight – but occasionally he gets a tin of meat.
‘Fast food tonight,’ she tells him.
She spoons out the meat and the jelly, still talking to him.
‘I do love Charlie, you see,’ she murmurs to Otto, ‘but then I love Benj, too, and Evie and Claude, which slightly complicates things.’
Otto watches her, ears cocked, alert. She puts his bowl down beside him and he sniffs at it with pleasure and begins to eat.
‘Perhaps it’s time for a change, Otto. Time to move on. How do you think you might like living in Cornwall? Should I apply for the job in Truro?’
Otto continues to eat but his tail wags politely as if to indicate that she still has his attention. He finishes his dinner, polishing the bowl with sweeps of his tongue so that the bowl jolts across the floor. Jemima bends to pick it up.
‘Was it good?’ she asks. She wonders how people who live alone manage without someone to talk to: a cat or a dog.
‘I can’t imagine not having someone around,’ she said to Evie recently. ‘Though usually I’ve had cats. They’re a bit easier to cope with when I’m working. My last cat was utterly gorgeous. He was called MagnifiCat. He was a much better judge of character than I am. After he died I was distraught. I was just deciding to get another cat and then Otto came along and it was wonderful to have someone to talk to again, if you see what I mean. And so well behaved that he can come in the car with me and they don’t mind having him in the office. Do you talk to yourself?’
‘Sometimes,’ Evie admitted. ‘When I was writing I had so much going on in my head that I never felt alone. So many characters, so many connections and ideas. It’s rather lonely without them, especially once Tommy died, of course.’
‘And all your characters have gone off and left you?’
Evie smiled. ‘Something like that. Though just lately there’s been so much excitement that I haven’t had time to feel lonely.’ She hesitated. ‘We were wondering if you’d like to spend Christmas Day with us? Stay the night, perhaps?’
There was another tiny pause.
A few weeks ago, Jemima thought, I might have leaped at it. But now? How would it work? And why hasn’t Benj mentioned it? Perhaps, now, he’d find it difficult. Perhaps he thinks I’d expect to share his room?
‘That’s so kind of you,’ she answered warmly. ‘The thing is, I always go to my sister in Falmouth for Christmas. It’s become a kind of tradition, and her son and his family are coming down from London for it, too, so it’s quite an occasion this year.’
‘Well, there will be plenty of time for celebration,’ Evie said easily. ‘Charlie will be down for a couple of days just before.’
At once she panicked: how would she manage to be with Benj and Charlie, with Claude and Evie looking on? How would Benj manage? Evie’s words brought the reality of the situation into sharp focus.
‘I might be gone by then,’ Jemima said quickly. ‘I’m not sure …’
And Evie had looked at her so understandingly, so lovingly, that Jemima longed to burst out with it all; to explain, but she couldn’t frame the words and the moment passed.
That was the first time since this foolish little affair started that Jemima was forced to take a cold, hard look into the future and make a decision – and she acted instinctively: she would not be at the Merchant’s House for Christmas.
Now, she puts Otto’s bowl into the sink, pulls the curtains across the darkening windows, makes a mug of tea and goes upstairs to her little sitting-room with Otto at her heels. She switches on the lamps and lights her wood-burning stove, which begins to flicker cheerfully. She must prep the supper later but meanwhile she’ll relax. She sits down on the sofa, pulls out Otto’s rug and waits for him to clamber up beside her and settle comfortably with his head resting against her thigh.
Jemima picks up the remote, switches on the television, channel hops. Someone is singing ‘Let It Snow!’, and she drinks her tea, absent-mindedly stroking Otto and thinking about Charlie; how she first saw him at regatta, and that indescribable sensation of knowing and being known. Her little bit of glass is a symbol of all that he recognized in her: strength, simplicity, freedom. She closes her eyes, remembering his look of joy, his delight at their meeting. It was so important: so mysterious. Yet her connection through Benj, through Evie and Claude, is all she has of him. How can she bear to give it up?