ON THE MORNING THAT Henry was to visit Gillian, it would have been impossible to judge who was the more nervous; Gillian or Lydia. Lydia felt two quite separate emotions. The first was a real nervousness of Henry himself. Beside her woolly, undisciplined, easily impressed personality, he seemed a man of upright character; a landowner and a magistrate, running his estate, managing farms, tenants, land. He made her feel inadequate and foolish. The second emotion was a combination of humiliation and embarrassment. Had she been a better mother, Gillian would probably not have behaved so badly and she imagined that Henry might easily despise her. She could see now with the clear unclouded vision that hindsight lends that, when Gillian had turned up en route for France, she should have packed her straight back to Nethercombe with a flea in her ear. Instead, she had almost encouraged her to go. Poor Lydia felt quite ill with remorse.
Gillian’s feelings were even more complex. Along with shame and fright, she felt an overwhelming guilt. To know that she had deceived Henry with the man who was responsible for John’s death and Nell’s desperate situation was something that could never be forgotten. It went to bed with her at night and was waiting for her each morning. Gillian knew that Henry was quite generous enough to put the whole episode – as he understood it – behind him but what if he should ever discover the real truth? Supposing he should find out that it was she who had seduced John into meeting Sam? Gillian felt sick at the
thought and wished with all her heart that she could turn back the clock. She lay awake at night, staring into the darkness, knowing that she could never escape from this terrible knowledge. Sometimes she allowed herself to imagine a scene in which she unburdened her soul to Henry and he forgave her freely; more often she visualised an expression of disgust mingling with dislike dawning on his face and knew that she couldn’t risk it. Even if Henry could bring himself to forgive and forget, what about Nell? She was the truly injured one; the victim whose life lay in ruins. Gillian’s relief had known no bounds when she found that Henry and Gussie had carried Nell back to Nethercombe. Her only dilemma was how to face her; how to look her in the eyes. She wept with shame and self-disgust and Lydia, who didn’t know the whole truth, looked upon her daughter’s ravaged face with dismay and became even more nervous of confronting Henry.
‘You’ll stay, won’t you, Mum?’ asked Gillian as they sat waiting for the doorbell to ring. ‘Don’t go. Not to begin with.’
Lydia, who had planned an escape into the kitchen under the pretext of making coffee, looked at her in alarm.
‘You sound as if you’re quite frightened of him, darling,’ she suggested and screamed faintly as the doorbell rang loudly.
Both women had leaped to their feet and now they stood, listening, Gillian unconsciously clutching Lydia’s arm.
‘Oh, how silly.’ Lydia attempted a light laugh and patted her chest nervously. ‘It quite made me jump. Shall you go … ?’ Her words trailed away. Gillian looked as though she might pass away in terror. ‘I’ll go.’
Lydia pushed her daughter back into the corner of the sofa and with trembling knees went out into the hall. She flung open the door with a gesture of bravado and laughed hysterically at her son-in-law.
‘Hello, Lydia.’ Henry was far too happy to notice if she were behaving oddly. ‘How nice to see you. Are you well?’ He went into the sitting room and Lydia, following behind him, saw him open his arms
to Gillian who stared up at him from her corner. ‘Gillian,’ he said and his voice was warm and full of love. ‘How wonderful to have you back.’ And Gillian leapt to her feet, bolted into his arms and burst into tears.
‘Oh, darling. Oh dear.’ Lydia clucked round both of them and then decided to take the risk of incurring Gillian’s wrath and followed her own original plan.
As she filled the kettle and measured the coffee she hovered to and fro, keeping an eye on things through the half-open door. Gillian’s sobs had subsided and Henry’s deep voice was murmuring tenderly and Lydia gave thanks to all the gods at once that the worst was over. She realised that she was trembling violently and slipping over to the cupboard took a good swig from the whisky bottle. In the act of cramming some biscuit into her mouth, lest the smell should be detected, she was surprised to find Henry close behind her. She clapped a hand over her lips, her eyes round and horrified above it, and nodded brightly at him.
‘Gone to mop up,’ he explained. ‘Shall I carry something?’
He seized the tray whilst Lydia, still nodding encouragingly, swallowed a crumb the wrong way and choked violently. Henry put the tray down so that he could bang her on the back and Gillian, arriving on the scene, poured a glass of water and passed it to her mother. Lydia gulped it back and apologised breathlessly.
‘Let’s have some coffee.’ Gillian looked radiant. ‘Henry says he’s got all sorts of things to tell us.’
Henry picked up the tray again and, behind his back, mother looked at daughter and they hugged wordlessly before following him into the sitting room.
SOPHIE WROTE FIRST; A shy, almost silly letter, crammed full of the ‘most amazing’ happenings and goings-on. Guy was rather touched but enjoyed Gemma’s letter, which arrived a week after Sophie’s, much more. It was quite a casual but interesting letter and brought the
writer’s easy, happy charm very much to his mind. At the end she wrote that she was hoping to introduce him to Chris Winterton – her submariner boyfriend – during the summer holidays.
Guy found himself feeling worried at the thought of becoming a foursome. He didn’t want to give Sophie ideas and, anyway, it had been such fun, just the three of them. He imagined that it had a lot to do with the fact that he’d known them from their cradles until he remembered that he didn’t care at all for Gemma’s brothers whom he’d known for even longer and, realising that he was in danger of becoming confused again, he whistled to Bertie and wandered up the drive into the beech walk. So immersed in thought was he that it was only when she was nearly upon him did he realise that Nell was walking towards him. How beautiful she was, though much thinner than he remembered her but how well it suited that Pre-Raphaelite unworldliness. She wore a white silk shirt tucked into a heavy cotton skirt that flowed almost to her feet and her dark red hair hung down her back and Guy realised that he was holding his breath. She smiled at him and, after a moment, held out her hand.
‘You don’t remember me,’ she said. ‘I’m Nell Woodward. We met at the barbecue last autumn. Is it Guy?’
‘Yes, it is.’ He grasped her hand readily. ‘And I remember you perfectly well.’ Several remarks fled through his head, all of which were unsuitable, and he realised that he was still holding her hand and dropped it, flushing darkly. ‘Bertie’s been stuck in the office with me all day,’ he said, at random. ‘So I’m taking the long way round to the pub.’ He hesitated, watching her crouch to stroke Bertie who looked at her with dark wise eyes and offered his paw. ‘Would you like to come?’
He swallowed, amazed at himself, and Nell looked up at him in surprise.
‘That sounds … really nice. D’you know, I would.’ She straightened up. ‘I haven’t been to a pub for …’ she shook her head, ‘oh, I simply can’t remember how long.’
‘Well, then.’ A strange nervous excitement was surging in his
veins. ‘It’s only the little local one. Nothing too special. But they do a good drop of Bass and an excellent beef sandwich.’
She smiled at him and his heart did strange exciting things in his breast.
‘That’s an offer I’m quite unable to resist. Thank you.’
‘We’ll go out by the Lodge,’ he said, trying to control himself. ‘There’s a small wicket gate on to the lane. The big gate’s padlocked.’
‘I know.’ Nell turned to retrace her steps beside him. ‘I live there now, you know.’
‘In the Lodge?’ He stared at her. ‘I didn’t know that. Have the Ridleys gone?’
‘Good heavens, no! They’ve moved up to the house. It was getting a bit too much for Mrs Ridley, going between the two. So we’ve swapped. Wonderful luck for me. It’s a dear little cottage.’
Guy was silent, unable to think of a single thing to say that wasn’t loaded with peril. Nell turned her head and smiled at him and he saw the pain and the fear and the loneliness behind it and felt inadequate and impotent to reach out to comfort her.
‘I’m glad you’re settled.’ How bleak it sounded.
‘So am I,’ she confided in him. ‘I was so afraid of being in a muddle when the summer holidays start. I want to be ready for Jack.’ She hesitated and he guessed she was wondering how much he knew.
‘I understand,’ he said with real feeling and she smiled at him again, gratefully. ‘Does he like sailing?’
‘Oh! Yes, actually. He loves it. He does a bit at school.’
‘I’ve got a boat at Dartmouth. Perhaps he’d like to go out?’
‘Oh, he’d love to! How very kind. Are you sure? He’s only twelve and it can be a tiresome age.’
‘Rubbish! It’s a very good age. That’s settled then.’ He nodded, smiling back at her. ‘What about you? Are you a sailor? Perhaps you’d like to go out? One weekend?’
‘I’ve never sailed.’ She looked a little anxious. ‘Is it … ? Is it quite a big boat?’
He really smiled then, a truly warm, genuinely affectionate smile, and she responded automatically, suspecting that he was about to tease her.
‘All I can say to that is,’ he said, ‘come and find out!’
ONCE AGAIN THE RHODODENDRONS had flowered and, once again, Gussie had watched them turning from bud to bloom as she walked among bushes tall as trees, each covered with the purple and crimson and white blossoms. This spring she felt a special magic. Gillian was back at Nethercombe and Henry was happy again. She and the Ridleys had guarded the secret well. Everyone assumed that Gillian was visiting relations in France and her homecoming had been delayed. When Henry told her that she had nothing to fear from gossip she was grateful and when Gussie greeted her as though she’d just come back from a trip to Exeter, she’d hugged her with the first real affection that she’d ever shown the older woman. Now, on this hot day in early summer, Gussie walked among the rhododendrons remembering that hug and smiling to herself. With that embrace everything between them had been put right and Gussie was being as tactful as she could be in giving Gillian and Henry plenty of time together alone. Even Mrs Ridley, snug and busy as Mrs Tittlemouse in her little house, was prepared to bury old prejudices and extend – albeit cautiously – the olive branch.
Gussie cut off a yellow scented bloom and held it to her nose, sniffing luxuriously. She was surprised at how eager Gillian was to make amends. She behaved like a chastened child who, ashamed of certain exploits, longs to atone. If she’d been asked to guess, Gussie would have said that, in these circumstances, Gillian would have been prone to behave with defiant bravado. Gussie tucked the flower into her cardigan button and strolled on. Even more unexpected was Gillian’s reaction to Nell. Here, she had hoped for sympathy on Gillian’s part and had been quite taken aback by her sensitivity. She almost seemed to dread meeting Nell and when, finally, it had taken
place, Gillian had been almost deprived of speech and it had been Nell who had been obliged to take the situation in hand.
Gussie cut another bloom and added it to the sprays in the basket on her arm. Nell was healing. It was a slow process but all the better for that; slow and sure and thorough. Gussie walked through the little gate that led to the swimming pool. The doors to the summerhouse stood open and she sat down on the Lloyd Loom chair that stood in the sunshine, its cushions warm. The scent of new-mown grass crept to her nostrils, the birds sang riotously about her and, higher up the valley, a goods train rattled over the viaduct. Gussie closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun.
‘The thing is, Lord,’ she said, feeling that the Almighty would be quite grateful to pause in His labours and rest in the sun awhile, ‘it would be impossible not to heal in this wonderful place. We are so lucky, Lord. So very, very lucky. And don’t think we don’t appreciate it. Of course, the trouble is that we don’t realise that Life is just a series of moments and all that is guaranteed to us is now. This moment in time. If we realised that, we’d stop scurrying about, too busy to stop and enjoy the magic moments because our minds are fixed on a future that probably doesn’t exist.’ She paused politely, giving the Almighty chance to make a contribution. A thought occurred to her which she looked upon as a direct communication and she nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, of course, You’re quite right. People are afraid to stop in case they are obliged to confront themselves. Silence is so frightening.’
A figure inserted itself between her and the sun and Gussie opened her eyes. Phoebe stood looking down at her and Gussie smiled serenely.
‘Good morning, Phoebe.’
‘Hi, there. All alone?’ Phoebe glanced around.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Gussie sighed. ‘Quite alone.’
‘May I join you?’ Phoebe dragged up an adjoining chair without waiting for Gussie’s gesture. ‘I’m glad to see you. I wanted to ask you how you thought Nell was doing?’
Gussie put her thoughts in order.
‘She’s coming along very well, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree? You see something of her, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Phoebe stretched out her long legs in their shabby cords and gazed out over the roofs of the Courtyard. ‘She’s begun to talk about things a little.’
‘Things?’ queried Gussie cautiously.
‘John,’ said Phoebe and grimaced. ‘It’s terrifying. I’m so afraid of saying too much. Or not enough. The balance is terribly difficult and I’m not one of your tactful women.’
Gussie smiled. ‘I’m sure that you’re just what she needs. She’s very reticent and it’s probably easier for her to unburden herself to you, being closer to her age than I am. And, of course, you’ve been married.’
Phoebe snorted.
‘Oh, yes.’ Gussie nodded. ‘It makes a difference. We all have something different we can give. I’m so glad you’ve made friends.’
They sat for a while in the sun. Presently Phoebe shifted in her chair.
‘Gussie?’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘Who were you talking to – when I came up just now? You were saying something about silence being frightening.’
‘I was talking to the Lord, dear,’ Gussie told her calmly. ‘I find it helps to straighten out my thoughts to have a little chat to Him from time to time.’
‘Right.’ Phoebe nodded, raised her eyebrows, drew down the corners of her mouth, shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips in quick succession. ‘Fine. Good.’
Gussie, her eyes closed against the sun, pictured Phoebe’s discomfiture with a certain amount of sympathy. Unlike Mrs Ridley, Phoebe would have difficulty in coming to terms with the idea of chatting to the Almighty, whether it was on the terrace or by the swimming pool.
‘After all, my dear,’ she said, ‘why not? “For in Him we live, and move, and have our being.” ’
‘Absolutely!’ said Phoebe, after a moment of profound silence.
‘So.’ Gussie opened her eyes suddenly and beamed at her. ‘Shall we go up? Henry’s away today and Gillian likes company.’ She looked sombre for a moment. A little bell tolled and was silent. Why did Gillian dislike being alone? It reminded her of that earlier thought, but why?
Phoebe was looking at her anxiously and Gussie shook her head and got to her feet.
‘I’m a silly old woman,’ she told her. ‘Come on. I must get these poor flowers into some water.’
Above them, up on the terrace, they could hear voices and the clink of china. Gussie inhaled the scent of cut grass and nodded her head.
‘So lucky, my dear,’ she said to the startled Phoebe and led the way through the gate.