LATE MARCH SUNLIGHT fills the little room, shining on the simple furniture and white walls. Sister Emily puts down a book, picks up her pen again and begins to write. Her small table set beneath the window is covered with sheets of paper: letters from people whom she has been spiritually mentoring over long periods of time, some relationships stretching back for nearly fifty years. She spends a great deal of time – thinking, praying, reading – before she answers any letter, and her correspondence is liable to mount rather alarmingly. Nevertheless, each letter is given its allotted time: nothing is allowed to hurry the process. This afternoon she’s spent some considerable time looking for references, for certain passages that have slipped into her mind, interrupting the progress of the letter. The writer is a middle-aged man who, with his wife, started to come to Chi-Meur some ten years ago. They stayed in the Coach House, self-catering; coming into the chapel for some of the services but also walking and exploring the surrounding countryside and visiting Padstow: what she and the other Sisters call Holy Holidays. Recently his wife died and he’s begun to come alone, staying in the big house on silent retreats to which she has been assigned as his mentor.
He is a good man, finding silence difficult, needing to talk. Sometimes, however, the talk becomes a block to real spiritual growth and she has to stop him as gently as she can. ‘Too many words,’ she says firmly, smiling at him, rising to go. He writes to her often and she’s brooded long on his most recent letter regarding another lately bereaved friend whom he, in his turn, is attempting to advise and counsel. Now, she believes, she can see her way forward.
I quite understand your longing to be able to enter into your friend’s painful experience, especially as you have suffered the very similar pain of loss. However, it isn’t necessary to keep telling him your story. In fact, to enter properly into solidarity with him, it is far better to remain silent: your gift to him is merely to listen in silence. Total concentration is what is required; not that half state of listening we so often adopt when we are mentally deciding how we might introduce our own pain or preparing our next piece of advice ready for the minute the other person stops speaking.
There is a tentative tapping at the door. Emily puts down her pen, irritated.
‘Come,’ she calls, and turns on her chair to face the door. It is Janna, her face alarmed, contrite and guilty all at once. Emily rises quickly and Janna, still holding the door, begins to speak quietly but with great haste.
‘’Tis Sister Nichola. She was with me in the kitchen, sitting at the table, so that Sister Ruth could have a bit of a quiet moment on her own, and I was making her a cup of tea and chatting away to her and when I turned round she’d gone. I ran out in the garden but there’s no sign of her …’
Emily goes to the door; she smiles reassuringly into the anxious face. ‘Shh, now, shh. Sister Nichola has an independent streak and she likes to go off on little expeditions. She never goes very far, though. Have you looked in the chapel?’
‘The chapel?’ Janna’s face is blank. ‘But it isn’t time for Vespers yet.’
‘No, no, but Nichola loves the chapel. It’s always been her favourite place and it’s where she always went whenever she had any free time. People think that nuns spend all their time in chapel or at prayer, or dwelling on their faults and failings, but the truth is that we have very little time for such luxuries. I was telling a very intense young woman who was here on retreat quite recently that if she treasured her prayer life then it was best not to even think of becoming a nun.’
All the while she is talking she is leading the way along the corridor towards the ante-room outside the chapel. Gently she looks through the half-open heavy oaken door into the chapel, beckons to Janna, and they stand together in silence. Sister Nichola is sitting in her stall. Her round pale face glows with some internal joy; her hands are open to receive the gift, one palm cupped within the other. She seems to be listening to something that ordinary ears cannot hear and Emily’s heart constricts in a spasm of delight and envy: Nichola has always been one of those few blessed souls who live in the light. She steps back, drawing Janna with her.
‘I will watch with her for a short while,’ she murmurs, ‘and then I’ll bring her back to you in the kitchen. Go along. All is well.’
Janna slips away and Emily goes quietly into the chapel and sits in the nearest seat by the door. She does not look at Nichola but is simply aware of her. Her own thoughts run on rather formlessly. She has never been as fortunate as Nichola; she has only ever seen the back of God.
God is that great absence
In our lives, the empty silence
Within, the place where we go
Seeking …
She can hear the words in her head and she broods on the paradox: that the awareness of that emptiness is the beginning of fullness. Her thoughts become a contemplative form of prayer and presently Nichola stirs and glances around. Emily rises up and goes to her. Nichola smiles and Emily nods reassuringly and encourages her to her feet. She picks up the stick and puts it into Nichola’s hand. Quietly, slowly, they make their way to the door which, unless the Office or the Eucharist is being said or Silent Prayer is in progress, is always slightly ajar. Nichola pauses, turns aside to dip her fingers into the stoup of holy water and crosses herself; then stretches her wet fingers with a smile to Emily, who receives the drops of water as if they are a special blessing. Together they pass through the back of the house and into the kitchen where Janna is ironing.
‘I think Nichola would like a cup of tea,’ Emily says cheerfully. ‘Would you, Nichola?’
‘Yes.’ The word is barely a breath. ‘Yes, please. Penny … ?’ She looks at Janna, puzzled, fumbling with the chair that Emily has pulled out for her.
‘This is Janna,’ Emily reminds her, helping her into the chair. ‘Janna. Penny isn’t very well and Janna is doing all her work as well as her own. Will you stay with her?’
Nichola nods, quite happy again, and Janna goes to reheat the kettle, exchanging a relieved glance with Emily who hurries quietly away, back to her room and her abandoned letter.
Dossie, driving along the lane to St Endellion, is fizzing with a wild joy. She’d forgotten what it is like to feel so madly happy. And these early days of a Cornish spring are utterly in accordance with her mood: the hot sun, the clear sky, the light north-easterly breeze tingling with energy. In the twisting, sunken, secret lanes the banks and ditches are lit with glowing pools of rich gold and pale, luminous yellow: celandines, daffodils, cowslips and primroses, all flowering in abundance. On bare black thorny branches white-tipped blackthorn buds are just beginning to show and there is a flutter of wings and a flash of bright feathers in the hedgerows.
Just round corner at farm shop. Any chance of buying u a cream t?
His text has taken her by surprise: her gut churns and she laughs at her reaction, mocking herself, as if it might make it seem less important. She feels like a girl, slipping out to meet an undesirable boyfriend; fooling Pa and Mo.
‘Just dashing off to meet up with a client,’ she calls to Mo, who is pruning fuchsias. Well, it’s true: Rupert is a client. She waves to Pa mounted on his sit-on mower with Wolfie perched beside him, making the first cut of the year, but he hasn’t heard a word and simply waves back cheerfully. ‘Might be an hour, maybe longer,’ she shouts, and Mo nods, smiling, and goes back to her ruthless cutting back of the dead wood. Dossie unlocks her car door, relieved not to be questioned, but the dogs come running after her and she bends to ruffle Wolfie’s ears and to rest her forehead, just for a moment, on John the Baptist’s wise, domed head.
‘I know what you’re up to,’ his glance seems to say, and she laughs silently, secretly to herself as she kisses him lightly between his ears.
Hopping into her little car, whizzing out into the lane, she takes a deep gasping breath. Rupert mustn’t see her excitement. She speaks sternly to herself: ‘You’ve only met him once. You hardly know him. Act your age.’
But she simply can’t. That one meeting in the pub near Bodmin was amazing. He was standing at the bar and turned suddenly as she came in blinking from the bright sunny day, into the gloom of the dark interior. She recognized him at once from the photograph on his website. He isn’t particularly tall – not as tall as Clem – but he has a presence. His personality dominated that crowded bar and he waved at her, laughing, and the man behind the bar laughed with him as if he too had been waiting for this moment. She hesitated and Rupert came towards her, looking at her intently with brown eyes and holding out his hand, and she said, rather foolishly: ‘How did you know it was me?’ and she took his hand, and shook it, and dropped it very quickly.
‘Chris described you,’ he answered with a little private smile, still with that intent look, and she knew that, against her will, her lips were curling upwards too, smiling with him, acknowledging that something special was happening.
And that’s the trouble, she warns herself, as she hurries along the lane listening to Joni Mitchell singing ‘Comes Love’; she’d been too eager. It was if she’d known him for ever, yet there is this tingling excitement still fizzing along her veins so that her heart hammers and she feels breathless.
He asked her questions about her work, her achievements; intelligent questions from someone who knew the business, and who clearly respected what she did. They chuckled together about the whims of clients and the precariousness of being self-employed and working alone without a back-up team.
‘Though I’ve got Pa and Mo,’ she said, and then regretted it, not wanting to bring in all the freight and baggage of their private lives just yet.
He raised his eyebrows but he didn’t press it, and somehow she found herself explaining about Mo and Pa and the B and B-ers, and about her early widowhood, and Clem and Jakey. It all came out rather suddenly and unexpectedly, and he listened – really listened – to her, and she waited for the slight withdrawal of interest which had happened so often before when she talked about how she still lived with her parents. But Rupert was fascinated, asking more questions – roaring with laughter when she explained about John the Baptist as a puppy diving headfirst into his drinking-bowl – not in the least fazed by her unusual family set-up.
When she tentatively invited him to talk about his own situation he merely shook his head.
‘I’m on my own at the moment,’ he said.
His expression was an odd one – a mix of bleakness? a determination not to become emotional? – and she decided to respect it; not to pry, or to persuade him that he would be quite safe with her if he wanted to let it all hang out. She was used to Clem’s need for emotional privacy. She’d seen how he’d dealt with Madeleine’s death in this same way, and she was determined not to make Rupert uncomfortable. Carefully she led the conversation back into its former lines and soon they were laughing again. And there was a new sense of freedom between them, as if by getting all the baggage out into the open they were free to go forward.
She drives into the farm shop car park and looks for his car: an ancient dark blue Volvo.
‘It’s a good old work horse,’ he said affectionately after that lunch, as they stood outside the pub beside the car. The back seats were folded forwards and an old sheet was laid down across them; various tools were scattered on it. ‘What do you drive?’
She pointed to her tidy little Golf. ‘I have to look reasonably smart,’ she said, ‘but I need to be able to get trays of food in the back too. My clients like to believe that I’m efficient and respectable.’
‘What a pair we are,’ he said. He dropped a hand lightly on her shoulder and she quivered suddenly at his touch, looking quickly away and pretending to shield her eyes from the sun.
‘I’d better dash,’ she said. ‘Let me know if you want any more information for your clients.’
‘Oh, I will,’ he assured her, but she saw that disturbing look in his eyes, and she smiled and said, ‘Thanks for the lunch,’ and hurried away before he could say anything else. Just as she was almost glad that the snow prevented their first meeting, so then she wanted to postpone any further commitment; she wanted to preserve this excitement and the sense of anticipation of what was to come.
And now she is here, staring at his battered old Volvo, and taking a deep breath to steady herself. She slants the driving mirror and stares anxiously at her gilt-fair hair, at her face with the slatey-blue dark eyes. Too late to wonder whether she should have changed; her moleskin jeans and favourite old cashmere jersey will have to do. She mustn’t look too keen, as if she’d made a great effort.
She gets out and slams the door, swings her bag on its long leather handle over her shoulder and goes in, through the shop with its fresh vegetables and home-made chutneys and delicious fudge, and into the restaurant. He isn’t at any of the tables at the end of the shop, so she smiles at the girl by the till and passes on into the bigger, brighter area with its high wood-framed pine ceiling and big windows. He is standing beside a table, staring out of the window across the grassy spaces towards the hills behind St Austell.
He glances round as she comes in, his face brightening with pleasure. ‘Wasn’t I lucky to find you at home!’ he says. ‘There’s an old cottage for sale not too far away that I thought I’d go and have a quick look at, and I suddenly realized how close I was and it was too good an opportunity to miss.’
She is glad that he hasn’t decided simply to drop in. She isn’t ready to explain anything to Pa and Mo just yet.
‘It was good to get out into the sunshine,’ she says lightly. ‘I’ve been cooking all morning for a dinner this evening, so I can’t be too long.’
‘It’s incredible, isn’t it,’ he says, gesturing to the view, ‘that those amazing-looking hills are simply spoil heaps from the china clay industry? How quickly old Mother Nature would obliterate us if she could! So are you up for a cream tea?’ He looks at her with an almost intimate all-appraising stare. ‘You’re not a calorie counter, are you?’
She laughs then: challenging his disturbing glance. ‘Do I look like one?’
He shakes his head delightedly. ‘Thankfully not. I can’t abide skinny women. I’ll go and order.’
He leaves her standing by the table and goes out to the bar. She watches him go, liking his casual, elegant grace, and thinks, Great legs! and laughs guiltily to herself.
When he returns she is sitting with her back to him, staring out of the window, and he slides into the seat opposite and watches her.
‘So tell me about the cottage,’ she says casually. ‘Do you really need another one?’
He leans back, stretching out his legs which touch her own, though he seems unaware of the contact. She sits quite still.
‘I always need another one,’ he answers lazily. ‘It’s what I do. When I’ve finished this one I shall simply pack up and move on to the next one, though it might take time to find it. It works very well. It takes times to feel what the house really needs, what it’s all about, and to have the vision for what I want to do with it. It tells you itself if you give it a chance. This one has been a bit more of a challenge. I’m out of my comfort zone over here on the wild north coast and on the moor. Up until now I’ve stayed in the same area around St Mawes and I’ve got a trusty network of chaps who always work with me – a plumber, an electrician and an amazing carpenter – so this was a bit of a chance. I live in whichever cottage I’m working on until it’s absolutely right. It’s very exciting when you get just the right materials or design of some particular feature. Then I either put it into my renting portfolio or I might sell it, or put in a tenant on a long let, depending on the market. We did a whole barn complex once.’
She longs to ask how it worked with his wife; how she’d coped with such a peripatetic life, but she doesn’t have the courage.
‘I thought you might come and look at it with me,’ he says. ‘This cottage. It’s not very far away. I’m meeting the agent there at five o’clock and I’d value your expert opinion. Why not?’
She tries to think of some reason why not. The pressure of his leg unsettles her and she is glad when the girl brings the tray of tea and so that she can move, sit upright and draw in her legs, without looking as if she’s been conscious of the contact.
‘I could, I suppose,’ she says casually, ‘if we’re not too long. It might be fun,’ and she smiles at the girl and thanks her, and begins to pour the tea.
Mo watches her go. She clips a few more stems and puts them into the wheelbarrow and then goes to sit on the wrought-iron seat on the flagstones outside the drawing-room windows. It’s hot just here, out of the light north-easterly breeze, looking south-west across the garden and the fields to the low line of hills behind St Austell. John the Baptist comes to sit at her feet; sighing heavily he curls up, eyes closed. She nudges him very gently with her foot, just so as to acknowledge his presence without disturbing him, and he sighs again with contentment.
Mo sits quietly, ankles folded beneath the seat, but she frowns a little. What is Dossie up to? For a little while now she’s been in an odd mood; scatty, effervescent, distracted. She’s always been a cheerful, positive, outgoing girl. Even after poor Mike died in that ghastly motor accident she tried so hard to remain strong and positive for Clem. Dossie isn’t the sort to whinge and mope around, though there were times when she found it very hard indeed to cope with work and Clem and widowhood.
Of course, she met other men but – rather like darling Mike – they were always … well, a bit off-centre. Mo frowns again, remembering Mike: tall and loose-limbed, just like Clem. They all loved him; even Pa was touched by Mike’s warm-hearted extravagance. How he loved speed! Motorbikes, Formula One, speedboats. It wasn’t surprising that he’d come unstuck so tragically, given the way he risked himself. Mo shakes her head, sadly: poor Mike – and poor Dossie and Clem.
Then, later, there was the fellow who loved sailing. Dossie fell quite heavily for him, and little Clem adored him, and then, just when they were all wondering whether something might come of it, he announced that he was off to sail around the world. He asked Dossie to go with him, and Clem, too, but after a few weeks of agonizing over it she refused.
‘I can’t, Mo,’ she said miserably, hunched on her bed, curled in the angle of the wall. ‘How can I risk it? Clem starts school next term and we have no idea how long this voyage might last or how dangerous it might be. Anything might happen. I know people do take their children on long sea trips but … I simply can’t bear the thought of any more accidents.’
Mo, sitting on the bed, watching her, felt so helpless. Her heart filled with anguish for her child but she simply nodded, agreeing, and then she lightly touched Dossie’s knee as a gesture of comfort, and went away. And how relieved she and Pa were much later when they heard that the sailor had reached Sydney Harbour, and loved Australia so much that he abandoned the rest of his voyage and never returned.
There were one or two other relationships: Clem’s history master, who was divorced with a large and complicated extended family; and a fellow who owned a string of restaurants – and a string of mistresses to match. Neither of these amounted to anything, but Dossie entered into them each time with hope and a great deal of naïvety.
‘Why does she always get hurt?’ Pa demanded after they discovered the true nature of the restaurant owner. ‘Good grief! There must be an ordinary trustworthy kind of fellow out there somewhere. Why does she have to be attracted to nutters or to men who will hurt her?’
He thumped on the kitchen table with his fist, and John the Baptist flattened his ears and rolled an anxious eye at him.
‘Dossie believes in love. She’s an eternal optimist,’ Mo answered at last, and Pa breathed in heavily through his nose and turned his eyes heavenward as if seeking patience, muttering, ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ under his breath. ‘And it’s no good making faces at this late date,’ she added crossly. ‘You didn’t see anything wrong with any of them either.’
He was irritated then, pushing his chair back so that its feet screeched on the slates, getting up and going out into the boot-room. John the Baptist struggled up, looking at her as if to say, ‘Here we go again!’ and followed Pa out, and they disappeared over the fields together.
Now, Mo closes her eyes and lifts her face to the hot sun. She is aware of the mower’s engine stopping and the sudden silence, and then of other sounds: a robin singing in the escallonia hedge and the two notes echoing from the top of the ash tree where a great tit swings in its branches amongst the fat black sticky buds, which are bursting into leaf. She thinks of Dossie just now, running out to her car; of the way, lately, she checks and rechecks her mobile for messages; of her recent bright-eyed preoccupation. A shadow blocks the sun. Mo opens her eyes: Pa is standing looking down at her.
‘All right, Mo?’ he asks – and she is unnerved by the familiar enquiry just at this moment, wanting to share her suspicion with him but fearful lest he too should become alert to Dossie’s behaviour and question her. It is impossible to swear Pa to secrecy and silence. Sooner or later he will speak out thoughtlessly and precipitate some kind of argument or action.
‘Where did Dossie say she was going?’ he asks, as though reading her thoughts. ‘I thought she had a dinner party at Rock.’
‘She has.’ Mo speaks calmly. ‘There’s plenty of time. A client phoned, she said. Do you want a cup of tea after all that effort?’ She gets up. ‘It’s so warm we could have it out here.’
‘And when did you say Adam was coming?’
He trails after her, and her heart sinks at his question. She stops, staring down over the newly mown grass. It is foolish to be so fearful of Natasha and her two girls, yet every instinct warns her against this woman and her two sullen, uncommunicative daughters. The fact that she, Mo, still loves and misses Adam’s ex-wife doesn’t help the situation, and irritates him.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ she answers. ‘In time for lunch. Dossie’s got something special planned. If it’s as warm as this we’ll be able to eat in the garden.’ She needs to be upbeat about it, otherwise Pa’s antagonism might well spiral out of control.
‘Why don’t those girls ever speak?’ he demanded after the last visit. ‘No “please” or “thank you”, no attempt at joining in, refusing to have anything to do with Jakey. Just glowering about and muttering to each other or plugged into those damned iPods. And those awful earrings and nail varnish. Good God, they’re hardly teenagers and they look like a couple of hookers!’
She remained silent. Adam had cornered her privately and suggested that it was time she and Pa downsized to a smaller house, and asked what Dossie’s plans were if and when they were to do so.
‘We’ve never discussed it,’ she answered frostily.
‘It’s as well to be prepared for every eventuality,’ he said coolly.
He didn’t add, ‘at your ages’, but she knew that it was what he meant; that he is afraid that she or Pa might die with things left unresolved. Yet her heart rebels at leaving The Court or any part of their belongings to Natasha and her children.
‘What do you think of her?’ Pa asked, after that first visit just over a year ago when Adam and Natasha had come down from Oxford without the girls. ‘Good-looking woman but a bit brittle. Not much heart to her. I felt she was sizing us up. Not just us, but the house and so on. Know what I mean?’
‘Well, that’s her job, after all,’ Mo answered. ‘She’s an estate agent, like Adam. Country properties are their forte. It must be second nature.’
Later, she learned from Dossie that Natasha has no plans for any more children; she said that two were quite enough, she was well past coping with the baby stage, and Adam wasn’t bothered. Mo isn’t particularly surprised. She’s long been resigned to Adam’s complete lack of interest in producing children and she guesses that his reluctance was a contributory factor to the downfall of his first marriage. So there will be no more grandchildren for her and Pa. She tries not to mind too much. After all, they are lucky to have Clem and darling Jakey not far away; and Dossie, of course, is a blessing.
Mo breathes in the sweet, evocative scent of new-cut grass. How wonderful if Dossie has met a man who can love her and support her in her work and share her life. Suddenly hopeful, she turns to Pa.
‘Tea,’ she says. ‘We’ll have some tea in the garden and then take the dogs for a walk in the field. Come on, you can help me carry,’ and he slips an arm about her shoulders, and gives her a hug, and they go into the house together.
Sister Emily, arriving at the caravan door, finds a tea party already in progress. Jakey and Stripey Bunny are sitting at the small folding table watching Janna putting cakes onto a plate. Jakey beams with delight at Sister Emily and slides across the bench seat to make room for her.
‘Come in,’ cries Janna, always happy to dispense hospitality. ‘We can manage another small one. We’re celebrating the last day of term, aren’t we, Jakey?’
‘I’m having the Peter Labbit mug,’ he explains. ‘Janna’s mummy gave it to her when she was small. I haven’t got a mummy but Daddy gives me things instead.’ He looks appreciatively at the small iced cakes. ‘We’ve given up chocolate for Lent. And Janna has given up biscuits as well. But these aren’t chocolate so we can eat them. What have you given up for Lent, Sister Emily?’
‘I’ve given up getting cross with Sister Ruth,’ she answers, squeezing in beside him. ‘I do so hope that it will become a habit that will continue long after Lent is over.’
Jakey looks at her thoughtfully; he is considering it. ‘Haven’t you given up chocolate?’ he asks rather wistfully.
Sister Emily shakes her head. ‘It’s much more difficult giving up getting cross. Chocolate wouldn’t have mattered much to me.’
Janna splashes a tiny amount of tea into the milk in the Peter Rabbit mug and passes it to Jakey. He perches Stripey Rabbit on the table, leaning against the window, and seizes the mug.
‘I like tea,’ he says happily.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ asks Sister Emily. ‘Isn’t he invited to this tea party?’
‘He’s working. I’m going to stay with Pa and Mo after bleakfast because he’s too busy to look after me in the holidays now that I don’t go to nursery every day.’
Sister Emily glances involuntarily at Janna, who makes a sad little face; shrugs. ‘All those guests arriving tomorrow,’ she says. ‘It’s a bit difficult keeping an eye … you know. But you like going to stay with Pa and Mo,’ she adds cheerfully. ‘Don’t you, my lover?’
He nods, setting down the mug and reaching for a cake. ‘I like John the Baptist and Wolfie,’ he tells them. ‘Pa and I take them for walks. And I’ve got lots of toys there. Some of them used to be Daddy’s. And sometimes Dossie takes me with her in the car to see people she’s going to cook for.’
‘Goodness,’ Sister Emily says, impressed. Janna stirs a teaspoonful of honey into a mug of steaming raspberry and echinacea tea and sets it in front of her, and she smiles her thanks. ‘It sounds great fun, Jakey. I think I should like a holiday with Pa and Mo.’
He gives her that same considering look. ‘You could come too,’ he suggests.
‘But we have guests coming to stay,’ she tells him. ‘Chi-Meur will be full and I shall need to be here to help Janna.’
‘I’m scared to death,’ Janna admits. ‘This is the first really big retreat that I’ve done without Penny.’
‘You’ll have lots of assistance,’ Sister Emily assures her. ‘These are some very old friends who are coming. They know their way around and will be only too happy to help out. They’re family.’
Janna sits down opposite and takes a little cake. Jakey watches her anxiously.
‘Daddy will help,’ he tells her. ‘Shall I stay and help you?’
‘No, my lover, no,’ she says, laughing. ‘You have your holiday with Pa and Mo. You’ve been working hard at school all term and you deserve a holiday with John the Baptist and Wolfie. Eat your cake and after tea you can sing your new song to Sister Emily.’
By the time Clem arrives to fetch Jakey there are no cakes left but the party is a merry one. They all go out together into the early evening sunshine.
‘The clocks go forward tomorrow night,’ says Sister Emily joyfully. ‘Spring is here at last!’
She and Janna go back to the house: Sister Emily to the chapel for Vespers and Janna to the kitchen to get supper. Clem and Jakey set off down the drive to the Lodge to pack Jakey’s case ready for his holiday.
That night he sees Auntie Gabriel again, standing in the trees across the drive, looking up at the Lodge. He knows at once why she has come. It is because he is worried about Janna. Auntie Gabriel is there to tell him that she will be looking after Janna and Daddy while he is away at The Court with Mo and Pa. Jakey waves to her, really happy to see her there, and he holds up Stripey Bunny so that she knows how much they both love her.
Suddenly he hears Daddy’s footsteps on the stairs and he gives one more big wave and hops quickly into bed.
Natasha drives them west. She hates being driven, and the girls say that they feel safer with her than with Adam. They know that he resents this but it is just one of many of the power games played out between them. The girls tolerate him but only for as long as he is useful. They sit together now, nudging with sharp elbows, making faces. Today they are in alliance, knowing that their mother is in sympathy with them. She has bribed them with promises of DVDs and new clothes if they will be good during this visit to Adam’s parents. Nevertheless, they will push the boundaries to see just how far their powers extend.
‘I wanted to go to Millie’s party,’ one of them begins in a whiny little voice.
‘Cornwall’s boring,’ says the other. ‘Bo-ring. Bo-ring.’
They watch as Natasha’s back straightens, head up preparing for battle, as Adam gives a quick annoyed sideways glance at her. ‘They are your children,’ the glance says. ‘Deal with them.’
Natasha’s heart sinks: she really doesn’t want to have a row with Adam just now. Her agency has sacked two of her colleagues because of the recession and she’s doing three people’s work; and doing it well, she reminds herself. She’s tired though, very tired, and she could do without this long drive west. It’s not the girls’ faults that they don’t want to go. There’s so much going on in their lives and, to be fair, there’s no reason why they should be thrilled at the prospect of a weekend with two old people and a four-year-old they hardly know.
‘It’s only for a few days,’ she says quickly.
They note that she doesn’t contradict them and that her voice is conciliatory, not yet irritated, and they nudge one another.
‘It’s not boring,’ Adam says firmly. ‘It’s just different. Lovely beaches. Swimming. Sailing. Just wait until the summer comes.’
They make faces at one another. ‘You said it was boring,’ one of them reminds him. ‘Last time. You said to Mum, “I know it’s boring but we’ve got to make an effort. We’ll sneak out to the pub later.”’
They watch the flush of blood under Adam’s fair skin with interest. He can be quite scary when he’s cross but they aren’t really afraid of him. They’ve already assessed his place in the pecking order: Natasha is top dog, they share second place together, and Adam comes a poor fourth. But he’s OK; they can handle him. Better the devil you know … for the moment. Soon they will eject him from their nest: they’ve managed it before.
‘What I might say to your mother in private has nothing to do with it,’ he begins. His voice is already irritated and they cover their mouths with their hands and roll their eyes at one another. They love it when he rises so readily to the bait. He has such a short fuse that he’s easy game.
‘You did say it,’ they mutter sullenly, pretending to be hard done by, misjudged.
‘Never mind all that,’ says Natasha briskly – this, decoded, means that he is not to pursue any kind of criticism, and they writhe with delight – ‘let’s just try to enjoy it. Jakey will be there too.’
Cue for groaning: ‘He’s just a baby.’
‘You don’t seriously expect us to play with him.’
‘That’s enough,’ shouts Adam. ‘For God’s sake, just try to be civil for once in your lives. It’s a pity nobody has ever taught you how to behave.’
They are silent, biting their lips with glee, hardly able to believe such luck.
‘Thanks,’ says Natasha icily. She really resents this. She’s done a damned good job bringing up the girls with very little support after their father walked out. But it hasn’t been easy and she can do without snide criticism. Also, this bickering is beginning to get her down and she’s starting to wonder if she’s misjudged Adam. He seemed very strong at first, very up together, but certain other less admirable traits are emerging.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ he’s muttering, ‘you know what I mean.’
She’s not prepared to back down quite so quickly without a proper apology. ‘No, I can’t say I do.’
‘Look, all I said was …’
The girls subside, triumphant, plugging into iPods. They have won another tiny battle in the war for control.
‘We are only a week away from Easter,’ Mother Magda says into the telephone. ‘I am sure that you understand that we cannot possibly enter into any discussions during Holy Week … Yes, I know, and we have talked about it, but we have not yet come to any decisions … Very well, I shall tell the community at the next Chapter meeting … I see. I am so sorry but … Yes, Mr Brewster, you’ve made that very clear. Thank you for telephoning.’
She places the telephone back on its stand and looks across the desk at Father Pascal.
‘What is he saying?’
‘I think it’s what might be described as an ultimatum. He says that he cannot hold the price he has offered for Chi-Meur indefinitely and that he must have an answer soon.’
They stare anxiously at one another.
‘What do Emily and Ruth say?’ he asks.
She shrugs; shakes her head. ‘Not very much. They don’t know what to say. Neither do I. I have written to the Sisters at Hereford, who would be glad to have us, though they are equivocal about Nichola. They are a quite small and vulnerable community, with elderly and ill Sisters of their own, and are worried about how they can manage any extra responsibility. This worries Ruth who says – quite rightly – that we should all move together. However, she feels that we should go if they will agree to have Nichola. Ruth is good friends with one of the Sisters there – they did their novitiate together – and she knows the community very well. She would be happy to go to Hereford. Emily, on the other hand, feels that this is not the solution for us. She believes that there is some other destiny for Chi-Meur but cannot quite see what it is yet.’
He stirs and smiles a little. ‘I have great faith in Emily’s feelings.’
‘So have I,’ Mother Magda says at once, ‘but it is difficult simply to wait. If we move – and we may have to before very long – then we shall need the money, and an Elizabethan manor house, already partly converted for our peculiar needs, might not be as desirable to prospective buyers as it seems at first sight. I understand that Mr Brewster’s offer is very generous, given the slump in the market. He tells me that anyone else in our situation would apparently “bite his arm off”.’ She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Not a particularly attractive idea – have you seen Mr Brewster? – but the gist of it is that we should accept his offer quickly.’
‘I wonder if he’s thought of the planning complications. Very tricky in an old grade-two-listed house. He wants it for an hotel, doesn’t he?’
She nods. ‘He already owns several, apparently, so I can only assume that he’s thought about it very carefully.’ She pauses. ‘And, of course, it’s not as if there are only ourselves to consider. There’re Clem and Jakey and Janna, too.’
‘Do they know?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nobody knows but us. Mr Brewster has promised absolute confidentiality if we agree to a private sale. Emily believes that Clem and Janna, and Jakey too, are part of Chi-Meur and that they are here for a reason. We all do. This is part of her dilemma about moving.’
‘I think I agree with Emily.’
She looks at him. ‘My responsibility is to the community. We need to remember that although change can be inconvenient and uncomfortable it is part of the dynamic movement that ensures that we live as pilgrims. We should have no possessions; no resting place. We all understand that. Nevertheless, this proposed move is not necessarily God’s will for us.’ She hesitates. ‘I suppose that I am afraid of missing this opportunity and finding that we should have seized it instead of simply doing nothing.’
‘Praying for God’s will to be revealed is not “doing nothing”,’ Father Pascal says, after a moment. ‘Waiting is a terribly difficult thing to do. I think we should tell Clem and Janna. If Emily believes, as we all do, that they are part of your dynamic movement, then they should share in the responsibility of the prayer and the waiting.’
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I shall need to speak to Emily and Ruth, and Nichola, of course. It would be a mistake to assume that Nichola doesn’t understand, even if there is no obvious response from her. The prayer life of a very elderly sister can be invaluable to the rest of the community.’
There is a little silence in the small panelled room, but it is a comfortable silence that stretches between them, each drawing strength from the other.
‘So most of your guests have gone,’ Father Pascal says at last, ‘and Janna has survived it.’
Mother Magda laughs. ‘She has been so good. There is such real warmth there; so much love. She’s managed wonderfully well this week without Penny. Well, we all have. But, goodness, it’s a strain. Emily is exhausted. She does far too much.’
‘So much is expected of you all,’ he answers soberly. ‘Chi-Meur has always been a powerhouse of strength and prayer. Not long ago there were fifteen of you. Now there are four. Yet there is still that expectation.’
‘So many people need us. As the world grows noisier and busier and greedier, the requirement for silence and peace grows correspondingly. We are needed here.’
He nods. ‘I know it. And you have many good friends to help you, but it is not enough.’
She stands up and goes to the window. After a moment he joins her. Janna appears, walking quickly and lightly. She passes across the lawn and disappears from view in the direction of the path to the beach.
‘Escaping,’ says Mother Magda with a smile. ‘And who shall blame her? Not I.’
‘Nor I,’ agrees Father Pascal. ‘By the way, has this man who’s staying with the Trembaths been bothering you? Apparently he’s writing a book on the social history of north Cornwall, but old Jack is beginning to be suspicious of him.’
‘Oh? Why? I haven’t seen him, as far as I know, but why should Jack suspect him?’
‘You know these people. They can smell fraud or inconsistency from miles away. They’re not deceived by name-dropping, and Jack says he doesn’t behave like an historian. He’s met a few of those in his time and he says there’s something wrong. Mr Caine doesn’t ring true. I thought I’d mention it in case he turns up here.’
She laughs. ‘Well, we have nothing here at Chi-Muir that a con man could want. But thanks for the warning.’
There are children on the beach, and two dogs. Janna watches them chasing a ball across the sand and then turns away, beginning to climb the cliff path from the village. Thrift is flowering in the shelter of the dry-stone wall that skirts the great cliff-top fields and she bends to touch the pink fuzzy-headed blooms: on the way home she will pick some to put into her little silver vase. Crouching lower she sees that there are hundreds of snails, piled together. Yellow and grey and striped, they cling like limpets to the rough, pitted granite.
Out on the cliff she braces herself against the strong, warm westerly, laughing with the sheer joy of it, looking away to Trevose Head, washed in brilliant golden sunshine and dazzling white sea-spray. Gulls tilt and balance on the wind, falling and rising beyond the cliff-edge, screaming in disharmony. She walks quickly, the sun in her eyes, her arms wrapped about herself as if to resist the plucking and pulling of the wind. Her heart is light, her spirits high. She has survived her first real ordeal at Chi-Meur, and now she is free to come out into these great wild spaces and be answerable to nobody.
Suddenly she longs to be travelling again; sitting up high, watching the countryside drifting by and not knowing where the journey might end. And yet she loves it at Chi-Meur with her little family: Mother, Father, Sisters, and Clem and Jakey. She loves her little caravan – her own cosy private space – yet there are memories tugging and pulling at her heart; a voice whispering restlessly in her ears: something to do with freedom, new horizons, change.
She guesses now that this is how her father felt: the sizzle of excitement in the blood at the prospect of independence and adventure, battling with the twist of terror in his gut when he realized that he had all the responsibility of fatherhood pressing in on him. On days like these she is able to forgive him – or, at the very least, understand him. This is better than resentment, and it takes the sting out of the knowledge that he didn’t want her.
‘After all,’ Father Pascal pointed out, ‘he didn’t know you. The idea of an unborn baby is very different from the real person. He didn’t give himself time to know you. That’s his loss.’
The turf is soft and springy. She leans into the wind breathlessly, hurrying forward, whilst the sea surges and booms through empty caverns far beneath her feet and tugs and roars at the steep cliff-face so that the sound of its clamour is all around her. As she approaches Roundhole Point she sinks down into the shelter of the stone archway near the gateway to Porthmissen. It is here, when Clem and Jakey are with her, that they stop for their picnic. Jakey likes to climb on the stones and squeeze through the arch but, all the while, he’ll be waiting for the moment when they’ll walk together to the edge of the blowhole and, Clem and Janna holding his hands, he can lean forward and peer down into that great space; looking right through the cliff to the black rocks far, far below where the tide surges hungrily through a low archway in the cliff, licking the steep sides, and the spray is flung high into the air. She loves to feel the clutch of his hand as he leans perilously forward; his whole trust in her and Clem as he stares into the echoing abyss with wide, serious eyes.
She sits in the sunshine with her back to the rock, sheltered from the wind, and brings out her own small picnic: some nuts and raisins and a piece of chocolate. Clem carries a small rucksack with juice and a sandwich for Jakey and a flask of hot coffee to share with her, and perhaps some delicious treat that Dossie has made. Their picnics are celebrations.
Looking north to Gunver Head, watching the gulls soaring and diving, she thinks: How easy it would be if only I could fall in love with Clem.
She does love him; but she loves him as she loves Nat: as a sister might love an elder brother, yet with none of the sibling rivalries and jealousies. Her love for Clem is uncomplicated and precious. Like Nat, whose preoccupation was with his sexuality, so Clem’s thoughts are fixed on his vocation: whether he should train for ordination and whether his belief in his vocation is a true one. Her love for Clem, and for Jakey, carries no weighty responsibilities: they have Dossie and Mo and Pa – and Father Pascal and the Sisters.
Janna finishes her chocolate, licking her fingers, thinking about them all. The Sisters, however, are rather different from Clem and Jakey. Without Penny, their dependence now rests upon her. Tough and self-contained though they are, yet they need her. Or, she argues with herself, they need someone. It need not necessarily be her. Yet she loves them too, and it will not be easy to walk away when the time comes.
She stands up and at once the wind buffets her and beats upon her as she moves beyond the shelter of the rocks. For a moment she stares longingly westwards towards Mother Ivey’s Bay and Trevose Head, but knows that she should go back. She turns, and immediately the wind ceases to be a force to fight against and instead it lifts and hurries her along so that she leans back against it and allows it to carry her across the cliffs to Chi-Meur.
Mr Caine watches her pass and then moves out of the shelter of the rock. He takes out his phone, presses keys.
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he says. ‘Look. Problems. We should’ve set up a website before I started on this writing-a-book stuff. Some clever little worzel’s only gone and checked me out, hasn’t he? “Can’t find you on Google,” he says, all cocky like, with his mates all staring at me, jostling and barging all round me. Scary. I tell you, it’s seriously weird here. Anyway, I bluffed him. Told him I wrote under another name. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You’re J. K. Rowling in disguise,” and they all yell with laughter. I pretended to laugh, too, and got out quick. But it’s gotta be sorted straight away … No, I know we thought it might be all over by now but it isn’t, is it? Let me know when you’ve got something up and running.’
He put his phone back in his pocket, stares out to sea. He’s beginning to get a bad feeling about this one.
‘He’s right, of course,’ Pa says gloomily. ‘We need to bring our wills up to date, but I’m damned if I’ll have Adam telling me how to do it.’
They walk slowly in the lane, the dogs running ahead with Jakey, who zigzags back and forth on his bicycle. Mo waves encouragingly to Jakey, who stops to look back at them.
‘I know it’s very wrong of me,’ she says, ‘but I simply cannot bear the thought of all our hard work being used in the end to support Natasha and those girls. And it was our hard work that kept The Court going. Without your pension and all the B and B-ers we’d have had to sell up years ago. And we could have done that, and lived very comfortably on the proceeds.’
‘But we chose to do it,’ he points out fairly. ‘Nobody asked us to.’
He pauses to stare through a gateway, and Mo waits with him. She knows that these little halts along the way are simply an excuse to catch his breath and steady himself, but he would hate to admit it. Jakey comes cycling back.
‘There was a labbit,’ he calls excitedly, ‘and Wolfie chased it and it went down a hole.’
‘Good for the rabbit,’ answers Mo. ‘See if you can spot another one.’
He waves and pedals away, talking furiously to himself and to the dogs.
‘Labbit!’ says Pa. ‘Should he still be having difficulty with his speech?’
‘He’s not five yet,’ Mo answers defensively. ‘And it’s only with the “R”s and only then usually when they’re at the beginning of a word, though there are a few words he can’t quite manage, like “surprise” where the second “r” is quite strongly stressed. We’ve noticed that with some words. When he says “Stripey Bunny”, for instance, he hardly pronounces the “r” at all. It’s quite odd. We don’t want him to get a hang-up about it but we’re working on it.’
‘He’s a good little chap,’ says Pa. ‘Bright as a button, and very good manners. Clem’s done well with him.’
‘He has done well,’ agrees Mo warmly; always ready to respond to any praise of her beloved grandson. ‘And that’s the whole thing, Pa. Why should Natasha and those girls just waltz in and claim half of everything? Clem’s got very little and he works so hard, not to mention how much Dossie does for us. I know we gave her and Clem a home, and Dossie’s never had to find a place to live—’
‘As Adam was so ready to point out to us,’ mutters Pa.
‘I know.’ Mo walks for a while in silence. ‘How horrid it is,’ she says at last. ‘I love Adam – of course I do – but …’
‘But he’s our son,’ says Pa. ‘And we have to be fair. Look, if I die everything comes to you, and if you die everything comes to me. That bit’s easy. But if we pop off together …’
She takes his arm and they pause again to watch a pair of bullfinches flitting in and out of the hedge: the flash of a carmine breast and the flirt of a white and black barred tail.
‘Bet they’ve got a nest here somewhere,’ he murmurs, and then Jakey is back again.
‘Is it time for our picnic, Mo?’ he asks hopefully.
‘Picnic?’ repeats Pa. ‘We’ve only been out five minutes. What’s all this about picnics?’
Jakey watches him, eyes bright: ‘You’ve got it in your pocket,’ he says, jigging up and down on his saddle. ‘I saw you put it in.’
‘What?’ Pa pats his jacket, frowning, shaking his head. ‘No, nothing there.’
Jakey drops his bicycle and flings himself at Pa, reaching inside his coat to the big poacher’s pocket and wrestling out the bag.
‘Good grief!’ says Pa, amazed. ‘Look at that. Whatever can it be?’
‘It’s the picnic,’ shouts Jakey jubilantly. ‘Is there chocolate, Mo?’
‘There’s a biscuit,’ Mo says, opening the bag. ‘It might even be a chocolate biscuit. Here come the dogs. Now they’ll want something too.’
They gather in a field gateway. Jakey perches on the top rung of the gate, while the dogs munch the biscuits that Pa always keeps in his pockets for them. Mo passes Pa a Kit-Kat.
‘We could divide it into parts,’ murmurs Pa, unwrapping it. ‘No, not the biscuit. The estate. So many parts for Dossie, so many for Clem and Jakey, and so on. Doesn’t have to be straight down the middle, does it? It could be split into four parts, if it came to that.’
‘Oh!’ She looks at him. ‘Yes, I see. That’s a good idea, Pa.’
He is staring over the field and he smiles suddenly, his face filled with joy. ‘Look!’ he says. ‘See it?’
She turns and stares in the direction of his upraised arm. Skimming the new green shoots, swooping low over the field, there is no mistaking those long tail streamers, the gleaming bluish black feathers and pale breast. It is the first swallow of the summer.
Dossie is in Wadebridge. She’s already finished her shopping and now she sits in the café, her mobile on the table beside her, waiting. She is allowing Rupert to be proactive, restraining herself from being pushy or keen, but she keeps her mobile close to hand these days: he is very good at sending quick, friendly texts.
This morning he texts that he’s just been to Bodmin to collect some supplies – is she anywhere around, by any chance?
In Wadebridge, she texts. Shopping. Having coffee in Relish in Foundry Square later.
C u in 20 mins, he answers – and so here she is: waiting. Of course, she wasn’t going to have coffee at all – she was thinking about getting back home to Mo and Pa and Jakey – but the opportunity is too good to miss. She’s put the shopping bags into the car and then dashed round to Relish, and into the loo to tidy up a bit. And now she sits with her latte, pretending that this was what she meant to do all the time. And it is good, actually, to sit for a minute quite alone. The weekend was stressful: Natasha was friendly enough but the girls behaved as if they were there on sufferance so that there was a certain tension, and Jakey’s exuberant presence wasn’t helpful. Adam implied, privately, that Mo and Pa were too old to be looking after their great-grandson and she was rather sharp with him.
‘I’m here most of the time,’ she said. ‘Or he comes with me. And he’s nearly five. He’s not a baby.’
‘It occurs to me,’ he said, very smooth, very barbed, ‘that Clem should never have taken a job that puts so much pressure on Mo and Pa. At his age he should be self-sufficient.’
She stared at him. ‘Now I wonder why you’ve never mentioned that before,’ she said lightly. ‘Can someone else have put the thought into your mind, I wonder?’
He flushed angrily. He blushed easily and as a boy it had always embarrassed him and made him cross. Later he realized that it could be used to good purpose. The fair fine skin flooded with bright blood; the light, rather frosty blue eyes: the whole effect was rather frightening. Dossie was not frightened, however. She continued to watch him.
‘It’s not a new idea,’ he said. ‘You know my feelings perfectly well. Things are becoming too much for them.’
‘Pa and Mo love having Jakey, just as they loved having Clem. After all, they’re only going to have the one grandson and great-grandson, aren’t they? At least, that was the impression Natasha gave me.’
‘Are you thinking,’ he asked softly, ‘that you can go on living in The Court even after Mo and Pa die? Do you think that you can keep it as a home for Clem and Jakey, perhaps? Is that your plan? It won’t work, Dossie. Not unless you can afford to buy me out. Can you? After all, you’ve never had to pay your own rent or your own mortgage, have you? You’ve just coasted along, using Mo and Pa as a support team, and that’s what you want for Clem, isn’t it?’
Jakey and the dogs came in then, and Adam turned away and went out of the room.
Now, Dossie glances at her mobile and then puts it away in her bag, and when she looks up Rupert is there. Her heart does some odd little jumps but she smiles quite casually and she doesn’t speak until he’s ordered coffee.
‘You looked very serious,’ he observes. ‘Problems?’
‘Yes,’ she answers promptly, surprising herself. ‘Yes, my wretched brother is being a problem and I don’t know how to deal with him.’
He looks interested, sympathetic – and suddenly she begins to talk: to explain Adam and how he was born after several miscarriages and was a miracle baby: the longed-for son. As she talks, memories come rushing in: the places they lived in – South Africa, Western Australia – the long-haul flights back to school after the holidays.
‘Granny was still alive then at The Court,’ she says, ‘and I went to school in Truro so that she could take me out for exeats and come to athletics day and plays and things. Adam was such a funny little boy, very self-contained, very poised. I wasn’t jealous that he was still at home while I went off to school because I was six when he was born so I already had my own life going, if you see what I mean. I was old enough to be Mummy’s little helper and all that stuff. But I always looked forward to a time when we’d connect. I imagined it would be fun, this special sibling relationship.’ She shakes her head. ‘It never happened. I suppose the timing was all wrong. Six years is a big gap. When he was twelve and I was eighteen, Pa retired. They were still quite young but I think they’d got fed up with the travelling. He was with Rio Tinto Zinc. Granny died and he and Mo decided not to sell The Court but to live in it and do bed and breakfast to supplement his pension. For some reason, Adam hated it. He simply hated other people around and Pa cooking breakfast when he’d been a top mining engineer, with people like De Beers consulting him, and he and Mo travelling all over the world. It was as if it were all below Adam’s dignity. It got worse as he got older and he would never bring his friends home.’
She sits in silence for a moment, feeling slightly embarrassed at her outburst, wondering how Rupert will react or if he will tactfully change the subject.
‘I suppose,’ he says thoughtfully, ‘that it was difficult to admit to his friends that his father was no longer living, by the sounds of it, a rather dangerous and glamorous life but simply running a bed and breakfast establishment. You can imagine how he’d describe it, can’t you? Diamond mining; gold mining. For boys of that age status is everything, isn’t it? Rather sad for Pa and Mo, though.’
‘Well, it was,’ Dossie agrees, grateful for his understanding. ‘We all felt it, of course. It was as if he held us all at arm’s length, judging us, and he was ashamed of us …’ She says suddenly, and rather defiantly: ‘He’s a prig.’
Rupert begins to laugh. ‘Fair enough. But what is he doing just at this minute that is making him so particularly tiresome?’
She makes a face. ‘He thinks that Pa and Mo should move out. Downsize while they’re still young enough to cope with it.’
‘And then what? How does this affect him?’
She shrugs, hesitates. She feels she is being disloyal, telling him all these family things, and she wonders if, by becoming more intimate about her life, he might feel that she is trying to involve him more deeply.
‘Adam would feel safer if The Court was sold before Mo and Pa die. He’s terrified of me still being there and having some kind of right to stay there. You know, squatter’s rights or something. He’d rather they bought a much smaller place and tucked the money away somewhere.’
‘And where would you go?’
This is the question she dreads. She fears that he might think she is trying to see how the land lies with him or whether they have a future together.
‘Oh, I could always go to Clem while I got something sorted,’ she says casually. ‘That’s not a problem. No, the problem is that Pa and Mo don’t want to leave The Court. Pa grew up there; they both love it and it’s been in the family for generations. We used to come back to The Court for holidays when we were posted abroad, and Clem grew up there too, when my husband was killed. I told you about that. It’s a real family home. I want them to stay there but Adam suspects my motives and he unsettles Pa and Mo and makes them feel frightened. He’s been down this weekend questioning them about their wills and making them miserable.’
‘That’s horrid. But surely he’s crazy to suggest selling anyway in this market. Didn’t you tell me that he and his partner are estate agents? They must know that.’
‘Well, he’s cross they didn’t do it a couple of years back when Pa had the stroke. The truth is that they’re both so wound up about it now that it’s become a matter of principle. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Sorry.’ She smiles at him. ‘It’s just nice to talk to someone who isn’t involved. I seem to spend my time with you telling you my life history.’
‘But it’s a very interesting history,’ he says. ‘And I spend my time with you showing you my houses. At least I’m hoping you’ll come and see the cottage I’m working on sometime. I’ve put an offer in on the other one I showed you, by the way, so I’ll have to get a move on in case it’s accepted. Let me buy you another coffee and then we’ll make a plan.’
Driving home, Dossie is in a complete turmoil of emotions. Partly she is cross with herself for making him a present of her past just as she did at the farm shop. Yet he is so amazingly kind, and – much more important – he is so interested. It is years since anyone responded with such immediacy and warmth to her feelings and thoughts. And this time, when they part, he drops his arm very lightly round her shoulders and touches his warm lips to her cheek. It is all so quick, over in a second, but her cheek seems to burn and now, once or twice, she touches it with her fingers, laughing at herself for being such an idiot.
She can’t wait to see him again although she quite deliberately delayed the next meeting: she’s got a lot of work over Easter; she’s got Jakey to keep an eye on during the holidays; Mo and Pa … But they made a date and she is just so happy; she puts on her Joni Mitchell CD Both Sides Now and begins to sing along to ‘You’re My Thrill’.
Oh, God, she thinks. I’m falling in love with him.
* * *
Rupert gets into his car and checks his mobile: he’s missed a call but there’s a voicemail.
‘How are you?’ says Kitty’s voice. ‘It was a good weekend, wasn’t it? I’ll try again later.’
He phones back at once, waits for her to pick up. ‘Hi,’ he says warmly. ‘Yes, it was a very good weekend. Are you OK?’
‘Mmm. Just had coffee with Sally. She agrees with me that it’s time we took a break from the development business. She says it’s time we had some fun.’
Sally should mind her own business, but he doesn’t say so. He knows the rules about criticizing his wife’s closest friend and he knows too how much Sally and the tiresome Bill would love to make up a permanent four for golf and bridge and visits to the theatre. He shudders at the prospect.
‘I’m sure,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Did you book the theatre tickets?’
‘Yes.’ She’s distracted from the scent, as he hoped she would be. ‘Yes, she and Bill are free that evening and we’ll have supper together afterwards. I’ve organized the carer for Mummy.’
‘Great. Look, I must get on …’
‘Where are you?’
‘Bodmin. Just picking up some stuff. Those lovely Italian tiles I ordered have just come in.’
A sigh. ‘OK.’
He knows she wants to chat but he doesn’t feel guilty. He’s making real efforts just now to stay in touch, to dash up to Bristol midweek and at weekends, to keep her happy. Funny how he feels more energized when he’s got a flirtation on the go. It was very early on, once the bars of marriage had closed down around him, that he realized that there were still plenty of women out there who were quite happy to go along with a little bit of fun with no strings attached. They didn’t want to break up his marriage or have his babies, they just wanted some excitement – and he was ready to provide it.
He could tell straight away who were the ones who understood the rules, and only once has he misjudged the situation. He had to do some very fast talking on that occasion. As he puts away the mobile in the glove compartment he makes a little face, remembering. The girl turned up at the cottage he and Kitty were renovating and made a scene. He wormed his way out of it somehow but it put Kitty on her guard and since then he’s been careful, very careful. He loves Kitty and he doesn’t want to lose her. She is his wife and everything else is nothing but a bit of fun. It has nothing to do with his marriage. The simple fact is that he likes women; he enjoys their company and likes to go to bed with them. Some men need to buy a new flashy car every year or wear designer clothes or a Rolex watch that’s cost thousands. Rupert doesn’t care about any of those things. He simply likes the thrill of the chase; the sheer fun of move and countermove, and the final capitulation – as long as both parties understand the rules.
As for Dossie … he smiles at the thought of her. She’s a sweetie but not his usual kind of woman. The important thing is not to rush her; play it carefully. Usually he doesn’t bother with women like Dossie. He leaves them well alone and goes for the easier option. The trouble is he can’t quite get her out of his mind: she’s under his skin. He starts up the engine, pulls out of the car park, humming the Cole Porter number, feeling happy.