AFTER TWO WEEKS of cold winds and heavy rain, which beat down the remaining frail blossoms from the azaleas, the last week in June is sunny and hot. In The Court’s gardens, baby woodpeckers sporting their bright red caps cling nervously to the nut-feeders, trying their new skills, still hoping to be fed by their watchful parent. From a corner, beneath the stone wall, a bronze slowworm slithers silently into the dank warm safety of the compost heap.
Mo, weeding the long border, sits back on her heels. She feels tired and anxious. Earlier, Adam, Natasha and the girls left to go back home after a weekend of tension, and she and Pa are suffering from the strain of it. The girls were uncommunicative, as usual, whilst Natasha seems to condone their behaviour, shrugging, smiling apologetically, but doing nothing to suggest that they might answer questions or be polite.
‘I suppose,’ Pa said, ‘that we are utterly irrelevant to them. They have a father, even if he is estranged, and aunts and uncles and grandparents, and we are just a tiresome pair of old biddies that they don’t need to bother about.’
‘But even so,’ Mo answered, ‘that doesn’t excuse rudeness. It doesn’t matter who we are, surely common politeness is still necessary, especially whilst they are our guests.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Clearly not.’
And now he is determined to speak to Dossie; to tell her that they want to leave The Court to her and to ask if she knows of any reason why this wouldn’t be a good plan.
Mo climbs rather painfully to her feet and puts a handful of weeds into the wheelbarrow. Her heart pounds unevenly and she steadies herself by grasping its handle.
‘So,’ Adam said casually when they were alone together. ‘Anything decided yet? Any plans for the future? I thought that Pa was looking a tad stretched. He’s OK, is he? No more keeling over sideways?’
‘No,’ she answered, shrinking distastefully from his callous words. ‘No, none of that. He’s very fit at present. And so am I.’
Adam glanced around the garden and up at the house. ‘Just as well,’ he said lightly. ‘I can’t think how you manage it all.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’ She turned away from him, not liking him, and horrified at herself for such a feeling.
He followed her, catching at her arm. ‘It’s no good being upset, Mo,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘It’s got to be sorted out. I’m wondering if I – and Dossie – ought to have power of attorney, just in case. It’s all very well being proud, but things can happen suddenly at your ages.’
‘Or even at your ages,’ she responded sharply. ‘You might have a heart attack, mightn’t you? What then? What are your plans? Does everything go to Natasha? After all, you’ve known her for little more than a year and you’re not married. Do you intend to get married?’
He flushed: that odd, familiar yet almost shocking reaction, which suffused his fair skin with such vivid colour that his eyes looked frostily cold and rather frightening. She stared at him, fascinated.
‘It’s none of your business,’ he said shortly, turning away from her, so that it was she, this time, who followed and grasped his arm.
‘Why not? Why are you allowed to question us but we are not allowed to know your plans?’
He shook himself free and went quickly into the house, and she had to wait for several minutes to control her uneven breathing and the odd pain in her side. She thought, wryly, that it was quite the wrong moment to – how had he put it? – keel over. Suddenly she was determined to go with Pa to their lawyer and get it sorted out: The Court must go to Dossie.
Now, standing quietly, breathing deeply, she prays that Dossie still wants it; wonders if this new man might yet set all their plans awry. As she lets go of the wheelbarrow, she hears Pa calling her and the dogs appear, as if to collect her. She turns towards the house and he waves to her and she raises her arm in response.
‘All right, Mo?’ he asks as she approaches, and they sit down on the wrought-iron seat together.
‘No,’ she says crossly, when she’s got her breath back. ‘I am not all right. I feel angry and frustrated and, oh, lots of other things.’ She looks at him as he turns towards her and lays his arm along the back of the seat. ‘Where did we get it wrong, Pa? We loved him so much, didn’t we? The longed-for son. We were so proud. All those miscarriages. Do you remember in Jo’burg? God, it was so hot and you getting called away on some emergency and me losing the baby. It was like a miracle, having Adam. Yet it’s as if he’s a changeling.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’ Pa nods. ‘Somehow I’ve never really recognized him. Dossie’s a mixture of you and my mother, and a bit of me mixed in too, which helps us to understand her, doesn’t it? And old Clem …’
‘I worried about Clem for a bit when he was at that adolescent stage. He became a bit distant. Dossie calls it “austere” and I feared that he might turn out like Adam. But he didn’t. He is austere but he’s also got a tremendous capacity for compassion. And a great sense of humour. Adam just doesn’t have that, does he?’
Pa shakes his head sadly. ‘I can’t reach him. I disappointed him when I stopped being someone he could brag about.’
‘We got it wrong for him when we came home and settled here. I thought he’d be pleased, which was stupid of me. I suppose it’s more fun for a teenage boy to be travelling across the world for his holidays than having his parents close enough to be able to turn up for athletics days and rugby matches. And he’d got used to us being so far away. He’d had to learn to manage without us and then he found he could. We can’t blame him for that.’
‘But it was exactly the same for Dossie,’ Pa argues. ‘She was older, of course, but she’d been away to school, too. Dossie loved us all being together.’
‘I’ve often wondered if Adam takes after my father,’ Mo says. ‘After all, I was only five when he was killed at Dunkirk, and he was a professional soldier so I hardly remember him at all. His photographs are all so formal. And black and white, of course, so it’s a bit difficult to see much of a resemblance, though his very fair colouring is right for Adam. My mother rarely spoke about him except in a kind of respectful way but never with great passion or huge regret.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a generation that let it all hang out, was it? Grief was a private thing. Stiff upper lip.’
‘Even so.’ Mo sighs. ‘I cannot connect with him. Adam, I mean. And it just breaks my heart. I can’t connect with Natasha, either, or those girls. Whatever shall we do?’
‘Whatever we do, I don’t intend to leave Dossie without a home. If she wants to stay here, then that’s what I want for her. I know they could sell and split the money and she’d have enough to buy a little place of her own but Dossie loves The Court. It’s her home.’
‘But could she afford to live here on her own?’ asks Mo anxiously. ‘We’re all chipping in, aren’t we, at the moment? But without our pensions, especially yours from RTZ, could she manage?’
‘She could do what we did,’ he says.
Mo looks at him, puzzled. ‘What we did? Oh! B and B-ers?’ She is silent for a few moments. Then, ‘Actually,’ she says slowly, ‘that’s not a bad idea. And she’d be so good at it. But would she even consider it?’
He shrugs. ‘She might get tired of all this driving to and fro. Making food, catering for dinner parties, dashing round the county.’ He grins at Mo. ‘Wouldn’t it be great?’
She smiles at his enthusiastic optimism. ‘It would be just wonderful.’
‘So when are we going to ask her about this man?’
Panic seizes Mo’s heart again. ‘Oh, good grief,’ she groans. ‘However can I ask her? How would I start?’
They sit together, considering ways and means, whilst the dogs doze at their feet in the sunshine.
* * *
In the car, travelling back to Bristol, the girls sit in silence. They know that they have behaved badly but they also know that, though Natasha’s loyalty is to them and not to Adam’s parents and that she refuses to hear a word against her children, she is secretly embarrassed by their behaviour.
Natasha is humiliated but refuses to acknowledge it: she implies that the old dears must put up with it. Adam is cross and as she drives she is wondering how she can keep these tiresome visits to a minimum without Adam losing his inheritance. It’s not really fair to the girls to introduce another set of elderly people into their lives, especially when Adam is not even particularly close to his parents. And she simply cannot bring herself to call them Mo and Pa: she said so to Adam right from the start. It’s ridiculous to use such silly names; she’d feel a fool.
‘It’s not important,’ Adam said. ‘Get over it. Everyone calls them Mo and Pa.’
Nevertheless she insists on calling them Mollie and Patrick. The girls, taking her lead, refuse to call them anything at all – which they know she finds a bit difficult, and annoys Adam – and she says defensively that she can see their points of view.
‘It’s not as if they’re grandparents,’ she said to Adam. ‘The girls have got two sets of those already. They don’t need any more.’
The girls agreed: they certainly don’t. But they could see he was annoyed.
‘So what will they call them?’ he asked. ‘They can’t call them Mollie and Patrick.’
She didn’t answer. Sometimes she finds this is the best way: silence is a very useful weapon.
The girls have made a note of this and use the same trick themselves. They have agreed between themselves that their mother is more malleable if she has a man around. Adam’s presence ensures an ongoing conflict of loyalties and by clever manipulation they are assured of more treats and attention than when Natasha is managing alone and expects more cooperation from them and is often touchy, tired and short-tempered. However, they do not regard him as a permanent fixture in their lives – he is too irritable, too selfish – but they are experts in control and they will choose their time to evict him. Just now they want to put an end to these trips to Cornwall. So they wait.
‘So,’ Natasha says. ‘Did you manage to say anything?’
‘Yes,’ he says shortly, staring out of his window
Watching from the back seat the girls can see that his body language is telling her that he doesn’t want to talk right now. Probably he doesn’t want them to hear. He hunches away from her, scowling out, and they wait in breathless silence to see what she will do.
‘What then?’ she insists, though she lowers her voice. ‘Did she see your reasoning? About you having power of attorney?’
He sighs heavily. ‘She says they haven’t made any plans. In fact, she turned the tables on me and asked what our plans are? She said that I might die suddenly and, if I did, would everything go to you?’
She gives him a quick sideways glance. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well.’ He shrugs. ‘I suppose she’s got a point.’
‘What point?’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says crossly. ‘They don’t like the idea of you and the girls inheriting half of their property if anything happens to me.’
The girls nudge each other: here it comes.
‘That’s hardly fair, though, is it?’ Natasha says. ‘You’re their son, after all. And we’re your family now. Which means their family.’
‘In that case,’ he mutters, ‘it might be wiser to act like it. You doing your patronizing “Patrick and Mollie” act, and your children behaving like louts …’
Natasha’s grip tightens on the wheel; she prepares to defend her corner: ‘I resent that. We’ve given up another weekend to drive all this way …’
The girls grin at each other: result. They sit back in their seats as a bitter little argument develops.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Dossie says rapidly. ‘I sent a text but you didn’t answer and I wondered if it was just the signal playing up again. But I wasn’t far away so I just thought I’d dash down to say “Hi” and to see how you were getting on …’
She looks around her, smiling, still keeping up the jolly, casual approach, but she is feeling embarrassed. Rupert’s welcome hasn’t been one of unconditional joy and she is cursing herself for seizing this chance and taking him by surprise. Yet why shouldn’t she? Surely they have known each other long enough for her to make such a move. It occurs to her that, up until now, it is he who has been the proactive one; suggesting meetings and times and places.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he’s saying, ‘except that I’ve no picnic this time, nothing prepared for you. In fact, the place is a bit of a mess.’ He begins to laugh, looking a bit shamefaced, regaining his composure. ‘The truth is I made a bit of an effort last time, so as to impress you.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she cries, relieved. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just you said something about having to dash upcountry for the weekend so I thought I’d come and say goodbye.’
She feels a complete fool now. All the way here she’s imagined this meeting: how his face would light up when he saw her and that he might even take her in his arms, and she hoped that the unexpectedness of it would precipitate something exciting; something physical. She’s been playing Joni Mitchell’s ‘At Last’ again as she drove over, feeling light-hearted and happy and full of love for him; and wanting to feel his arms round her. Instead, his reaction has made her feel as if she were taking liberties.
‘Look,’ he’s saying now, ‘come and sit in the sun. I’m sorry I was a bit off. It’s just that I’m not looking forward to this trip. I’m going to see my bank manager to try to sort out a bit of extra finance for that cottage we saw. The owner’s holding out on me to raise my offer. It’s been a very slow season for the rental market and I need to reassess one or two things. I may have to put this place out on a long let, for instance. Or put it back on the market when I’ve finished it, though it’s not the best time for trying to sell.’
She is sympathetic at once; sitting down at the little table, looking at him with concern.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t thinking …’
‘Why should you?’ he asks quickly. ‘I’d got myself into a bit of a state. Look, I’ll go and make us some coffee. Only instant, I’m afraid. And, like I said, no picnic.’
‘That’s fine,’ she says warmly, anxious to reassure him and to comfort him. ‘Of course it is. I just wanted to say “Hi”, that’s all.’
‘Bless you,’ he says, smiling now. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’
He goes away into the cottage and she slumps a little with relief. Poor Rupert, no wonder he is looking a bit stretched and preoccupied. This might not be the moment for passion but at least she can support him; make him laugh. It’s hard, when you’re alone, to deal with all the problems of running a business and earning a living.
Slowly, as she sits quietly, she grows aware of the noise of the water. The little stream is full to overflowing after the heavy rain of the last two weeks, and the grass is sodden underfoot. No chance of a walk today, or lunch at the pub, as she’s hoped; she won’t suggest it. She’ll play it by ear.
He comes out looking more relaxed, carrying two mugs. ‘You’ve caught me out, you see,’ he tells her cheerfully. ‘I had it all off perfectly last time, hoping to impress you, and now I’m reduced to two mugs of instant coffee.’
‘You don’t need to impress me,’ she answers. ‘Surely you know that by now.’
He reaches out and touches the back of her hand with one finger, running it lightly up and down.
‘You’re a darling,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ He stops stroking her hand and picks up his mug. ‘But how are you? Didn’t you say that your brother was down again? How did it go?’
She can’t speak at once; his touch has unsettled her and she wants to take his hand. She drinks some coffee to cover her reaction.
‘It’s difficult,’ she says at last, marvelling at the calmness of her voice. ‘He wants Mo and Pa to make all these decisions about The Court. Well, I told you, didn’t I? I suppose it would help if we all had a crystal ball and knew what the future held.’
She falls silent, waiting. Rupert raises his eyebrows and draws down the corners of his mouth; a facial shrug.
‘Wouldn’t it just?’ he agrees lightly. ‘I’d give a great deal to know what my bank manger is going to say this afternoon, for instance.’
It isn’t the answer she hopes for but she rallies. ‘This afternoon? Where are you meeting him?’
He hesitates very briefly. ‘In Bristol. I’ve had my account since I was at university there. I shall stay on for a few days and see my mother.’
Somehow she hasn’t expected a mother and for some reason she can’t quite understand it makes her feel more cheerful. He glances at his watch and she finishes her coffee and sets down the mug.
‘I’d better let you get on,’ she says, getting up. ‘Have a good journey.’
He gets up too, and they walk together to her car. She smiles at him, not quite knowing what to say.
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Quickly he put his arms round her and kisses her passionately, taking her by surprise. She responds instinctively, holding him tightly.
‘Darling Dossie,’ he mutters. ‘I wish I didn’t have to rush away. I’ll text you. Take care.’
He lets her go just as suddenly and, shaken and confused, she climbs into the car, fumbling with the keys, hardly knowing what she is doing. He has already walked away and now stands by the door, watching her. She backs the car out and turns, and pauses to wave to him. Rupert raises his hand in response and she drives quickly away.
Rupert takes the mugs inside and rinses them under the tap, runs upstairs to finish packing his bag and, twenty minutes later, is driving in the opposite direction. He curses under his breath, regretting the missed opportunity with Dossie simply because there is too much evidence in the cottage to support his supposedly single status. He’ll remember that, just in case there is a next time, though he generally prefers to play away rather than at home. The real problem is that Dossie isn’t the sort to mess around. He suspects that if she finds out that he’s married she’ll drop him – and he’s got rather fond of her. He wonders if he’s read her right and whether she might after all be prepared for a little fling: she fancies him, he knows that. He remembers the kiss. She’d been ready for it then, he’d swear to it. Perhaps she doesn’t want a permanent relationship and he’s being a fool in not seizing the chance. It’s a pity that she should turn up just as he’s on his way to Bristol: to Kitty.
And what about Kitty? Since meeting Dossie he’s been quite enjoying his double life and he doesn’t want to spend all his weekends in Bristol with the wretched Sally and Bill always on the doorstep, making up foursomes. And Mummy, tottering on her frame between her little sitting-room and her bedroom, or in her wheelchair, not even able to make it into the garden now. Though actually Mummy’s still up for a bit of a laugh, poor old darling: wheezing away, gasping for breath, tears of mirth filling her eyes when he teases her outrageously. The prognosis isn’t good. Six months at the most now, the doctor says. She’s still very with it mentally, but she suffers from angina attacks, shortness of breath and she gets very dizzy and even faints if she overdoes things. He understands why Kitty feels she must be there, but they argue so much of the time now about whether or not she will ever be able to face returning to the life she once enjoyed.
‘You loved Cornwall,’ he reminds her. ‘We’ve had such fun. You said you never wanted to live in a city again.’
‘I know I did,’ she cries. ‘I know! So OK, things have changed. Perhaps I’ve changed. It’s just that I’m enjoying being back in civilization. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be able to go to the theatre or the cinema almost on a whim, or to text a girlfriend and have lunch. I was born and brought up here, remember. It’s my home.’
‘But not in a flat, even if it is in Sneyd Park looking down the River Avon,’ he answers. ‘I feel suffocated here. You know I do.’
Her face turns sulky then, and she stops trying to jolly him out of his determination.
‘You don’t have to go on with this renovating work,’ she says. ‘We could afford for other people to do it. We’ve got a big property portfolio now, and poor Mummy will leave me very well off. We’ll be able to sit back and enjoy it.’
‘I don’t want to sit back and enjoy your money,’ he shouts. ‘I love my work. I love the planning and designing and making an old place beautiful again. I thought you liked it too. You were pretty keen about it at the beginning. You said you loved the independence, the freedom and the wonderful satisfaction when we’d finished a cottage. You said you loved all that. Do you really see us sitting here in this flat with no purpose to our lives? What the hell would I do? Go with you to have coffee with Sally and her boring, horse-mad husband? Take up a tidy little hobby? For God’s sake! We’re not fifty yet.’
Then she walks out, banging the door, and there will be a period of non-negotiable silence, warming very gradually into monosyllabic interchanges, followed by a hasty reconciliation before he goes back to Cornwall. He’s begun to dread these weekends and just lately he’s allowed them to become less regular, pleading an excess of work or sudden problems. He’s also beginning to see the advantages of having a bit more freedom: perhaps a compromise can be reached after all. He envisages a scene where Kitty is close but not necessarily too close: far enough away to give him a little more scope.
Kitty and Sally are having coffee. Kitty is faintly irritated – Sally has turned up unexpectedly – but she tries not to show it. Sally is quite aware of Kitty’s irritation and is quietly enjoying it. She likes to control their friendship – always has; ever since they were two little new girls at Clifton High.
‘You can be my new best friend.’ Sally has the important air of someone who knows the ropes. Indeed, she has two older siblings at the school – one of whom is a prefect – and Kitty is dazzled by her good fortune. And so it is through all the years of growing up: Sally leads and Kitty follows.
‘Like the new haircut,’ says Sally now. ‘At least … is it a tad short? A tiny bit? You have to balance your jaw line. Anyway, it’ll grow out. No, no, it looks great. Honestly. So Rupert’s on his way. He hasn’t made the last couple of weekends, has he? I expect he’s hurrying to get the cottage finished. You simply mustn’t let him buy another one, lovey. It’s madness, him being away like this. You must be so worried, well, not worried exactly, but edgy. Well, he’s such a charmer, isn’t he? Not that he’d do anything, of course, but the mid-forties is a dangerous age, isn’t it? Even dear old Bill is beginning to fear time’s winged chariot is hurrying a bit too near. Did you see him at the Club last time we were there with poor Claire? Of course, she played up to him. Honestly, I did laugh. I said to her afterwards, “Just ignore him.” Still, I’m really sorry to hear that your mum is worse again. You are such a saint. Bill was only saying last night, “Kitty is an absolute saint to put her marriage on hold for her mother. And old Rupert all on his own in Cornwall.” Look, I must dash away. I know you’ve got lots to do and I’m having lunch with Claire. See you soon …’
She whirls out on a trail of scent and a flutter of scarves and a clattering of heels. Sally still looks amazingly young: her longish, bobbed, ashy-blonde hair is more ash than blonde but she doesn’t care.
‘Dyeing the hair is so ageing, don’t you think,’ she says occasionally, glancing with a little secret smile at Kitty’s dark – rather darker, these days – short hair.
Kitty slams the front door behind her and peers in the hall mirror, turning her chin slightly. Is her hair too short for her slightly square jaw? She can see now that it is, and some of her confidence trickles away. Sally’s observations have roused other fears. Of course, Sally always fancied Rupert herself; still does. But she’s simply not his type: she’s much too managing, much too bossy.
‘I had a sergeant-major just like her,’ he said just after they met – and they’d laughed together, though she’d felt guilty. Guilty, but pleased.
Sally was there when she first met him: they’d been taking a mid-term break together from their university office.
‘Dishy,’ Sally said, after Rupert had shown them round the cottage and given them a key. ‘He fancies you.’
They had a fit of giggling, just as if they were still schoolgirls, but now, as Kitty stares at her hair – it is too short – she can still remember the little jolt in the diaphragm when she looked at him that very first time. He told her his future plans for the restoration of old properties over a pint in the pub one evening. His vision and passion thrilled her and she knew quite simply and clearly that she wanted to be with him every minute. And she had been: camping, laughing, working together.
So why not now? It isn’t that she doesn’t want to be with him; it is simply that she’s got used to city life again, and the prospect of going back to remote cottages and painting walls has suddenly lost its appeal. Even the days she’s spent down at the cottage haven’t reignited any enthusiasm. She prefers it when he comes to Bristol. If she’s fair she has to admit that, if she were living with him, the cottage would be much more comfortable but she doesn’t want to be fair. Just at the moment it is rather good having a big, roomy flat to live in, with the city on her doorstep. Even with Mummy in her confined state and needing supervision, she manages her moments of freedom.
She’s still hoping that without her there, Rupert, too, might be tiring of this peripatetic way of life, and that he’ll be pleased to take it easier, but so far he’s made it clear – very clear – that such a future does not appeal to him at all. Of course, it’s a bit tricky with poor Mummy ill – she can understand that – and Rupert’s not the kind of man to function at his best in the sick-room atmosphere. That’s why he’s not getting back quite so regularly; nothing to do with playing around. Sally has always liked to imply that he’s not quite to be trusted – and, to be honest, there have been a couple of moments when she’s had to be very watchful – but she’s always been able to tell when he’s being distracted. He seems to almost shine with contentment, eyes bright, and he’s even more up for it than usual.
Kitty turns away from the looking-glass, that firm jaw set pugnaciously. She’s not about to give in over this one. No more camping, no more renovations: this is to be the last one. She might just consider a terraced house in Bristol, for students’ use, perhaps, which Rupert can oversee perfectly well from this comfortable sunny flat.
Sally’s right: it’s time to make a stand.
When Rupert arrives Kitty’s waiting for him. She studies him closely but can see no signs of anything out of the ordinary: he’s cheerful, affectionate and clearly quite happy with his life. Somehow this irritates her.
‘You look on good form,’ she says: it’s almost an accusation. He agrees readily.
‘Tired, though,’ he adds quickly as though he’s given away a point. ‘Bushed, actually. I’ve been working very hard this last couple of weeks.’
‘Well,’ she can’t resist such an opportunity, though instinct warns her against it, ‘what have I been saying about slowing down?’
‘Oh, come on, love,’ he says, half laughing, half impatient, dropping his overnight bag on the floor. ‘Let me get in the door before you start.’
Immediately she feels aggrieved and some of her good intentions vanish. ‘I’m not starting anything,’ she snaps. ‘Do you want some lunch?’
‘That’s usually the form at this time of day,’ he murmurs sarcastically – and she suddenly wants to shout at him, to kick his bag in a childish fit of anger, but the cleaner puts her head round the kitchen door and says, ‘Can I have a word, Mrs French?’ and Kitty quickly rearranges her face and tries to smile. Rupert is greeting the cleaner as if she is some dear old chum, and the cleaner is beaming and bridling, and Kitty is able to grab her temper and calm down.
But the weekend is not off to a good start.
* * *
Two days later, Rupert parks the Volvo outside the cottage, climbs out and stands in the afternoon sunshine. He feels quite limp with the relief at being back again. Without taking his bag out of the car, he walks onto the little lawn and looks about him with delight; listening to the water’s clear ringing song mingling with the soft insistent murmurings of an unseen dove. He breathes deeply, aware of the thick sweet scent of the honeysuckle that winds its intricate clinging way over the thorny hedge. This, this is where he is most at home; most himself. And once Kitty would have felt the same, he tells himself. She professed to love the tranquillity: the slow, inexorable rhythm of the quiet places. He can imagine her here: eating breakfast at the picnic table, still in her pyjamas, watching for the dipper bobbing on his midstream boulder, listening to the robin’s cheerful song. Or in the long midsummer evenings: sitting with a glass of wine, waiting for the full moon to rise above the trees’ leafy canopy and hearing the owl’s shrill scream down in the woods below.
He broached the prospect of buying another property to restore but she prevaricated and he grew impatient. His cheerful mood was disseminated into the chill and brittle atmosphere that he was beginning to know and dread, and which lasted right through Sunday.
Surely she must see that he can’t simply give up his work and sit in a flat in Bristol whilst someone else runs his business. Even though he could afford to retire he would feel miserable with no projects and no challenges: surely, knowing him as she does, she can understand this.
Standing in the hot sunshine, he thinks suddenly about Dossie: cooking, planning, dashing about in her little car. She understands how he feels. He needs someone to chat to about the day’s work, about suppliers’ incompetence and the idiosyncrasies of his clients. Dossie understands and sympathizes about all these things and it is good to share a meal, have a pint together, and simply relax with her. It’s a bit tricky that she seems to think that his wife has died. Possibly Chris at Penharrow is unwittingly responsible for that, having heard some rumour and muddled the fact that Kitty went back to Bristol to look after her mother when her father was taken suddenly ill and died. He doesn’t know Chris very well, and they’ve never discussed anything of a personal or private nature. Anyway, it’s too late to go into it now with Dossie. He has no intention at the moment of rocking the boat by telling her the truth. He works on the ‘need-to-know’ basis with women.
As he gets his bag from the car and unlocks the cottage door he is acknowledging to himself that it would be good to see Dossie; really wishing he hadn’t been quite so edgy during that last meeting when she’d taken him by surprise. He glances at his watch: twenty past four. He’ll send her a text.
He drops his bag in the hall and goes into the kitchen. There are a few things, one of Kitty’s scarves and some fashion magazines and a pair of her walking shoes, that he feared Dossie might see – and ask about – when she turned up unexpectedly. Luckily, there was no need for her to go into the cottage but he reminds himself that he’ll have to be much more careful. Taking his mobile phone out of his pocket he goes back outside to the picnic table where the signal is strongest and begins to text, wondering where she is.
She is on the beach at Peneglos with Jakey. A few local families are grouped about in the narrow cove whilst seagulls perch on black spiny rocks and watch them with yellow-glass eyes. The tide had turned and the sea retreats placidly, sending little white-fringed wavelets across the smooth yellow sand where three children play at the water’s edge. Even now, on this hot afternoon in late June, the sea is icy cold and Jakey is happier paddling in one of the sun-warmed rock pools whilst Dossie wanders close at hand, keeping a lookout for pebbles or larger stones that might do for Janna’s collection. Jakey’s big red plastic bucket stands nearby containing a few selected pebbles and Stripey Bunny, whose long legs hang over the edge of the bucket.
Jakey lies down in the shallow water and splashes and kicks and pretends that he is swimming.
‘Look at me,’ he shouts. ‘Look, I’m nearly swimming, Dossie,’ and she laughs and claps her hands and holds up Stripey Bunny so that he can see too.
Jakey comes out all in a rush and a scatter of water, and stands before her; his warm sun-browned skin glitters wetly in the sunlight. He shakes himself like a dog and drops of water fly around him, bright as a rainbow.
‘Is it time for the picnic now?’ he asks hopefully. ‘Stripey Bunny’s hungry.’
She picks up the big soft towel and wraps him in it, rubbing him dry and hugging him at the same time, and his narrow blue-brown eyes sparkle as he wriggles and protests and chuckles as she tickles him. She pulls his navy-blue hooded towelling jersey over his head and puts the towel on a rock to dry in the sunshine.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Honey sandwiches, I think. And some rice cakes and some grapes. And there’s a Fruit Shoot.’
‘No chocolate?’
She shakes her head: ‘This is one of Daddy’s healthy picnics,’ she says, and puts two small sandwiches on a little paper plate beside him on the rug. Just now, sitting cross-legged, his gilt-blond hair ruffled by the breeze, he is so exactly like Clem was at the same age that she is transported back across the years to the beach at Rock, and she and Clem picnicking in just this same way. Even as a tiny stab of nostalgia and sadness pierces her heart, her mobile makes its little bleeping sound that signifies the arrival of a text.
She opens her bag and lifts it out, heartbeat quickening, eyes narrowing against the bright light as she tilts the phone to read the message.
Back home. All well with bank and mother. Hope u ok.
Dossie takes a deep relieved breath: all is well. He is home and all is well. Ever since she last saw him, some deep-down anxiety has troubled her and she’s regretted that sudden impulse that took her down to see him unannounced. A tiny voice tells her that she has every right to take the initiative occasionally but she smothers it with sympathetic considerations for his situation: she must give him space and time to recover from his grief. She doesn’t want their relationship to be haunted by ghosts of his former life. Because it is never discussed between them she is free to be herself and to approach him happily without sighs and sad looks for his loss. One day it will be right to speak of it, but not yet.
She hesitates, rereading the message, and then decides not to answer it immediately. It is better to stay cool; not to look too keen.
‘Who is it, Dossie?’ Jakey has finished his sandwiches and is watching her. ‘Is it Daddy?’
She shakes her head, reaching for the wipes and rubbing the honey from his fingers. ‘Just a friend. Tell you what, why don’t we build a lovely sandcastle and have some more picnic afterwards? What d’you think?’
Jakey considers and then nods. He scrambles up and goes to fetch his spade whilst she takes Stripey Bunny and the pebbles out of his bucket and puts them together on the rug. As she watches Jakey digging, busy and preoccupied with his task, she remembers that kiss. She smiles inwardly and happiness expands her heart. Suddenly, dispensing with caution, she fishes her mobile out again and taps out a short message. Glad all is well. Same here.
She hesitates, wondering whether to add something more encouraging, but decides against it. It’s up to Rupert to make the next move. She sends the message, tucks her mobile away and kneels down on the sand to help with the sandcastle.
Waiting patiently, sitting at the little picnic table, Rupert reads the message with relief: all is well. He considers the week ahead and decides to take a chance. He texts quickly: Meet here coffee on wed? Lunch at pub?
While he waits for her reply, he scrolls down to the Bristol number. Kitty answers at once.
‘Hello? Are you back? How was the journey?’
‘It was a good one. No hold-ups.’
He notes that her voice is bright, willing him to be cheerful, and he responds to it readily. It is as if he’s come to some kind of decision and it is important now for her to be reassured. She’s chattering on, telling him about some plan she’s got for the theatre when he comes back again.
‘But not this weekend,’ he reminds her. ‘The plumber’s coming in on Saturday morning …’
‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I remember you told me about it, but the weekend after that, perhaps? Look, I’ll phone and check the ticket situation and let you know. We can have dinner afterwards.’
It is very clear that there has been no change of heart on her part. She isn’t missing him that much and is determined to pretend that their only life together is in Bristol.
‘Sounds fine,’ he says lightly. ‘Look, I’d better unpack and get some supper sorted.’
‘Take care, then,’ she says.
She hesitates, as if she might say something more, and her voice is suddenly slightly anxious but he presses the button quickly and sits quite still for a moment, staring out over the little stream. It is as if some kind of Rubicon has been crossed but he doesn’t quite know why or how. He feels elated, excited, free. His mobile beeps and he scrolls quickly to Dossie’s answer.
Love to. C u 11-ish Wed.
He sighs with relief and pleasure, puts the mobile in his pocket, and goes into the cottage.
It is very hot. The dogs lay stretched at full length on the cool flagstones in the boot-room; Pa walks them early and late in the cool of the day. In between he watches Wimbledon, where people are passing out with the heat and there is no requirement, none at all – he repeats with enormous satisfaction – for the new roof.
‘Pa is such a Luddite,’ Dossie says. ‘He hates change.’
‘Roofs,’ he snorts with contempt. ‘The whole point of Wimbledon was that the weather sorted out the men from the boys.’
Mo watches too, but her mind is elsewhere. It is too hot to work at anything. In the little parlour, with the windows wide open, there is no breath of air. The garden lies drenched in heat and there is no birdsong now: no thrush to waken her at dawn. As she watches white-clad figures racing hither and thither over the balding tennis court she broods on the conversation they had with Dossie, remembering her surprise, almost shock, when Pa told her that they want her to have The Court.
‘But what about Adam?’ she asked. ‘What will he have? How does that work?’
‘We’ve thought about it carefully,’ he answered, ‘and Mo and I aren’t particularly happy to think of Adam having this house and simply leaving it to Natasha and those girls.’
‘No, no. I can see that,’ she said, ‘but surely the fair thing to do is to leave it between us.’ She looked from one to the other, frowning a little. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily fair,’ Mo put in quickly. ‘The point is that your work has helped to keep us all going here, especially once the B and B-ers stopped. I know Pa’s pension is very important but we wouldn’t be managing here without you, Dossie. And we think that you look on it as your home in a way Adam never has. We’d like you to go on being able to do that, if you want to. And Clem and Jakey, too.’
Mo recalls Dossie’s expression: she looked shocked and touched and fearful, all at the same time.
‘It’s true, Doss,’ Pa said. ‘You’ve made it possible in many different ways for us to go on here. We all know that.’
‘But if you leave it to me, won’t Adam contest the will? I mean, it’s a big thing, isn’t it? He’ll be … well,’ she looked alarmed, clearly imagining Adam’s reaction, ‘he’ll be incandescent. And, to be fair, I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘It’s quite fair.’ Pa was stern. ‘Adam has never cared about the place. You have. He has no children of his own to inherit it. You have. He has a home of his own with Natasha. You haven’t a home other than this one.’
Mo, remembering, saw Dossie struggling with this, thinking out the weaknesses.
‘The thing is,’ she said at last, ‘that I don’t know how I’d manage to keep it running all on my own. And I can’t guarantee that Clem or Jakey would ever be able to, either. Look, don’t think I don’t want it – I love this house and it would be very sad to leave it – but I can’t promise anything. And then how would Adam feel if I had to sell it anyway?’
She gazed at them anxiously and Mo felt compassion for her, and fear. Pa was ready for that one, though.
‘We were thinking, Mo and I, that there might come a time when you’d want to give up all this dashing about the country and settle down a bit. And we wondered, didn’t we, Mo, whether you’d consider going back to the B and B-ing.’
Now, recalling Dossie’s expression, Mo almost laughs aloud.
‘B and B-ing.’ Her lips framed the words but she made no sound. After the first shock her eyes held an inward, considering look. Slowly, very slowly, she began to smile.
‘Do you know,’ she said carefully, ‘that’s not as mad as it sounds.’
Pa was so relieved and delighted that she didn’t simply laugh in his face that he made no protest about the suggestion being mad. Instead, he waited with hopeful, anguished patience whilst Dossie considered it.
‘May I think about this?’ she asked at last. ‘Don’t be hurt that I’m not grasping it with both hands, but I’d be the one left facing Adam and I’d want to be confident that I could deal with him.’
‘Of course you must think about it,’ Mo said quickly, before Pa could exert any pressure. ‘We quite understand that you need notice to consider it from all angles. We just want you to know how we feel.’
‘But you’ll think about the B and B-ers?’ Pa added quickly.
Dossie laughed; she still looked almost shell-shocked, but excited too. ‘I promise,’ she said, and Mo nudged Pa’s foot with her own to warn him to leave well alone.
Now, watching Federer’s graceful, athletic performance, Mo wonders what Dossie is up to. She’s still made no mention of any new relationship though it is clear that something is going on. Yet she seems to think that her future might be at The Court. Perhaps this new fellow, whoever he is, might move in with them. Mo tries to imagine it, how Pa might react and how it would work, and shakes her head. It is impossible to speculate on such a prospect. Meanwhile they must wait for what Dossie will say. Pa seems content, now he’s spoken out, to wait for Dossie’s decision – and, anyway, he’s absorbed as usual with Wimbledon.
Mo stirs restlessly. She’s never been as committed to the tennis as Pa is. Glancing about for her book she sees a leaflet advertising the St Endellion’s Summer Festival lying on her small bureau: there will be concerts and music and events to go to in the little collegiate church, and it is time that she booked tickets. She hopes that the swine flu scare – ‘bacon fever,’ Pa calls it – won’t affect it. Reaching for the leaflet and her spectacles, Mo settles down to study it.
Her eyes widen with delight. The festival opens with a wonderful Choral Evensong including music by Mendelssohn and Holst and then, on Sunday morning, a Eucharist sung to Haydn’s Missa Brevis. There is to be a performance of Britten’s Death in Venice with James Bowman, a chamber music concert with pieces by Tchaikovsky and Mozart, and the festival ends with a performance of Twelfth Night on the rectory lawn.
Mo begins to mark certain events with a pencil. Presently she dozes.
A few days later Clem and Janna sit facing each other across the caravan’s little table. They can hear the whisper of soft rain falling beyond the open door where the drenched banties peck disconsolately. A gang of squirrels marauder in the apple trees, and delicate sweet peas flower under the window.
‘You’ve made up your mind then.’ she says. ‘I can tell. You look really happy.’
And he does. His eyes gleam their narrow smile at her and his lips are pressed tightly together as if he fears that he might smile too much and give away a secret. Jakey looks like this sometimes when he brings her a stone and says, ‘Close your eyes and put out your hand … Now you can look,’ and when she opens her eyes he’ll be watching her with just this same expression.
Clem nods. ‘If we can show that it could work and it goes ahead then I shall stay and train for ordination. I don’t have to go away for two years this time, though. I can do a much shorter course while I’m still carrying on working here. Father Pascal and I have been talking it through with Bishop Freddie. He’s really excited about it. Well, they both are.’
Janna watches him. She’s never seen him so animated, so alive – or so attractive. He wears an old, faded blue cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up over his brown arms, and his silver-fair hair, damp with rain, is a striking contrast to his deeply tanned face.
‘What about you?’ he’s asking. ‘You’ll stay too, won’t you? The Sisters will need you more than ever.’
She looks away from him, drawing little patterns on the table-top with her fingers, shaking her head evasively.
‘I don’t know yet. I’d like to know a bit more about it, see. I mean, it’s OK now because we’re like family. Even the guests are lovely and friendly and I feel I can manage. But this’ll be different, won’t it? Father Pascal says that it’ll have to be more businesslike than we are at the minute.’
‘Well, that’s true. But we shall have full-time staff to help rather than the way we go on now. I was thinking of you being with the Sisters rather than actually working in the retreat house itself. They’ll need continuity when they move into the Coach House; someone to be looking after them. Just like you do at the moment. Wouldn’t you be happy doing that?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ she says defensively.
It seems that only she and Sister Ruth are not completely in favour of this new plan and she feels almost guilty that she can’t enter wholeheartedly into the excitement. She looks out through the door into the damp orchard, fearful and confused. She doesn’t want to leave Chi-Meur but nor does she want to be too heavily relied upon. The Sisters seem to believe that she is part of their family now; committed to the future with them.
Clem is watching her, but when she meets his eyes reluctantly she is immediately calmed by the understanding she sees there.
‘I wouldn’t be able to stay in the caravan,’ she blurts out. ‘They need the orchard for their private garden. Anyway, they’d like me to be in the Coach House so as to be close at hand as they all get older. ’Tis just … I feel happier out here.’
He nods and they sit for a minute in silence. ‘The Coach House is going to be rejigged,’ he says tentatively, ‘so it’s possible that you might still be able to be a bit private. We need to look into that.’
She crosses her arms, as if to defend herself from any persuasion. ‘It seems all wrong,’ she tells him, ‘for me and Sister Ruth to be on the same side. She’s never liked me much and I don’t get on with her anything like as well as I do with Sister Emily or Mother Magda.’
‘She’s frightened that they’ll all be swallowed up by the new venture. She can’t quite believe that their work will be carried forward and expanded and that they’ll still have a vital role to play. She’s terrified of being sidelined and undervalued. Her insecurity and fear make her aggressive.’
Janna is puzzled. It’s never occurred to her that the sharp-tongued Sister Ruth is either insecure or fearful.
‘Promise me,’ Clem is saying, ‘that you won’t just disappear, Janna. Even if you feel you don’t want to be part of it, promise that you’ll say goodbye.’
She stares at the table, unwilling to make such a promise, knowing her deep-down need to be free; shrinking from the prospect of saying goodbye to all these people whom she loves. She swallows and bites her lip, and then nods almost imperceptibly.
‘I’d never be able to explain it to Jakey,’ he says quietly. ‘D’you see how hard it would be for him – let alone all the rest of us – if you just vanished overnight? He loves you, Janna.’
Her lips tremble as if she might cry but she shakes her head, denying it. ‘He’s got you,’ she muttered, ‘and Dossie and Pa and Mo …’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ he says impatiently. ‘Yes, he’s got all of us but that’s not the point. You are important to him, Janna. What would I say to him? If you go you must say goodbye to him.’
‘I love him, too,’ she protests. Tears stand in her eyes and she blinks them away. ‘You know I do. And that’s one of the problems. He comes here to see me, the dear of him, running through the orchard, calling out to me. And we sit here or outside on the grass, and we have silly picnics and stuff, and we laugh and sing songs.’ She leans towards him, across the table, the tears falling down her cheeks. ‘And how will that be in the Coach House? How will they cope with that? They won’t have it. Specially Sister Ruth won’t have it. I can tell you that now.’
Clem is silent and Janna leans back and takes a deep breath.
‘Let me think about it,’ he says at last, ‘and, meanwhile, please promise that you won’t do a runner.’
She wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands. ‘’Tis time for the bus,’ she says. ‘Jakey’ll be getting wet,’ and Clem glances at his watch and gets up quickly with a muttered curse. He gives her one long last look, and hurries away through the orchard. She watches him go, trying to hold back the tears and wondering if it would be possible to lie to Clem.