CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Sitting on the seat in the cloistered way outside the hall, Lizzie watched Saul and Piers. She’d left the kitchen to Mrs Coleman and Tilda, whose murmuring voices could be heard through the open window, and was content to sit in the shade, peacefully entertained by the scene before her. Whilst the swallows darted in and out above his head, Saul kept disappearing into the barn, only to return with yet another wooden seat or some dilapidated deckchair. Each would be dusted off, reviewed, and then tested by Saul who lowered himself gingerly on to rotting slats or fraying canvas with such a comic expression of dismayed caution that Lizzie laughed out loud. One ancient deckchair collapsed beneath him with a gentle explosion of dust and powdery wood and he was rescued just in time by Piers’ outstretched hand hauling him up as it disintegrated.

As they stood together – Saul dusting himself down disgustedly, Piers chuckling sympathetically – she wondered how difficult it was for Piers to watch Saul and Tilda together, how painful to see Saul undertaking the small tasks that would have naturally fallen to David. Clearly Tilda and Piers were a great comfort to each other and she felt humbled by their bravery: humbled and ashamed.

She was already regretting her earlier behaviour, despite the evident pleasure it had given Tilda and Saul; whatever their feelings about Alison she’d had no right to interfere or to assume that Piers needed her assistance. It was evident, from Tilda’s recital, that Alison neither welcomed the presence of Piers’ daughter-in-law and grandson at Michaelgarth, nor was she being terribly intelligent about it; nevertheless it was up to Piers to draw his own conclusions. She’d said as much to Tilda who agreed that, in normal circumstances, Piers would have already realized that Alison wasn’t right for him; her anxiety, she explained, was that Alison misunderstood his kindness for something quite different and that he was now entrapped by a sense of guilt.

‘He’s good at guilt,’ she’d said. ‘My mother says that his mother instilled it in him. Felix had an affair with some woman up-country that lasted quite a long time and Marina took it out on Piers. Made him feel that he had to make it up to her, if you see what I mean.’

It had been rather a shock to hear Tilda refer so casually to a part of her own life – to hear Angel described in such a way – and she’d felt compassion for the young Piers, attempting to comfort his mother whilst trying to understand his father’s behaviour. She’d followed Tilda out into the garth, watching Alison go with mixed feelings, unable to detect Piers’ reaction and feeling suddenly embarrassed.

She thought: I am like a tourist visiting his life, peering at it and assessing it, without knowing anything about him. What does he truly think and feel? Who am I to think that he needs protecting from his friends?

She’d been quite happy to be alone for a moment when Tilda went away to change Jake and Saul strolled over to the barn to check the barbecue. She’d watched as he’d exchanged a few remarks with Piers who, with a little friendly look towards her as she’d stood in the sunshine finishing her coffee, had gone indoors. She hadn’t seen him again until lunchtime: a quick snack of bread and cheese, disturbed by the arrival of Mrs Coleman, laden with bags and boxes. Saul and Tilda had hastened to clear away the remains of the meal, chattering together as they’d filled the dishwasher, whilst Piers introduced Lizzie to Mrs Coleman. Lizzie, who had already imagined her as an elderly apple-cheeked countrywoman, devoted to Piers’ family over generations, had been obliged to revise her ideas: she was a spare, rather tired-looking woman in her late thirties with a very sweet smile and an air of quiet confidence. It was clear that Piers was very attached to her and she’d given him a quick kiss as she’d handed him his birthday card.

‘How very sweet of you, Jenny,’ he’d said, opening it at once, reading it and then standing it with the other cards on the dresser. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Many happy returns,’ she’d said. ‘Now, if you’ll clear out and give me some room I’ll get started, unless Tilda would like to lend a helping hand.’

Piers and Saul had immediately wandered out into the garth, taking Lizzie along with them, and now she sat watching as Saul began to make a pile of the rejected seats, fetching a wheelbarrow and taking them away to be disposed of at some later date. Piers came to sit beside her on the bench.

‘I’m disappointed,’ she murmured, not looking at him but continuing lazily to watch Saul.

He took in her profile, the half-closed eyes, with an amused glance. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I had it all worked out,’ she continued in the same low voice, ‘that Mrs Coleman was to be an ancient retainer, jealous of her position here, working her fingers to the bone at Michaelgarth. I’d even pictured her rather like an Irene Handl character. You know the kind of thing? Rather blowsy but clean, very clean, with a spotless overall. Those appley-red withered cheeks and sharp but kind eyes. Oh, and serious shoes.’

‘Serious shoes?’ he repeated, puzzled.

She looked at him. ‘You must know what I mean,’ she insisted. ‘Black lace-ups but distorted by bunions. Heavy and uncomfortable but she always wears them with stockings, even on the hottest day. I’d decided that I might be summed up and found wanting unless I was lucky enough to be approved because of the TV ad but that even then she’d still fear that I was flighty.’

He chuckled, remembering Mrs Penn. ‘Yes, I can see how disappointed you must have been. Jenny Coleman doesn’t quite fit that identikit.’

Lizzie sighed. ‘So much for preconceived ideas.’

‘And do you always form mental pictures of people you’re about to meet?’

She pursed her lips cautiously. ‘Not always. They have to sound interesting, excite the imagination. Some people do it the other way round, of course. They imagine actors to be the characters they portray, especially in anything that has a long run.’

‘You mean that you are permanently identified as the delightful if scatty mother of two rebellious teenage sons whose charming but dysfunctional father keeps rotting up your life.’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed, after a pause.

‘Any similarity?’ he asked carefully.

‘About as accurate as my picture of Mrs Coleman,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t have children,’ she added quickly but with a finality that silenced him.

He gazed up at the swallows, which swooped and wheeled in the hot blue air, vanishing into the dark shadows of the barn to feed their nestlings, arrowing back out into the sunshine: it seemed that anything he might say could only be trivial or inquisitive.

‘You, on the other hand, were just as I’d imagined you.’ She assisted him over the awkward moment. ‘But then I had something to work on. My memories of Felix helped me there. It’ll be odd to see him here, both of you together. Is it time for me to go and fetch him yet?’

He glanced at his watch, taking the hint. ‘Whenever you like. I hope it won’t be too much for him but he can have a rest between tea and supper. It’s kind of you to go.’

‘And will Alison be here for tea?’ she asked lightly. ‘Or . . . anyone else?’

‘No.’ He answered rather too quickly. ‘No, it’s just family and very close friends for birthday tea. That’s how it always is at Michaelgarth.’

‘In that case I feel very honoured,’ she said, ‘especially as we only met four days ago. Of course you could say we’ve known each other for forty-odd years . . .’

‘You’re special,’ he said unguardedly – and she turned to look at him, surprised and pleased.

‘I wish I’d bought you a present now,’ she told him. ‘Damn.’

His eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘You presented me with some wine, if I remember correctly.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t a birthday present. That was an early thank-you-for-having-me present.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t think that I knew you well enough to choose anything. Now I feel bad.’ She hesitated. ‘Piers, I want to apologize for this morning. Oh, don’t look puzzled: you know very well what I mean. All that showing off in the kitchen in front of Alison. I just felt a bit shy, I suppose . . .’

He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Shy?’ he said disbelievingly, teasingly – and she laughed with him, comfortable and happy again, her embarrassment suddenly dissipated. They looked at each other, that strange sense of recognition leaping between them until, genuinely shy now, Lizzie made a show of checking the time by her own watch, saying that she must get ready to fetch Felix.

Upstairs in the bathroom she stared at her reflection in the glass, hearing Sam’s voice saying: Love her? How do I know if I love her? Love’s such an overused word. I’m not certain I know what it means any longer.

She turned away from the glass and, going back into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed. Remembering his pile-driver personality crowded out other feelings and she imagined him, as she’d known him best, directing an actor: his hands slicing and shaping the air, his body tensed with the urgent need to convey his precise requirements. She pictured the frustration when those directions were misunderstood, his hands snatching and dragging through his thick wild hair; the excitement when a scene was spot on, one fist punching the air and his face creased with delight. In his company other people faded into insignificance and, in his absence, life was an empty colourless business: one way or another Sam was going to be a difficult act to follow.

Love’s such an overused word. I’m not certain I know what it means any longer.

Presently she stood up, found her car-keys and went downstairs, the words still echoing in her ears.