Rafe and Pamela remained silent for a few moments after he’d left them.
‘I’m glad we saw her – last Friday, wasn’t it?’ said Rafe at last. ‘It would have been horrid if we hadn’t been to visit her, wouldn’t it? The valley won’t be the same without Mutt. She’s so much a part of it all.’ He sighed, his heart heavy. ‘Poor old Bruno.’
‘There was something wrong with him,’ said Pamela. ‘Did you notice?’
‘Well, after all his mother has just died,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘What would you expect, poor fellow?’
‘It wasn’t that.’ Pamela frowned, trying to define her reactions to the encounter. ‘Not that kind of thing. Of course he was upset, that’s not the point, but he was too quick when we talked about George. It wasn’t the obvious response. Bruno has a sympathetic streak, hasn’t he, even when he’s wrapped up in a book? If you’ve got a problem he notices. Today, when we hinted about George, he kind of blanked us and that’s not like him. He wasn’t even surprised. I felt that he already knew something was wrong and didn’t want to distress us by making us think we had to tell him about it.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘Too complicated,’ he said. ‘I think he was just not himself.’
‘And did you notice that after we’d talked about living here – how we couldn’t have afforded it if Mutt hadn’t been so generous – there was a very odd silence?’
‘Well, what answer could he have made?’ replied Rafe prosaically. ‘It’s only the truth, after all.’
Pamela sighed with frustration. ‘There was something wrong,’ she insisted. ‘I didn’t say it in the hope of any particular response, it just happened to be how I felt. Having said it, though, I think he might have responded with … oh, I don’t know. Something, anyway.’
Rafe stared at her, baffled. ‘What sort of something?’
‘Well, something like, “Don’t worry, nothing will change.” Or, “Well, you’re part of the family.” I don’t know exactly what but something. There was just a very awkward silence.’ She got up and moved towards him, her hand outstretched, feeling for him. ‘Have you ever thought what might happen to us once Mutt was no longer the head of the family, Rafe?’
‘No.’ He took her hand and held it, drawing her close and putting his arm about her. ‘I can’t say I have. Bruno and Emma will inherit and I can’t see them turning us out, can you?’
‘No.’ She rested her head against his shoulder. ‘But there was something.’ She shivered. ‘Oh, Rafe, I feel upset. First George, and then hearing about dear old Mutt, and now Bruno behaving oddly.’
‘I think you’re overreacting,’ he told her firmly. He glanced out of the window, seeking a distraction for her – and for himself. He was going to miss Mutt very badly. ‘It’s a rather dreary morning but would a little walk do us good? Shall we go and talk to the donkeys?’
She brightened. ‘Let’s take them some carrots,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to be too long, Rafe. I want to be here when George telephones to say that he’s home safely.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ he assured her. ‘He can’t possibly be there yet and I want to hear your theory about George; this light at the end of the tunnel. After this sad news I can do with some light. Get your coat and I’ll fetch the carrots.’
George had travelled fast through the quiet lanes to the dual carriageway and was already turning off the A30 at Launceston on to the road to Tavistock. As he travelled his mind was busy on several different layers and he barely noticed the familiar landmarks. As he passed over the Tamar he glanced briefly downstream where the mist smoked along the river and wreathed itself between the tall trees that clung to the steep, high banks. Driving up out of the deep valley, he thought about his mother and smiled to himself.
‘You’re clearing the decks,’ she’d said – and she’d been right. He hated to hide the truth from them, it was not in his nature, but it was difficult when the secret was not simply his own. Joss felt the same, he knew she did. It was in her character: she too had a dislike of subterfuge. Even as a child she hadn’t been like other girls – whining to their mothers, sulking if they didn’t get their own way.
‘I’m not playing any more,’ they’d say, flouncing off; or changing the rules of the game to suit themselves if they weren’t winning.
Joss had always played fair and square, not grimly like Olivia, who would kill rather than lose, but with a sweet seriousness of purpose and a cheerfulness in defeat. Only he knew how difficult she’d found her father’s patronizing attitude to her friends and his predilection for giving homilies on watching the pennies. The phrase ‘I didn’t get where I am today …’ might have been coined especially for Raymond Fox. Joss had grown increasingly reticent, afraid to expose her friends to his heavy witticisms at their expense, and especially cautious with young men of whom she was fond. She’d escaped to St Meriadoc whenever she could and, once she was qualified, she’d moved back to Cornwall.
Driving carefully through Milton Abbot, picking up speed again as he left the village, George saw Joss’s face in his mind’s eye: dark winged brows above hazel eyes, the straight little nose and wide curling mouth. If only they hadn’t lost touch during that crucial growing-up time they might not be in this terrible situation now.
Clearing the decks.
He hadn’t been able to explain to his mother that it was necessary to believe that he’d done everything possible to make his marriage work as much for Joss’s sake as for anyone else involved. Neither he nor she would want muddle or doubt: it must be all or nothing. It was Penny who had brought them to this point of telling his parents and, at the back of his mind, he wondered whether she might regret it. Perhaps, now it was out in the open, it might make her think carefully about what she was doing. The idea of leaving him was one thing but once that idea was defined, given shape and purpose by words, it grew into a daunting reality that might frighten her into reconsideration – and this must remain an option for her.
As he drove through the outskirts of Tavistock towards Yelverton, the anxiety and depression that had dogged him for the last few weeks – ever since Penny had announced her intention to leave him – closed down on him. She was fond of his parents and their reaction might carry some weight with her.
‘Give them our love,’ his mother had said – and he intended to do just that. He had no intention of making Penny feel guilty or ashamed. She must be given the chance, if she wanted it, to remain with him in a loving relationship. He would do nothing that would drive her into her lover’s arms for comfort; but he’d done with anger and shouting and with pleading. Perhaps it was too late, anyway, but he felt he must give it his best shot now for as long as it took.
Taking the back lane out of Yelverton, approaching the little cottage, he saw that Penny’s hatchback was in the single parking space beside the house. Just past the gate the lane was wider, and he pulled in tight under the thorn hedge, reached for his grip and climbed out. He felt sick with apprehension and confusion, trying for some calm, friendly opening that would start them off on a level base: no recrimi-nations, no attempt at emotional blackmail.
He let himself in, calling out to her: ‘It’s only me.’
The front door led immediately into the sitting-room, which was empty. He glanced through to the long narrow kitchen, and then shouted up the stairs.
‘Hello. I’m back.’
Even as he climbed the short steep staircase he knew that she’d gone. He couldn’t have immediately said what was missing but subconsciously he knew that this atmosphere of emptiness was not simply a case of Penny being out shopping or with friends. As he looked into the two bedrooms and checked the bathroom the certainty grew. The rooms were too tidy: there was none of the usual clutter that seemed to spawn and spread in so small a house, and he was becoming increasingly aware of a sweet, almost sickly smell which, as he returned to the sitting-room, was quite suddenly intolerable.
As he opened the window, breathing in cold, fresh air, he saw the pot of hyacinths. Penny had bought the bulbs in Tavistock market just before Christmas and put them on the window-sill so that they would catch the sunlight. Now, the blue, bell-shaped flowers, weighing down the thick pale-green stems, were fading but their scent was still strong in the airless cottage. He carried them through to the kitchen to give them some water and saw the letter, pinned down on the kitchen table beneath the green, hand-painted coffee jar. It was one of a pottery set that Penny had bought in Wade-bridge; there was another jar to hold sugar and a third for tea. He’d made a little shelf for them and she’d set the three of them in a row, delighted with them. He stood the jar back on the shelf and opened the letter. It was written with the spontaneity that was a part of her character:
I am just so sorry, George, but this is the only way I can do it. It seems underhand – and it is, of course – but there’s no point in it dragging on any longer. Brett was staying in Yelverton and came to get me and Tasha as soon as you’d gone yesterday. By the time you read this we’ll be on a flight home to New Zealand.
It was wrong of me to marry you, George, knowing that deep down I still had feelings for Brett. I actually did believe that making the commitment of marriage would finally exorcize any love I had for him. It didn’t work like that and, anyway, a year later he came to find me. I shouldn’t have deceived you then but I was so mixed up because part of me did love you and I wasn’t prepared to give in to Brett too quickly because of what he’d done before.
The fact is we should never have split up, he and I know that now, and I’m really sorry you’ve been hurt by our mistakes. But there’s no point in going on compounding the wrong. Also I’ve missed my home and family terribly, not because of anything to do with you, but just because it’s where I belong.
The other thing I have to tell you is that Natasha is Brett’s child. You probably won’t believe this, you’ll think I’m trying to get away with keeping her, but it’s true. I went to London just after you’d gone back to sea a year ago and that’s when I met up with Brett again. I’m afraid we got carried away but by then I’d had my period and that’s how I know she’s his. Even then I didn’t admit it because I still wasn’t sure I could trust him. You don’t have to believe me, there are other ways of testing it, but I hope you will and let us go peacefully.
Sorry, George, and thanks for all the good times. I’ve left the name of my lawyer but obviously I’m the one responsible for the break-up and I’m not asking for anything except that you don’t despise me too much.
She’d scribbled something that had been crossed through several times, and then written her name and he guessed that she hadn’t quite known how to finish it. As he stood with the letter in his hand, trying to take it all in, the telephone rang. He remembered his promise to let his mother know he was home safely and took up the receiver, trying to compose himself. It was a woman from a shop in Tavistock trying to contact Penny to say that something she’d ordered had arrived. George dealt with it calmly, saying that he would ask his wife to get in touch, and replaced the receiver. After a moment, he lifted it again and dialled his parents’ number.
‘Hi, Ma,’ he said when his mother answered. ‘I’m here but Penny isn’t. She’s done a runner with Brett, taking Tasha with her and leaving a letter saying that it’s all over. They’ve gone back to New Zealand.’
‘Gone?’ She was clearly shocked. ‘Oh, George, my dear boy …’
‘Bit of a conversation stopper,’ he agreed. ‘Sorry if I sound callous, Ma, but I don’t quite know what the form is for this.’
‘Of course not,’ she said quickly. ‘It was good of you to phone when you must be quite shattered. I simply don’t know what to say to you and you probably need time to adjust. I have to tell you, though, that Mutt died last night. Poor Joss found her. You can imagine what a shock it was for her. She telephoned from the practice in Bodmin and I thought she seemed rather disappointed to have missed you …’
She talked on for a moment, trying to get them both through this difficult moment, but George suddenly felt as if he’d been thrown a lifeline.
‘Look, there’s nothing I can do here,’ he told her. ‘If it’s OK with you I think I’ll come straight back. Maybe I can be useful.’
‘Oh, do,’ she agreed warmly. ‘It would be wonderful to have you here. Only, drive carefully. You’re probably in shock.’
Once he’d hung up he stared round the kitchen, feeling some kind of responsibility for this little cottage, which once had been their home and was now silent and unwelcoming. It would have to be sold, he told himself, and he wondered what would happen to the objects they’d chosen together – the pottery set and the other things that Penny had been unable to take with her.
He saw now that the hyacinth flowers were not just fading but beginning to decay, their petal edges brown; the strong scent seemed weighted with an odour of failure and deceit, and he was filled with a terrible sadness. He took the pot out and put it in a sheltered place in the back porch: later the bulbs could be planted under the hedge in the garden and next spring they would flower again.