Raymond drove away early the next morning, shortly after Joss had left for her practice in Wadebridge. Emma waved the car down the drive and then pottered round the mossy pathways, pausing with delight before the camellias, which were already flowering in the shelter of the garden wall. Here grew pretty, pink Lady Clare and the darker red Adolphe Audusson whilst round their feet clustered white and purple crocus. The gale had blown itself out overnight and the day was still and cool; a soft grey canopy of cloud obscured the sun, wrapping the garden in a gentle silence disturbed only by birdsong. A robin accompanied her: he fluttered along the top of the high stone wall, his cheerful stave of song lifting her spirits.
Emma straightened her shoulders, enjoying a familiar relief now that Ray was gone. She pulled a strand of encroaching ivy away from the wall, smiling with pleasure at a patch of primulas almost hidden in the longer grass, her confidence growing, reassuring herself that it was quite right to keep the parcel hidden. She’d stuck with her theory that Mousie had seen it and carried it off to Bruno, and had managed to talk Ray round to her own point of view: that the parcel had been wrapped up too long ago to contain the will and that it was much more likely to be something that had belonged to their father, Hubert, which Mutt had decided should be passed on to his son after her death. Ray had very reluctantly accepted this reasoning but then had insisted on another search – including Mutt’s own room, which had made Emma feel rather miserable – but which had produced nothing. Finding a card she’d sent recently to Mutt she’d suddenly been so overcome by grief that Ray had insisted she sit down by the fire while he’d made a pot of tea.
Emma crouched down, pulling away some of the longer grass so that the primulas should get more light, remembering how kind he’d been. He could be kind, dear old Ray, and that was what most people didn’t understand about him: they simply didn’t see the side of him that he showed only to her and occasionally to Joss. He was irritating: pompous and self-seeking. In the beginning, she’d hated it when he’d behaved like this in front of their family and friends. She’d been humiliated, identifying herself with his behaviour, trying to explain it away whilst excusing him and making light of it. Nevertheless, she’d learned to take aspects of it for her own use, which probably wasn’t very admirable. Emma grimaced ruefully as she threw the long grass aside into a heap on the path and then wiped her damp hands on a piece of tissue. There had been many moments in their marriage when they’d been quietly happy together. Yesterday afternoon had been one of those. He’d brought her tea, made just how she liked it, and comforted her in his own kindly way as they’d sat there before the fire. And then Joss had returned.
Emma stepped back onto the path, her hands clasped in a kind of unconscious prayer of thanksgiving, remembering her child’s face. Joss had come into the drawing-room, hesitating in the doorway, and her expression had been one of such joyous exultation that she, Emma, had automatically risen to her feet.
‘Darling,’ she’d cried. ‘Here you are.’
She’d gone towards her, unable to think of anything else to say, almost dazzled by that look of happiness. Joss had looked from one to the other, as if not knowing quite where she was.
‘Hello,’ she’d said uncertainly.
Unaware of anything unusual, Ray had simply grunted a greeting and picked up his newspaper, but Emma had taken Joss by the arm and led her – as if she were a sleepwalker – into the kitchen where she’d pushed her down into a chair.
‘Now,’ she’d prompted her, refilling the kettle. ‘You’ve had a lovely time with George and the donkeys …’
‘Yes,’ agreed Joss happily. ‘Oh, Mum, I have.’ She’d stared about her, as if she’d never seen the kitchen before. ‘I love him. I’ve always loved him and now it’s all right.’
Remembering those words, Emma began to understand how bad it must have been for someone of Joss’s open, truthful temperament to be in love with a married man: how hard to keep her love hidden and under control whilst continuing to nourish the friendship that had been so important to them both since childhood. Now, it need be a secret no longer, she was free to show her love, and that new freedom had had a startling effect on her. Again and again, Emma’s eyes had been drawn back to that glowing face, to share the joy that shone in her child’s eyes. Then, quite suddenly, the light had been quenched.
‘If only Mutt had known,’ Emma had been saying. ‘Oh, she’d have been so thrilled for you, darling. She loved George so much …’ And she’d seen Joss’s expression change, as if she’d remembered something, and the familiar, slightly wary look had come down like a mask.
As she stamped the mud from her shoes at the front door, Emma guessed that it had been the remembrance of grief that had been the cause of that change. For the rest of the evening, though, the happiness had shone out intermittently from behind the sadness, rather like a faulty electric connection or sun glimpsed between clouds.
In the hall, Emma paused. She’d planned to go down to The Lookout and had even considered taking Bruno his parcel, providing that he promised that – whatever it contained – he should not discuss it with Ray. As soon as she’d heard that Zoë was with him, however, she’d been seized with her usual irritation and now had no intention of allowing Bruno to open the package beneath Zoë’s ironical black-eyed gaze. No, it could remain where it was, but she would go down and have coffee with them and be as polite as was possible. Suddenly she was seized again with the joyful thought of Joss’s happiness that even the prospect of Zoë couldn’t tarnish.
Smiling to herself, she went to get her coat.
Bruno observed their meeting with a sardonic watchfulness born of experience. He was not taken in by the bright smiles, the friendly cries of greeting, or the embrace that was carefully choreographed so that neither woman actually kissed the other.
‘Zoë.’ Emma assumed a look of caring concern. ‘What a surprise! Is all well with you?’
She managed to imply that, from her quick assessment, Zoë wasn’t looking at her best; she even patted her arm encouragingly. Instinctively, Zoë shrank from the gesture, wrapping her thin arms round herself as though she were feeling cold. She had retaliation at hand, however, in the form of Emma’s pashmina. She reached for it, giving it a little flap – as though Emma were a bull and she a matador – before pulling it round her narrow shoulders.
‘I’m fine, darling,’ she said, stretching her lips in the brief imitation of a smile, ‘except that I always forget how cold it is here. Bruno’s given me this lovely shawl. Isn’t that sweet of him?’
It didn’t need the accusation in Emma’s eyes nor the triumph in Zoë’s to realize that he’d made a gaffe.
‘Not given,’ he said calmly. ‘Merely lent. I can’t think why you never wear enough clothes, Zoë.’
Emma seized upon this remark gleefully, though still seething inwardly at Bruno’s insensitivity.
‘Mutt used to say that once a woman got to a certain age the more that was left to the imagination the better,’ she observed, allowing her glance to linger pointedly on Zoë’s short skirt and naked neck.
‘And you’d be absolutely right to take her advice, darling,’ said Zoë, taking out a cigarette and leaning towards Bruno for a light. She caught his warning eye and pulled herself together: she couldn’t afford to push her luck too far. ‘Speaking of Mutt, though, I am so sorry.’
She sounded so genuine that Emma swallowed, torn between a desire for revenge and the opportunity to maintain an air of dignified grief. Bruno brought her some coffee and gave her a tiny wink, implying that he and Emma were on the same side whilst Zoë was merely an irritant that must be endured from time to time, and she relaxed, remembering her yoga classes, taking a few deep breaths. Bruno passed Zoë her coffee and wished that he hadn’t given up smoking, wondering why she was always less abrasive, more vulnerable, when they were alone together and if any other people ever saw that side of her.
He’d discovered that there were a few financial difficulties regarding the new flat – some new furnishings and the matter of a deposit, though the usual three months’ rent in advance had been waived – and he’d promised to help her out. Now, he saw that this subject might remind her to behave herself and he poured himself some coffee, feeling slightly relieved at this opportunity.
‘Zoë’s moving next week,’ he told Emma, sitting down at the end of the long table. ‘It sounds rather fun. She’s going to be living in the same house as the artist Evelyn Bose. She’s moving into her basement flat on Sunday.’
At the news that Zoë would be gone before the funeral Emma visibly brightened. She sat down at Bruno’s right hand.
‘What fun,’ she said, deciding to be generous. ‘Lots of parties, I expect.’
Zoë accepted the olive branch, perching on the chair opposite, blowing her smoke sideways.
‘It’s a bit of a break,’ she admitted. ‘You won’t believe it but she still exhibits. Last year she had a show …’
Bruno sat back in his chair and sighed with relief. Whilst he listened to Zoë he was aware of Emma beside him, and remembered Mousie’s warning, yet he simply could not see how the subject was to be broached: he reviewed and rejected every remotely possible opening with horror. He got up at one point, to let Nellie in from her morning potter in the valley, and spent some moments in the kitchen with her, soothed as usual by her undemanding affection. Suddenly, he was overcome by a keen desire to be working; to be in that other, far more satisfying world of the imagination, creating his own scenes and dramas.
‘The fact is,’ he told Nellie, ‘I’m simply no bloody good at real life.’
She fawned upon him, tail wagging, tongue lolling happily, so that he laughed too, comforted as usual, and went back to the women.