On Monday morning Kate telephoned Michael Barrett-Thompson.
‘This is very embarrassing, Michael,’ she began quickly, ‘but I’ve made up my mind not to buy the cottage. When I was there yesterday I realized that it was a sentimental thing, to do with the past, and I’ve decided that it’s not right after all.’
‘I see. Well, that’s fine, Kate. We only want what’s best for you. Do you want to have some other details to look at?’
‘Oh.’ She was taken aback, having got no further than getting up her courage to tell him about the cottage. ‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
‘It’s just that these people, Mr and Mrs Burns, need to know about their offer.’
‘I thought I might wait a bit, Michael. The cottage has confused me, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, I can see that it’s disorientated you, but you need to be clear about this, Kate. You’ve explained to me that it’s not only that you think your house is too big for you now but also that you can’t afford to maintain it and you need to make some money to add to your savings. That’s right, isn’t it? The market is very buoyant at present but I don’t think it will last much beyond late summer. That’s not to say there will be some kind of property crash, but if you can sell now and buy a smaller place you’ll have done very well.’
A pause.
‘I don’t quite know what to say, Michael. The cottage was one thing, coming out of the blue with all its associations, but to find somewhere else might take quite a while.’
‘True. Have you thought of renting?’
‘Renting?’
‘You could sell and then go into rented accommodation while you look around. That way you sell at the top of the market and can wait until you find exactly what you want when prices will certainly have levelled out, if not dropped. To be honest that would be my best advice to you just now.’
‘But what would I do with my things?’
‘You might find an unfurnished place. Or you could put them into store. If you downsize you’ll have to get rid of some of your stuff anyway.’
‘I’m sorry, Michael, I simply don’t know what to say. I need time to think.’
‘OK. I’ll explain to the Burnses that you can’t go ahead with the cottage and we’ll take it from there.’
‘Thanks. I’m really sorry . . .’
‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do this kind of thing in a rush. I’ll be in touch – and I’ll send you some details of other properties.’
‘Fine. Thanks, Michael.’
Kate put down the telephone in a state of confusion. It was a reflection of her present state of mind that she’d got no further than her decision not to buy the cottage: that effort of will seemed to have taken all her energy. Since Saturday evening, waves of terrible grief washed over her at unexpected moments. She allowed them to come, almost welcoming them, hoping that the sharp pain of loss and loneliness might be rinsed away. At the very least it might become bearable and she would learn how to deal with it without denying it. Meanwhile it was clear that she must decide on the next step. Briefly she longed for Cass to come dashing in, putting the kettle on the hotplate, sitting down at the table, full of plans and helpful words of comfort.
Tom’s retirement last year, however, had made a very great difference to that easy age-old companionship. He and Cass had become great travellers: off to see old naval chums who had settled in Australia and America and Italy, trawling the Internet for cheap holidays in France, and talking of buying a little place in Tuscany. Now, it was less easy for Cass to spend time with Kate, unless Tom came too, and this increased her need to be even more self-sufficient.
Her glance fell upon a little colour-washed sketch that stood upon the dresser: a bridge over the River Dart and a group of foxgloves on the bank glowing against the sun-warmed stone. The light danced on the water, which seemed to flow and splash even as she looked at it. David had painted it and given it to Felicity Mainwaring as a present and, when Felicity died, Kate had put it there on the dresser.
‘The twins will grow up and leave you. You’ll be left alone . . .’
Felicity’s words weren’t quite true: the twins had grown up and left home but they’d brought their wives and children into a new, extended relationship and this had given Kate such great joy. Nevertheless, she knew that it was necessary to look to her own resources to solve her present problems. She filled the kettle, pushed it on to the hotplate and picked up the cup and saucer Janna had given her. Already it was special, carrying a tiny network of tender associations, and, as she poured out the coffee, Kate wondered what effect Roly’s meeting with his son would have upon Nat’s relationship with Janna.
Roly had telephoned on Sunday evening, jubilant with relief, and confident that Nat had been reassured. He’d talked at length, describing the whole conversation and Nat’s reactions, and Kate, too, had been filled with thankfulness. It was only now, as she picked up the cup and studied its pattern, that she began to wonder how it would affect Janna. Kate could remember that evening at the cottage in Horrabridge – Janna relaxed and languorous, perhaps believing that she and Nat could be a normal happy couple – but she could also recall Nat’s expression of misery and the apparent heaviness of his heart.
Her instinct assured her that there could be no lasting happiness if Janna and Nat attempted to change the rules of their relationship but she doubted Nat’s ability to convince Janna that this was so. And now Monica was arriving amongst them again. Kate groaned aloud.
‘What does Monica want?’ she’d asked Roly curiously on the telephone last night.
‘The best of both worlds,’ he’d answered. ‘She needs someone who will fill her life with pleasure, entertainment and love whilst demanding nothing from her in return. I disappointed her, let her down, so she chose someone who was stable, reliable and who loved her. I suspect that Jonathan has become less prepared to devote all his energy to her comfort, especially now he’s writing this textbook, and she’s looking around for distraction. Nat disappoints her too. She can’t brag about his job and he hasn’t brought a daughter-in-law and grandchildren into the fold so, just at present, there’s nobody to fill the terrible well of emptiness inside her. She’s begun to think that I might now answer that need. Last time she was here she was very maudlin and sentimental, trying to rewrite the past to suit herself and to fit the present. It won’t work.’
‘I hope not,’ Kate had answered fervently.
He’d laughed. ‘Daisy will protect me.’
Kate smiled, drinking her coffee, thinking about him and Daisy and the dogs. She found that she was wishing that she had Floss for company and wondered if now was the time to make that decision at last.
The telephone rang: it was Michael.
‘The Burnses have got the bit between their teeth,’ he told her. ‘They’ve raised the offer to the full asking price.’
‘But you explained . . . ?’
‘Oh, yes. I explained. Look, Kate, I don’t want to put pressure on you, and if it weren’t that you’d told me about needing some money for your pension I’d be leaving it alone, but I really think you should come in to the office right away and see if there’s any other property that interests you. Surely it’s worth giving it a go? If you’re going to move anyway why not make every effort while this offer is on the table?’
‘I suppose you’re right. It’s just such a big step.’
‘Of course it is.’ His voice was kind. ‘Don’t be afraid. I shan’t pressure you into something that isn’t right. I just want the best deal for you.’
‘I know that,’ she answered. ‘OK. Give me twenty minutes.’
She stood up and rinsed out the cup and saucer, wondering if she might telephone someone – Giles? Gemma? Roly? – for a quick word of advice and encouragement. Even as she contemplated it she knew that only she was able to decide her own future, only she could make this decision, and fighting a rising panic she went to get her keys.
She drove slowly into Tavistock, thinking about Michael’s advice, wondering what she should do. The town was quiet on this early Monday morning and she was able to park the car in Policeman’s Square. She crossed the road, cut through the churchyard to Church Lane and turned into West Street, still trying to make up her mind whether she should sell or stay. Michael was waiting for her and he showed her into his own office and closed the door.
‘Kate,’ he said, kissing her, ‘this must be very difficult for you. I’m sorry if I sounded a bit unsympathetic earlier.’
‘Oh, it’s not you.’ Kate sat down. ‘I’m just being a fool. I’ve discovered that grieving disables you. It’s rather similar to terrible depression; your mind feels paralysed and heavy so that any kind of decision-making is out of the question.’
‘So why the cottage?’
‘The cottage jolted me out of my apathy. I was still refusing to come to terms with losing David but the idea of buying the cottage made me believe I could bypass the whole grieving process by going back to the past and recreating a new life on the basis of my memories. Once I’d been there a few times I realized that it was pure escapism. That sounds a bit confusing but I know what I mean.’
‘But you’re sure that the cottage couldn’t still work?’
‘Oh, Michael. The difficulty is that I’m not sure about anything – but, no, I don’t think the cottage could work. It’s odd actually, because I loved it so much when I first bought it. When I saw it was for sale all those feelings came back to me. I was convinced that living there had been one of the happiest times of my life and it could be like that again. I saw it as an answer to all my problems. It was only later that I remembered that it was whilst I was there my marriage finally broke up, my mother died and I had a disastrous love affair. I know that you don’t necessarily love a place less for having suffered in it, but now I feel that in my present state having all my memories tied up in the cottage would be a negative influence. I’m sorry I made such a fuss about it.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I just wish we knew what the right thing is for you.’
‘I have tried to be rational. I do need to add to my pension fund and the house is much too big for me. Those big, high-ceilinged rooms take a lot of heating and decoration. It’s crazy to go on with it. I don’t need five bedrooms. The family live near enough not to need to stay, except the grandchildren on occasional visits in the holidays, and I hope I can still find a place with enough room for that . . .’
‘So does that mean we sell?’
She stared at him: tears suddenly rose in her eyes and she blinked, frowning angrily.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Dammit. Yes. There, I’ve made the decision. Don’t let me go back on it.’
Michael got up and opened the door; whilst she scraped at her cheeks with a tissue she could hear him asking his assistant for some coffee. He paused by her chair and she felt his hand on her shoulder.
‘It’s stupid,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Now I’ve let go I can’t stop myself. Anything can set me off: music, his paintings, his old coat hanging in the hall. It’s embarrassing.’
‘It’s time, Kate; I think we all agree about that. Look, I’ve found a few cottages that might suit you. Just glance at them while we have some coffee and if any take your fancy I can drive you out to view them. If not we’ll consider the renting option. The only ones we have are flats or modern houses in the town, which don’t seem right for you at all, but we can go into that later if you decide not to buy.’
She took the sheaf of papers and stared at the photographs. There was a strange sense of unreality about the whole business but she tried to concentrate.
‘The other disadvantage about the cottage,’ Michael was saying, ‘is that you’d have made very little money on the way through and you’d have wanted to do certain things to it. Maybe we can do better.’
She smiled at him, deliberately being cheerful, trying to will herself to enthusiasm.
‘I’m sure we will. This place at Mary Tavy looks interesting.’
Coffee arrived and they drank it while compiling a short list of possibilities. Michael made a few phone calls and two viewings were arranged for the afternoon.
‘I’ll come and collect you, shall I? We’ll go together and then we can talk them through afterwards.’
She smiled at him, wondering why kindness was suddenly so unbearable, agreeing with everything. After all, nothing mattered much now she’d made the decision.
‘By the way, Harriet said to say that you can always stay with us. You know, if you decide to sell but can’t find anything at once. She said that with Cass so close you probably wouldn’t need it but the offer’s there. Just so you don’t feel . . . worried.’
‘Thanks.’ She got up, turning away from him, pretending to be busy putting the papers into her bag. ‘That’s so sweet. Thank her for me, won’t you? And you’ll pick me up later. Half-past two? See you then. Thanks, Michael.’
She managed to get out of the office and into the street without breaking down and, as she took the path through the churchyard, she suddenly turned aside and went into the church. Someone was playing the organ, Brahms’s chorale prelude Es ist ein Ros’entsprungen, and she took a seat at the back and listened with delight.
Here, at the end of each term, she’d sat with the twins amongst the other parents with their small boys, the church filled with an almost tangible atmosphere of excitement: expectation of the holidays ahead and the knowledge of tuck boxes and overnight cases waiting, packed and ready up at the school, to be collected after the service.
The music, interwoven with the memory, touched her heart and she remembered something she’d read earlier that morning in Dame Julian’s Showings: ‘I saw and I understood that our faith is our light in the darkness, and this light is God, our endless day.’
The music, infused with a calm, radiant joy at the coming of the Saviour, filled her with a strange, trembling happi- ness, and it was some while after the organist had packed up his music and disappeared that she picked up her own belongings and went out into the sunshine.