By now a spring that had brought floods to the country to compound the misery of a terrible winter had turned just as dramatically to a baking hot summer, bringing with it yet another change of mood for the bewildered population. Naturally, just as first the heat waves were welcomed by a people still recovering from the vicissitudes of the coldest weather any of them could remember, by the time the end of April had arrived, people were in two minds as to which had been worse, the bitter cold or the universal damp.
Then all of a sudden, just as everyone thought their misery could grow no deeper, out came the sun, and along came clear blue skies and blessed warmth. The warmth was what everyone wanted, sun enough to dry the ground out and to be able to throw open windows and air houses full of condensation, mould and dampness. Everywhere people spring-cleaned, washing and hanging out their nets and their curtains, beating their carpets over the washing lines with sturdy bamboo paddles, turning articles of furniture out onto front or back lawns to dry out in the rays of the long forgotten sun as if they were grazing animals being put out to grass. As the population spring-cleaned postmen began to whistle again, as did dustmen and delivery boys, while incoming swallows swooped and soared in their perpetual quest for food, and larks hovered high above fields full of burgeoning crops. Now a mood of sudden optimism was everywhere, for at long, long last it seemed that perhaps the bad times were over and the sudden change of weather presaged the start of the new age of which everyone had been dreaming.
Then the warmth turned into a sweltering heat wave, bringing with it soaring temperatures unrelieved by any cooling winds. Cities and towns became unbearably hot and every weekend there was a mass exodus in coaches and trains to the beaches, where a stupefied population sat in deck chairs on the burning sands trying to find relief from the scorching sun. Without their realising it, their escape to the seaside brought with it if anything worse conditions, the relentless sun beating off the water and on to the sweltering figures stretched out on sand and pebbles. Naturally it did not help that most of those who sat in serried ranks along every available foot of beach remained partially dressed, the men in their trousers and shirts with only a foot or so of trouser leg rolled up, the women in cotton dresses with large cheap hats flopping over their reddening faces and stockings rolled down over their sunburned knees, while children in knitted woollen bathing trunks hopped in and out of a tepid sea, avoiding swarms of vicious little crabs that floated inwards in search of sustenance, or bruised their feet on the inevitable shingle that seemed to constitute any decent stretch of beach.
Added to which there was no ice, and few households could boast a refrigerator, so there were no cold drinks to assuage the raging thirsts that a scorching sun reflecting off a shining sea engenders. There were no cold drinks on sticks and ice cream was at a premium, if you were lucky enough to be able to find any. Halfway through what was turning out to be the hottest summer on record, with people roasting at work and scorching at play, most of the population found themselves wishing the skies would cloud over and the April rains would return once more. Life now seemed, once again, to be a series of tortures, with no relief in sight.
The heat in London was certainly proving too much for John Tate, whose appointed annual holiday came round just in time to provide him with a welcome escape.
‘One more day and I thought I would expire,’ John told a barefoot Loopy as she fetched him from the station in the old family car, which was still like an oven, even though his mother had all the windows open.
‘You’re one of the lucky ones, sweetie. Imagine what it’s like for people who can’t get away. Your father says you can fry eggs on the London pavements.’
John settled himself into the seat beside his mother. All the way home in the stifling train he seemed to have been able to smell the sea and see the beloved view from his bedroom window. He could almost feel the cold stone of the conservatory floor, followed by the cool of the grass, the shingle of the beach, and finally the pleasure of the sea bathing his dripping body, so much was he longing to get to Shelborne, throw off his work clothes and head for heaven.
After he had enjoyed his first swim and returned home to bath and change, John sat for a while at his bedroom window in his silk dressing gown, enjoying the slight breeze that had got up and was blowing in off the sea as the tide reached full. It was a perfect evening and Bexham was looking its best, the mouth of the estuary beginning to fill with sailing boats waiting to run in home to their moorings on the tidal water, and small commercial traffic also arriving with the turn of the tide, which would still be full enough for them to sail into the busy little harbour by the time they reached it. Lovers strolled along the path that ran parallel to the estuary, or sat with their arms around each other on benches and seats placed on mounds to provide the best view of the surrounding landscape.
Seeing the couples dallying, John felt vaguely restless, wishing that he too was part of a couple, one of a pair of lovers walking in the evening sunlight and holding hands by the sea, strolling happily into a future where they would live together in perfect harmony. So attractive was the prospect before him that for a moment he considered changing his job – giving up London to return to his roots, to buy a little cottage in or near Bexham where the two of them – once he found a suitable partner – could start their married life while he made his way up the ladder of some local firm. He was good at what he did, a good businessman, particularly when it came to understanding money, and given the lack of any serious opposition to his talents in the neighbourhood he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he had risen to the top of the tree. The only trouble with this daydream was the fact that as yet he had not met anyone he could possibly consider taking as a wife. Truth to tell he had never enjoyed a full relationship with a member of the opposite sex and had only once ever fallen in love, and that was with Judy, his brother’s wife, the wife of a man they both thought was dead. Walter’s return had proved that particular belief to be wrong, but by that time John had already scotched the notion that Judy felt anything for him except friendship.
So John had been as thrilled as the rest of his family at his brother’s return; yet as time went by he found himself becoming first jealous of his brother, then resentful. He deliberately distanced himself from both Walter and Judy, emotionally and physically, coming home as little as he could, and, when he did, avoiding their company whenever possible. Eventually he came to the realisation that he had a duty to shake himself free of his heartbreak, and after making an immense effort to be more friendly and sociable he really believed and hoped he had now closed the gap.
So this sunny summer evening as he sat enjoying his favourite view, he found to his satisfaction that he felt truly content, so much so that he actually found himself smiling as he saw Judy arm in arm with Walter as they walked out of the house and into the garden, pre-dinner drinks in hand. For a while he watched them unnoticed, observing how they seemed easy in each other’s company, walking side by side, with Walter doing most of the talking and Judy the listening, the sea breeze blowing her dark hair, her old but carefully preserved silk evening skirt blowing back towards the house, showing off tanned legs, high heels, and a slim figure. Walter was some lucky fellow, but he need not be the only one, because the way John felt he too could be some lucky fellow one day. Finally he leaned over the balcony and called down to his brother and sister-in-law. They turned and called back to him to hurry up and get dressed and come down and join them, which after another wave John went inside to do, singing happily as he went, for some unknown reason now utterly convinced that the bad, black days were over and the bluebird of happiness was just about to land in his heart.
The next day dawned even hotter than the one it had succeeded. In fact by ten o’clock it was so hot that all Mattie Eastcott wanted to do was flop out in the deep cool of the house with some iced tea and a good book. But Max was on holiday from kindergarten, and each day, regardless of the heat, he demanded to be taken to his favourite beach round the corner from the mouth of the estuary. Before the war Lionel had sensibly bought a beach hut on the edge of a nearby perfect golden strand, and now, instead of offering shelter from prevailing winds and rain, as was more usual in England, it was affording the Eastcotts welcome shade and respite from scorching sunshine.
Every day Lionel would arrive with a lunch for the three of them that he had carefully prepared himself and put into his treasured dark blue leather picnic case, perfectly packed with boxes and bottles, cups, saucers, plates and cutlery, and of course food. Tomato or egg sandwiches in greaseproof paper, an undressed salad of lettuce, radish and beetroot all picked from the garden, and a big Thermos of nearly cold homemade lemonade. By lunchtime even Max was feeling the heat and was glad to sit inside the beach hut to nibble at his sandwiches and bat at the ever persistent wasps with the fly-swat his grandfather never forgot to bring with him, or watch gleefully as they drowned in a bottle full of watered down honey.
Later, when the sun had moved off its zenith, Mattie would take Max down to the sea for his second long paddle. Another game with his beach ball followed before they paddled off the heat in the sea once again and returned to the beach hut for tea, brewed on a Primus stove and accompanied by slices of Mattie’s homemade fruit cake.
Every day followed the same ritual, Mattie carefully covering her little boy’s head from the scorching heat of the sun and his body with Nivea Cream. Unsurprisingly within a week of constant exposure to sun and sea they were both as brown as berries. Mattie in particular was privately delighted with the colour of her now fashionable tan, which set off her eyes and hair better than ever. Day by day she and Max grew darker and darker, until Lionel started to refer to them as his little Red Indians and would make whooping sounds when he joined them on the beach for lunch.
‘Daddy, do stop, you’re shocking the people in the next-door hut,’ Mattie would mutter, but her father refused to take any notice. As far as he was concerned he had bought a beach hut and if he wanted to yodel, sing, or make Red Indian noises such as he had heard on cowboy films, that was his business.
Mattie started to lay out the picnic, not bothering to cover herself with her towelling beach top, because even that seemed too heavy for the stifling heat.
‘You would honestly think that there would be some sort of breeze coming off the sea, wouldn’t you? But no, the air is as still as a graveyard.’
She shook up a bottle of ginger beer for Max, and sat him well into the shade of the beach hut. Strolling past their hut, stopping every now and then to admire the sea view, walked couple after couple, some with children, some without. Normally Mattie never noticed, but today for some reason as she sat back down on her father’s travel rug it seemed to her that every person who passed was one of a couple. For a second she contemplated the idea of what it must be like, to be part of a pair, to be part of someone else. It seemed unimaginable. To have someone else to whom she could talk at the end of the day, laughing over what had happened on the beach, regaling him with tales of her father’s yodelling in his beach hut and embarrassing her and all those around him, of how Max’s attempts at swimming in his water wings were coming on, about how many shrimps they’d caught, about everything and anything really – just to have someone to talk to would be unimaginable.
That was what being one of a pair meant. It meant you could share everything in a way you couldn’t share your thoughts with an old man or a young boy. You could love them, but you couldn’t share your thoughts with them, because they were at a different stage from you. It was as if they were all waiting at a bus stop, and Lionel was posted way ahead of her, and Max way behind, so when the bus came along Lionel would catch it long before her, and Max long after.
‘These hardboiled eggs are a bit overdone, Daddy.’
‘Not for my taste they’re not. Don’t like them anything except nice and floury inside and nice and hard on the outside.’
Mattie sighed and raised her eyes to heaven. They didn’t even share a taste in hardboiled eggs.
John had got up late, breakfasted late, and was downstairs late. As he walked into the conservatory where Loopy was busy painting he was so late up he actually felt guilty, the way he did when he was late for church, or for some important date, instead of just being on holiday, when after all a chap had every right to do what he liked.
‘Gwen’s done you up a picnic lunch, it’s by the door!’ Loopy called back without turning round to where John was still standing by the door. Her smock was covered in oils and her hair caught up in a scarf and tied on the top of her head, as if she were working in a factory. ‘Sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, and a bottle of cider.’
‘Then God bless, Gwen.’
‘God bless Gwen, I’ll say. How she puts up with us all, I don’t know.’
Picking up the picnic basket John laughed and strolled off down to the beach without giving Loopy’s new painting a second glance. He was dying for a dip. He couldn’t wait to feel the cold water closing over him. Once again the day was already boiling, and he had seen all too little of it. Behind his back Loopy shook her head a little sadly and mixed herself a new pot of turpentine and linseed oil.
John strolled along the beach to the family beach hut, dark glasses on, towel rolled up under his arm, swimming shorts under his yachting trousers, unable to think what a lucky chap he was to be on a beach while the rest of the world was toiling in London. He had just undone the hut door and hung up his towel when he heard quite a commotion coming from nearby.
‘Is anything the matter?’ he said, arriving at the scene of the disturbance. ‘Can I help?’
‘It’s all right, it’s nothing,’ the pretty young woman called, finally glancing up at his precipitous arrival. ‘It’s just my son. First of all it was his beach ball – and now he’s been stung by a wasp.’
‘It hurts!’ the child was yelling, holding the side of his arm. ‘It really, really hurts!’
‘I have some blue bags,’ John told her, about to disappear back to his hut. ‘I always carry blue bags this time of year, for this very reason!’
Once the blue bag had been allowed to do its magic, Max’s yelling ceased and was replaced by a look of such tragedy that as he held the application to his arm John found it hard not to smile. In order to divert the little boy’s attention from both his pain and his loss of dignity he at once began to examine the deflated beach ball for a puncture, a hole that he soon found by way of submerging the ball bit by bit in sea water collected in a bucket. Ten minutes later the puncture was repaired thanks to a large sticking plaster from John’s emergency kit.
‘Do you always travel to the beach this well equipped?’ Mattie smiled, knocking the big coloured bouncing ball back to Max.
‘Afraid so. Blue bags for stings, and sticking plasters for the repair of ailing beach balls. I’m a bit of an old woman like that. Actually, I only carry blue bags because if I get stung I swell up rather like your beach ball over there – and I happened to have a box of plasters on me because I cut my foot yesterday, and I thought I might need a fresh one. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this really, because it really is really rather boring.’
There was a short silence.
‘I don’t know whether you remember me,’ Mattie finally said, to break the ensuing silence. ‘I’m – I’m Mattie Eastcott.’
‘Of course I remember you. Actually I was wondering if you remembered me. Last time I saw you – good Lord – last time I saw you properly, that is, it must have been before the war, I imagine. Some party or other, wasn’t it?’
‘I think it was Caroline Nesbitt’s dance. You and your brother were there, you and Walter, and I danced with you both.’
‘Yes, you did. But I seem to remember that you danced with Walter more.’
Mattie found herself just about to say, as a tease, well who wouldn’t? but she stopped herself in time, before – as her mother was so fond of saying – the devil got her tongue. Instead she fell silent and just smiled, at which John smiled back and looked shyly away at little Max.
‘Max is my son,’ Mattie said at once, determined for some reason that this was something John should know as soon as possible. ‘I had a baby during the war. But if you’re a Bexhamite, you probably know that already.’
‘As a matter of fact I didn’t,’ John replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘I didn’t know you were married.’
‘I’m not.’
John looked back at her sharply. ‘I see. What – killed in the war was he? Your husband?’
‘No. I’m not married now – and I wasn’t married then, when I had Max. I’ve never been married.’
‘I see. That’s war for you, isn’t it? Really? Good-looking little fellow, isn’t he?’
John ruffled Max’s hair.
‘His father was very handsome,’ Mattie replied, feeling her cheeks colouring. ‘His name’s Max – Max’s that is. Not his father.’
‘I like the name Max. It has a kind of heroic twang to it. Like an air ace – or a dashing sportsman. Max Eastcott scores a hundred at Lords. Max Eastcott wins Wimbledon. Max Eastcott wins the Open. I can just see it, can’t you? The child is bound for the Hall of Fame, no doubt of it.’
Mattie smiled, throwing the ball back to Max who caught it and put it down, now more interested in the sandcastle he was busy building.
‘Down for your summer holiday? You don’t live in Bexham any more, do you, John?’
‘No – not full time. I still come home for weekends. Sometimes.’
‘Home, to Mum’s cooking.’
‘That’s right. I’m down here on holiday now. Couldn’t get out of London fast enough. Hot enough to fry eggs on the pavement, as the saying goes.’
‘I can imagine,’ Mattie replied. ‘I couldn’t stand this sort of heat in a city.’
‘It’s utterly appalling. It’s suffocating. In fact it’s so hot they’re growing coconuts in Hyde Park.’
Mattie just stared back at him, refusing to laugh. John widened his own eyes at her in return, wondering why he found her so easy to tease. Then he remembered, because he remembered her. Those times in Bexham before the war felt so far off nowadays, halcyon days, full of laughter and eternal sunshine, days so distant that it now seemed to John that they might well have been from another century. Yet as he looked at Mathilda Eastcott standing before him it was as if the last time he had seen her had been only the day before, so fresh had her memory become. Today she was a picture with her brown hair cut fashionably short, her tanned body clothed in a bright blue all in one bathing suit over which she had thrown a pale yellow cotton shirt for protection and also perhaps, a little modesty; a vision from yesterday that had become a picture for today.
She had to be resolute as well, John realised, strong-minded and determined enough to bring up her illegitimate child in the small, inquisitive society that was Bexham. No helpless woman then, but a character strong enough to withstand the barbs and arrows that would inevitably be aimed her way.
‘Mattie—’ he began, suddenly nervous after a short silence. ‘Mattie, I was wondering if—’
‘Whom are you talking to out there?’ a voice suddenly boomed from the darkness of the beach hut as Lionel Eastcott awoke from his post-prandial snooze. ‘Mattie? Who the devil you talking to out there, eh?’
Lionel appeared at the entrance to his beach hut, shading his eyes against the sun as he tried to make out the identity of the tall figure standing talking to his daughter.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ John called back. ‘John Tate. How are you?’
Lionel frowned as his brain clicked into operation trying to remember which exactly of the three Tate sons he actually was. Then, as he shook the hand being offered him, he remembered John was the eldest of them.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Home for a holiday I imagine. Certainly got the weather.’
They exchanged pleasantries about the heat wave and the general situation while all the time Lionel watched John watching Mattie, and wondered uneasily at this sudden meeting outside the beach hut. Finally, John made to take his leave, only for Mattie to prevent him by suggesting that it might be a better idea for him to stay and have some tea with them. Lionel, inwardly reluctant, nevertheless agreed politely and disappeared back into the hut to light the Primus and prepare for the daily beach hut tea ceremony, while John stood outside the hut talking to Mattie and throwing a beach ball at Max.
‘Odd how cooling tea is in hot weather,’ John remarked as they sat in the shade of the hut finally drinking Lionel’s precious brew, which had seemed to take hours to prepare.
‘Law of opposites, I suppose,’ Lionel announced, staring ahead of him as if talking to himself rather than John. ‘To cool down drink hot tea; the law of opposites,’ he repeated.
‘Rather like the proper state of affairs between a man and a woman,’ John heard himself saying, but he looked at Mr Eastcott, despite his not looking at him. ‘My father’s a great believer in the union of opposites – and at certain times it has seemed to me that there’s none so opposite as my mother and father.’
‘By opposite do you mean mettlesome, I wonder?’ Lionel asked, slowly stirring his tea.
‘Not at all, sir, far from it. It’s just that women’s characters are so completely different. What’s more they really seem to enjoy begging to differ, which makes for what we all call a happy marriage, I suppose. Besides, women must have a greater say in things, don’t you think, sir? It’s only fair.’
Lionel paused for careful thought, wondering whether this was what had been amiss at times in his own marriage to Maude. As a general rule she had always held distinctly different points of view from his yet he himself hadn’t enjoyed the experience at all. On the contrary, he hated being bested by a woman, particularly his wife. In return Maude had resorted to sighing deeply, clicking her tongue loudly and staring at him with narrowed eyes. All in all they had certainly not enjoyed begging to differ, and reflecting on this now Lionel realised, for perhaps the thousandth time, how wrong he’d been. Undoubtedly they would have enjoyed their life together a great deal more had he taken more time to listen to what his wife had to say. Not that it had all been dreary, far from it. Their times on the beach with Mattie had always been fun, which was probably why he still liked to keep the beach hut on, the memories keeping him more than warm, keeping him kicking on, still wanting to be up and about in the morning. That and little Max, the light of his life, the next generation coming leaping along with all the same uncertainties, all the same weaknesses, all the same joys to come.
‘No doubt you’re right,’ he said, returning from his reverie. ‘And if the suffragettes have their way, we’ll see women doing everything men do. Probably even have a woman Prime Minister one day – though God forbid such a thing ever happens in my lifetime.’
‘The union of opposites isn’t a particularly contemporary idea, sir,’ John offered, after a small pause. ‘The Greeks were great believers in that sort of thing.’
‘You don’t say?’ Lionel stared at him briefly before continuing. ‘But then the Greeks were very peculiar people, young man, with some very peculiar ideas. Little wonder their civilisation tumbled – little wonder at all. They’ve always appealed to me as being nothing but a crowd of pansies.’
‘I’d rather them than the Romans. I think Churchill might too – seeing how much the Greeks preferred jaw-jaw to war-war.’
‘Nothing comes of trying to talk to people who want to make war. Best get in there early, and get it over with. That’s why we’re in the mess we’re in now, because we failed to grasp the nettle ten years ago. In hesitation and rhetoric lies only the threat of defeat, with the threat of defeat finally we have recourse to war, and if you leave it too late you’re ill prepared – and what was the result in this case? Much greater losses than we’d have sustained if we’d been ready and willing earlier. Your Greeks would have been no match for the Hun, while your Romans would have been. They’d have been in there first. Beauty is all very well but it’s a luxury. What matters is a country being in a state of readiness.’
‘Perhaps. But then again with the benefit of their great wisdom perhaps the Greeks might have foreseen a situation such as we faced long before it became dangerous and lanced the boil early. They had a pretty fine set of soldiers, too, you know. They weren’t all pansies.’
Lionel frowned at John over his teacup and sniffed, making a sound more eloquent than words, a sound that said I don’t know what to say to that, a tactic Mattie suddenly remembered that he had often employed against her poor mother. In return John just smiled. Realising that Mattie had been left out of the conversation for some time, he turned to her, intending to include her.
‘Good cuppa, at just the right moment.’ Lionel started to collect up his precious picnic things. ‘Well, it’s been very nice seeing you, young man. Perhaps we’ll see you down here on the beach some other day.’
‘Every chance of that, sir,’ John replied happily. ‘Seeing I have the beach hut next door but one.’
Lionel smiled weakly as he realised that if the hot spell continued as indefinitely as was forecast, then there was indeed every chance of seeing John Tate on the beach not on another day but on many days to come.
‘Jolly good.’
Lionel clipped his picnic case tightly shut, picked up his panama and prepared to leave.
‘Time to go home, Mattie. Collect up Max’s things, if you would.’
‘Why don’t you go on ahead, Daddy? There’s a wind getting up and it’s a bit cooler now the tide’s coming in. Max and I will come back later.’
Max piped up. ‘Can we go shrimping, Mummy?’
‘Why not. Good idea – we’ll go to your favourite pool.’
‘You know I don’t like you two playing on the rocks when the tide’s coming in,’ Lionel grumbled. ‘There have been far too many accidents.’
‘I’ll help keep a good eye on him, sir, if that’s all right?’
Lionel saw the question was directed less at him than at Mattie. Sticking his empty pipe upside down in his mouth and giving a grunt of farewell, Lionel departed, reminding Mattie not only to lock up the beach hut, something she’d never yet forgotten to do, but also to be home in good time since he was playing bridge at Mrs Morrison’s that evening.
Left alone, Mattie, John and Max fished happily for shrimps for the next hour, until finally the incoming tide defeated them and they retired back to the safety of the beach hut.
‘Mind if I have a quick dip? Before I see you both home?’ John enquired. ‘I haven’t really had my swim, and I’m a bit broiled.’
‘I should think you are. In fact you’ve caught the sun terribly on your shoulders. After you’ve swum I’ll rub some cream on – a girl in the village brought lots back from France. Well, smuggled it back actually.’
‘That’s terribly kind of you. Thanks.’
‘Come on, Max – one last splash to cool off.’
While Mattie and Max splashed about in the breaking waves, John swam out to sea, so far that when Mattie looked for him of a sudden she found she couldn’t see him. Filled with fear she shielded her eyes against the still brilliant sunshine that was dancing off the water. It was then that she saw him, probably two hundred yards out from the shore, treading water and waving at her. Now he was waving both hands at her, then all of a sudden he disappeared under the water. Mattie put both hands to her mouth and was about to look round for an able-bodied man whom she could call on for help when she saw John reappear, swimming strongly through the sparkling seas. On his way back to the shore he kept disappearing and reappearing in the sea like a seal or a dolphin, vanishing on one side of a wave only to surface on the other. Finally he rolled on his back and lazily backstroked his way in, riding the crest of the incoming waves, until he flopped down on the sand at Mattie’s feet.
‘That was great.’
‘Not for us it wasn’t.’ Mattie retorted as she towelled off Max’s little feet. ‘I cannot imagine why you thought that might be funny. Swimming out to sea as far as that, and without saying a word.’
‘Bit difficult when you’re a couple of hundred yards from the shore.’
‘You could have said you were going to swim out for miles, couldn’t you? You could have said don’t worry, I’m a strong swimmer and I’m going to swim quite a long way out. That’s all.’
‘Yes. Yes of course.’ John got to his feet, doing his best to keep a straight face. ‘It was very thoughtless. Please forgive me.’
Mattie glanced at him, more to see if he was being serious than anything, and when she saw how very serious his face was she gave him a small smile of pardon.
‘You’re forgiven. You’re obviously a very strong swimmer.’
‘Father insisted we all learned from the age of dot. Living by the sea, and all that. Spending as much time on and in the water as we all did as kids. My brothers and I were known as the Shelborne seals.’
‘Next time you feel like swimming to France, just let me know first.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now let’s get on home, shall we? Before you do something else to worry the life out of me.’
‘Whatever you say, Miss Eastcott.’ John gave a naval salute, in reply to which Mattie gave a reluctant smile.
If he had been by himself, he would have probably skipped home, probably even done a cartwheel, so ecstatic did he suddenly feel that Mattie had actually worried when he had swum so far out to sea. As it was he walked home slowly behind her and Max, carrying everything that he could, and thinking that if he had known what a wonder-filled day it was going to turn out to be he would have got up a whole lot earlier.
John and Mattie’s meeting on the beach had a bad effect on Lionel. As he dressed preparatory to going to have dinner and play bridge at Gloria Bishop’s house, he had plenty of time to reflect on a subject he had kept confined to the back of his mind, namely the possibility that one day his daughter would once again fall in love.
Next time round the new man in Mattie’s life might well do the so-called decent thing and marry her, with the result that it would be Lionel who would be the abandoned one, abandoned not to live alone, but to live with just Ellen for company, and the thought of spending the rest of his life left to Ellen’s tender mercies sent a very real shiver down his spine. Ellen was tolerable as long as she was a background figure, and the very presence of Mattie in his household ensured she remained so, since Mattie was extremely good at what she liked to call managing Ellen. Ellen needed managing, too, since she seemed to find it all but impossible to say anything kind or charming about anything or anyone as well as being excessively pessimistic. With Mattie around to keep her under control, Ellen’s idiosyncrasies were almost tolerable, and as a result Lionel was able to live in comparative peace. Now, with John Tate hovering on the horizon, Lionel had to face the idea that with Mattie married, gone would be his best line of defence against the extremes of Ellen. The idea of having to tackle Ellen every morning was more than he could take. Such a prospect was truly daunting to an ageing widower.
Lionel suddenly groaned out loud, more at the thought of what the future could hold for him than over the fact that he had made a mess of his bow tie. As he began the meticulous process of retying it, he stopped and took a good look at himself in the mirror, an activity he had once enjoyed but now dreaded as he saw the obvious manifestations of his increasing age. Yes, he thought after a good moment of introspection, I am still a reasonably good-looking man. I haven’t run to fat, I still have most of my hair, and I haven’t entirely lost my looks – but. He took another look, lifting his chin to try to hide not only the beginning of double chins but also the dreaded turkey neck, as well as to alleviate the now quite pronounced jowls that were developing at the bottom of cheeks that had always been slightly pendulous. But who is there whose fancy I might take? Gloria is obviously not interested in me, more’s the pity because nowadays we might well have suited each other – but she is so taken with this American she’s got staying that she doesn’t spare me a second glance unless I make a wrong cue bid at the bridge table. Besides her, I cannot think of a single soul here in Bexham or its environs who might have even the slightest interest in me.
He paused to make a final adjustment to his bow tie, cocking his head to one side and sighing deeply, knowing that since he hardly ever set foot outside Bexham there was precious little chance of his meeting anyone else who might be suitable for a man of his standing.
I’m afraid it looks like Ellen, he told his reflection gloomily. I’m afraid it very much looks as though I am to be stuck with the dreaded Ellen as occasional company, until I am finally gathered to my maker. Dear Lord above us – perish the thought, and let this Waldo Astley leave Bexham before too long so that Gloria will notice me.
With a last look at his now fully dressed and dapper self in his dressing glass, Lionel gave another sigh, packed his silver cigarette case into his inside pocket, checked the wad of notes in his front money pocket, and headed downstairs. He met Mattie on the stairs, happily with only his grandson in tow.
‘The very man we were coming to see, all pink and perfect, bathed and ready for bed,’ Mattie told him. ‘Come for our goodnight kiss.’
‘Goodnight, Nipper,’ Lionel said, picking up the little boy and smiling at him. ‘Sorry we don’t have time for a bedtime story tonight.’
‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ Mattie reassured him. ‘John’s promised to read to him.’
‘John?’
‘John Tate? Remember? This afternoon?’
‘John Tate?’ Lionel repeated, trying to feign ignorance. ‘What’s he doing back here?’
‘I asked him in for a drink. If that’s all right.’
Lionel was about to tell her that it most certainly was not all right, what with him going out for the evening and Mattie being left all alone in the house, when he suddenly realised the absurdity of the situation. He couldn’t possibly play the strong father, not with a daughter who not only was well and long over the age of consent, but had a five-year-old son whom he was standing holding in his arms. With a weak smile he gave Max a kiss on his cheek and handed him back to his mother.
‘There’s some gin in the dining room cabinet, and some whisky,’ he told her. ‘He’ll probably prefer whisky.’
‘Thanks.’ Mattie smiled suddenly. ‘Have a lovely evening, Daddy. And don’t let Gloria hog the auction. It only makes you overbid. Remember what Mummy used to say – it’s only a game, not a gunfight.’
‘Try telling Gloria that – her and her pearl-handled pistols,’ Lionel said gloomily, making his way downstairs, knowing all the same that Mattie was right.
Ever since Gloria had teamed up with Waldo Astley it seemed to Lionel that he had never suffered such a run of defeats at the bridge table, and it was precisely because he was letting the two of them get to him that he was overbidding, something which would normally be entirely against his nature. With that very much in mind he left the house, determined that this would be the evening when he would resume his former conservative style of play. No damn Yankee was consistently going to get the better of Lionel Eastcott at the bridge table, no sir. Tonight he would show them how to play bridge by the British book.
Unfortunately Waldo Astley was there before him, with, it would seem, his own plan well and truly already mapped out.
By the time John had finished reading The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies he realised that Max was fast asleep, obviously knocked out by his exertions on the beach, not to mention the wonderful sea air. Carefully brushing a lock of hair from the child’s eyes, he pulled his sheet tighter round him, and tiptoed downstairs to where Mattie had bottles and glasses ready for their drinks.
‘Every time I return to Bexham, I seem to see it as if for the first time,’ he confessed, after his first generous whisky. ‘Everything anyone could ever want is in Bexham, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Bottoms up!’ Mattie replied, raising her refilled glass because she did not want to be drawn on the subject of Bexham.
‘Cheerio.’ There was a pause, before John continued. ‘Isn’t it strange that we’ve both lived in this village since we were small and yet we hardly know each other.’
‘Exceptionally strange, but probably just as well. I was a beastly little girl, and I know from everything that was said about the Tate boys that you, on the other hand, were quite perfect.’ Mattie pulled a mock straight face and John laughed.
Mattie stared at him for a second. After another day on the beach his town pallor was already being supplanted by a healthy colour. He looked boyish, and handsome, but most of all reassuringly kind.
The hurt that Mattie had known getting over Max’s father’s wartime exit from her life was, she thought, enough to have left its mark on her for ever. Handsome, older, American and married, following his call to duty, Max’s father had left Mattie behind in London. Mattie who probably really was no more than his London fling, his pretty little driver, who had not unsurprisingly fallen in love with the handsome American general in the back seat. He might sometimes have given her a thought when he returned to the States, but, she reckoned, no more than a thought and he certainly never knew about Max.
Mattie Eastcott – pretty little driver I used to have in England during the war – I remember her. That’s all she would be now, a recollection, a memory. Not the very real part of his life she had been during the terrible bombardment of London when together they had dodged the bombs and made passionate love in Michael’s little apartment in Marble Arch. When they were together, it seemed as though that is how they would stay: as one, lying there in bed listening to the bombs whistling down from the skies above to explode in a neighbouring part of the city. They never talked about their future because they knew they had none, yet such was the intensity of their affair – a love affair that had sent them both to heaven in the middle of a terrible war – that even though no mention was made of the impossibility of its enduring beyond the moment, while they were together both of them truly believed that they could never be apart. That was the nature of that sort of love, its very insecurities locking it into some mad non-existent security.
And then suddenly Michael had gone, forced to leave her as suddenly as he had come into her life, ordered back to the States to help lead the invasion of Europe, leaving Mattie alone and, as she’d already known, pregnant. For a long time Mattie thought she might never recover from either shock – that of Michael’s sudden departure – although she had always known such a thing was inevitable – or from the reality of her pregnancy. She had wanted the baby, had never considered anything other than having the baby, but in her moments of solitude she had wondered how she would now cope with the aftermath of her passionate affair, or with the reality of bringing up a child alone. But now, as she sat talking to the sweet-natured and thoughtful John Tate, for the first time since the war had ended Mattie found herself thanking God that she hadn’t married Michael, that he had gone home without any knowledge of the physical state in which he was leaving her, that he knew nothing about Max. Now John Tate had come into her life Michael had all of a sudden become the past, a figure quickly becoming dim and distant, a memory to be buried for ever in the mists of time, just as half of their London had been buried in the thick choking dust of the bombed-out buildings.
She felt so different now, sitting there with John. It seemed as they talked and laughed that they had always known each other, and yet the questions they asked were the questions strangers ask. In other words it was a classic case of two casual acquaintances, who had grown up in the same place at the same time, suddenly falling in love and finding themselves to be almost perfect strangers. They talked into the night, until long after the moon had taken the place of the summer sun, when just as suddenly as they had begun their long conversation, they fell to silence, not because they had nothing more to say to each other but because their emotions had finally overtaken their words.
‘It’s getting late. I think perhaps it’s time I went home,’ John said, after they had spent what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time staring into each other’s eyes. They were still sitting well apart from each other, Mattie on the edge of the stone balustrade that fronted the terrace and John in a wooden armchair that was part of the garden furniture, yet such was the feeling of intimacy that hung in the summer night air that they might just as well have been lying in bed together.
‘I really think I ought to go home,’ John repeated, but still he made no move.
‘You don’t have to go,’ Mattie said, trying to sound matter of fact but not succeeding at all. ‘At least not on my account.’
‘I think I ought to,’ John insisted. ‘I don’t think really I should still be here when your father gets back. Might not quite be the done thing. Not as early on as this.’
‘Early on?’ Mattie laughed. ‘I thought you said it was getting late.’
‘I meant as early on in – in our – well. In our – I mean it is the first time we’ve been – I was about to say been out.’ John grinned. ‘But of course we haven’t actually. We’ve rather stayed in I’d say, haven’t we? Anyway – I think it might be better if I went now, before your father came back – came back and said – you know – I say – what, you still here, John Tate? Isn’t it high time you made some sort of tracks?’
John’s more than passable imitation of Mattie’s father made her laugh, much to John’s relief.
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Mattie assured him. ‘When Daddy’s out playing bridge at Mrs Morrison’s he loses all trace of time. Him and his bridge. Honestly.’
‘The first resort of the lonely, and last of the loveless,’ John said, getting to his feet. ‘Hope I don’t become a hardened bridge player.’
‘It’s not the real reason you’re going,’ Mattie said quietly as she too stood up to move in front of John and look into his eyes. ‘Is it?’
‘Of course not,’ John admitted after a moment. ‘But it won’t do any harm to make a good impression.’
‘Very crafty.’ Mattie laughed. ‘A sort of Trojan horse really. It won’t fool Daddy, don’t you worry. Daddy is not that easily gulled.’
John grinned and was just about to lean forward to kiss Mattie when he thought better of it and wished her good night instead.
‘You really are going then?’
‘Yes. But it’s been a wonderful evening.’
‘I was forgetting what good boys you Tates were.’
‘Absolutely, Mattie,’ John agreed with a straight face. ‘But I wouldn’t count on it for too long, Miss Eastcott.’
John was long gone by the time Lionel arrived home in the best of spirits, having enjoyed a surprising triumph at the card table. He was loth to think his success was in any way due to Waldo Astley, yet as he now sat on the edge of his bed slowly undressing and reviewing the events of an evening that was turning out to be wholly remarkable, he had to admit that his good fortune had started the moment Waldo had taken charge.
‘Mr Eastcott.’ Waldo had greeted him on arrival, taking him aside at once. ‘I have a little strategy, in which I am sure you might take an interest. I noted your card skills from day one, if I may say so, and am a little envious of your generally scrupulously correct bidding.’
‘Generally being the operative word here, Mr Astley,’ Lionel returned. ‘Of late I’ve become somewhat quixotic. It’s not like me to be sorry rather than safe.’
‘No, I wouldn’t consider you a safe player by any means, Mr Eastcott. It’s just that you have been increasingly handicapped by the partners you have been allotted, and quite deliberately so.’ Waldo glanced with an indicative smile in the direction of their hostess. ‘Which brings me to my strategy, Mr Eastcott. Namely that tonight I shall be your partner. I think we shall make an excellent team. Now before you protest—’ Waldo held up one beautifully manicured hand. ‘The die is already cast. I have already had the matter agreed by Mrs Morrison, but for entirely different reasons from the ones I have given you. I’m afraid I made out that it was your partners who were suffering, rather than you.’
Waldo stopped and looked at Lionel, smiling a sideways smile at him as if challenging him to protest. To his surprise, Lionel did not feel affronted, so, having agreed their playing conventions, after a brief buffet supper they sat down to play.
This time there was no upping or downing of stakes since all rubbers now played in Gloria’s increasingly select bridge school were set at the daunting level of one shilling a hundred, meaning that rash bidding and careless lay were felt very hard in the pocket.
But from the moment Waldo teamed up with Lionel the wind was in their sails. It was a marriage made in Contract Bridge heaven. Lionel’s classical conservatism and intelligence allied to Waldo’s brio and bravura made them a formidable team, so that by the end of a long evening of cards they got up to leave the table thirty pounds the richer. Lionel finally got his way about how to split the winnings, managing to persuade Waldo to take half despite Waldo’s initial and very genuine reluctance to take any part of the winnings whatsoever.
‘My dear fellow,’ Waldo had said. ‘It was purely your skill that saw us through tonight, and my pleasure has been to play as your partner. That is reward enough. But wasn’t I right about us? Didn’t I say we would make a splendid team?’
So Lionel had left Gloria’s house well pleased, an emotion not shared by Gloria who he was convinced had actually slammed the door behind him. Or perhaps the slam had been directed at Waldo, since he had found himself being joined very shortly after his own departure by his partner at cards.
‘Might I offer you a lift, Mr Eastcott?’ Waldo had said genially, puffing away at his cigar, which was fast becoming a trademark. ‘Do you have far to go, sir?’
‘Very kind of you, but no, I don’t have far to go. As you must surely realise by now, Mr Astley, there isn’t a great deal of Bexham.’
‘Perhaps not, my good fellow. But there is certainly quite a lot to it. Do you get up to town much? There’s quite a game arranged for the beginning of October, and I would be delighted if you would consent to play as my partner again. I assure you we shall be well within our depth.’
Lionel had looked at his companion with a certain amount of interest tinged with a certain amount of trepidation. He had never in his life before played bridge for the sort of money he was now playing for, and which he could certainly not afford to lose. Yet he sensed that the offer Waldo Astley was making might well entail stakes considerably higher than one shilling a hundred.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Eastcott, but don’t you worry about it, sir.’ Waldo had smiled. ‘I shall underwrite the entire enterprise. You won’t have to risk a penny of your own cash.’
‘You must know so many players who are better than I – richer too.’
‘I am asking you for your great card skills and those alone, my dear fellow. Don’t look so worried – there are no catches, no bear traps.’ Waldo grinned hugely, puffing on his cigar. ‘Life is for the living, sir – and if you come along with me, we shall live it to the full.’
‘Might I let you know?’ Lionel had wondered. ‘I’m getting a little long in the tooth to go rushing into things headlong.’
‘Take just as long as you like, Mr Eastcott. Provided I have a “yes” by the end of the month. Goodnight to you, sir.’
Doffing his large-brimmed summer hat, Waldo had disappeared into the darkness.
So yes, Lionel considered, leaning back and slipping off his thin silk black socks. Yes, all in all, it had been a most interesting evening, as well as a most rewarding one – spoiled only by his growing concern over his daughter’s relationship with young John Tate.
Mattie had still been up when Lionel had returned. He found her in the drawing room listening happily to her Bing Crosby records on the gramophone, sitting by the open French windows with her feet up on a footstool in front of her gazing happily up at the stars. Lionel didn’t even have to ask how her evening went or how she was feeling. He simply poured himself a nightcap, wished her a gruff good night and took himself off to bed.
His daughter’s happy frame of mind managed to take more than a little gilt off the night’s gingerbread, jolting Lionel back to reality. On his way home he had been contentedly imagining himself sitting at the smartest of London card tables making a lot of money in partnership with his new colleague, only to open his front door and find himself being reminded of his current nagging fear, that of the possibility of losing the daughter he had counted on to take care of him in his old age in return for the way he had taken care of her in what he thought of as her time of extremis.
It wasn’t a lot to ask for, he told himself as he continued to prepare himself for bed. He certainly wouldn’t stop her from having any relationships with the opposite sex, but not anything serious and certainly not with anyone like young John Tate. The Tate boy would just take her for a ride, and even if he didn’t, as soon as his parents found out they would have a blue fit. Their eldest boy having a liaison with a young woman with an illegitimate child? It would be quite out of the question, and Lionel doubted very much that young John Tate wasn’t already aware of the inevitable opposition. So what would he do? He would just muck about with Mattie’s affections. He would flatter her, make it look as though he was serious, have his wicked way with her and then vanish over the hills in a cloud of dust. In fact he probably had it all mapped out to fit nicely in with his seaside holiday.
Over my dead body, Lionel growled to himself as he turned his bed down. Let him just try – because it will be over my dead body.