4

 

 

“MRS. TENNANT—” GWYNN was hesitant.

“Mary, now. I’ve told you that, Mrs. Forest.”

“Gwynn, then.”

They were walking side-by-side along the pavement to the Co-op, to pick up staples for the house, Mary with an old-fashioned string bag over her arm, fat and swinging with her black purse. She wore her short black coat over her twinset—having changed out of her work dress—and sensible shoes.

“What is it, then, Gwynn?” she asked, sounding uncomfortable but determined.

Even with the prodding, Gwynn was unsure how to ask. “First, thanks for getting Colin Moore for me.”

Mary nodded. “He’s a good man. Brought the firewood right over, I expect.”

“He did.” They rounded the corner and headed up toward the B-road. “It made all the difference in the world this afternoon. The whole cottage is so much more comfortable with the fire in the stove.”

Mary looked her, her dark head cocked to the side. “But—? There’s something else. Speak your mind.” Her brows were knitted, as though she expected some criticism. Of Colin Moore? Why, if he was such a good man?

A pillar box appeared on their right. Mary stopped, snapped open her purse, and withdrew two envelopes, which she dropped through the slot before continuing.

“He said—Colin Moore said—that my great-aunt didn’t like anyone.”

Mary visibly relaxed. Her grimace was very much like Colin’s had been earlier. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s more than likely right about that.”

“He said she had no children, never married again after her husband died.”

They had reached the Co-op lot. “Get us a trolley, if you like,” Mary said, pointing to the serried rows in a rack to the side. “Put a pound in the slot.”

Inside, they strolled down the aisle examining the vegetables. Gwynn frowned at the metrics. Mary shook her head sadly at the state of the produce.

“Get a few things,” she advised. “Wait for the rest until market on Thursday.”

She examined the beetroot, selected a bunch. Gwynn did as well, and then chose a couple of potatoes. When she paused beside the peas, Mary again shook her head; and Gwynn withdrew her hand.

“You seem to have got quite a lot out of Colin,” Mary finally said, turning into the next aisle. “A man of few words, that one.”

No more than he got out of me, Gwynn wanted to say, but didn’t. “You know him well?”

“Oh, heavens, yes. Cousin to my husband, he is.” Mary reached purposefully for a package on the shelf, then changed her mind and chose a different brand.

Gwynn pushed the trolley slowly; it had a recalcitrant wheel. Even in another country, she managed to choose the cart with the wheel that didn’t turn properly.

“More like son of my husband’s cousin.” Mary shrugged. “All related one way or another around here. More than likely you’re some sort of cousin to us, too, if we went far enough back up the family tree.”

They’d have to climb back up to her grandmother, who’d run off with a pilot once the war was over, straight across the Atlantic Ocean, never to return. And her grandmother’s older sister, and in turn, their older brother. The all had parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. No doubt Mary Tennant was right. No doubt the village of strangers she’d found herself in was actually a village of family. The thought shook Gwynn again, another shock in a series. Maybe she really wasn’t alone in the world. Maybe there were others. Maybe this was a place where she could fit in.

“You look as though someone’d walked over your grave,” Mary said, placing a package of Bird’s custard mix in the trolley.

“No,” Gwynn replied slowly. “No, I’m not dead yet.”

She didn’t know why she said that.

 

UPON THEIR RETURN to the cottage, Mary stiffly accepted the offer of a cup of tea.

“Tell me more about my great-aunt,” Gwynn said, leaning against the door frame of the sitting room; Mary was again seated uncomfortably on the sofa, back straight, hands crossed over the handle of her purse. “Gwynn.” The name, her name—their name—tasted odd in her mouth. “Colin Moore said she didn’t like anyone. Not even him.”

Mary did not look up, seeming to find great interest in the dying afternoon outside the window. “Oh, there’s plenty don’t care for Colin, I’m afraid. Find him stand-offish.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Mary sighed, and now her gaze dropped to her hands playing with the catch on her purse. She frowned and twined her fingers together. The silence between them grew and lengthened. Gwynn fought the urge to prod further, in an attempt to emulate Colin Moore: he needed only wait to have someone spill the beans. She found herself half-smiling at the thought. No doubt people here would find her stand-offish as well. But she could wait out Mary. She was willing to wait for the answer about her great-aunt, because that answer seemed suddenly very important.

Behind her the tea water was boiling. Gwynn turned to fix the tray—what a civilized thing it was, the tea tray—then brought it out to the low table.

“Mary,” she said. “Relax. Take off your coat.”

Mary reluctantly undid three buttons, but stopped there. She looked poised—not for flight, but for cleaning. Had Mary ever been invited to sit down by Gwynn Chelton? She didn’t like anybody. Somehow Gwynn didn’t think her great-aunt had.

“I can’t stay long,” Mary protested weakly. “I’ve got to get home to make Mr. Tennant’s tea.” She pursed her lips. “We spent more time at the Co-op than I’d intended.”

Gwynn shrugged, implacable. “I’ll pay you extra.”

Mary’s eyes flashed, a spark of anger momentarily animating her expression. Gwynn kept her own face still, watching. She poured a cup of tea and handed it to Mary, who immediately looked reproachful and reached for the milk and sugar.

“You poured the tea the wrong way,” she said. Another dodge.

“My great-aunt,” Gwynn repeated.

“She was an angry old woman,” Mary said suddenly, setting the creamer back on the tray with a decided click. “Col was right. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like me. If she could have done without either of us, she would have.”

It was a bald statement, like Colin’s, one that obviously made Mary uncomfortable. She glared across the table at Gwynn as though to challenge her.

“But you both worked for her anyway.”

The look Mary cast at her now had something of the Colin-ish in it. “She paid.” Then she backed down. “She always paid. She paid Colin extra when he did other things around the cottage for her—general handyman things he did in passing, when he delivered the wood.” She sipped her tea cautiously. “It was as though she wanted to make sure we kept a proper distance. She didn’t want our friendship. She didn’t want our kindness.”

“She sounds sad.” Gwynn was suddenly awash with an unfamiliar kind of sorrow for the old woman she had not known, but who had left her home to someone as far away as possible without leaving it out of the family. Never met her, never spoke to her on the telephone, never wrote. Her great-aunt had been the stuff of myth when she had been growing up. Gwynn did not even remember her grandmother speaking of her older sister without a kind of I wonder what she’s doing now tone of voice. As though it were impossible to find out. The sadness in her chest suddenly steeled, morphing into a hard, angry loneliness, and Gwynn caught her breath at the foreignness of the feeling. She lifted her eyes to find Mary staring at her speculatively.

“She sounds lonely,” Gwynn said quickly.

Mary lowered her gaze and began to inspect the shortbread laid out on the china plate. She slowly reached a hand to take one not-quite-perfectly round cookie and bit into it, as if suspicious of some further shortcoming.

“That’s how I always thought. That’s why I really kept coming back, and Col, too. I lied to you when I said it was for the money. It wasn’t really. Of course, Mrs. Chelton would never have admitted to any such feeling. But you can be lonely without admitting it to anyone, can’t you?” Mary cocked her head, thinking through this radical thought. “Without even admitting it to yourself.”

Yes, you could. You could live that way until you died.

The voice in her head didn’t even sound like her own. For a moment Gwynn felt tears threatening behind her eyelids, and she squeezed her eyes shut.