Forgotten Laughter
A Week in Winter
Winning Through
Holding On
Looking Forward
Second Time Around
Starting Over
Hattie’s Mill
The Courtyard
Thea’s Parrot
Those Who Serve
The Dipper
The Children’s Hour
The Birdcage
The Golden Cup
Echoes of the Dance
Memories of the Storm
The Way We Were
The Prodigal Wife
The Summer House
The Christmas Angel
The Sea Garden
Postcards from the Past
The Beach Hut
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.penguin.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
The Songbird Copyright © Marcia Willett 2016
Summer on the River Copyright © Marcia Willett 2015
Indian Summer Copyright © Marcia Willett 2014
Cover illustration © Hannah George
Title lettering © Sarah Jane Coleman
Marcia Willett has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473544192
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To Canon Michael and Jane Lewis
And to Roddy
This longing to show, to share,
Which runs full tilt into absence
from Sands of the Well
Denise Levertov
My thanks to Dr Tony Born and the District Nursing Team at South Brent Health Centre, and to the Crisis Team at St Luke’s Hospice, Plymouth.
ALL THROUGH THE spring, early and late, the thrush sings in the ash tree below the cottage. It’s the first thing he hears, when he comes carefully down the narrow precipitous staircase to make coffee, and the last thing, as he leans from the small window into the quiet luminous evening, unable to abandon the unearthly magic and get into bed.
There are no leaves yet on the trees. They hold up bare, misshapen arms and bony, twiggy fingers against a pale, translucent sky; yet he can never see the thrush hidden within these interlaced, fantastical patterns. He stands watching, seeing how the gardens tip down to the two fields – sown with barley, edged with thorn and ash – and across those fields to the lane beyond, which curls and climbs up to the old farmhouse.
Tim’s is the last in the terrace of cottages, converted from stables to provide accommodation for Victorian servants; modernized again more recently. The old stable-yard, flanked by two open-fronted barns where cars are parked, is separated from the courtyard behind the main house by a five-bar gate.
It is many years since Brockscombe was a working farmhouse. Bought by a naval captain with his prize money from the Napoleonic wars, it has grown into a graceful family home, with white stucco and long sash windows, standing end-on to the lane and surrounded by fields sold long since to neighbouring farms.
Sometimes, when he’s walking in the grounds, Tim thinks he sees ghostly figures waving at the upstairs windows – and his heart jumps with terror. But surely the ghosts are simply reflections: of racing clouds and the branches of the trees tossing in the wind? And why should he be afraid of ghosts? Is it because he fears he might soon be of their number: lost and alone, untethered from this friendly, familiar world?
It was Mattie who sent him to Brockscombe Farm. Pretty Mattie, with her honey-brown eyes and dark, curling hair.
‘I’m leaving next month,’ he told her as they made tea in the small kitchen of the London publishing house where they worked, she as a publicist, he in the marketing department. ‘Taking a six-month sabbatical then moving on. I need somewhere to chill for a while. A cottage in the country but not too remote. Got any ideas?’
She looked at him thoughtfully, as if she could guess his secret. Suddenly he longed to tell her the whole truth but she asked no questions.
‘You must go to Brockscombe,’ she said. ‘To Cousin Francis, William and Aunt Kat and Charlotte. It’s perfect there for a sabbatical. Just west of Exeter.’
He laughed. The set-up sounded so odd. ‘What’s Brockscombe? Who are they, Cousin Francis, William and Aunt Kat and Charlotte?’
She laughed too. ‘Brockscombe is a beautiful old Georgian farmhouse owned by Francis Courtney. He’s in his eighties and he lives there on his own. He was an MP and now he’s writing his memoirs. I’m not exactly sure how he’s related to William and Aunt Kat but they are cousins and they share one of the cottages in the grounds. Charlotte is my big sister. She’s married to William’s son, Andy. He’s in the navy, first lieutenant on a frigate based in Plymouth. Charlotte wasn’t very impressed with the naval quarters on offer so they moved into the cottage next door to William and Aunt Kat last autumn just before she had baby Oliver, which is really good because Andy’s ship will be at sea for the next few months so she’s got lots of support. Kat’s Andy’s cousin, too, of course, but he always calls her Aunt Kat and now we all do. It’s all a bit off the wall but great fun. You’d like them.’
‘It certainly sounds … unusual.’
‘There’s another cottage,’ she said. ‘It was empty last time I was there. You’d be private. Up to a point.’ She looked at him again, intently, consideringly. ‘They won’t be tiresome and nosy,’ she assured him. ‘Well, not much, anyway.’
They laughed again; it was so good for him to laugh, to ease the fear.
‘I’d like to meet them,’ he said.
‘Well, I can arrange that. Would you rather go alone or shall we go down together and I’ll introduce you?’
Once again fear chilled him, disabling him. ‘I think that might be good. To go together. If you’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure,’ she said casually. ‘It’s time I went down to Devon to see everyone. Let’s make a plan to drive down, if you’re happy to risk my old car.’
Cousin Francis, William, Charlotte and Aunt Kat: Mattie briefed him on the drive from London. So vivid were her word pictures that Tim was able to visualize them clearly as the M4 reeled away behind them. William, separated from his wife, Fiona, is in his middle fifties, an accountant: short, cheerful, with a tonsure of curly pepper-and-salt hair and bright blue eyes. Aunt Kat, in her early sixties, a former international ballet dancer and choreographer: tall, graceful, unconventional. Charlotte, just turned thirty-two, a web designer; energetic and capable, and determined to be the perfect mother to her baby, five-month-old Oliver, as well as looking after her and Andy’s golden retriever, Wooster. Cousin Francis, thin, angular, tough, emerging from his lair from time to time to sit in the sunshine and have a chat. As she recalled past meetings, told anecdotes, described their idiosyncrasies, Mattie brought them so clearly to life for Tim that, when he finally met them, it was as if they were already old friends.
How easy she made it, how simple. Driving him down, booking him into a local pub as if she knew that he’d need his own space; introducing him to William and Charlotte and Aunt Kat, who welcomed him warmly and naturally. He was taken to meet Cousin Francis, a tall, frail but indomitable old man with a penetrating gaze, who agreed that Tim could take the cottage on a six-month shorthold tenancy. So it was arranged.
‘Stay in touch, Tim,’ Mattie said on his last day at the publishing house. It was almost a question. ‘Charlotte will tell me how you are, of course, but it would be nice to know if it’s really working for you.’
‘Of course I will,’ he answered. ‘I’ll email.’
Email was OK: he could manage that without committing himself too far.
Six weeks later he is here at Brockscombe: he loves the tranquillity, the extraordinary beauty of the old house, the stable-yard and the surrounding countryside. It is as if, at last, he has come home. He smiles wryly at the thought: rather late in the day.
‘But better late than never,’ he says to himself.
He’s talked to himself quite a lot in the recent weeks, ever since that diagnosis of the very early stages of a rare degenerative disease; trying to stave off negative thoughts, anxiety, loneliness.
Now he has a plan. He has supplied himself with Ordnance Survey maps and he has begun to explore this wonderful county in which he so fortuitously finds himself. Sometimes his journeys take him across the moors, sometimes to the sea. Often he gets lost in the deep, secret lanes, but now he rises each morning with a sense of purpose, with a plan, to distract him from his fear. And now, for the first time in his life, he seems to have the family he’s always longed for – thirty-two years too late.
Charlotte flips open her iPhone and reads Mattie’s email:
‘How are you all? Lovely pics of Ollie. He’s gorgeous. Just showed them to everyone. Proud auntie. Don’t forget to be nice to Tim. Everyone here sends love to him.’
Charlotte experiences a tiny spasm of irritation. She doesn’t need to be told to be nice – to Tim or to anybody else – and especially not by her little sister. Anyway, she’s glad Tim’s around. It’s fun to have someone of her own age to talk to sometimes, and he’s very amusing, though quiet and thoughtful, too.
‘I don’t know quite what’s gone wrong for Tim,’ Mattie told her, ‘except that his relationship with his girlfriend broke up rather suddenly. He says he needs a new direction but he wants time to think about it.’
Charlotte checks on Oliver, fast asleep in his cot, shuts the door quietly and goes downstairs, twining up her long fair hair into its comb: an hour if she’s lucky. She could do some more work on the website she’s designing for a local hotel or she could catch up with the ironing. There’s quite a pile but that’s partly her own fault for volunteering to do William’s for him this week.
‘You are such a star,’ Aunt Kat said, admiringly. ‘As if you haven’t got enough to do with darling Ollie and Wooster.’
But the thing is that she likes to be busy. It’s better to wake up to a day full of different activities than to be gazing into emptiness. She said as much to Aunt Kat, who answered that some people were perfectly happy simply gazing. Charlotte occasionally wonders what Aunt Kat does when she drives off in her little car, dashing here and there, but she doesn’t ask. And Ollie adores Aunt Kat. Despite her lack of domesticity – ‘Simply not a nurturer, darling,’ – she is great with the baby.
Charlotte opens the front door and wanders out into the courtyard with Wooster at her heels. Last autumn she and Andy painted the old wooden tubs they found in the stables and planted them up with bulbs: snowdrops, daffodils, crocuses and tulips. Now, in the late March sunshine, the daffodils make puddles of golden light all amongst the flagstones and purple crocus glow against the surrounding grey stone walls. The big open-fronted barn to the north of the yard is empty except for her own little car, and a line of washing hangs in the sunshine in the south-facing barn where logs are stored.
Wooster wanders round the courtyard, lifts his leg half-heartedly against the gatepost, whilst Charlotte perches on a wooden bench and glances between the high stone walls, across the five-bar gate, to the big house: no noise, no movement.
‘It seems rather a pity to think of your cousin Francis in there all on his own and you out here,’ she said to William some months back. ‘All that space going to waste. You and Aunt Kat would be company for him.’
She likes Francis, who often sits in the courtyard and chats to her, and who seems to understand the loneliness and responsibilities that go with being a naval wife.
William looked faintly uncomfortable – but she notices that he tends to edge away from discussions about Cousin Francis – muttered something about the old fellow being perfectly happy with his little team popping in to minister to his needs: Moira, the retired district nurse who checks him out each morning and evening, and drives him to any appointments; Stella, who cycles up from the little hamlet to clean and cook, and her husband, Rob, who keeps the grounds under control.
Even so, Charlotte feels there is a distinct lack of organization. The two cottages she and Tim now rent were empty for months after the elderly occupants, who also once worked for Cousin Francis, went to live with their younger families. If William and Aunt Kat moved into the house and the cottages were marketed properly there would be a good income to be had, and by the look of the house it could do with a facelift. Yet William and Kat seem content to let things ride. They live peacefully together, rather like an old married couple, though there is nothing old or married about Aunt Kat, or Irina Bulova as she is known professionally.
‘She danced all over the world in all the leading roles,’ Andy told Charlotte. ‘And then she turned to choreography. She had a Polish lover who was a composer. He composed music specially for her – a kind of jazz ballet – and her work became iconic. He moved to New York and she went with him. He died very suddenly, very tragically, about two or three years ago and that’s when she came home. She came here to recover. Dad adores her. We all do.’
And here she is, driving into the courtyard in her tiny car, waving to Charlotte, parking in the barn. The driver’s door opens and a long elegant leg shoots out.
Every movement Kat makes is graceful, thinks Charlotte enviously. How does she manage it?
Tall, slender, her storm-cloud hair knotted casually, Aunt Kat emerges into the sunshine, her thin face alight with a wide smile.
‘Time out?’ she asks. ‘Having a breather?’
She bends to murmur words of love and appreciation to Wooster, whose tail thumps gently as he accepts her compliments with regal tolerance.
‘I ought to be doing some work,’ admits Charlotte, ‘but I couldn’t quite bring myself to go back inside.’
‘Of course you couldn’t.’ Aunt Kat sits beside her, raising her face to the warm March sunshine, closing her eyes. ‘Days like these are gifts from the gods. You should always seize them with gratitude.’
‘Have you been shopping?’ asks Charlotte idly.
Foolish question: Aunt Kat never seems to do the ordinary, humdrum kind of shopping. One never sees her with carrier bags bursting with the rather dull necessities of life. A bunch of flowers, yes; a delightfully unusual toy for Oliver; a pretty piece of china. ‘Found it in the market, darling. Couldn’t resist.’
It is William who buys the bread, cheese, eggs, milk; plans the menus.
‘He is a gastronomic retard,’ Aunt Kat says cheerfully. ‘Can’t bear the least hint of anything spicy so it’s best to let him do the cooking. Good prep school food.’
Charlotte glances sideways at Aunt Kat’s lean body, long legs, and wonders if she eats anything at all.
‘I went to see someone who wants me to do a talk,’ Aunt Kat is answering, eyes still shut, her hand stroking Wooster’s ears. ‘At a ballet studio in Newton Abbot. Sweet of them to ask me.’
‘You’re still famous,’ smiles Charlotte.
Aunt Kat opens her eyes and beams at her. ‘For all the wrong reasons. All those lovers, dashing off to New York with Gyorgy, my choreography. I was always just a bit avant-garde. It wouldn’t be remarkable now, of course.’
‘You’ll always be remarkable,’ says Charlotte, still smiling. ‘You can’t help yourself. It’s a gift.’
‘Darling,’ says Aunt Kat, clearly moved by this tribute, ‘that’s very sweet of you. I tell you what. I shall go inside and make us some coffee and bring it out and we’ll drink it in the sunshine.’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ says Charlotte gratefully. William might choose the food but it is Aunt Kat who buys the coffee and it is seriously good. ‘I’d love that.’
She, in turn, closes her eyes and relaxes. It is blissful to sit here with Wooster in the sun, in the rural silence, and anticipate Aunt Kat’s coffee. The website can wait.
Kat makes coffee, whizzing the beans, setting out two pretty mugs and some milk for Charlotte. She chooses some biscuits and arranges them in a little dish. It’s good for Charlotte to have a moment in the sunshine without the demands of Oliver or work. Kat smiles as she waits for the coffee machine. She likes to be Aunt Kat to Charlotte and Andy and Mattie – and Ollie as he gets older. This is her family. She’s feeling stronger, happy, in love with life again, though she’s beginning to miss her theatre friends, the world of dance. Just now, though, it’s good to have Andy and Charlotte and the baby around – and now Tim. She loves to be with young people. It was right to come here, to William, to Brockscombe, after Gyorgy died. She couldn’t bear the old haunts, the well-meaning sympathy of old friends. She needed change and peace in order to regroup: to mourn. It was wonderful to be with William again, after all these years, to be able to support him after the break-up with Fiona and the death of his mother. His father, Kat’s uncle, died some years ago and her own father – a Polish fighter pilot – died whilst she was still a child. As children, she and William spent the summer holidays together and the bond between them is a strong one.
They are happy here together, although there is always the uncertainty of the future: what happens to them all when Francis dies?
‘I don’t trust Francis’ boys,’ William would say.
‘But surely they can’t just throw us out,’ Kat would answer.
William would snort. ‘We’re on six-month shorthold tenancies here. Nothing is certain.’
She’d jolly him along, as she always did, and they’d talk about having options, of looking for another house, though neither of them wants to break up this little family group. But now, as she makes the coffee, disquiet nibbles at the edges of her happiness. Could it really be possible that one day – even quite soon – they might all have to leave Brockscombe?
She thrusts the thought away, pours the coffee into a big pot and carries the tray outside to the courtyard, where Charlotte is waiting in the sunshine.
THERE ARE FLOWERS there again today. The little stone statue of a child, just a few feet high, is almost hidden at the edge of the woodland. Once there was a clearing here, but the bushes have grown tall and moss has covered the paved area around the plinth, so that Tim first came upon the statue quite by chance. He guesses that it is Pan: small stone fingers curl around his pipes, an arm upraised, one chubby knee lifted as though the little figure longs to dance.
Tim is touched by the way daffodils have been carefully threaded into those curled fingers; a spray of laurel, plucked from the nearby bush, is tucked into the crook of the elbow. He wonders who might have done it: who it is that loves the little statue enough to honour it with flowers.
The first time Tim chanced upon it there were snowdrops wilting in Pan’s stony grasp and a garland of ivy looped around his neck. Today the daffodils are freshly picked and Tim glances around to see if there is anyone nearby. Occasionally, as he walks in the grounds and woodland that lie to the west of Brockscombe, he has the sensation that he is being watched. He stands still, looking around him, but the only movement is made by the dashing away of a rabbit, kicking up the fallen leaves, and the sudden flight of a jay. There is a stile in the hedge just here. He climbed over it once, into the field beyond. The sheep raised their heads and watched him curiously for a few minutes before continuing to graze but there seemed no obvious footpath, no finger posts, so he climbed back again and went on his way through the wood.
Today, as he stands listening to the birdsong, he sees a silvery glint amongst the dank, dead leaves and crunchy beech mast. He bends down and picks up a small toy car, a model of a Jaguar. It reminds him of the toys he had when he was a child and, as he runs it to and fro on the palm of his hand, the wood seems to dislimn and vanish away and he is once again a child, lying on the carpet in the warm sitting-room. Toys are scattered about him and his father kneels beside him. How tall his father is, how strong. Today he is happy. Though he is not yet four, Tim knows that his father is not always happy. Sometimes he is very quiet. ‘Don’t bother me,’ he’ll snap if Tim grasps his arm, asks him to play. He’ll jerk his arm free, unbalancing Tim and sometimes knocking him over – though he has learned not to cry. That makes things worse and his mother will come hurrying in and then they’ll argue in a terrible, quiet sort of way, with low angry voices that are more frightening than if they shouted.
Mummy sometimes shouts: ‘Don’t touch that, it’s hot.’ ‘Don’t climb on the chair, you might fall.’
He understands this kind of shouting. In an odd way it makes him feel safe. But this fierce, whispered shouting gives him a horrid, knotted-up feeling inside and he wants to do something, anything, that will make them stop. Once he threw one of his little cars and broke a cup and his father cried out so loudly, smashing his fist down on the table, that his mother picked Tim up and ran out of the room. It was a little silvery car: the model of a Jaguar.
Now, as he smooths away the traces of damp mud from the shiny metal, it occurs to Tim that it might be a child from the local hamlet across the field who comes to put the flowers in Pan’s hand: perhaps he has dropped the toy. Tim glances around again, wondering if the child might be hiding behind the trees, watching him to see what he will do, frightened to show himself. Afraid that he is trespassing.
Gently he places the car on the plinth beside Pan’s small foot. He touches the rough, pitted toes and then turns to leave. As he walks away he wonders if he might ask the others if they know about the flowers: yet some instinct inclines him to secrecy. Aunt Kat occasionally walks in the grounds but he’s never seen her on these overgrown paths; Charlotte is confined to the lane where it’s easier to push Oliver in the buggy and Wooster doesn’t get too muddy; William doesn’t walk at all. He sings with a local group and works in his garden. Francis is rarely seen outside though he occasionally appears in the courtyard, leaning on his stick and ready for a chat, but he leaves the grounds and the woods to the care of Rob, the gardener.
So who is it that visits Pan and garlands him with flowers?
William turns into Church Close, passing along by the churchyard, just as the clock begins to strike eleven. He is nearly late for his meeting with Fiona – nearly, but not quite. He is experiencing the familiar mix of anxiety and resentment that, since their separation, is implicit in his relationship with his estranged wife. It is she who has asked to meet him this morning, rather than coming as she usually does to Brockscombe to see Charlotte and Oliver, and he is curious – and nervous. It is nearly five years since Fiona was head-hunted by a London practice of architects following her brilliant designs for the conversion of some waterside flats in Salcombe. Ambitious, longing for change, missing Andy, who had left Dartmouth Naval College and was away at sea, she was unable to understand why William should be so set against the move to London.
‘I’m a countryman,’ he told her. ‘You know that, Fi. I’d hate to live in London. Anyway, my work is here. I know my accountancy firm looks small beer beside a big shiny London architects’ practice but it’s mine. I have a loyal, hard-working staff and faithful clients. I don’t want to leave them all and go to London.’
So she started with a weekly commute, but the relationship soon began to deteriorate. Her new colleagues, new life, challenging projects, all engulfed her and she made very little effort to conceal her growing impatience with his parochiality. Through her eyes William could see how small his world and their house in Ashburton now appeared to her, and how empty life was for her without Andy around, bringing home his friends. William felt unable to measure up, to compete. He felt guilty that he couldn’t face sacrificing his life for hers, resentful that she should so readily cast away all they had built together, and in the end they decided to make the break. Not a divorce – for Andy and economy’s sakes – but an amicable separation. The house was sold, the proceeds split between them, and William moved to Brockscombe. Andy spent part of his leaves in London, part in Devon, until he got married.
Fiona liked her daughter-in-law but William knew that she was disappointed that her son had chosen a local girl who would keep him even more firmly rooted in Devon. Andy, based in Devonport, often at sea, had less time to spend on leave in Fiona’s small spare room in London, though he and Charlotte visited her as often as they could – and then Oliver was born.
Fiona’s focus changed with the birth of her grandson. She adored Oliver and tried to make her smart little flat more child friendly.
‘Though it’s quite impossible,’ Charlotte told William. ‘We can’t squash the three of us into her tiny spare bedroom and she only has a shower-room; no bath.’
Once Andy and Charlotte moved to Brockscombe, Fiona began to visit more often, staying at the Cott Inn at Dartington, driving to Brockscombe to spend time with her grandson.
On this occasion, however, William didn’t know she was here: her text asking him to meet her arrived unexpectedly just after he got in to his office in Ashburton. He replied that he was seeing a client in Totnes and suggested coffee before his meeting.
Now, William hesitates in the shadows at the end of Church Close, looking at the café across the High Street, seeing Fiona before she sees him. She’s chosen one of the tables in the window and she is peering up and down the street, looking for him.
It’s an odd sensation, watching her through the plate-glass window as if she were a stranger, as if he is spying on her. Her collar-bone-length shiny dark hair, held back with silver clips, those quick decisive movements of her head – everything about her is so familiar. They remind him of times past, and they still have the power to move him. As he crosses the road she sees him approach and she waves. She looks animated, really pleased to see him, and he is even more unsettled.
‘Hi, Wills,’ she says, half rising, leaning forward to kiss him. ‘Thanks for coming out at such short notice.’
‘That’s OK.’ He stands awkwardly, ill at ease. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming down?’
‘Well, sit down,’ she says, smiling a little as though she has guessed his unease and is amused by it. ‘Don’t tower over me. I’ve ordered an Americano for you.’
William’s irritation rises. To begin with, at five foot seven he never towers over anyone and, secondly, he feels faintly nettled that she feels so confident in her knowledge of him that she can order his coffee. He has an urge to be childish, to say that he doesn’t drink coffee any more, but he sits down and looks at her, raising his eyebrows.
‘So why the secrecy and silence?’ he asks.
Fiona frowns a little and bites her lips; then she laughs, a little self-deprecating snort.
‘It’s tricky to start,’ she admits, ‘but I’ll just come straight out with it. I wanted to see you on your own without the others knowing yet. I want you to ask your cousin if I can rent the cottage at Brockscombe.’
He stares at her, his mind jumping between scenarios that fit this extraordinary suggestion, just managing not to say: ‘What on earth for?’
His expression makes her laugh again, but her amusement is forced, embarrassed.
‘I know, I know,’ she says, raising her hands as if to ward off his unspoken question. ‘Sounds a bit crazy. I get that. But the thing is,’ she pauses, looks away from him out of the window. ‘I’m re-evaluating my life, Wills.’
He watches her, calm now and very wary, and waits for her to go on. She looks at him again until his silence forces her to speak.
‘I’m getting older, I suppose, and it changes your perspective, doesn’t it?’
William continues to wait, eyebrows raised, as if he is assuming she has more to say.
‘Well, you know how it is. It’s to do with values, with what really matters.’ Fiona pauses – his silence is clearly unnerving her – and she bends towards him confidentially. ‘OK, I miss my family. I’d like to see more of little Ollie and Andy. And Charlotte, of course. And you, too, Wills, actually.’
To his relief the coffee arrives and Fiona leans back, flushing a little. This gives Will a moment to recover, to marshall his thoughts, and then he looks at Fiona.
‘You must forgive me if this comes as a bit of a shock,’ he says lightly.
Fiona’s relief that he taking it calmly is patent. She takes a breath, chuckles. ‘To me, too,’ she admits. ‘It’s just … well, I think it’s worth trying. Rent the cottage, come down for weekends and holidays. My flat doesn’t really work for a baby, and I hardly see Andy any more.’
‘The thing is,’ he says calmly, picking up his cup, taking a sip, ‘the cottage is let.’
She stares at him. ‘Let?’ She sounds shocked, indignant. ‘How d’you mean? You didn’t tell me.’
He pulls his mouth down at the corners: gives a little shrug. ‘It didn’t occur to me that you’d be interested. A friend of Mattie’s taken it on a six-month shorthold tenancy. I’ve no idea how long he plans to stay.’
She looks so dismayed that he almost feels sorry for her: almost, but not quite.
‘Have you mentioned this plan to Andy?’ he asks.
‘No, of course not,’ she answers: she still hasn’t recovered from the shock. ‘You know very well he’s at sea. I just get texts from time to time.’ She shakes her head disbelievingly. ‘That cottage has been empty for months.’
‘Mmm,’ agrees Will, mentally blessing Tim, ‘but that’s how it goes. But I must admit I’m a bit surprised, Fi. I mean, Brockscombe? You always say it’s the back of beyond.’
‘I know, I know. I told you, things have changed. I want to reconnect with my family. Is that so difficult to take on board?’
She looks out of the window, her happiness spoiled, her excitement doused. William watches her.
You walked away from us for pastures new, he thinks. Now you want to stroll back in like nothing has changed.
He wonders how Andy would react to Fiona’s plan; and Charlotte and Kat. He was touched when Charlotte asked if they could rent the cottage, delighted that she and Andy wanted to be so close by, but he isn’t so sure how Fiona would fit into the small community at Brockscombe. For himself, he knows he would hate it – to have her so close again when he’s learned so painfully to live without her – but would he have the right to block such a move?
His relief that at the moment it isn’t in question is very great.
‘Perhaps you could find a place to rent here or in Ashburton,’ he suggests.
‘In dear old Ashbucket?’ It’s odd to hear Fiona still calling Ashburton by the affectionate name that the locals use for their town. ‘Too expensive for a bolt hole. Anyway, it’s not the point. I want to be on the spot. I want to see more of Oliver and to be part of his life. Part of the family rather than someone who just drops in occasionally. Surely you can understand that, Wills?’
Of course he can understand it. It’s a huge joy and privilege to have his little family nearby, though he makes sure that they have plenty of privacy: he and Kat take nothing for granted.
‘And anyway,’ he says, ‘Andy might be posted somewhere else. Abroad even. It would be foolish to count on them staying at Brockscombe.’
She stares at him, all her earlier jollity dissipated.
‘But they’d still have their base at Brockscombe, wouldn’t they?’
He shrugs. ‘Who can say? After all, when Francis dies we shall all have to be moving on. We must just make the most of it while we can.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ she says sharply.
He finishes his coffee. ‘Yes, it is. I’m sorry, Fi. Nothing I can do.’
‘You can let me know if this new tenant moves on.’
‘Yes, I can do that. Look, I must get back to the office.’ He hesitates. ‘Are you down for long or is this a flying visit?’
‘I’ve booked two nights. I was hoping to come over today and look at the cottage.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose your old cousin wouldn’t let me rent a few rooms in that great empty house of his?’
William laughs and gets up. ‘No chance. So will you be out to see us later on?’
She nods. ‘I’ll text Charlotte and see if she’s around.’
He nods, bends to kiss her and goes out into the bright spring sunshine.
FIONA WATCHES HIM go and then orders more coffee. She’s been so sure, so confident, that her plan will work that she doesn’t quite know what to do next. It never occurred to her that Cousin Francis would let the cottages to anyone who wasn’t family. Andy’s cottage was empty for more than a year after the aged retainers moved out, and now the other cottage …
Fiona sighs, a short sharp breath of frustration. It’s such a good plan that she cannot bear to relinquish it. Just lately, each time she returns to London she carries with her the remembrance of the little world at Brockscombe: the laughter, the closeness – the sense of family that she forfeited five years ago when she put her career first.
Perhaps it had been unreasonable to say that, whilst William could be an accountant anywhere, this was a unique offer that she simply couldn’t refuse. After all, he’d been part of his practice for twenty years, joining straight from university, working hard until he was made a partner. Even so …
Fiona props her elbows on the table, coffee cup cradled in her hands and stares out into the street. Back then, the lure of London, a top architect’s practice – and Sam, of course – had been irresistible. Sam Deller, the top man, whose cousin had bought one of the Salcombe flats and mentioned Fiona to Sam, had been the biggest draw of all. He was funny, clever, determined, successful. Sam always got what he wanted, and he wanted Fiona. She was unable to resist his charm, his compliments, and – most of all – the fact that he was falling in love with her. How potent it all was: how special, brilliant and desirable he made her feel. Hadn’t there been a song about it once: ‘Falling in Love with Love’?
Fiona sips her coffee reflectively. How ordinary poor old Wills looked beside Sam’s glamour; how pedestrian his objectives. On her weekends at home in Ashburton nothing measured up any more: those glorious long walks over the moor that they loved; the fun of a delicious cup of coffee gossiping with Dave and Steve in the Studio Teashop; happy evenings in the wine bar with their friends. These pleasures had faded beside all that London – and Sam – showed her.
When his wife divorced Sam, two years later, Fiona really thought they’d be together, until she realized that there were other women whom Sam made feel special, brilliant, desirable – new women who were much younger than she was. Oddly, it was almost a relief: as if some spell had been broken. Even so, it was only recently that she became aware of something important missing in her life.
Fiona puts down her cup and digs her fingers into her temples, pushing back her hair. She knows the exact moment that she felt this change: it was when Andy put Oliver into her arms and said, ‘There you are, Grandmama. Say hello to Oliver.’
The weight and the warmth of him, the tiny crumpled face, the feathery twist of dark hair, all these things wrenched her heart. She gazed down at him and wanted to weep at the miracle of life.
‘He looks like you,’ she managed.
‘Have a heart, Mum,’ Andy protested. ‘Poor little sprog’s only two days old. Do us both a favour.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ she said.
She sat holding him, unwilling to let him go, watching him yawn suddenly, widely, like a kitten; flex the minuscule prawn-like fingers. Then he began to cry. Charlotte whisked him away to be fed and suddenly there was a general hubbub of happy, laughing people that included William and Kat, and Mattie and Charlotte’s parents – and, quite suddenly, Fiona saw that she was almost a stranger, an outsider down from London for a few hours to see her grandson. Between one moment and the next everything was different.
Previously, she’d visited only when Andy was on leave. She made very few attempts to develop a relationship with Charlotte, though she was always welcome at the London flat. In Devon, it suited Fiona to stay at the Cott; to suggest that Andy should pop over whilst Charlotte was working, so as to have a pint and then some lunch, or to invite them both for dinner. This way she could retain her independence. So it’s not easy, now that she wants to come regularly to see Oliver, to ask Charlotte if she can stay in the small boxroom, which in the early days she rejected, and there’s no way she can suddenly ask William and Kat if she can stay with them. Yet with each visit she feels more and more an outsider. She can see that to have a place in Oliver’s life she needs to be properly hands-on, totally familiar with every aspect of his life.
It’s odd in a way, Fiona thinks now as she finishes her coffee and fishes in her bag for her phone. Odd, because she wasn’t specially maternal with Andy – or not that she can remember. Perhaps that was because he was naturally hers, there were no other contenders, she was certain of her place in his life. Oh, there was William, of course – and he was a very good father – but she came first with Andy. Of course, she can’t expect to come first with Oliver, or even second, but she can still hope to have a special place in his life.
Fiona pushes away her coffee cup and begins to tap out a text to Charlotte.
Charlotte and Aunt Kat are still sitting peacefully in the sunshine, finishing their coffee. Charlotte stares at the text, her heart sinking, irritation rising, and then pulls herself together. After all, Fiona is her mother-in-law and Oliver’s grandmother.
‘What?’ asks Aunt Kat, watching her curiously. ‘Not bad news? You look quite grim.’
Charlotte shakes her head. ‘No. Just a bit surprised. Apparently Fiona is down and is asking if she can come to lunch. She doesn’t usually arrive unannounced, does she? She always gives us plenty of warning.’
‘It’s odd,’ agrees Aunt Kat. ‘Shall you say yes?’
‘I don’t know.’ Charlotte feels slightly cross at the prospect of Fiona requiring sustenance at such short notice. ‘I was going to have a bowl of soup, nothing special.’
She wants to say that she likes to be running on all cylinders for her mother-in-law: the house tidy and clean, Oliver dressed in something Fiona’s bought him, some food specially prepared. It has always been easier when Andy is around to distract Fiona, to make her laugh and entertain her, though things have changed since Oliver was born. She is completely besotted with him and comes to visit even when Andy is away.
‘I expect Fiona drinks soup,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Or you could simply say that you’re out but that she can come to tea.’
‘But I’m not out,’ objects Charlotte. ‘Supposing she were just to turn up? She might just drive out, hoping you or William might be here.’
‘Well then, we’ll all be out,’ says Aunt Kat cheerfully. ‘You and I and Ollie shall go and have lunch at Riverford or the Staverton Bridge Nursery. We’ll buy something delicious to bring back for tea and Fiona shall join us. How about that?’
Charlotte begins to laugh. ‘You’re very naughty, Aunt Kat.’
‘You mustn’t allow yourself to be intimidated by Fiona. Text her and suggest half past three.’
‘Shall I?’
‘Of course. Be quick. It’s already a quarter to twelve. She could be here in half an hour and you’ve got to get Ollie ready.’
Charlotte taps out the message, still feeling slightly guilty, whilst Aunt Kat whisks away the coffee things. Inside the cottage Oliver begins to cry and Charlotte jumps up and hurries inside. Wooster raises his head to glance around, sighs heavily, and flops down again to sleep in the sunshine.
When Fiona arrives at Brockscombe, parking in the barn alongside Kat’s Smart car, crossing the courtyard to Charlotte’s cottage, she’s disconcerted to find a little party going on in the big kitchen-living-room, which takes up much of the ground floor.
Oliver is propped on the sofa with Kat, Charlotte is taking cakes from a box, and a slightly built, fair-haired young man is putting plates out on the table. They are talking, laughing at a joke someone has made, at ease and familiar with one another and, all at once, Fiona experiences that same sense of exclusion she has felt before: that she has forfeited her right to be a member of this group. She stares at the young man, wondering if he is the new tenant, surprised by the way that he seems to be fitting in so readily. Already she feels antagonistic toward him; he is in her cottage.
‘Hi,’ she says brightly, and everyone turns to look at her.
‘How lovely to see you, Fiona,’ says Kat, rising to her feet. ‘This is a nice surprise.’
Without Kat’s support, Oliver tips gently sideways and begins to cry and Fiona, ignoring Kat, hurries past her and picks him up.
‘Ollie,’ she says lovingly. ‘Don’t cry, darling. It’s me. It’s Granny.’
She holds him, joggling him gently, and he stops crying and stares at her in amazement. He twists his head, as if to reassure himself that familiar faces are still near at hand, and Fiona hugs him, willing him to relax.
‘Fiona, this is Tim,’ Charlotte is saying. ‘He’s moved into Number Three,’ and Fiona, still holding the baby, turns to look at the fair-haired stranger. ‘This is Andy’s mother, Fiona,’ Charlotte says to Tim.
Fiona nods at Tim, smiling at him, not too friendly. ‘Hi.’
He smiles back at her but his look is slightly unsettling: a searching look, as if he sees past her veneer of social politesse to what lies beneath: her sense of exclusion, her need to be part of Oliver’s world, her new loneliness. Fiona frowns slightly. This slight, fair boy unnerves her, which is crazy, and she holds Oliver more closely as if he is a shield against her unease.
Tim stands back with his tea and his slice of cake and watches the three women. He was surprised and faintly alarmed on his return to be co-opted to the tea party.
‘We need you,’ Aunt Kat said, appearing beside the car as he switched off the engine and opened the door. ‘Fiona’s turned up unexpectedly and Charlotte’s just the least bit edgy. We’ve bought delicious cakes from Riverford so you’ll be well fed.’
He climbed out, smiling at her. ‘Sounds dramatic. Who’s Fiona?’
‘William’s estranged wife and Charlotte’s mother-in-law. None of us knew she was here until late morning. She texted to ask if she could come over, so we invited her to tea, and then William texted while we were having lunch to tell us that she was hoping to rent your cottage so that she could come down for weekends and holidays. Charlotte was rather taken aback by the prospect. That’s putting it mildly. Please, dear Tim, do not imply that you plan to leave any time soon.’
He couldn’t help laughing. ‘But what’s so wrong with Fiona?’
‘There’s nothing actually wrong with Fiona,’ Aunt Kat said, as they crossed the courtyard. ‘Actually she can be very good value. She and William separated about five years ago after she took up a first-rate job in London and we were all rather cast aside – well, except for Andy – but now, all of a sudden, we’re flavour of the month and we can’t quite understand why. Well, it’s Oliver, of course.’
Tim feels slightly sorry for the unknown Fiona. ‘I suppose, as his grandmother …’
‘She loves him,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Of course she does. It’s just that it’s a tad tactless to be distant and remote for five years and then suddenly expect to be clasped to the bosom of the family because you want back in. Do you see?’
‘Yeah. I get that,’ he answered. ‘So why am I here? Just to be clear.’
‘Because your presence will keep things civilized,’ said Aunt Kat. ‘Get a grip, darling. Three women, all feeling the least bit threatened. It’s bound to get tricky. We need the down-to-earth male influence.’
He laughed. ‘You’re forgetting Oliver.’
‘And remember,’ she said, as they went into Charlotte’s cottage, ‘that you’re staying for ever.’
She held his arm for a moment, smiled at him, and pain raked his heart, obliterating the joy he always experienced in her company, lacerating him.
‘I wish,’ he muttered bitterly, following her in.
And here he is, watching the three women, studying their body language, hearing the things that are not spoken. It’s as if the foreshadowing of his own end heightens his awareness of other people. It happens all the time now but he says nothing. Instead, he watches. He sees that Charlotte is slightly off balance: that she knows that Fiona is besotted with Oliver, that she understands Fiona’s maternal instincts, and is pleased that she loves her grandson. But Charlotte’s expression – a polite little smile that doesn’t quite reach her wary eyes – shows that there is resentment, too, because Fiona is staking her claim without any consideration for the other members of the family. He guesses that Charlotte feels defensive on behalf of William who has been so kind to her and to Oliver, and whom Andy loves. Yet Tim suspects that Charlotte knows she is holding all the cards here and that it will be very difficult to resist showing her power.
Aunt Kat is slightly detached, fielding Fiona’s more tactless comments about the right way to bring up a baby, almost enjoying the drama. At every point, she involves Charlotte as Oliver’s mother, emphasizing her capability and devotion.
‘It’s amazing,’ Aunt Kat says, ‘how Charlotte manages it all on her own with Andy away so much and not able to share the load. Keeping up with her work, designing wonderful websites, looking after Oliver, walking Wooster. She even does William’s ironing.’
Fiona looks at her coolly. ‘William should do his own ironing.’
‘I only do it occasionally,’ says Charlotte, irritably. ‘Look, do put Oliver down so that you can drink your tea, Fiona. He’s fine on the sofa.’
‘No, we’re happy, aren’t we, Ollie?’ Fiona joggles Oliver in her arms. ‘We have to make the most of our cuddles, don’t we, sweetie?’
She takes a quick sip from her cup and puts it back on the table.
‘So are you at the Cott, as usual?’ asks Aunt Kat brightly. ‘We didn’t realize that you were down. Did William know?’
‘No,’ says Fiona. She looks faintly uncomfortable. ‘No, it was a rather sudden decision.’
She looks down at Oliver, unwilling to meet either of the two women’s eyes, and Tim knows that she’s deciding whether or not to tell the truth. He almost sees the moment when she decides to throw caution to the wind: the little intake of breath, the straightening of the shoulders, the defiant lifting of the brows.
‘Actually,’ she says, almost casually, ‘I wanted to run an idea past William and I wanted to do it face to face. To test his reaction. I met him this morning in Totnes.’
‘How exciting,’ says Aunt Kat, almost cosily; all girls together. ‘Whatever could it be?’
She catches Tim’s eye, sends a little wink, and he cannot quite contain his grin.
Fiona looks at Charlotte, chin up. ‘I was hoping to rent the other cottage as a bolt hole so as to be able to get down to see you all more often. Holidays and Christmas, that sort of thing. What I didn’t know was that this young man,’ she glances at Tim, ‘had beaten me to it.’
Her look is almost hostile and the silence that follows is embarrassing. Even Aunt Kat can’t think of an appropriate rejoinder.
‘It never occurred to me,’ Fiona adds, ‘that old Cousin Francis would let the cottage to an outsider.’