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IT WAS AT JAMES'S suggestionâand with the permission of the other beneficiariesâthat Will moved into the house in the cove. Will gratefully accepted the offer. He had enjoyed staying at the Royal Castle and exploring the busy town of Dartmouth but, as the autumn drew on, he found himself more at one with the countryside than with the urban scene. He drove home on a windy cold afternoon, through the coastal villages of Stoke Fleming and Strete, his eyes drawn again and again to the great sweep of coastline which embraced Blackpool Sands and Torcross beach and stretched away to Start Point, misty and ethereal in the autumn sunshine. He swung left, down the hill and on to Torcross Line where the sea crashed in against the long stretch of shingle to his left and the chilly breeze ruffled the calm waters of Slapton Ley on his right.
He slowed to watch a flock of starlings sweep low over the Ley where two swans sailed, calm and indifferent to these noisy visitors, and ducks swam amongst the reedy edges and huddled together on the tiny beach. The flock of starlings, like a ragged cloud overhead, broke and re-formed and swept away inland. Will sighed with deep pleasure and drove on. The low sun sent long sharp shadows across fields whose red soil glowed richly in its rays, touching the dying bracken in the hedgerows with its fiery glance so that the whole countryside was bathed in brilliant colour.
The entrance to the track was familiar to him but he remembered when he had first seen it in the hot August afternoon. There was no
honeysuckle now; the red and gold berries of the black bryony trailed across bare branches which shivered and creaked in the cold rush of the wind and bramble leaves burned darkly in the ditch. Will drove gently down the track wishing that some conclusion could be reached. He had a very adequate pensionâand some savings tucked awayâbut living in a hotel and using a hired car was expensive. Of course, if the house were to be sold then he need not worry about money ever again but if he and Tessa were able to keep it they would need every penny.
As he negotiated the sharp bend to the right and saw that first tantalising glimpse of the sea his heart knocked fast in his breast. He parked the car beside the Morris and climbed out, hearing the boom of the surf as it thudded against the sand shelf out at the mouth of the cove. The beach was deep in shadow but the sea reflected back the blue of the overarching sky above it and, as he walked out on to the beach and looked up at the house, he saw that lights were shining out from the kitchen and the study.
Isobel; at the thought of her his heart became even more unruly and he pushed open the kitchen door eagerly. The room was empty but the smell of casserole assailed his nostrils and he saw an apple pie placed in the middle of the Georgian table. He looked about him; at the scratched but polished table, at the delicate china newly dusted on the dresser shelves, at the battered Rayburn and the beautiful glass bowl of the old paraffin lamp which stood on an oak trolley. On the lower shelf of the trolley was a pile of books. Curiously, Will bent to read the titles. He took the top book out in disbelief.
âThe Hunting of the Snark,'
he murmured with amusement and sank into Mathilda's chair beside the Rayburn â¦
Isobel found him some moments later. The shock of seeing him there, looking so like Mathilda as he gazed up at her with a book in his hand, rendered her momentarily inarticulate. She wavered between delight, at seeing him here where she felt he belonged and at the easing of her own loneliness, and rage at giving her a fright and making her
thinkâfor one brief wonderful momentâthat Mathilda had returned to her. Delight won.
âOh, Will,' she said, stretching out her hands to him. âWelcome home.'
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BEA SWEPT THE IRON rhythmically to and fro across the board, carefully but insistently pressing out the creases of her best white shirt. Norah sat behind her at the kitchen table, her voice pressing just as insistently at Bea's mind, forcing itself into the corners of her thoughts, exactly as the iron pushed relentlessly into the stiff cotton of Bea's shirt.
âNever go back, Bea. It's always disastrous. These old sayings may be clichés but there's a lot of truth in them. I was saying as much to Andrew. He feels that you'll be making a mistake â¦'
Bea clenched her teeth on a spasm of irritation as she thought about Norah discussing her private affairs with Andrew Owen, priest or not.
â â¦and we agreed that this is exactly the trouble with Miss Knowles. Because she lived here as a girl she feels she has the absolute right to come back, now that she's retired, and behave as though she's been here all her life. She has a most unpleasant air of complacency â¦'
Bea peeled her shirt from the ironing board and hung it on a coat hanger. She selected a nightgown from the pile of laundry on the table beside her and stretched it out across the ironing board.
â â¦of course, the man's a saint. He'd never noticed that smug look on her face but I was able to point out that I've come up against a very stubborn streak in her character. Absolutely
determined
to read one of the lessons at the carol service. I know that one member of the congregation is always asked but I flatter myself that I have a better reading voice than most â¦'
Once again, Bea found herself thinking about Bernard; understanding
those smiling silences, the disappearances to the pub. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn in to this trap? When she told Norah how much she was missing her friends at school and in the nearby town she had brought a deluge round her ears. This was their third conversation on this subject and Bea, though exhausted and sorry for Norah, was standing firm.
â â¦simply because her father was curate forty years ago she feels that the church is her property. Unless I'm mistaken it will lead to a great deal of heartache. She should have remained where she was, among her own friends. She simply doesn't belong here any more. And that's what
you'll
find, Bea. You simply don't belong there any more.
âIf that's true,' said Bea, speaking for the first time, âthen at least I shall have discovered it for myself. I did tell you at the beginning that we must have a trial run. I'm very fond of you, my dear, but I had no idea how much I would miss the school ⦠and the town. You must let me make this experiment.'
Norah exhaled noisily. Without looking round, Bea envisaged her face; chin drawn in, mouth turned down, a self-pitying expression in her eyes.
âWell, if you insist.' She emitted a short mirthless laugh. âI don't have much choice, do I?'
âTry to understand,' said Bea gently. âRetirement has come as a bit of a shock. I need time to adjust. The lease on this little flat I've found is for six months. By then I should know one way or the other.'
Norah shruggedâbut her reply was lost in the ringing of the telephone. Bea sighed as she folded the nightgown. She had acquiesced to James's request that Will should reside in the house whilst he waited for the outcome to this new suggestion. Bea selected a Viyella skirt from the pile and turned the iron's dial to a lower heat. It was true that she was not desperate for the money from the sale of the house and cottage; nevertheless two years was rather a long time to wait. Thoughtfully Bea smoothed the soft folds. One thing was certain: that she could
not live with Norah. It was odd, almost prescient, that Mathilda had left her house to the three of her relatives who had no homes. Of course; that was not strictly true, Will had his flat in Geneva and Tessa had her base in London. As for herself ⦠Bea shook out the skirt and slipped it on to its hanger, remembering that James had told her that they were the only three surviving relatives; all three single or alone. For a moment she pictured the cove and heard Will's voice saying, âIt all depends on what you mean by nothing.'
Surely it would be quite impossible for them all to live there together? Perhaps if the cottage were to be vacated ⦠She recalled Isobel's anxious face and Will's eager one and laughed aloud as she thought of James's cry of, âGood grief! It's Matron!' He had been an earnest and very endearing little boy and it was plain that he was just as keen as these others that their hare-brained scheme should come to fruition. James, in his letter, had suggested that she might like to use the house for weekends and holidays during those two years and, meanwhile, Will and Tessa had felt that she should be recompensed for being deprived of her share whilst they waited for Tessa's trust to mature.
Norah was back, clucking with a kind of delighted impatience over some poor soul's inadequacy concerning the preparations for the Townswomen's Guild's Remembrance Sunday's buffet lunch. Bea hardened her heart, grateful that she'd had the sense to leave the bulk of her belongings in the headmaster's attic. She could probably slip away under cover of the new burdens which Norah, with so much joy, was preparing to shoulder. She would write to James, agreeing to his proposal, and settle into the little flat near the school. Bea took her pyjama jacket from the pile. She smiled at Norah, her thoughts elsewhere. Soon she would see Tony Priest and all her boys â¦
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ISOBEL LAY IN BED staring at the ceiling. Her pleasure at Will's arrival in the cove had been overshadowed by a letter from Simon asking for a divorce. He and Sally wanted to get married, he wrote, and
he felt this would be no difficulty now that he and Isobel had been living apart for nearly four years. Isobel had sat for some time, staring at the letter where it lay on the table: nearly four years. She tried to remember that year with Mikeâto recapture the madness, the excitement, the funâbut it eluded her, remaining just beyond her mental grasp. Was it really she, Isobel, who had danced and laughed and made love with the energy of a twenty-year-old? She shook her head. The affair seemed to belong to some other person's remote and distant past but the reality was that, because of it, she had lost Simonâand Helen.
Now, the next morning, she rolled over in bed, huddling into the quilt, thinking of her daughter who was a stranger to her and of her husband who now belonged with Sally. Isobel lay quite still, her eyes shut. Mathilda's death and the arrival of her descendants in the cove had enabled Isobel to keep her own heartache and loneliness in abeyance. It closed in again as soon as she was alone but, though she tried to talk herself out of it, she knew beyond doubt that it was Simon whom she still loved, and the idea of him married to Sally was a dreadful one. Just as she had relied on his unchanging love all through her affair with Mike, so she had hoped that one day he would come back to her. Despite her head's certainty that he was irrevocably lost to her, her heart insisted that he still loved her.
The letter had come as a blow to her hopes. Isobel wrapped her arms about herself, squeezing her eyes closed against the morning light. She knew, with heart and head alike, that once he married Sally he was lost to her for ever. And what of Helen? Why should Helen ever bother with her again? Simon had not succeeded in changing his daughter's mind, although she had received a prim little birthday card with her daughter's signature scrawled across the bottom; no message of love, no best wishes, but Isobel had seen the card as a breakthrough and had carried it with her for weeks and, even now, used it as a bookmark. She had comforted herself with the thought that perhaps Sally wasn't quite so wonderful as everyone thought she was.
Perhaps Simon was tiring of her and Helen was realising that she was not a substitute for her own mother â¦
Now, Isobel wondered if it had been Sally who had persuaded Helen to send the card. The humiliating thought made her clench her fists and bury her face in the quilt. She would rather not see Helen at all than to know that it was at Sally's prompting. Such knowledge filled her with shame and tears forced themselves out of her eyes. After all, it was she who had wrecked her marriage; she who had abandoned her husband and child in a wild grab at happiness. What right had she to dictate terms now? In her head she heard Mathilda's voice:
âAnd did you find happiness?'
How many people, wondered Isobel drearily, refused to recognise the happiness at their own doorsteps and spent their lives searching for some mythical bluebird?
Mathilda had injected a kind of strength into her, making it possible to both face the knowledge and bear the result of her mistake. Without her, Isobel felt as though she were drifting off course. She was not yet aware that she was beginning to look towards Will, as she had looked to Mathilda, for courage; but his coming had given her renewed hope which the letter had destroyed. She lay, listening to the continual music of the sea, watching the changing, trembling shift of light on the walls and ceiling, unable to summon the will or energy to get up. The sound of the telephone bell impinged upon her misery and, at length, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and went downstairs.
âYes?' she said curtly into the receiver. âWho is it?'
âHello, Isobel.' It was Tessa. âDid I get you up? I'm awfully sorry.'
âIt's OK,' said Isobel, peering at her watch and seeing that it was twenty past eleven. âI wasn't asleep. What's the problem?'
âNo problem really. I just wondered if Will had moved in.' She sounded hopeful and excited, and Isobel felt her own troubles receding a little. âI had an idea, you see.'