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GUSSIE WALKED ON THE terrace, her breath like smoke in the cold air. There had been a flurry of snow during the night and an east wind shivered amongst the rhododendron leaves. She could hear the water from the stream, rushing noisily along its rocky bed, quite clearly this morning and the high shoulders of the moor were sparkling white against a blue sky, although thick white clouds massed heavily in the west.
âAnd just think, dear Lord,' said Gussie as she paced, âI could have been sitting in one room in a back street in Bristol.' How clearly she remembered those days; not enough to eat, afraid to turn the heating on, dreading the plop of the letters on the mat â oh! those frightening bills â and the landlady's discreet tap on the door. Gratitude welled up in her and, being momentarily bereft of words of her own, she cast about for inspiration. â“The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places;” ' she quoted quietly; how appropriate that verse was from the Sixteenth Psalm, â“yea, I have a goodly heritage.” '
âBreakfast's in.' Mrs Ridley stood beside her. She was unmoved by Gussie's frequent communications with the Almighty. Mrs Ridley was Chapel but she accepted that Gussie as an Anglican had every right to plug herself in to the spiritual powerhouse and avail herself of its benefits. The fact that she did it out loud on the terrace before breakfast didn't bother Mrs Ridley at all. Her old mum had been the same except that she preferred the graveyard where she could chat to
her ancestors at the same time. In Mrs Ridley's girlhood the usual reply to the question âWhere's Mother?' was âDown with the daiders.'
âWhat a morning, Mrs Ridley!' Gussie turned back towards the house. âSo beautiful.'
â'Tis cold.' Mrs Ridley was never openly enthusiastic, it always invited trouble. âMore snow to come I'd say.'
âYou're probably right. I'm looking forward to my breakfast.' She smiled at Mrs Ridley and was struck by something unusual; a kind of suppressed excitement in her normally expressionless countenance. âIs everything all right?'
âLetter from Gillian.' The tone was noncommittal but her eyes held Gussie's meaningly.
âFrom Gillian?' Gussie was puzzled. âAre you sure? Gillian never writes. Not so much as a postcard. Anyway, she's due home tomorrow. Henry was driving up to Exeter to meet her.'
Mrs Ridley said nothing and alarmed, although she didn't quite know why, Gussie hurried in through the French windows of the breakfast room just as Henry appeared at the door opposite.
âMore snow to come,' he said, unconsciously echoing Mrs Ridley, as he pulled out Gussie's chair. âMarsh tit on the bird table this morning. Have to try to think of something to keep the squirrels off.'
For once Gussie didn't answer. Her eyes were glued to the blue airmail envelope by Henry's plate. Mrs Ridley fiddled watchfully at the sideboard.
âGood Lord!' exclaimed Henry, examining the sender's name on the back of the envelope, and Gussie's hand shook as she poured his coffee. âThere's a letter here from Gillian. That's odd, isn't it? I've never known her write before.'
âPerhaps you should open it,' said Gussie in desperation when it seemed that Henry might spend the whole morning trying to divine the contents by simply staring at the envelope. âCould she be ill, d'you think? Perhaps she can't travel.'
Henry slit the envelope open with the butter knife and began to
read. The two women held their breath. His expression, at first puzzled, became distressed; he shook his head as if he couldn't understand the words and when he finished his face was grimmer than Gussie had ever seen it. She looked at Mrs Ridley and made an almost imperceptible sideways gesture with her head. As she slipped unobtrusively from the room Gussie put a hand on Henry's wrist.
âIs it bad news?' she asked.
âYou could say that.' He didn't look at her. âShe tells me that she's not coming back. She's staying in Provence.'
âBut â¦' Gussie hardly dared to probe. âD'you mean that she's prolonging her holiday?'
âNo. No, I don't mean that.' He folded the letter and put it aside. âIt seems that she has no wish to return. She says that she's never been happy here and that she's met someone else. It was this man that she went with, not Lucy. Apparently he has a house in Provence and they intend to make their home there.'
âOh, Henry.' She stared at him helplessly. âI'm so sorry, my dear. What a terrible shock.' She was aware of the utter inadequacy of her words.
âIt must have been very difficult for her,' he said.
He looked quickly at her and away again and she knew in that moment that Henry loved Gillian; not perhaps with great desire, or even with a romantic passion, but simply and wholeheartedly and irrevocably. Gussie felt a great wave of shock. She'd assumed that, once Henry had seen Gillian's faults and failings, love was out of the question and only his sense of loyalty and duty kept the marriage going. She realised now that she was wrong. Henry did indeed see Gillian for what she was but loved her anyway, in spite of it, perhaps even because of it. Love is a strange and complex emotion and one should never judge of another's ability or capacity. Gussie swallowed. She felt, somehow, small, diminished by the greatness of Henry's affection which could encompass so much and remain generous, and when she next looked at him there were tears in her eyes.
âDoes she say who he is?' She simply had to ask the question. Henry shook his head.
âThe terrible thing is that I had no idea that she was so unhappy. I know that it took her a while to settle down but I thought that was only natural. She's a town girl really but I thought that she'd come to love it here. I even hoped that she'd come to love me, too.'
âOh, Henry.' Gussie's cry was anguished.
Henry smiled at her. âShe's a lot younger than I am, you know, and it makes a difference. I should have made more effort. I'm not surprised that she found me dull.'
âIs that what she says in the letter?' Gussie's old resentments struggled with her shame.
âIt's a kind letter.' Henry answered the anxiety behind Gussie's question. âShe's let me down lightly. It can't have been easy to write. I wish she could have been able to tell me to my face but that's probably my failing rather than hers.'
âOh, come now, my dear.' This was going too far. âHow could that possibly be?'
âI've treated her like a child,' he answered. âI wanted her to be happy, you see, and it's easy to think that letting people off things and giving in to them will achieve it. You don't give them the opportunity to grow. Growing can be a painful process and you try to protect them from it. It's patronising, of course, but you don't really see it like that. I didn't really think about it at all. That's what's so unforgivable. It was such a miracle that someone so young and beautiful and alive should consider marrying me. Just having her here was enough for me. I should have seen that it wasn't nearly enough for her.'
He stood up and placed his chair neatly under the table.
âWon't you have some breakfast?' Gussie watched him anxiously.
âNot at the moment. I want to answer this straightaway. There's a poste restante address.'
After he'd gone Gussie sat quite still, experiencing the real depth of her love for Henry. Should anyone have asked her, she would have
said that to make Nethercombe perfect it only needed Gillian to leave it for ever. Now she knew that she would move heaven and earth if she could only bring her back.
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JOHN HAD TO RESTRAIN himself physically from telephoning Sam at regular intervals. The knowledge that the new project was getting under way in Devon was the only thing that kept him going. In the end, the valuation on the property in Bournemouth had come out so low that the amount Sam required could only just be met. John had hoped it would be high enough to enable him to keep some back to pay the ever-mounting debts. As it was, his overdraft was paid off but very little else. He was afraid to tell his bank manager about all the other debts, fearing that he might not let him borrow against the house. Sam told him that once things got going there would be a loosening up financially and promised to help out if he got really stuck. John saw in Sam another Martin â calm, assured, easygoing â and once they were in the pub had poured out his troubles to him. Sam had been encouraging and optimistic. More importantly, he'd been lighthearted, laughing at problems that John thought insurmountable, and making John laugh with him, raising his confidence.
For a few days the glow of Sam's charisma carried him up and onwards, helping him to cope with his creditors and to hold off the demands. There were so many of them. The rent was now several months behind on both the flat and the office and the business telephone bill was well overdue. Then there was the long, long list of the usual things: car tax and insurance, Barclaycard, electricity bills, rates. Everywhere he looked he saw a hand outstretched.
At least Nell asked for very little and seemed content to stay in the warmth of the flat during these cold winter days, reading and knitting for the baby. At the mere thought of the baby John felt an upsurge of anxiety and had to remind himself of the new scheme that would save his life. Once again his hand crept towards the telephone and once again he withdrew it. Only two weeks had passed since Sam's visit to
Bristol. He didn't want to look as if he were nagging but he wished that Sam would give him a quick call.
At the end of the third week, John threw away his scruples and telephoned the flat in Exeter. There was no reply. He continued to try throughout the day but there was still no answer. He tried early and late but the telephone rang unheeded and John began to worry. He remembered what Sam had said about being ran over by a bus. Or perhaps he was ill? He thought of phoning Gillian but wondered what he'd say if anyone else answered. Irresolute, anxious, he waited a few more days. Sam had told him that work would begin at once on the site, bringing in the utilities, and he wondered if Sam was out there, perhaps in a caravan, keeping an eye on things.
At last John made up his mind. He filled up the car with petrol â keeping his fingers crossed when he passed over his Barclaycard â prayed that no one would notice that the tax disc was three months out of date and set off for Devon.
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GUY WEBSTER LET HIMSELF in, bent to pick up his post and stood looking thoughtfully at the large square envelope for a moment before closing the door behind him. Bertie pottered ahead of him into the kitchen and stood looking into his empty dinner bowl with regret and a certain amount of surprise.
âYou ate it all last night, you dumb animal,' muttered Guy. âIt's not the magic porridge pot, you know. Doesn't fill up again as soon as you've emptied it.'
Bertie wagged his tail politely and sat down on his beanbag in the corner. He stared fixedly and hopefully at the cupboard on the wall until Guy, who had been reading Phoebe's invitation, sighed and picked up the bowl.
âI can take a hint.'
He prepared Bertie's dinner and thought about the party. The one problem with the Courtyard was that it would be very difficult to stay aloof whilst remaining on good terms with one's neighbours. It was
the risk he had decided to take; there was so much else going for it. Guy put Bertie's bowl on the floor and went into the sitting room to switch on the television. He'd have to accept. He could see no other course unless he said that he was away working, moving a boat perhaps. Guy glanced again at the card. The thing was, he didn't want to have to go out specially on a Saturday afternoon and evening just to keep up the pretence. It would have been different had it been summer. It was worth keeping his little office in the marina open later then and he could potter round to the Royal Castle for a pint and some supper. As it was, it was hardly worth opening at all at the moment. There was simply no money around. Still, he was surviving. With careful management and that very generous gift of money from his father â¦
Guy stirred a little in his armchair. He still felt the prickings of guilt when he remembered how he'd accepted money from the man who had caused his mother so much pain and had been so indifferent to him as a child. He'd never been as frightened of him as his twin, Giles, but there was no doubt that he'd been a very unsympathetic figure who spent most of his time at sea and seemed like a stranger when he came home, creating a feeling of tension, almost fear, in the even, happy tenor of their lives. After the divorce he'd left the Navy and gone to Canada where he still lived. Guy had been over several times now at his father's invitation â and expense â and he knew very well that the presents of money were a way of buying his friendship back and worse, a way of striking obliquely at the wife who had finally left him.
Guy got up abruptly and going to the fridge took out a can of beer. Although she'd never for one moment said so or given any sign of it, he guessed that she must find his disloyalty difficult to deal with. But was it disloyalty? After all, the man was his father and Guy knew with a disconcerting self-honesty that he shared some of his less attractive characteristics. He tipped his head back and drank straight from the can. He loved his mother but that didn't mean that he was obliged to ignore his father. He'd said as much to Giles who simply looked at him until Guy felt uncomfortable. Anyway, he'd needed the money
and why shouldn't he take it? They'd had nothing from Mark Webster since their sixteenth birthdays and only the bare necessities since they were ten when their mother had left him.