The Sea Garden (6 page)

The sea garden is a magical place. Reflections jitter and dance on the smooth black surface of the water; shadowy figures dance or lean against the balustrade beneath Circe's imposing figure. The tall lavender hedges are pale, cloudy shapes, their scent still lingering on the warm air.

As she approaches the summerhouse with a tray of cream jellies, Rowena becomes aware of the whispering. The first voice is urgent, demanding; the other is frightened.

Rowena steps back into the shadows, watching the two people behind the summerhouse. Juliet's dress is in disarray, her hair loosened. Al's face is buried against her throat but her face is twisted away from his, her hands on his shoulders.

‘Listen,' she is saying, still in that desperate whisper. ‘Please just listen to me. I'm pregnant, Al. Just for God's sake, listen…'

And then Dickie comes across the lawn from the house, calling out cheerfully, carrying some bottles, and Rowena sees Al's head turn sharply, and both figures freeze into immobility and silence. She slips quickly away, joining Dickie a few moments later, and then Juliet appears alone, pinning up her hair and smiling – but there is no sign of Al.

Now, standing in the morning room, holding Al's photograph, Rowena remembers how she waited during the weeks that followed; waited for some word from Al: an explanation of Juliet's failed marriage, perhaps, or of how much he loved her. She was so certain that Juliet would leave Mike; so sure that the child was Al's. She desperately wanted them for him: Juliet and the baby. She was sorry for Mike, of course she was, but she could see how Juliet had been carried away by all the glamour of their early meetings and it wasn't until she'd come to know Al that she realized that she'd married the wrong man. They were too young, she and Mike, and all those ladies nights' and parties and summer balls had been too romantic.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to invite Juliet that spring, knowing that the girl was regretting her marriage, falling in love – but no … Rowena shakes her head. She sees again Juliet slipping away from the house, disappearing towards the sail loft or the river bank, and then, a short while later, Al following her to the trysting place. How can she regret that joy they shared when a few months later Al had died in a tragic sailing accident?

Or had it been an accident? She'd never be certain; never be absolutely sure that Mike hadn't knocked Al overboard. Perhaps they'd quarrelled and Al had told him the truth and Mike had simply lashed out. Perhaps Mike guessed and had accused Al. Either way, even in the first fresh agony of grief, she wasn't able to blame or accuse Mike. He'd described how a squall hit the boat and Al was knocked over by the swinging of the boom; and both Johnnie and Fred asserted that Mike searched and searched, shouting Al's name in the darkness, refusing to give up until the dawn broke and they stared at the empty sea.

Mike was posted to a nuclear submarine running out of Faslane and Juliet went with him. The baby boy, Patrick, was born and Rowena's heart yearned for a sight of him but Juliet stayed away. Johnnie saw Mike occasionally, Dickie ran into him at Northwood, and then they heard that they'd gone to Australia. From a distance Rowena managed to keep a watching brief for a short while but there was little news: Mike's promotions, no more babies.

‘It seems,' her confidante in Australia wrote, ‘that poor old Mike's been firing blanks. That's what nuclear submarines do for you, apparently. Lucky he managed Pat…'

And so the years passed and, though she never recovered from Al's death, she believed that at least she'd come to terms with it until earlier, in the Bedford, when Kate had said: ‘You remember the Penhaligons, don't you?' and all the longing and hope and pain had returned, fresh and vivid.

Now, Rowena gently places the photograph back in its place. It was odd that Johnnie was so quiet driving home in the car, slightly edgy when she'd pressed him about inviting Jess to lunch: not like him at all. After all, Johnnie is very hospitable; he loves a party. However, he has promised to telephone Kate at the weekend and make a date. Rowena checks that she has the piece of paper with the telephone number safe in her bag. She will remind him to make the call – and if he is dilatory she will do it herself.

TAVISTOCK

On Tuesday morning the cottage in Chapel Street is filled with sunlight: clean, newly painted, empty, it waits now for new life. Kate stands for a moment in the narrow, well-fitted kitchen that looks onto the garden where a path leads towards the shady pergola at its far end. She passes through the hall into the sitting-room with its glass-fronted alcoves on each side of the charming Victorian fireplace. Across the passage is a room with two walls lined with bookshelves, which will make a useful living-room. She will put the big table in here – the kitchen is too small to eat in – and make it all very comfortable and welcoming. Upstairs she pauses on the landing to look down over the garden. Tall, pale Japanese anemones grow in the long border under the garden wall, and nasturtiums sprawl across the winding path. The Rambling Rector has covered the pergola and its rosehips glow orange and scarlet in the October sunshine.

Three bedrooms, one no bigger than a boxroom, and the bathroom are set about the small square landing. Kate comes downstairs and sits on the bottom step. Even here, it seems, ghosts wait. This cottage has been owned or rented by other naval couples – people whom she knows – and she sees them passing through these rooms, calling to each other on the landing above, eager with plans, excited about the future, waiting – as she waits now – for the removal van to bring her furniture out of store. She remembers other naval quarters, hirings; tiresome married quarters' officers and helpful removal men. Jess, with her army background, will be familiar with all this.

Kate wonders what Jess will think of the cottage, of Johnnie and Lady T, and Cass and Tom, and feels again a strong sense of misgiving. Well, it is too late now: she glances at her watch and gets up. The removal men will be here very soon and the hard work will begin, but she has remembered the essentials for a happy move: the kettle, mugs, teaspoons, milk, tea, coffee and sugar are all waiting in the kitchen to be unpacked.

*   *   *

‘You know we love it when you come home,' says Cass to Oliver, as they drive together into Tavistock, ‘but I have the oddest feeling that this time you have an ulterior motive for being here. Are you going to tell me what it is?'

Oliver shrugs, looks blank as he negotiates the narrow bridge over the River Meavy. He remembers how, years ago, he scraped his father's car on these unforgiving stones when he was learning to drive – and the row that followed.

‘I like to see for myself how you're both doing,' he says, ‘that's all. I'm being filial. It's not new.'

‘Mmm.' Cass is sceptical. ‘But you usually dash off after a day or two of being filial to put another iron in a fire somewhere. This time it's like you're waiting for something. Or someone.'

‘Oh, I am,' says Oliver quickly. ‘I'm waiting to meet Jess. She's arriving on Friday so I thought I'd stay on to see this Infant Phenomenon who's won David's highly prized Award. No harm in that, is there?'

‘No,' says Cass, but she's not convinced. She is unsettled, on edge. ‘Only I'd be grateful if you'd stop winding your father up while you're waiting. It doesn't help. He's very upset about Gemma's threats to leave Guy and your levity isn't helping.'

‘Sorry, Ma,' he says. ‘I was trying to lighten him up a bit, that's all. You usually say it helps to keep things cheerful.'

‘I know I do.' It's quite true, but just at the moment she doesn't know what she wants. Nothing is right. ‘I'm all jangly, Ollie, as if something cataclysmic is about to happen.' She laughs. ‘I sound like Kate. She's always the one with the signs and portents, isn't she? I used to say that it was she who should have been called Cassandra, not me.'

‘Do you want to drop in and see her?'

Cass thinks about it. She is very pleased that Kate might be coming back to Tavistock after three years: she's missed their close relationship, the impromptu dropping in and meeting up. St Meriadoc is only an hour and a half away but to have Kate near by again would be very good news. Tom has become more grumpy of late: he's wearying of the hard work that is required to keep the Rectory and its grounds in good shape, and it's an effort to keep jollying him along. The prospect of Kate close at hand, supporting and encouraging, is wonderful. Or, at least, it was until the subject of divorce between Gemma and Guy loomed. Now she and Kate are skating warily round this subject. It is the elephant in the room, and effort is required to avoid outright comment about who is to blame. Each of them is sensitive, ready to protect her own child, and Cass doesn't feel up to the stress of the cut and thrust of it this morning. She wants to shop, to buy something elegant to wear from Brigid Foley and browse in Crebers for a delicious treat to eat for lunch; she simply longs to relax and be happy.

‘Kate will be busy,' she says, ‘getting the cottage right and all that stuff. Moving in is such hell, isn't it? Especially if Jess is arriving on Friday.' A pause. ‘How did you know she's arriving on Friday?'

‘Kate texted,' he answers.

‘Oh.' Cass feels slightly hurt. ‘She didn't phone me. I wonder why not.'

‘Perhaps,' suggests Oliver, ‘for the same reason you're not dropping in to see her this morning.'

Cass is silent.

‘I'm going to Book Stop,' says Oliver, ‘so we'll park at the Bedford and meet up for coffee or a drink when you've finished shopping. Does that sound OK?'

‘Yes.' She glances sideways at him. ‘Shall you go and see Kate?'

She doesn't want him to visit Kate. She feels it will put her in a bad light if Kate knows she's in town and isn't popping in to see how she's managing. She feels guilty and restless and cross.

‘No,' says Oliver. ‘We'll leave Kate to her settling-in today and phone later to see if she'd like any help tomorrow. I'll text her. Stop worrying, Ma. We've come to have some fun, remember? That's what you said to Pa, anyway.'

‘Yes,' Cass says at once. ‘We have. And that's a good idea about texting Kate. We can come over again tomorrow if she wants us to. Do that, Ollie. Give me an hour and then I'll buy you a pint.'

‘Sounds OK to me,' he says.

*   *   *

Jess is heading west; driving across the motorway bridge spanning the River Exe. She glances quickly at the sheet of paper on the seat beside her, pulls into the inside lane and takes the turning off the M5 onto the A30.

‘The quickest way to Tavistock,' Kate told her, ‘is to come down the A30 and turn off at Sourton. It's much more dramatic to drive over the moor but this is quicker and we can explore the moor later if you want to.'

She'd liked Kate at once: they hit it off straight away. There was a direct simplicity about the older woman that appealed and they'd laughed together about how they hated having to dress up.

‘At least you scrub up well,' Kate commented. ‘My default mode is bag lady. I can't wait to get back into my jeans.'

Jess grins, remembering. And it's really weird that Kate should have known her grandparents way back. They'd talked about service life, the moving around and the separation, and it was like they were old friends who hadn't seen each other for ages.

It's good to be this happy, she thinks: to have won this really prestigious Award, to have a good Honours degree, and to have a whole year off to think about what direction she should take for her future. The Award money has bought her some space – just as it's bought her this little old car and real independence. Jess can feel her face positively beaming but she can't help herself: life just hasn't been this good since Daddy died – and part of it is because she's going to the place where he was born, where her grandparents met, to chill out for a few months.

Kate, in one of her emails, suggested Jess should come down and explore, meet some of her grandparents' friends, and offered her this cottage in Tavistock so that she'd have somewhere to stay.

‘You can be alone if you need to be, but I can show you around and introduce you to some people,' Kate said – which is really cool because she can't quite decide what she'll want or how it will be. Sometimes she needs to be alone, have her own space, but it's good, too, to have a few friends nearby. Meanwhile the sun is shining and she's in her little car, listening to Jamie Cullum, with nearly all her belongings packed into the boot because at heart she's a minimalist. And all the while, at some deeper level, she's noticing the shapes and patterns and colours of the green, rounded hills and small, square fields; the crimson, crumbly earth being turned by a rackety old plough and the grey and white cloud of gulls streaming behind it; tall trees and boxy hedges, their leaves scorching with autumnal fire.

So here she is, on the journey to the west, feeling good.

*   *   *

Kate waits nervously: she prowls, checking the rooms, wondering what Jess will think and if she will approve. Last evening she phoned Bruno. He answered straight away and she knew he'd been expecting her call.

‘What am I doing?' she asked. ‘Am I mad or what? I don't know this girl and now she's coming to stay. Why did I do it?'

‘Because you felt it was right. Forget what you feel like now. That's just nerves. What you felt then is what really counts.'

For three years she and Bruno have been friends in the best possible way; they've spent hours talking about the messy muddles that have been their lives, trying to make sense of things, admitting failures and fears, laughing and weeping alternately, giving each other courage. She's missing him now, wishing she'd stayed at St Meriadoc and simply let out the cottage in Chapel Street.