Authors: Marcia Willett
Summer House (15 page)
âWe're pretty busy too,' he said at last, almost reluctantly. âThough we're not that big yet. There's just me and my boss and a nurse, but it's growing quite quickly.'
âOh,' she cried sympathetically, âbut that can almost be the worst situation to be in, can't it? Too much work for the two of you but not quite enough to pay for a third person.' She touched his knee lightly, playfully. âYou'll have to be careful that you don't overdo it.'
She sat back to sip some tea, delighted with the reaction: the whole party seemed riveted, except for the wretched child, who had dropped her book and was now scrambling around over the sofa, though Matt wasn't paying the child any attention. It really did seem that, at long last, he was seeing her properly â obviously a bit peeved by her interest in Julian. Only the old bat, Venetia, didn't seem to be taking much notice. She'd obviously been following her own line of thought because, when she spoke, it was clear that she was still thinking about cakes and cooking.
âI must admit,' she was saying, âthat I agree with dear old Hugh Fearnley Eat-it-all that occasionally you can have too much of a good thing. My intentions are always good, and I get just so far with all the clever stuff, and then I think exactly like he does: “Sod it! Where's the corkscrew?”'
Matt stood on the veranda of the Summer House watching the rain pouring down. He was quite dry beneath the veranda roof and down here in the village, at sea level, even the rain felt surprisingly warm.
âYou'll notice the difference,' Mrs Moreton had promised him. âWe always put our coats on if we're walking up to the High House to see the brigadier.'
Well, she was right. The Summer House was snug â and something more than that. Matt tried to analyse the odd sensation he had each time he came into the house. It was as if a welcoming presence embraced him and eased that long-familiar, deep-down loneliness. Living as he did for most of the time in the parallel universe that inhabited the world of his imagination, Matt had no problem in accepting this concept. He liked it. He knew instinctively that the presence went back beyond the Moretons â though he could see that those gentle, kindly souls had added something of their own to the extraordinary atmosphere â beyond the happy picnic
parties and family gatherings, to something in the more distant past.
parties and family gatherings, to something in the more distant past.
Watching the rain slanting across the small emerald-green lawn, listening to the bubble and chuckle of the brook's voice, Matt stood well back beneath the veranda's roof. He took a deep breath, emptying his mind; waiting. All at once he felt wrapped about with peace, a sensation that until now had been almost unknown to him, and the joy of it was so great that tears pricked his eyes. The rain clattered on the leaves of the tree-tall rhododendrons but he was no longer aware of it: he was simply caught up in this healing sense of wellbeing. He stood in silence, accepting it.
Presently he straightened, looking around as if emerging from a waking dream, and turned back into the house. As yet there was very little furniture; after all, he was in no hurry and, anyway, he was waiting, giving himself the time to understand what he might need and to discover where he would work. Of this one thing he was now certain: that he would work on the new book here. This knowledge was exhilarating even if, as yet, he still had no clue as to what the book might be about. Just for now, he liked the empty spaces, the uncurtained windows, the lack of clutter. The glass doors on to the veranda let in airy volumes of green, watery light that reflected back from the pale painted wood-lined walls; at night, from the landing window above, he could see the wheeling stars: scattered icy fragments glittering in the soft black darkness. He walked from room to room, dwelling pleasurably on the elegant proportions, the way the sunbeams slanted across the polished oak floors, the scullery at the back of the house with its huge ancient stoneware sink, and the old-fashioned bathroom above it. He liked the pretty glass-fronted bookcases that were built
into the alcoves on either side of the red sandstone fireplace in the sitting room, and wondered if this room was where he might work.
into the alcoves on either side of the red sandstone fireplace in the sitting room, and wondered if this room was where he might work.
This overwhelming sense of ownership was new to him: and yet ownership was the wrong word here. It was as if he had always belonged; as if it were his rightful home, as natural and comfortable as his skin. He knew that everything that he put into the Summer House must be in tune with this feeling and he simply wouldn't be hurried. Milo had offered odd pieces from the High House which Matt had politely but firmly resisted: he was waiting, he'd said, to get the feel of it. He could see that Lottie understood â and Milo was too happy to know that the Summer House was staying in the family to press it. And Im had been so busy moving into the barn and getting Rosie settled that she'd had no opportunity to hurry him either.
âIt's lovely,' she'd said, walking round with him, making suggestions as to what he'd need. âIt really is. I'm still jealous â but actually I love the barn and, to be honest, it's a better layout for us. Anyway, I'd never have a minute's peace with the brook at the end of the lawn and Rosie just learning to walk. We'd have had to fence it right off, which would be a shame.'
She'd been in a rather odd mood for the last few weeks, ever since Annabel's visit, rather quiet and preoccupied, but she'd given him lots of sensible advice about curtains and furniture, and, though he'd listened to her suggestions, he'd taken no steps to implement them. The kitchen already had a built-in dresser along the wall opposite the old Rayburn, which had been converted to oil, and there was a fairly modern stainless-steel sink. The Moretons had left a sturdy oak gate-legged table and a handsome wooden carver which,
they'd said, had been in the house when they'd moved in. He'd put these into the bay window at the other end of the kitchen, pleased to have some of the original furniture.
they'd said, had been in the house when they'd moved in. He'd put these into the bay window at the other end of the kitchen, pleased to have some of the original furniture.
âYou were right,' he'd said to Lottie, âabout me being here. Though I never thought it would be like this. That I'd be buying the Summer House.'
âNeither did I,' she'd admitted. âBut I'm so glad that you're ⦠peaceful here.'
It had been an odd word to choose: peaceful. But it was the right word. âHappy' would have implied an ephemeral state. âPeaceful' described this unfamiliar sense of wellbeing, as if something important and necessary were soon to be revealed to him and, meanwhile, everything was as it should be. Only Annabel continued to be a slight source of anxiety but she was tethered, luckily, by her job in London so that he couldn't be rushed into a relationship he might regret.
The further away she was, the more he liked her, and the fact that there was no mobile signal at the Summer House protected him even more. She knew now that he was buying a house in Bossington and was very keen to see it. He'd prevaricated and gently held her at bay, but soon she'd be down again. The trouble was that he couldn't make up his mind about her â and part of him was afraid of missing a wonderful opportunity. His friends told him that he'd never really know how he felt about a girl until he let himself go; took a few chances emotionally. But still he held back.
âThere's something I don't know about myself,' he'd said to Lottie, confusedly. âSomething important. And I simply can't make such a huge commitment until I know what it is.'
Being Lottie, she hadn't scoffed, or even questioned him; she'd merely looked thoughtful.
âI think you will know soon,' she'd said at last. âDo you remember when we talked about it before, when I told you I believed that you needed to be here? Well, I think that the other thing will follow.'
He'd nodded. âI'm beginning to believe it too, but I don't really know why â or how.'
âWait,' she'd said, with that odd, far-seeing look of hers. âWait and be patient. I don't mean resignation, as in waiting for the rain to stop, or for the end of something over which we have no control because we imagine that, once it does, then, magically, life will be different. I mean the true patience that allows us to live fully in the moment and to be content to be where we are while we wait. And be prepared to confront a few demons.'
So that's what he was doing. He'd decided to go to London to bring a few things down from his flat to the Summer House, and he'd see Annabel while he was there to prevent her from making another visit to Bossington just yet, and so as to give himself a bit of breathing space.
âSo what did you think of her?' he'd asked Im, though he'd known that Annabel hadn't been a great hit with any of them. Even so, he intended to make his own mind up without letting that knowledge put pressure on him.
âShe was putting on a bit of an act,' she'd answered candidly: he and Im had always been honest with one another in these matters. âI didn't absolutely take to her.'
The trouble was, of course, that Annabel's observation about vets had rather hit home and poor Im had clearly been a bit knocked sideways by it. At the same time, it seemed to have made her think carefully about this rift between her and Jules. As far as Matt could see, she was making much more of an effort to come to terms with them not buying
the Summer House and Jules was looking more like his old cheerful self.
the Summer House and Jules was looking more like his old cheerful self.
âHow will you use it?' Im had asked, turning the subject back to the house. âAre you really going to live in it?'
âI think so,' he'd answered cautiously. âI shall still spend time in London, of course, but I'm going to be here a lot.'
âThen you'd better buy some furniture,' she'd said in her practical way. âAnd then you can give a house-warming party.'
Now, he stood in the hall, at the bottom of the staircase, listening; staring at himself in the oval, gilt-framed looking-glass that hung there: another relic from the past. He imagined he could hear noises: footsteps in the kitchen; the swirl of a paintbrush in a jar of water; voices in the garden. He closed his eyes so as to hear them better and, suddenly, time seemed to arc backwards to his childhood. In his mind's eye he saw his own small face as in a mirror image, and he was being lifted, swung up high, and he was crying out in fear and loneliness.
His heart raced and stampeded and he opened his eyes, staring at himself again in the glass. He thought he glimpsed a movement behind him on the veranda and he turned sharply, but there was nobody there. He stood at the door, looking out into the rain-drenched garden, waiting, willing down the panic, and gradually the sense of peace gently took hold of him again. Matt took his jacket from where it hung over the banisters and, shrugging it on, he let himself out into the rain.
The path led from the veranda round the side of the house to the walled area at the back. Here he could choose to walk past the open-fronted barns, used for cars and garden implements, along the drive, which wound through the avenue of walnut trees, or he could pass through the wicket gate that led through the kitchen garden into the grounds.
Matt chose the wicket gate. He closed it behind him and, with his head bent against the rain, he made his way around the path under the high walls. A blackbird perched briefly on the corner of the high cage that protected the soft fruit from his predations, his beak full of food for his babies; his sharp, gold-rimmed eye charted Matt's progress before he plunged into the curtain of ivy that grew over the red stone walls and camouflaged his nest hidden amongst the woody branches and sheltering leaves. Just here, by the greenhouses, purple violets grew in a glass frame and there were primroses under the wall. Matt breathed in the scents of newly dug earth and sappy, vegetative growth. He knew how hard Milo worked in the kitchen garden. It looked cherished, well-nourished; the
vegetables stood in regimental lines. The grassy paths that cross-sectioned the well-filled beds were edged and mown with precision. At the further point, in the archway in the wall, Matt paused for a moment to give due homage to such effort.
vegetables stood in regimental lines. The grassy paths that cross-sectioned the well-filled beds were edged and mown with precision. At the further point, in the archway in the wall, Matt paused for a moment to give due homage to such effort.
âThe weeds are too scared to grow,' Lottie told him. âPoor Milo. He's going to miss Phil Moreton so much. Phil and Angela were very grateful to be able to have use of the garden and Phil always put in his fair share of hard work, especially since Milo's operation.'
âPerhaps I could help,' Matt had suggested tentatively. âI'd like to.'
âBe very careful,' she'd warned. âMilo is a slave driver and you've got a book to write.'
The path through the shrubbery was dank but Matt didn't mind the gloominess of the overarching branches of laurel; today he still carried with him the sense of that presence, never so vivid as when he was in the Summer House, but still here in the gardens. Perhaps it was merely the glint of sunshine on the dark green leaves or a shimmer of light through the rain; but it seemed to him that someone moved along these paths, sometimes glimpsed ahead through the sturdy network of branches, or, should he turn his head suddenly, on the turn of the path behind him just out of sight.
âDo you believe in ghosts?' he'd asked Lottie once, long ago.
âI think that wherever there have been truly strong emotions there will be echoes that remain,' she'd answered, rather obliquely. âYour great-grandmother had the Sight so you've probably inherited the ability to connect to that. It can be an uncomfortable gift.'
Her matter-of-fact answer had reassured him; oddly it made certain things clear to him and he'd ceased to be anxious. How vital she and Milo had been to him: the odd couple. Dear old Milo, with his soldier's toughness informed by his love of poetry: the Great War poets, of course, but also the absurd: Lear, Carroll, Belloc.
Matt paused at the edge of the shrubbery, looking across the lawn to the bench beneath the lilac tree. He had a clear vision of himself when small, sitting on that wooden seat, his hand clasped in Milo's big one, listening to Milo reciting poetry: âThe Jumblies', perhaps, or âJabberwocky'. Milo had been best at reading the night-time story. He entered readily into the world that children inhabit and he could invest the poem or the story with such reality that Matt would cling to his arm, listening in terror as the terrifying Mr Brock was confronted by the cunning Mr Tod, or transfixed with delight by Peter Pan's entry into the Darling children's nursery. By the time he was six he could chant most of A. A. Milne's poems, bouncing on his bed with delight and shouting, “Butter, eh?” at the appropriate moment during âThe King's Breakfast', or repeating âDisobedience', half in dread because he knew that James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree's mummy was going to disappear for ever, and, of course, in a different way, this had happened to him.
As he stood beneath the dripping laurels, hot tears gathered in his eyes. His mother had disappeared just as surely as James's had: that happy, laughing woman who had played with him had vanished, leaving behind an unfamiliar person whose face was clenched with sorrow and whose despair disabled her. He grieved silently for her whilst the rain washed the tears from his cheeks, then he crossed the lawn and went into the house.
Â
Â
Lottie came out from the parlour as Matt came through the hall, almost as if she'd been waiting for him. She looked at him interrogatively, as if reading his recent experiences in his face, but he greeted her cheerfully.
âMilo has something for you.' She spoke quite low, almost warningly, and instinctively he lowered his own voice.
âWhat sort of thing?'
âI hope you're not giving the secret away!' Milo's voice boomed suddenly from the parlour, and Lottie quickly shook her head and squeezed Matt's arm. He followed her into the room where Milo stood, looking pleased with himself.
âI've been looking everywhere for these,' he said to Matt. âCouldn't think where they'd gone. What d'you think of them?'
He gestured to the oval mahogany table and Matt moved further into the room to see what Milo had found. The shock was surprisingly intense. Standing together, some self-supporting, some resting on small lecterns, was a group of watercolours. At once he recognized the Summer House, though this was the original building: a single-storey pavilion with pretty pillars and long graceful windows. And here was an interior: the sitting room with its windows opened to the garden, the curtains moving in the breeze, a small marmalade cat curled in a low velvet-covered chair with curving wooden arms. In another, with a thrill of delight, he saw his drop-leaf table and the old carver chair exactly where he had placed them in the kitchen, with a jar of sweet peas standing on the table beside a trug full of fresh-picked runner beans. Another showed the veranda from the hall; a rocking chair looked as if it had just been vacated mid-rock,
and a straw hat with pretty ribbons fluttering hung from the rail at its back. The sense of immediacy, the vividness that was inherent in the paintings, gripped Matt. He stared and stared in silent joy, and only when Milo moved suddenly just behind him did he startle back into awareness.
and a straw hat with pretty ribbons fluttering hung from the rail at its back. The sense of immediacy, the vividness that was inherent in the paintings, gripped Matt. He stared and stared in silent joy, and only when Milo moved suddenly just behind him did he startle back into awareness.
âThey are utterly beautiful,' Matt said. âThey are exquisite. Where did you find them? I mean â¦' He shook his head, unable to articulate sensibly. âSorry, but they are just so perfect.'
âI knew I had them somewhere.' Milo was looking intensely pleased at Matt's reaction. âI've been searching everywhere. And then I found them in the little dressing room off the spare bedroom. My mother must have hung them there. I think she thought that they were a bit old-fashioned and insipid. She liked oils.'
âBut who painted them?' Even as he asked the question he knew the answer, and he saw that Lottie was watching him, and knew that she knew too.
âMy great-grandmother had the Summer House built so that she could paint in peace,' Milo was saying. âShe spent a great deal of time in it and there were all kinds of rumours that filtered down through the years. Some say that she had a secret lover â she was a great deal younger than her husband â and some say that she had a great tragedy in her life, and others say that she was just a recluse who liked to paint. Anyway, my great-grandfather designed it for her. He died at Bloemfontein. Poor fellow, he died of enteric fever before he ever got to fire a shot. And after that she practically lived down at the Summer House, so the stories go, and her son took over the estate. That was George, my grandfather. He was wounded in the Great War and died soon afterwards. Anyway, I wondered if you might like them.'
Matt stared at the paintings. âI should love to have them,' he said at last. âThank you.'
âThey are so fresh,' Lottie said softly. âHow she must have loved her little house.'
âYes.' He couldn't take his eyes from them. âAnd they shall go back there where they belong.'
âAnd,' said Milo, delighted by the success of his find, âthere's something else.'
Matt turned, almost warily. Anything else must surely be the most awful anticlimax â but no. There, half hidden by the sofa, was a low velvet-covered chair with curling wooden arms: the chair in the painting.
âIt was in the same room with the paintings,' Milo told him, âand I know you don't want anyone interfering with your plans but we thought you'd like this, seeing that it's in the painting there. It's obviously come from the Summer House.'
The rosewood glowed in the firelight though the dusty pink velvet was rubbed and worn. Matt stroked the scrolled wood with his finger. Milo and Lottie were watching him, sharing in his pleasure, and he smiled at the two of them: the odd couple. He couldn't think of anything to say in this emotional mood that might not reduce him to tears, and he saw Milo give Lottie a wink, a little nod, and murmuring about things he had to do, he went out. Lottie followed him and Matt was left alone.
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