Authors: Marcia Willett
Summer House (17 page)
He still couldn't decide where to hang the paintings. He'd brought them all down to the Summer House and now he stood in the kitchen, by the table in the window where he'd arranged them, and studied them. They were even more magical now that they were here in the house, but he knew that until he was living here he wouldn't know where each one should be hung. Meanwhile he gloated over them, marvelling at the delicacy and beauty of the colours and at the evocation of a spring and summer long ago.
âThere are others,' Milo had told him casually, âbut I've no idea where they'd be. These were probably the only ones worth framing.'
His words had sent Matt into a frenzy of desire for the other paintings and he'd begun a systematic search of the High House in between moving some furniture into the Summer House. His sense of belonging was very strong today: as if he were moving closer to the unlocking of the mystery that was at the core of his inner loneliness. He stepped back from the table and wandered out into the hall and on to the veranda,
wondering how it would have looked all those years ago. The rhododendrons and azaleas would have been small shrubs in those days, planted so as to edge the small square of lawn that had once been a rough, grassy corner of the meadow. Here and there, growing in sheltered corners of the lawn, the delicate pinky-mauve lady's-smocks were a reminder of that meadow.
wondering how it would have looked all those years ago. The rhododendrons and azaleas would have been small shrubs in those days, planted so as to edge the small square of lawn that had once been a rough, grassy corner of the meadow. Here and there, growing in sheltered corners of the lawn, the delicate pinky-mauve lady's-smocks were a reminder of that meadow.
He crossed the grass and stood looking down into the brook: not much change here. The marsh marigolds would have been casting their richly gold reflection in the water then, and the stiff, brittle rushes would have been rustling in the little shivering breeze; and the long green tresses of weed that floated beneath the surface might have reminded her, as they did him, of Ophelia, clasping her âfantastic garlands', drifting and drowning in the weeping brook. There was even the willow on the bank â several willows â growing aslant the brook. A low wall separated the lane from the brook and, by crouching on his heels and making a frame with his hands, he believed he could recognize a section of the wall and a stretch of the water from one of the paintings.
âWhat was her name?' he'd asked Milo, and he'd answered: âHelena.'
And that in itself had been another shock. Standing now, with his hands in his pockets, Matt stared down into the fast-flowing brook: the connections were being made and he felt excited and scared in equal parts. This young woman, Helena, had had a son and a daughter; then her husband had been killed in a war. So she'd closed herself away in her Summer House, grieving and painting, but not, as far as he knew, succumbing slowly to drink as his own mother, Helen, had. No, Helena had worked out her grief in the paintings to such a successful extent that she'd left a strong impression of
tranquillity in her little house. Yet that was not quite all. He had a very strong instinct that there was something more: something to be finished.
tranquillity in her little house. Yet that was not quite all. He had a very strong instinct that there was something more: something to be finished.
He raised his head, listening. A vehicle was coming slowly along the avenue towards the house. This would be the delivery van with some furniture on board: a double bed and a big comfortable sofa and one or two other things. He crossed the lawn at a run and went round the side of the house to meet them. They were pulling in beside the barns, waving cheerfully back; climbing out.
âHi,' he said. âThis is great. Come and have a look round. I think you may have to bring it all in through the veranda. The back porch is a bit small.'
Several hours later the bed had been erected in the biggest room, over the kitchen, and the long, deep sofa set opposite the fire in the sitting room. On the veranda stood a curving, high-backed wicker chair, shaped like half an egg; its twin had been put in the hall. He'd made the men coffee and given them biscuits, and he'd enjoyed this first occasion of playing host in the Summer House, even in this very simple way, and basked in their compliments.
Once they'd gone he stood by the window, looking at the paintings, allowing the silence to settle again. A thrush was singing in the lilac tree and Matt turned his head to listen to the magic of its song. He could just see the pale speckled breast amongst the heavy purple blossoms and, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, he had a strong mental vision of Selworthy Church, shining white against the hill, set all about with trees. The vision drew him and held him, and then the thrush fell silent. As if released from a spell, Matt turned back into the kitchen and began to wash up the mugs and clear away the remains of the little picnic.
Â
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Back in the attics at the High House he resumed his search for the rest of the paintings.
âThere ought to be hundreds of them,' Milo said. âShe spent years down there, painting away, so the stories go. Of course, a lot of them might well have been ditched.'
There was certainly none hanging on any of the walls and so Matt began systematically to check out all the rooms; all the chests; every drawer, every cupboard â but there was nothing. Across from his own rooms there was another big attic, and now at last he stood amongst the rejects of generations and looked rather helplessly around him. Yet he felt driven, confident that there was more evidence, and he wasn't particularly surprised when he finally found the two big portfolios lying together beneath papers and photograph albums at the bottom of a battered chest of drawers. He drew them out with a kind of exultation and laid them gently on the scored and dusty top of the chest. They were bound with tape, which he undid carefully. He saw at once that he was right, that these were more of the paintings, and though he longed to examine them at once he felt that it was only proper to show his find to Milo first.
Â
As he came downstairs he could hear their voices: Milo and Lottie talking about Venetia. Matt held the portfolios firmly but gently to his chest, rather as though they were beloved children who needed his protection, and went into the parlour.
âWe must invite her, at least,' Lottie was saying. She was sitting on the sofa all amongst her knitting as if she were perching in a big soft nest. âShe won't be able to drive so I can't imagine how she'll manage her shopping. Of course,
she might not want to come but surely she can't go back to that little house all on her own. How could she look after herself properly?'
she might not want to come but surely she can't go back to that little house all on her own. How could she look after herself properly?'
Milo sat in the high-backed wing chair; his long legs in old moleskins were crossed, showing a glimpse of red sock. Pud was curled at his feet.
âI'm not quite heartless,' he said rather crossly, glancing briefly at Matt as he came into the room. His eyes rested for a moment on the packages clasped in Matt's arms and his eyes creased a little in a smile before he looked again at Lottie. âOf course she can come here if she wants to,
but
â and this is important â
but
only if you think you can cope, Lottie. It won't be easy.'
but
â and this is important â
but
only if you think you can cope, Lottie. It won't be easy.'
âI realize that.' Lottie, too, looked round at Matt. âWe're talking about Venetia,' she said. âI think she ought to come here when she's let out of hospital but Milo's a bit worried about it.'
â
Not
,' said Milo defensively, âbecause I don't want her here but simply that I'm worried that we can manage. She's going to need a lot of looking after. She's had a very bad shock, apart from her injuries, and she's very weak. It's a lot to take on.'
Not
,' said Milo defensively, âbecause I don't want her here but simply that I'm worried that we can manage. She's going to need a lot of looking after. She's had a very bad shock, apart from her injuries, and she's very weak. It's a lot to take on.'
âI know it is.' Lottie looked anxious. âBut we'll have help, you know. I think they call it a package of care, or something. But there are those two little rooms with the shower that Milo's mother had when she couldn't manage the stairs any more. I think we should offer them to Venetia.'
Milo shrugged. âThat's fine with me. As long as you've thought about it carefully. It'll fall much more on you than on me.'
âI know. What do you think, Matt?' She smiled at him, and then saw the packages. âOh! Have you found them?'
He nodded, still holding the portfolios. For some reason he didn't want to look at them now; not publicly. He wanted to wait and savour them. It seemed that Milo understood this because he made no attempt to take the packages but simply looked at him with affection and a faint bafflement. It was clear that he regarded Matt's passion for these watercolours as an odd but charming whim.
âThat's good,' was all he said. âLet us know if there's anything worth seeing.'
But Lottie was watching him with a warm sympathy, and he nodded to her as if answering a question, laid the portfolios down on a little table and prepared to join in the discussion about Venetia.
It was late evening before Matt had a chance to examine his find. He didn't mind: some part of him was glad to postpone the moment of discovery â and to prolong the sense of anticipation. Instead of hurrying away, he set himself to concentrate on the immediate proposition: whether or not Venetia should be offered a temporary home at the High House. He sat down between Lottie on the sofa and Milo in his wing chair, rather like a spectator at a tennis match, alternately shocked by Milo's outspokenness and touched by Lottie's concern for the brigadier's mistress.
âIt'll probably be the thin end of the wedge,' Milo was prophesying gloomily. âOnce she's got her feet under the table we'll never be rid of her. You realize that?'
âI think you're being too dramatic.' Lottie refused to be daunted. âShe loves her little house and she won't be nearly so comfortable here.'
Milo brightened a little. âThat's true. A few days of your ministrations and she'll probably be begging to be allowed home.'
Lottie burst out laughing but Matt was rather shocked, and defensive on Lottie's behalf.
âWhat do you mean?' he asked rather indignantly.
âMy dear fellow,' Milo glanced at him indulgently, âremembering my experience at her hands after I'd had my operation I can tell you that I'd rather be nibbled to death by ducks than be nursed by Lottie again.'
Matt looked at Lottie to see if she had been hurt by Milo's comments but she'd gone off into another fit of laughter.
âYou had a lovely nurse for most of the time,' she reminded him, âand I did all the bits round the outside, but I agree that nursing is not my thing. I'm rather clumsy and I get distracted and forget the most basic things. Poor Milo. You were very long-suffering. Don't look so indignant, Matt. It's very sweet of you to leap to my defence but I know my shortcomings. It's just lucky for you and Im that you were such healthy children. However, I'm sure that Venetia will have plenty of the right sort of nursing care. It'll be company that she'll need, and lots of TLC. I'm quite good at that. And so are you, Milo, in short bursts.'
He groaned, but Matt could see that despite his protests he was quite prepared to agree to Lottie's plan. Matt was relieved; he didn't want to think of Milo as a callous man, even though he'd seen plenty of evidence of the older man's toughness. He preferred to continue to believe that, deep down, Milo was a bit of a pussycat. After all, his love and kindness to all of them had been boundless, and it was clear that Venetia adored him.
âWell,' Lottie was saying now, picking up her knitting, âI've told you what I think and now it's up to you, Milo. After all, it's your house and your mistress.'
This time it was Matt who laughed: they truly were the
odd couple. Milo stuck out his long legs and crossed his arms over his chest whilst Lottie placidly knitted a row or two of Nick's jersey.
odd couple. Milo stuck out his long legs and crossed his arms over his chest whilst Lottie placidly knitted a row or two of Nick's jersey.
âPoor old darling,' he said meditatively. âShe's a terrible sight. Black and blue all over, and no slap or “lippy” to cheer her up. Well, let her come here if she wants to, but we must make certain that there's a proper care package, Lottie. I'm not going to give her bed-baths or cut her toenails. Those ghastly stories she's told me about Clara make my blood run cold and I'm not being responsible for anything of that nature.'
âOh, stop fussing and go and make some supper,' Lottie told him. âI'm starving. We'll talk to the hospital staff tomorrow and make certain that everything will be in place.'
Milo got to his feet with a sigh and winked at Matt. âAny problems and I'll be down with you at the Summer House, just so you know.'
He went through the breakfast room into the kitchen and Lottie looked at Matt.
âAnnabel phoned,' she said. âShe's having a problem contacting you on your mobile, she said. She was wondering if you were OK. I told her that you were down at the Summer House. I'm glad you've told her about it and that we don't have to keep it a secret any more.'
Matt hunched a shoulder, pulled a face. âI just didn't want to be crowded,' he said almost irritably. âIt would have been difficult to refuse to take her down and show it to her, wouldn't it? And I wasn't ready for it.'
Lottie nodded, finished a row, and turned the knitting. âI know exactly what you mean. It was such a special moment, wasn't it, and you wanted to hug it to yourself for a bit before you could share it. Rather like those paintings.'
He looked at her quickly. âI hope Milo didn't mind. I know it's weird but I just want to have a moment to look at them without anybody else around.'
âMilo doesn't mind a bit. Why should he? I think he's rather pleased that you're so taken with them. Shall you phone Annabel before supper? Do you want to invite her down again?'
He shook his head. âNot yet. I'm going to London next week to pick up a few things from the flat and I'll meet up with her then. I want the Summer House to be pretty much up and running when she sees it so that she doesn't get any false ideas, if you see what I mean?' He got up. âBut I'll go and speak to her now and tell her that I'll see her in London. Give me a shout if I'm not back when supper's ready.'
Â
Later, in his attic, Matt undid the tape and slid the paintings out on to his bed. They were all quite small, some no bigger than three inches square, but as he examined the larger ones he saw at once that the mood had changed. There was a difference in the light and shade; a subtle poignancy, even melancholy, that was missing in the paintings that were now at the Summer House. He bent over them, studying them closely, and wishing he knew more about painting. How had she managed, for instance, to give the impression that some sorrow had touched her? Here was his kitchen table again, but now the flowers in the jar drooped a little and a few petals lay on the polished surface; the trug was missing but a toy engine stood in its place, turned on its side and neglected by its owner. Here was the velvet-covered chair but this time there was no marmalade cat curled comfortably on its seat; instead, a teddy bear lolled against the cushion, once again giving the impression of abandonment.
Yet here was a painting of the child: a small boy. Matt seized it eagerly, turning it towards the light. The child crouched in a puddle of sun on the veranda, concentration visible in every line, a blond thatch of hair falling over his eyes. He wore a sailor suit and the little wooden engine was in his hands. Matt picked up another one: this time the child was sitting in the chair on the veranda, the teddy bear clasped in his arms. Beyond him in the shadows of the hall there seemed to be another figure, so lightly sketched that Matt wondered if he were mistaken. He peered at it closely: surely it was another child there in the shadows? He picked up the other painting and looked at it again. Yes, there in the trees was another small figure. Was he hiding from the little boy who played with his engine in the sunshine? Matt was strongly reminded of his own child hero whose
alter ego
remained in the shadows, yet protected him.
alter ego
remained in the shadows, yet protected him.
Disturbed, excited, he examined the paintings. Some were simply beautiful little sketches of minutiae: a branch of flowering blackthorn, a clump of purple honesty; pussywillow buds bursting, fuzzy and diaphanous against a bright blue sky. Helena's touch was sure and confident, and he began to plan where he would hang these perfect evocations of a cold, sweet spring more than a hundred years old. He would keep these smaller ones in groups â but these with the children, where would he put them?
Here was a study of Selworthy Church, and a sketch of part of the churchyard by the west wall, and another of the chapel at Lynch; here was a portrait of the child, his eyes wistful, and here were some studies of the garden still in its early stages: small bushes of rhododendrons and azaleas, now as tall as trees, which had been planted to form the hedge, and a little shrub of a lilac tree, in whose branches earlier today
he'd seen the thrush. Matt riffled through his treasures with delight but with a growing awareness that something was being asked of him. It was as if he were being posed some question whose answer would be crucial to him. Carefully he packed them all back into the portfolios, pausing to look again at the paintings of the little boy.
he'd seen the thrush. Matt riffled through his treasures with delight but with a growing awareness that something was being asked of him. It was as if he were being posed some question whose answer would be crucial to him. Carefully he packed them all back into the portfolios, pausing to look again at the paintings of the little boy.
He kneeled at the low window, gazing out into the clear night. Away in the west a waning moon lay on its back, swinging low over the sea, its cold, silvery light spilling into the choppy black water. He could just make out the roof of the Summer House amongst the trees below him and he felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of his first night in the house. He wanted it to be a special occasion, yet couldn't quite think of how to make it so: but he knew that it was important, and that once he'd made the Summer House his home nothing would ever be quite the same again.
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