Summer on the River (34 page)

‘You
told
her?'

‘Of course. You're a kind of insurance policy. Don't be so pedestrian, Claude. You simply can't allow people like Ange to get away with things.'

‘You are so ruthless,' he murmured.

She beamed at him. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Good, isn't it?'

Now she comes into the kitchen, carrying her coffee mug, saying, ‘Did you remember the
pains au choc
?'

‘Looks like you've already had coffee without me,' he says, slightly aggrieved.

‘Doesn't mean I can't have another,' she says. ‘Not on ration, is it?' And she gives him a hug and says, ‘I am so glad you're here, Claude. I was just sitting up on the terrace thinking about Ben and Jemima.'

‘Yes,' he says rather glumly. He's been thinking about them too. He can no longer convince himself that everyone will be able to remain just good friends.

‘Do you think they're sleeping together?' she asks, filling the kettle, switching it on – and as usual he's taken aback by her directness.

‘They seem … furtive,' he replies reluctantly. ‘No, not quite that, but it's like they know a secret that they're keeping from us.'

‘Exactly,' Evie says, collecting mugs, spooning coffee into the cafetiere.

He watches her: she seems so matter-of-fact about it.

‘Don't you mind?' he asks, almost indignantly. ‘It was you who said that they should contain their feelings and keep them under control.'

‘I didn't quite say that,' she answers. ‘I said that if they could then their love might become a positive thing for them. And I was talking about Charlie and Jemima. Not Ben.'

‘But where does this leave Charlie?' Claude asks crossly. ‘I mean, if they're having an affair, how does this work now? Isn't Charlie going to be a bit put out to find that Ben's stolen a march on him?'

‘The trouble is, he can't really complain, can he? He has his own life going on in London. Perhaps you were right when you said that Charlie wouldn't be able to cope with an affair and maybe Jemima has looked into the future and seen how bleak it might be, and that somehow she and Ben are comforting each other. Ben's had a bit of a tough rejection with Kirsty so they've turned to each other. It's understandable, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' he says impatiently. ‘Yes, I can see why it's happened, and I'm not judging them, but how does it go forward? Do we pretend nothing's going on? Does Ben tell Charlie? After all, Jemima and Ben are free agents. It doesn't have to be a secret. So why is it?'

Evie groans as she makes the coffee. ‘It's not that simple, Claude.'

He gives a derisive snort: it never is. She can't help laughing at his exasperated expression.

‘Well, it isn't, is it? She's in love with Charlie. You saw it yourself. We all know. How does she explain to us that she's going to bed with Ben?'

‘OK, it's embarrassing, but I say again: where is it going to end?'

Evie shakes her head. ‘I don't know but I'm worried about them. I was naïve to imagine that it might work out, I suppose.'

Claude is seized with a fresh anxiety but any words of comfort seem empty so he says instead: ‘Well, pour the coffee. I'm dying of thirst after battling round M&S,' and he roots in the bag for the
pains au chocolat
.

Jemima and Ben are driving back from a pretty, thatched cottage near Thurlestone. Ben has taken photographs and Jemima has been making an inventory prior to it being taken on as a holiday let. Jemima drives; she knows these lanes, the back ways and the short cuts, and Ben has grown used to being a passenger, allowing himself to relax and his brain to freewheel.

It's odd, Ben thinks, that before half term, before that moment when Jemima arrived at the Merchant's House expecting to see Charlie, these jaunts were free of any constraint. Often it seemed that Charlie might have been with them; as if they were both happy to keep him included in their friendship, as part of the group. Now, the mere thought of him seems to fill the car with a silence that is difficult to break. It's as if they are both being unfaithful to him.

It's a ridiculous idea. Ben shifts in his seat, stares out beyond the small, neat, sloping fields to the glimmer of the distant sea. Jemima slips him a sideways glance as if she's read his thoughts, and he speaks quickly so as to deflect any suspicions she might have.

‘Amazing, isn't it?' he says at random. ‘Wherever you look it takes your breath away.'

‘The cottage was sweet,' she says, diving into a gateway to allow a tractor to pass. ‘Would you like to live in a little house like that?'

‘No,' he answers at once, thinking of the grace and elegance of the Merchant's House. ‘No, I'm not a cottage man. Too poky.'

Too late he thinks of her little cottage and there's a moment of silence whilst he tries to think of a way out. This new awkward dimension to their friendship immediately poses problems; doesn't allow the old ease of honesty.

Does his remark indicate that he wouldn't want to move in with her? Does it imply that at some point she might move in with him? He is filled with irritation and dismay. Nothing has changed – and everything has changed. Somehow on that first occasion, charged as it was with emotion, with the need to comfort, making love on Jemima's big old sofa had seemed a natural conclusion; their mood, the wine, all conspired towards this act. It was a long moment of relief, release, pleasure, before the world clamoured in again and there was the difficulty of moving apart, getting dressed, without knowing what might come next. He tried to take his attitude from her affectionate warm reaction but it was clear that they both felt slightly awkward, at a loss as to how to go forward. The old familiarity was gone but there was nothing to take its place.

‘All those beams,' he says now, trying for a light touch. ‘I'd have a permanent stoop. They must have been midgets in the old days.'

Jemima laughs, and somehow the tension breaks.

‘Shall we have some lunch at Stokeley,' she asks, ‘before we go back to the office? It's just about warm enough to sit outside so Otto can have a bit of a leg-stretch.'

‘Good idea,' he agrees.

Jemima begins to talk about Maisie, about her next sleepover at the weekend, and Ben relaxes in his seat and tries to persuade himself that he is being oversensitive and that it will all work itself out.

All the while though, as she talks, Jemima is aware of Benj's confusion. It matches her own. That first time was simple, arising as it did out of her sudden disappointed shock at Charlie's departure; Benj's readiness to console and comfort. It was later that the difficulties showed themselves. She guesses that Benj can see no way forward and is already regretting this impromptu love affair. And there
is
love between them, a very deep affection, but it is not the stuff of a long-term, full-on relationship. Jemima wonders whether Benj suspects he is being used as a substitute; whether he feels he is betraying Charlie. It's odd that she doesn't feel too badly about the physical side – she has no doubt that Charlie is sleeping with Ange – it's something much more important; something to do with the recognition they share, which is so crucial to her. Nothing can alter that, nor take it away. What
would
hurt would be Charlie's denial of it. It was reaffirmed briefly during that moment in Alf's and she'd counted on seeing him again, needing her fix so as to get her through the days ahead without him.

But there's something else here: the close relationship between Charlie and Benj that stretches back across their whole lives. How will Benj deal with what he might see as a betrayal? She would hate to be the instrument that might damage their affection for each other.

She turns off into the lane that leads to the farm shop, drives into the car park, manoeuvres the car into a space and switches off the engine.

‘Come on,' she says cheerfully. ‘Let's see what's on the lunch menu.'

EVIE CROSSES THE
road, opens the postbox fixed to the wall at the top of the steps and takes out her letters. She carries them down with her to the boathouse, lets herself in, throws the letters on the table and goes to open the sliding doors. She likes to come in on sunny mornings, to air the house, and to enjoy a moment of solitude.

Out on the balcony she pauses to look down-river but the wind is too cold to be able to stand for long and she comes back inside, glancing at the letters, shuffling them: two catalogues, a bank statement and another envelope, handwritten. She picks it up, filled with foreboding: the writing is familiar. This is the second letter that she's had from Jason and quickly she tears the envelope open and draws out the sheet of paper.

His writing is uneven, almost illegible, unlike his first missive, which was almost childlike in its style. She read it many times and remembers it now.

Dear Evelyn Drake,

I need money to get the car through its MOT. If I don't get it repaired I shan't be able to bring Mikey home for his exeat. The trains are very difficult and expensive. I know how fond you are of him and that you would want him to have a good time. Could you send me a cheque for four hundred and sixty-eight pounds?

Please help us.

Yours sincerely,

Jason Dean

She dithered over it, but somehow hadn't had the courage to show it to Claude. Of course, she knew how he would react – and she knew that she might be wise to listen to him as once she had listened to Tommy – but there was an element of authenticity about Jason's request: the sum was so precise. At last, she'd written the cheque and sent it to the flat in Bristol with a little note; just a few words: ‘Here is the money, Jason. I'm glad to help on this occasion and I hope you both have a good exeat weekend. Evie.'

Now she spreads the latest letter flat on the table so as to read the scrawling, looping writing.

I've got a lot of problems, Evelyn Drake, and I really need help like thousands of pounds not just chickenfeed this time. I've got to pay the mortgage and I'm behind with all the bills. It's payback time. Jason.

Evie stares at it in dismay. She guesses that he was drunk when he wrote the letter but sober enough to address the envelope, find a stamp and post it. She puts it into her pocket, checks that the house is secure and climbs the steps to the road.

‘I can't believe that you were crazy enough to send him money,' Claude says for the third or fourth time. He simply can't get over it. ‘Honestly, Evie, what a bloody stupid thing to do. This is demanding money with menaces. You should report him.'

‘Well, it's not quite menaces, is it, just saying that “it's payback time”?'

She looks defiant, guilty, and he wants to give her a good shake.

‘Don't you see that with people like this there would be no end to it? And now you've sent him a cheque you've as good as admitted that he has some kind of claim.'

‘I haven't,' she cries indignantly, though they both know she doesn't quite believe it. ‘I merely helped to make sure that Mikey didn't suffer.'

Claude snorts contemptuously. ‘And so where do you draw the line? When he can't pay the bills for heating? When the house is repossessed?'

‘Oh, don't, Claude,' she says, suddenly looking worried. ‘I know it was silly but I felt sorry for him.'

Claude experiences all the irritation that goes with suddenly feeling compassion for somebody with whom you're actually very cross, and he jams his hands into his pockets and closes his eyes for a moment.

‘Look,' he says, drawing a deep breath. ‘Look, I know you have ambivalent feelings about Jason. I understand about the guilt, I know you're very fond of Mikey, but you simply can't allow yourself to be blackmailed.'

‘But what shall I do?' she asks miserably.

He stares across the table at her, his irritation evaporating.

‘We'll compose a letter,' he says. ‘We'll keep it short and firm but very clear.'

‘I worry about Mikey. If things are really that bad …'

‘Mikey is not your responsibility,' he says gently. ‘He has an aunt and an uncle to watch out for him. Remember how you said he phoned them when he was worried about his father at half term and his aunt came straight down? They'll be keeping an eye. And if they can afford to buy a flat in Dartmouth they can't be too hard up. Jason must approach his own family if he's got financial problems.'

She nods but she doesn't look convinced and Claude feels frustration rising again.

‘You know in your heart that what I say is true,' he tells her, ‘or you would have shown me that first letter. You knew what I'd say and part of you knew that I'd be right.'

‘Oh, don't be so sanctimonious,' she says crossly, and then they both burst out laughing.

‘Well, it's true,' he says. ‘Look at this.' He gestures at the letter. ‘He'd been drinking, I'm sure of it. The same as when we saw him by the Boat Float.'

‘I know,' she says anxiously. ‘That's why I'm worrying about Mikey.'

Claude sighs. ‘Well, write to the boy and ask how he is and if Aunt Liz is on the case. You'll know how to phrase it. Maybe you could ask for the aunt's address, though don't say why. Meanwhile we'll compose a letter to Jason straight away and get it posted. No good leaving any illusions in his mind.'

The sea rests placidly against the shore, each slight swell of its smooth surface lifting the tide just a little further to break in a gentle flurry of foam along the stony beach. A solitary fisherman sits hunched over his rod, basket open beside him, an ancient dog lying sleeping at his feet.

Jemima stands with her back to the sea, her eyes fixed skywards on the murmuration of starlings that forms and reforms in its fluid swooping flight as the flock returns to its roosts amongst the reed beds. The pale sky, luminous with the fading sunset, is reflected in the cloudy waters of the ley where mallard and coot huddle at the water's edge. Above, on the sheltering hills, gaunt trees, bare branches sketched in by charcoal, are outlined against the ploughed fields. There is no breath of wind.