Summer House (12 page)

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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Summer House
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‘You can't remember taking any of them?' Matt asked hopefully, but she shook her head.
‘I was never much good with a camera,' she said. ‘I probably took a few, of course, but I couldn't swear to it. And not those very early ones. You were four, Matt, when I first met you all, and Im was a baby.'
‘So it's the clothes you don't recognize,' murmured Milo. ‘But why do you think you'd remember them after all these years?' He turned to the most recent photographs, but these were head-and-shoulder shots, with barely a shirt collar showing, and gave no further clues. He picked up the most recent one, and Matt explained how it had arrived from the news agency with no message.
‘I wondered if it had been taken when I was on tour, but why should anyone send it to the news agency; and why no message? Why not through my publishers?'
‘I must admit that it is very odd. And you couldn't recognize the stamp at all? Did you try to check it out on the net, for instance?'
Matt flushed. ‘It had been really heavily stamped and the ink was so badly smudged that I couldn't decipher it at all.'
Milo glanced up at him. ‘So you ditched it?'
Matt's expression gave him his answer. ‘You chump,' the older man said, but without heat. ‘It was our only clue, wasn't it? Never mind. Now if you wrote thrillers you'd have known to have kept it.' He shook his head. ‘It's baffling, isn't it? I wish I could be more helpful.'
Matt began to gather up the photographs; he suspected
that secretly Milo was still wondering what all the fuss was about and almost wished he'd never exposed his formless anxieties to this pragmatic old soldier.
Yet now, as he watched the gulls wheeling above the rising tide, he knew that he was glad that Milo shared his secret.
Nick and Lottie sat together in silence in the garden room. Lottie was knitting. He watched as the knitting slowly grew, the soft wool bundling over her knees, the big multicoloured ball rolling away and being retrieved, the rhythmic action of the needles. He felt soothed, infinitely relaxed, wondering why it was possible to sit in such contented silence with some people and not with others. His aunt finished a purl row, reversed the knitting, and began on a plain row. It might have been a shawl, or a blanket. She made beautiful clothes for little children – in fact most of the knitting she did was for charity, very occasionally for herself; never for Milo or Matt or Im.
‘Would you knit me a jersey, Lottie?' he asked suddenly, hardly knowing why, except that he believed that there might be some special magical quality about a garment worked with love by someone close to you.
‘Oh, my darling,' she said, amused at the suggestion. ‘Are you certain? Are you the type of man who would wear a jersey knitted by his aunt?'
He laughed too. ‘Why not? My friends would believe that it was from Brora or Toast or something. I'd like something rugged and tough. It would be good for my image.'
She glanced at him, and it was as if those clear grey eyes looked right into him, past all his posturing and pretence. He braced himself lest she should make some light, hurtful remark about it needing more than a jersey to make him tough – as Alice would have – but instead she nodded.
‘I'd like to,' she said. ‘A fisherman's jersey, I think. You can wear it when you go out sailing with Milo. Navy blue. I'll measure you before you go back.'
‘I don't want to go back,' he said. He rocked gently on the big revolving cane chair. ‘Do you ever wish, Lottie, that you could just step out of life?'
She knitted a full row before she answered him. ‘I think my problem is exactly the reverse,' she said at last. ‘I've never felt part of life at all. I feel as if there's always been something missing in my brain that has prevented me from connecting properly with the rest of the human race. It's very uncomfortable and very lonely. It's as if everyone else speaks a language I can't quite understand and behaves according to a set of rules that nobody has ever explained to me. I fumble about, trying to pick it up as I go along, but I've never been very successful. That's why I'm so grateful to Milo. He's been a refuge for me, you see.'
Nick was silent for a moment, taken aback, searching for words that might reassure her.
‘But you managed all those years in London, looking after Im and Matt. They always say that their lives would have been so miserable without you.'
‘They probably would have been,' she answered candidly, ‘given that poor Helen suffered so terribly from depression.
But the point is that I found it very hard. Looking after them didn't come naturally to me at all. I never knew my mother so I had no experience to fall back on. Poor things; I still wonder how we survived. We were like the babes in the wood, all of us looking after one another, and it was only because I loved them so much that we survived it at all. I watch other people with awe, especially young people. They seem to know things without being told, they have their hands on all the ropes, and their wisdom is amazing. I have to struggle all the time to keep up.'
‘Well, if it's true, all I can say is that you have many other qualities to make up for it,' he told her loyally. ‘I don't know what Dad would do without you.'
She smiled to herself, but didn't answer him, and he cast around for something else to encourage her. Of course, his mother had always been sarcastic about her younger sister but he'd assumed that it was simply the usual sibling rivalry – especially as Lottie got on so well with Milo.
‘You worked in a publishing house,' Nick reminded her. ‘That's pretty impressive.'
‘A very small, esoteric one,' she said, ‘but I
did
connect with the oddball writers we published. I could see at once that most of them inhabited a parallel universe, just as I do, and I got on with them very well. Dreamers, most of them; people who lived within the worlds of the books that they wrote and found reality dull or even frightening. I understood that, though my parallel universe seemed to have been thrust upon me, and they invented their own. I was a very lonely child and my refuge was books. This was how I saw the world; through the pages of children's fiction. That's great if you have a full, balanced, normal life running alongside a passion for reading, but it's not so good if it's the only
world you know. Your grandparents were particularly kind to me when I was a little girl. Well, you know all that. They allowed me to come to stay here and, when you think about it, that's like a fairy tale in itself. I'd never known what it was like to have a mother, or a proper family life. And then later on, when Tom died, I was presented with another ready-made family of my own. Very odd, in a way, but it all fitted with my particular take on life. After all, in books miracles happen; Cinderella gets to go to the ball.'
‘I suppose that's why you connect so well with Matt, him being a writer, I mean?'
‘Yes.' Lottie rested her hands on her lap and stared out of the window. ‘Matt has always inhabited a parallel universe, and I recognized that, but in his case it's one of his own making rather than one created by other people.'
‘You mean because he's a writer?'
‘Yes.' She hesitated, frowning. ‘But I think it's not just that. There's something else from way back that informs his writing. Tom's death, of course. Helen's withdrawal …' She shook her head. ‘Anyway. His particular alternative world has certainly been a terrific success.'
‘What will he write next, I wonder?'
Lottie picked up her knitting again, smoothed it out. ‘I think it will be very different from
Epiphany
.'
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Not a sequel? It's been such a massive success that he must be under a lot of pressure to do it again.'
‘I'm sure he is. But Matt's not a formulaic writer and he won't do it simply for the money. No, I think something's waiting for Matt. Something special – and different.'
She was still staring out of the window, past the geraniums, into the gathering dusk. Nick felt the ghost of a shiver on his
skin and he, too, looked out into the garden. Through the trees he could see the roof of the Summer House.
‘Dad's thrilled that he's going to buy the Summer House, isn't he?' He was glad to turn the subject a little. ‘Good old Matt. It's a great idea.'
‘What will Sara say?' She turned to look at him anxiously. ‘She won't be pleased.'
He shrugged, guilt edging into his contentedness. ‘At least it stays in the family,' he muttered.
Lottie chuckled. ‘I don't think Sara considers Matt and Im as members of her family.'
‘Well, I do,' he said crossly. ‘Matt and Im are …' He paused. He'd been about to say that they were like brother and sister to him, except that his feelings for Im were not in the least brotherly and now he couldn't think quite what to say.
‘And how
was
Im?' Lottie was asking, head bent over her work.
‘She was fine,' he answered distractedly, then remembered suddenly that he hadn't mentioned dropping in on Im, and cast a quick glance at Lottie.
‘She's in a state,' Lottie said placidly, counting stitches. ‘I expect Matt's found it hard to tell her that he'll be buying the Summer House now, but she'll soon see that it's the right thing to do for everyone. She's very emotional just now.' She began to knit again, not looking at him. ‘You'll be careful, my darling, won't you?'
He was confused and embarrassed, wondering exactly how much Lottie suspected. ‘Yes, of course,' he muttered – and changed the subject. ‘I expect you're looking forward to meeting Annabel. Is she special?'
‘Well, we all hope that one day Matt will find someone special but I haven't got the impression that Annabel is more
special than the other girls he's brought to meet us. He's been quite firm in insisting that she's a publishing friend. Nothing more. We shall have a better insight when we meet her and see them together.'
‘He's a funny chap, old Matt. I get the sense that he's waiting for something cataclysmic to happen to him.' Nick laughed. ‘Outside his phenomenal success, that is. Something personal.'
‘I think you're absolutely right,' she answered seriously.
She looked so serious, so thoughtful, that he was slightly taken aback and cast about for a lighter topic. ‘Do you think that Dad will bring Venetia home with him this evening?'
‘After a bridge session? Good Lord, no.' Lottie laughed out loud at such a suggestion. ‘Poor Milo will be in a state of advanced irritation, so I warn you. Venetia has never been the world's sharpest bridge player but now she gets even more confused, and Milo's too loyal to chuck her over for a new partner. He'll be breathing fire and we'll have the whole rubber, blow by blow.' She finished the row, rolled the knitting together and put it into the big wicker basket. ‘Shall we take Pud for a walk?' she suggested. ‘Before it gets dark? Would you like to?'
‘I'd love it.' He got up out of his chair. ‘Now this is when that jersey would come in very useful,' he joked. ‘It's freezing out there. You'll have to get started on it quickly.'
‘You shall have it soon,' she promised cheerfully. ‘Come on, Pud. We're going out.'
 
Venetia knew at once that when Milo turned left out of the Briscoes' drive that she was not going to be invited back to the High House for supper. She slumped slightly in her seat, disappointed and slightly miffed. And when he said irritably:
‘Why on earth did you lead with that club, Vin?' she knew that he'd be in no mood for persuasion.
‘Nonsense, darling,' she answered airily. ‘I couldn't possibly have done anything else.'
Never give in, she told herself grimly, peering out into the twilight, rather dreading the coming evening. Really she couldn't see why the Briscoes couldn't finish off with a little bite of supper. When it was her turn she always managed something tasty after the game: some smoked salmon sandwiches and a glass or two of wine and then coffee. Anything rather than be left with an empty evening stretching ahead. She shivered as they fled through the dark, narrow lanes, between box-shaped beech hedges, solid as walls. Mist drifted in the fields and hung in the hedges, and suddenly, as the car swung round a sharp bend, they saw a fox, caught for a few brief seconds in the bright glare of the headlights. They waited, engine idling, while he paused, eyes shining green and watchful, one paw lifted, before he vanished into the shadows of the ditch.
‘Ooooh.' Venetia let out a long breath of satisfaction as Milo accelerated away again. ‘Wasn't he nice, sweetie?' She relaxed a little. The sight of the fox had very slightly changed the atmosphere inside the car: Milo's irritation at losing the rubber was passing. ‘Shall you come in for a drink or must you hurry home?'
‘I shall have to crack on.' He was on the defensive now. ‘I told you we've got Nick and Matt staying at the moment, and lots to talk about. You know how it is.'
There was a very slight indication that she was being unreasonable and she made a little face in the darkness of the car.
Definitely not your evening, she told herself. Never mind.
‘OK, sweetie,' she said in a bright little sing-song voice. ‘I can
quite
understand that. Give the boys my love,' – and waited.
‘Come to lunch on Sunday,' he said as they turned left into St George's Street and drove round behind the Priory to the Ball. ‘We'll all be there.'
She smiled triumphantly to herself: brave cheerfulness always paid off with Milo, pressed his guilt button, and generally resulted in some small offering.
‘Lovely,' she exclaimed as he stopped outside her little house. ‘Now that's something to look forward to. I
do
love seeing the boys.' She leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks so much, sweetie. Off you go now. Hurry away.'
And she nipped smartly out and slammed the door before he could speak. She experienced a tiny glow of pleasure as she acknowledged the very slight look of chagrin on his face at this abrupt cutting off to his farewell, and she was still smiling as she unlocked the front door and went inside. The satisfaction lasted until she was standing alone in her smart little hall, turning on the light, listening to the silence. Her smile faded; she shrugged off her coat and threw it over the banisters before going into the kitchen to pour herself a drink.

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