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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Summer House
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The weather turned chill and wet, and cold winds from the south-east battered the new, delicate blossoms. For two weeks Venetia's outings in the wheelchair were rare but one morning, when the icy wind had shifted to the warm west, Milo took her to Dunster. Inside her little house again, Venetia looked around with pleasure; she'd missed it more than she'd realized. Whilst Milo was bending to pick up some letters from the hall floor, she limped into the sitting room wrapped all about with a warm sense of homecoming. She stood, leaning on her stick, surprised that she should feel quite so strongly. After all, she was very happy at the High House with Lottie and Milo – glad to be safe and to be cared for – and yet, now, she suddenly longed to be home again. She'd missed those little impromptu lunches with her friends; bridge sessions followed by some supper by the fire; watching whatever she chose on the television. Milo was a darling, but he tended to have strong, disapproving views on her favourite soaps, and he always hogged the remote. Lottie didn't seem to care much – she usually had her head
in a book – and she'd found it just a tad embarrassing to say that her favourite programmes were the very ones that Milo considered suitable only for the mentally deficient. Thank God he loved
The Archers
. And she'd been rather put out by his tendency to silence at breakfast. She hadn't suspected that he was one of those grumpy types who retired behind the newspaper. Luckily, Lottie was quite prepared to be sociable over the toast and completely ignored Milo's patently paper-rustling irritation at their cheerfulness and bursts of laughter.
Venetia hobbled back into the hall. She could see now that it wasn't all jam living with Milo, though Lottie seemed perfectly happy in her odd, detached kind of way. As for herself, well, it might be very nice to have them both close at hand for company, and in an emergency, but she knew now that she'd be looking forward to coming home again. She followed Milo into the kitchen.
‘I've checked everything,' he said. ‘No problems. I've left the garden door open. I thought you'd like to look outside. '
‘Oh, yes,' she said. ‘I would.' Her dear little garden, surrounded by its high stone walls, hardly big enough to grow anything more than the climbers: delicate, purple-flowered
clematis alpina
, white jasmine with its trumpet-shaped flowers and twining stems, and the honeysuckle that scrambled over the roof of the little stone shed, and whose scent she loved.
Today, with the strong westerly wind buffeting the town, the garden remained protected from the wind; warm and sheltered.
‘You'll soon be able to come home.' Milo stood at her shoulder. ‘No point in trying to rush it, though. You've got
to be properly recovered, but you'll want to be here for the summer.'
She looked at him, wondering if he were speaking from his personal viewpoint or if he had sensed her longing to be back amongst her own things. He was looking around the little courtyard with approval, even affection, and she was unexpectedly overwhelmed with love for him. Oh, how confusing the emotions were, swinging first one way, then another.
‘It will be nice to be home,' she admitted – trying not to sound too keen lest he should be hurt.
He raised his eyebrows as if surprised by her caution. ‘Of course it will. There's nowhere quite like your own patch, is there? I'll be able to help you with your tubs and pots and things. I know you like to make a bit of a show in the summer.'
‘Well, I do. There's no space to make a proper border but I like to make a splash once the frosts are over.'
‘Well, we can do it together if you'd like that.' He glanced at her sideways. ‘I promise I won't interfere. I'll simply take orders.'
She burst out laughing. ‘That'll be the day,' she observed caustically. ‘But, yes, that would be kind. It'll be a bit tricky, one-handed, though I'm getting better so quickly now.'
They went back into the house and he locked the door. She limped ahead of him down the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs where she'd lain in such pain and terror. Panic seized her. Remembering the fear and helplessness of that moment she wondered if, after all, she should opt for safety and stay at the High House. She stood, gripping her stick, fighting down the panic: reminding herself that the little suite of rooms at the High House would be
waiting for her if she were to need help or company. Her courage gradually reasserted itself and she straightened her shoulders: she wasn't quite ready yet to give up her independence.
‘I shan't attempt the stairs,' she said. ‘Have you got my letters, Milo?'
‘In my pocket,' he said. ‘Shall we go and have a drink in the Lutts?'
She considered his suggestion; a drink in The Luttrell Arms would be very pleasant, and perhaps lunch too. Milo had promised her a day out and she was determined to make the most of it.
 
The Dodger was watching Pud with great caution. Each time the older dog twitched in his sleep, The Dodger's tail would thump anxiously. Pud, meanwhile, continued to slumber and presently The Dodger relaxed and he began to quarter the floor of the garden room, one eye on Pud's recumbent form.
Im and Lottie watched, amused.
‘It's so good for The Dodger to have Pud to teach him how to behave,' Im said. ‘I think they really enjoyed the walk, didn't they? Poor old Pud. The Dodger's a bit of a pain but he's very patient with him most of the time.'
‘He's coming on very well,' agreed Lottie. ‘It's always useful to have an older dog to show a puppy the ropes, and it's good for Pud too. The Dodger's livened him up no end. How's Jules?'
‘Fine. Listen, I've got some good news. The Websters have offered to let us buy the barn.'
‘Really? Oh, that's fantastic. But how odd that they didn't suggest you buy it at the start. Why now?'
‘I don't know. I think that they'd got into the mindset of having a permanent tenant rather than holiday lets when they first suggested it to Jules, but probably, like most farmers at the moment, they're a bit short of cash and so they've decided to sell it. I think they know that we wanted to buy, really, and they seem to like having us as neighbours. It's just so brilliant because we love it so much but we never imagined they'd sell. It's quite small, but that's OK. I love where it is, and the views.'
‘So no regrets about the Summer House?'
‘None. The barn is just right for all of us, and I'm beginning to get my project going. You know? Sourcing Exmoor holidays for young families. There's a lot to research but I'm really enjoying it. Hope it works.'
‘I think it's a great idea. I imagine that you'll be checking all the riding stables personally?'
‘You're so right. I can't wait to get on a horse again. I think I'm ready now. I had to get through that bit of being terrified of taking any kind of risk after Rosie was born but I'm over it now. Is Matt joining us for lunch?'
‘Yes, he is. He'll be here any minute, I should think.'
The Dodger had found Pud's ball. He butted it and it rolled away; he dashed after it and cannoned into Pud, who started up, alarmed, with a sharp bark. Rosie, who had been deeply asleep in her stroller, jerked into wakefulness, and Im sighed.
‘Our five minutes of peace and quiet are over. Can I help with the lunch?'
 
Im bent over the paintings, studying each one carefully. Beyond her, through the window, Matt could see Lottie and Rosie playing in the garden with the dogs. The garden room
was full of bird song and sunshine, though the westerly winds still roared overhead.
‘And you really believe this?' She raised her head to stare at him, shocked. ‘You think you had a twin who died?'
He nodded. ‘It all fits, if you think about it. It explains how Mum behaved with us; you and me, I mean. I could remember, you see, how she used to be happy. I had memories of her playing with me and someone else and laughing, and then I realized that it was before you were born, so there must have been another child around. And it explains that feeling I've always had of being separated from someone.'
‘And how long have you suspected this?'
He shook his head, shrugged. ‘Not long. And yet I feel that I've always known it now. The fact that nobody ever talked about him didn't help, of course. Memory needs feeding when you're very small, doesn't it? Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I found the paintings and I saw the little ghost-figure and that's when I began to have this strong feeling that I identified in some way with it. I think George's twin was stillborn, which is why there's no record of him anywhere, apart from the cherub. Milo can't remember ever hearing about him. But Helena would never have forgotten, would she?'
Im shivered; she wrapped her arms around herself and stared out of the window where Rosie was staggering, holding tightly to Lottie's hand, and screaming with delight.
‘Of course she wouldn't. Oh, Matt. How awful. Poor Helena. And poor Mum. But you think your twin lived?'
He nodded. ‘I remember him, you see. I remember watching her lifting him and swinging him up high, and I remember looking at him sitting opposite, in the bath or in
the pram, perhaps, and it was as if I were looking at myself. Just glimpses, that's all, but I'm sure of it now.'
She was silent for a moment. ‘But what would have happened to him?'
‘I guess that he died of some illness out in Afghanistan and she just couldn't bear it afterwards. You know? Leaving him out there when we came home. I think that Dad asked people not to talk about it because it upset her so badly. And then he died out there too, and it was the last straw.'
‘Oh God, how sad it is.' There were tears in her eyes. ‘How awful for you, Matt.'
‘Well, it is in a way, but in another it's a huge relief. It explains all these weird feelings I have. I just wish we had some proof but it's all so long ago and there's nobody left to ask. Do you believe that it's true?'
She stared at him. ‘I believe it if you do. It would explain why Mum was so unhappy. I can understand how terrible it would be to lose a child; and in a foreign country, too. And then Dad as well. And if it makes sense to you and you think you can remember him … Why do you think it was a him?'
He frowned, thinking about it. ‘It just feels right. And I think it explains the photographs.'
‘Photographs? Oh, those ones of you but not me. Where you don't recognize the clothes and things?'
‘Mmm. I wonder if she did that to try to pretend he was around somewhere. Rather like the ghost in the paintings. A remembrance.'
She shivered again. ‘I think that's a bit creepy. But if you're OK with it … It's just so awful to think we had a brother and don't even know what his name was or anything. There must be something. What about a birth certificate?'
‘I've looked through everything we've got and I suppose any evidence must have been very thoroughly destroyed.'
‘Well, I think it's wrong, if you want to know.' Im stared out of the window again. ‘I feel we had a right to know the truth.'
‘It depends how desperate she was, I suppose. Try to look at it like that.'
‘I am trying to,' said Im, her eyes on her daughter. ‘It's OK, I just need to get used to it. You've had a few weeks to accustom yourself to it, remember.'
‘And it wasn't really a shock,' he said. ‘I think I was almost expecting something like it, somehow. It explains things, and that helps. I'm sorry to upset you, Im, but I wanted you to know.'
She turned back to him, the tears still shining in her eyes. ‘Of course you had to tell me. I'll be fine with it. What does Lottie say? She never guessed, either?'
Matt shook his head. ‘It was clearly a very well-kept secret.' He paused, put an arm about her shoulder, and they stood for a moment, staring out into the garden. ‘Shall we go out and join them?' he asked at last.
She nodded, and they went out into the sun and wind together.
Matt sat on the veranda of the Summer House: he was puzzled and disappointed. He'd really believed that his discovery would begin to unlock his creative powers, that the lifting of his lifelong burden would free up all sorts of ideas. Yet still the block remained, and along with it the insistent suspicion that there was something more to be revealed. Some memory nagged at the back of his mind, preventing true release. But what was it? So certain was he that his long period of frustration was over he'd agreed to Annabel's suggestion that she should come down for another visit. Now, surely, he'd be able to cast off the shadows and be normal and free with her; that's what he'd told himself in the new exciting light of his discovery.
‘I'm not ready yet to have Annabel at the Summer House,' he'd told Lottie, praying she'd understand. ‘I know it sounds weird but I really don't want to make that kind of statement yet. If ever. Can I move back into the attic for a few days and have her to stay here again? I'm really sorry, Lottie. I know it sounds pathetic but I don't want to give her any false
impressions. And, anyway, the Summer House is still only half furnished. We'd be on top of each other, if you know what I mean. It would be different if we were …'
He'd stopped, feeling wretched and inadequate, but Lottie had quite grasped the situation.
‘I agree that it could give off all sorts of messages,' she'd replied. ‘Of course she can come here. And you don't have to ask for yourself. You know that.'
If only he could make up his mind about Annabel: he knew that she wouldn't be the kind of girl to take any gesture lightly, and that any move beyond their present friendship would definitely be a commitment – and he certainly didn't feel ready for it.
He sat quite still, emptying his mind, waiting for some creative movement; a fragment of an idea or the ghost of a character. Birdsong and the sound of the brook were his only rewards, and he opened his eyes still feeling confused and frustrated. There was a sudden movement amongst the roots underneath the lilac tree, a little flurry of leaves, and he leaned forward to see what it was. The creature was larger than a bird, pale in colour, striped and patched with sunshine and shadows. The kitten came out on to the grass; it patted a leaf with its paw and then sat back on its haunches. Matt saw its mouth open in a brief pink yawn.
Watching, he was reminded of two things: the marmalade cat in the paintings – and something else, which just at the moment eluded him. The kitten came forward, and Matt got up and went down to meet it. It was so pretty, so sweet; he crouched on his haunches and held out a hand to it. The kitten pressed itself into Matt's hand, miaowing piteously, and Matt picked it up, stroking it with a finger, speaking to it quietly. A quick check showed that it was male and he
carried it back towards the house, still talking: ‘Poor little fellow. Where have you sprung from? Are you hungry?' and all the while he was thinking about the cat in the painting – and the other thing that remained just out of range.
In the kitchen he broke some bread into a bowl with some milk, put it down on the floor and watched the kitten eat gratefully. He had no idea what other nourishment he could offer but the kitten seemed satisfied at the end of his meal and began to examine his surroundings. Matt hunted through his portfolio of paintings until he found the cat in the chair; marmalade just like this one. He looked at it, wondering if there were some clue that might somehow trigger the memory. There were several more paintings featuring the cat and he looked for them, hoping that they might show something important. Here he was, sitting with his tail curled around him, watching George playing; and here was another of him crossing the lawn, tail held high; another showed him sitting in a patch of sun-barred shadow, which gave his coat a stripy, tigerish look, and his satisfied expression appeared rather like a wicked smile.
The pang of recognition startled Matt, but he couldn't place it. The kitten was back, winding himself around Matt's ankles, his purring the sound of a boiling kettle. Matt bent to pick him up and held him for a moment against his cheek, still puzzling over this mystery.
‘Come on,' he told the kitten. ‘We're going for a little walk.'
 
Milo was in the garden trying to decide whether the grass was dry enough to cut. He greeted Matt absent-mindedly but peered into the hessian shopping bag that Matt held out to him.
‘What is it? Good grief; a kitten. Didn't know you were going into livestock.'
‘It wasn't my intention. He turned up just now and I don't quite know what to do with him.'
‘Do you have to do anything? Maybe he belongs to someone in the village and he's just taking a stroll through your garden.'
‘Well, you might be right.' Matt was surprised at how disappointed he felt. ‘Do kittens do that?'
‘My dear fellow, how should I know? Never been a cat man. Maybe Venetia knows. She had cats at one time. She's around somewhere. Now, what d'you think about this grass?'
‘I think your sit-on mower will simply tear the ground to pieces,' Matt said. ‘It's pretty wet.'
Milo made a disgruntled face. ‘You're probably right. Don't let Pud see that kitten. He might think it's lunch.'
Matt laughed. ‘Pud wouldn't be so ungentlemanly. Come on, kitty. Let's find Venetia.'
She was pacing the paved terrace outside the open french windows of the parlour.
‘Look,' she cried gleefully. ‘No stick! But I can't do it for very long without tiring. It's too frustrating for words. The trouble is that when you get old it takes so much longer to heal.'
‘I think you're doing wonderfully well,' he told her. ‘Best not to rush it, isn't it? I need your help, Venetia.' And he held out the bag.
‘Ooooh,' she said softly. ‘But he's so sweet. I didn't know you had a kitten, Matt.'
‘He just turned up this morning and I don't quite know what to do with him. I've given him some bread and milk.'
‘Wait,' she said. ‘Let me sit down so that I can see him properly. Come on into the parlour.'
She sat down on the sofa and Matt put the bag on to her lap. The kitten walked out cautiously, enquiringly, and Venetia laughed.
‘He's beautiful, and perfectly well cared for. Where has he come from, d'you think?'
Matt shrugged. ‘Milo thinks he's wandered in from the village.'
Venetia frowned. ‘Unlikely, I should think. It's quite a long way from even your nearest neighbour and he's not old enough to go so far from home. How odd. Still, Milo might be right. You'll have to put a notice up in the village and one in the post office at Allerford. He's a beautiful little fellow and someone must be missing him.'
The kitten jumped on to Venetia's shoulder and walked along the back of the chair. Matt watched him.
‘D'you think he might have been dumped?'
Venetia's eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘In Bossington? Unlikely, isn't it? Don't people usually do that on motorways ?'
‘Well, it might not always be that easy to get to a motorway. Perhaps he was a present to someone who simply couldn't cope with him but dumped him in a village in the hope that someone would find him quickly and look after him.'
She looked at him, smiling. ‘That's a very plausible story. Anyone might think you were a writer. I believe you've lost your hard heart at last, Matt. You want to keep him, don't you?'
He chuckled. ‘My heart isn't that hard. And yes, I do rather like him.'
She caught the kitten and held the little, wriggling body. ‘I confess I do, too. Much better than that rather tiresome Annabel.'
Matt managed to resist pointing out that Annabel was none of her business; after all, deep down he agreed with her.
‘She's coming down again tomorrow,' he said, ‘so I hope you won't tell her so.'
‘Much better for everyone if I did,' answered Venetia sharply. ‘Finish it once and for all. And don't tell me to mind my own business. You're simply dithering, Matt. You know you are.'
Matt sat down beside her and took the kitten into his own hands. ‘How can you be so sure of anything to do with the heart?' he asked. ‘You said just now that I have a hard heart because I don't fall in and out of love or have messy affairs. I hate emotional mess. How can you tell if someone is really right for you, Venetia?'
She sighed. ‘My mother had a good answer to that one. And to making other decisions, too. She used to say, “If in doubt, don't.” You're clinging to Annabel because you're afraid you might be missing out on something if you tell her to go, but meanwhile you're not growing any fonder of her, are you? Well, love doesn't work like that. It doesn't have to be love at first sight, but if it
is
love then there's always some evidence of it. Do you remember the old rule? “Do you want to see her? Do you want to touch her?” And if you don't, then it isn't love.'
‘To be honest,' he said, letting the kitten climb on to his shoulder, ‘I don't think about her for days at a time. I just feel guilty because I think I ought to be able to respond in some way to her.'
‘Oh, don't be foolish,' Venetia said impatiently. ‘And anyway, she simply isn't right for you. Take my word for it.'
She smiled blindingly at him and he began to laugh. ‘How simple you make it sound.'
‘It
is
simple. Make up your mind to it and do it. Now, much more interesting, what are you going to do about this little chap?'
 
Later, Lottie appeared at the Summer House carrying a small cage.
‘Milo wonders if this would be any good?' she asked. ‘Pud used to travel in it in the car when he was a puppy. You could go and see Richard in Antlers and get a litter tray and some proper food. Where is he?'
Matt led her into the sitting room and pointed. The kitten was curled on the velvet seat of the wooden chair, fast asleep. They stood together, watching him.
‘Odd, isn't it?' Matt said at last. ‘It's just like the painting.'
‘You think there's something else.' It was a statement. ‘Something you still don't know.'
He nodded. ‘It's so frustrating. I thought it was all over, you see. And though it was tragic I was getting used to it because at some level I'd already known about it, if you see what I mean.'
‘And why do you think it isn't all over?'
‘Oh, I don't know.' He turned away and wandered out on to the veranda. ‘Because I thought that all the nightmare stuff was bound up in it, I suppose, and that, once I knew, I'd be able to write again. And I still feel as desperate as I did before any of this happened. If I can't write now I never will.'
‘But that's not quite logical, is it?' she asked gently. ‘After
all, you wrote
Epiphany
without knowing any of this, didn't you? In fact, it sprang out of all the things that you call the “nightmare stuff”. You're beginning to understand your past; things are being revealed to you. Maybe the new book will follow when you've had time to assimilate all these things thoroughly.'
‘I still feel there's something else.' He sat down on the edge of the veranda steps. ‘Something more. The kitten reminded me of it, and I looked at the paintings again.'
‘And?'
‘And nothing.'
He sat disconsolately, his arms on his knees, staring down the garden, and she felt a great wave of compassion for him.
‘It's not over yet.' She spoke without thinking, and saw the muscles beneath his shirt tense. ‘Try not to strain towards whatever it is. It will come to you. I know it will. Give it time and try to enjoy Annabel's stay.'
He snorted. ‘Venetia thinks I should finish it.'
‘It's not Venetia's business. Are you very fond of Annabel, Matt?'
‘I've no idea,' he answered moodily. ‘I feel like Prince Charles when he said: “Whatever love means.” I just can't concentrate on anything, that's the trouble. I feel like this whole business is crippling me emotionally and I don't want to live this way. Why am I like this, Lottie?'
She spoke strongly to him. ‘I think that you had a twin, and that something traumatic happened when you lost him. Clearly it affected Helen very badly but because you were so small nobody understood quite the effect it might have on you. Your “nightmare stuff” is a direct result of that trauma, but simply knowing the truth might not be quite enough
to put an immediate end to it or to result in a sudden burst of creativity. Give yourself a chance to adjust properly to knowing rather than just suspecting. And perhaps you're right, and there's one more piece of the puzzle to unravel. You've waited over thirty years, Matt. You must be patient for just a little longer.'
She paused for a moment, but he didn't respond, and she cast around for some lighter topic.

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