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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: The Courtyard
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‘But my husband's Navy,' said Mrs Henderson, reaching for a second scone and heaping on jam and cream with a liberal hand. ‘Quite different in many ways. And now he's left me and shacked up with a Wren.'
Gussie, who had been watching with a tolerant eye, choked on a crumb and had a coughing fit into her handkerchief. Mrs Henderson rolled an amused eye in her direction. She was a natural, outspoken woman who believed in a direct approach and had already decided that it would be foolish to prevaricate with Gussie who was obviously one of the old school. If she bought the cottage in the Courtyard then it would be best all round if everyone knew the truth of her situation and accepted her for the sort of person she was. Gussie, who liked to preserve her privacy, took a hurried sip at her tea.
‘Better?' asked Mrs Henderson affably. ‘Good. You mustn't mind me. It's living with sailors that does it. Blissful scones.'
Now, as Gussie passed between the tall banks of rhododendrons that sheltered the lawns, she was able to smile at her momentary pang of discomfiture. It was important, she thought, to keep up with the young and keep abreast of the times. Living with Gillian had certainly developed her qualities of tolerance and broad-mindedness and her friendship with Nell had given her an insight into things which she had never experienced. The point was that Gussie liked young people and enjoyed their company and the thought of this little community growing up within the grounds filled her with pleasure and excitement and she wanted to share in it and be part of it. If that meant a
loosening of her strait-laced views and developing a more openminded approach then she was prepared to try.
She paused for a moment under the stone archway which was the entrance to the Courtyard. The stone cottages with their slate roofs took up three sides of the cobbled courtyard; the barns on the fourth side had been made into garages with wooden doors opening out on to the drive. The erstwhile barns, all of different sizes and shapes and washed with a warm cream, had a distinctly Mediterranean appearance. One had a flight of steps leading up sideways to a raised front door: another had two wooden doors, half glazed and big enough to admit a horse and cart: the small one in the far corner had a huge stone trough outside a stable door. Just inside to the left of the archway, Mr Ridley had dug a trench at the foot of the wall which backed on to the garages and had trained a Nelly Moser clematis up its blank side. Even on this chill January day the Courtyard was a charming scene.
Gussie made her way over the cobbles to the far corner and knocked on the stable door which was opened instantly by Mrs Henderson, who had seen her approach.
‘How nice of you to come and see me,' she said warmly. ‘It makes me feel at home. Come on in. And please don't ask if I've settled in. I'm in complete chaos.'
Glancing round, Gussie could see that the question would, indeed, be quite unnecessary. Cardboard boxes were piled in the tiny hallway and tea chests appeared to fill the sitting room beyond.
‘I wondered how you were getting on,' said Gussie, somewhat awed by disorder on such a grand scale, ‘and whether you'd like to come back for some lunch. I know that it's so easy to neglect oneself during these occasions.'
‘That's extraordinarily kind of you.' Mrs Henderson grimaced comically. ‘I haven't found my way to the shops yet and I've been living on black coffee and cigarettes.'
Gussie, who would normally have been shocked at such a statement, found herself beaming back. She realised that she found Mrs Henderson an enormously attractive woman although, technically, she was not beautiful or even pretty. Her face was long and thin, her short brown hair was streaked generously with grey and her figure was almost as angular as Gussie's own. Her attraction was in the mobility of her expressions, the warmth of her voice and a strange feeling that one had known her for years.
‘I should have spoken to the milkman,' said Gussie, feeling that she had neglected her duties. ‘At least you could have had milk and eggs. I'll leave a note for him.'
‘No need,' said Mrs Henderson cheerfully. ‘I cornered the young man in the cottage by the archway. I saw him coming home last night and I dashed out and accosted him. He's agreed to give the milkman a message.'
‘That's Guy,' said Gussie. ‘Guy Webster. There's just the two of you at the moment. The Beresfords only come down for holidays at present. Guy strikes me as a rather shy person but he's very pleasant when you get to know him.'
‘I must admit he looked rather nervous,' said Mrs Henderson reflectively, lighting a cigarette, ‘when he saw me come leaping at him out of the dark.'
‘I can't blame him,' said Gussie to her own surprise, ‘if you were dressed like that.'
Mrs Henderson opened her eyes wide and stared down at herself. She wore a pair of ancient cords, a large jersey topped by a ragged sheepskin waistcoat and her head was wrapped in a multicoloured turban. Their eyes met and they both began to laugh.
‘I simply didn't think,' said Mrs Henderson. ‘I haven't got the heating sorted out yet and unpacking is such a filthy job. He soon pulled himself together. Anyway, he accepted an invitation to come in for a drink tonight so it couldn't have been too bad.'
‘Perhaps he was afraid to refuse,' said Gussie and they both laughed again.
‘You know I'm going to take you up on your offer, Miss Merton,' said Mrs Henderson. ‘I've just realised that I'm very hungry. I really must do some shopping this afternoon.'
‘You'll find everything you need in South Brent,' said Gussie as they went out into the courtyard. ‘By the way, my name's Augusta but everyone calls me Gussie. I wish you would too.'
‘And I'm Phoebe,' said Mrs Henderson as they passed through the archway and up the drive. ‘So now that's over and we can get down to the nitty-gritty. Who's the good-looking chap I've seen you showing round Number Three?'
 
 
IT WAS THE LONGEST week Gillian had ever known; and the shortest. Thrust between terror and trembling excitement, between guilt and passion, the minutes stretched into infinity and yet the day for her departure from Nethercombe sped towards her. And never had Nethercombe looked more beautiful nor the quiet charm of its daily round been more appealing. The weather which had dripped and wept and howled and raged its way through Christmas and into January suddenly put away its depression and its tantrums and began to smile and sparkle. Several severe frosts hardened the sodden earth and rimed the bare branches with silver. By day the sky was clear, arching serene and cloudless above the frozen land. At night, after a sunset that washed the earth red, the cold white moon rode above tall pine trees etched darker black against the sky and blue smoke rose straight in the chill breathless air from the chimneys of the cottages grouped below. The blunt pale shape of the owl drifted noiselessly across the meadow, his eerie cry haunting the frosty silence.
Gillian, standing at her bedroom window, wondered how she could bring herself to leave at all. She loved Nethercombe more than she knew but, as she turned back into the bedroom, she was confronted by Henry sitting up in bed in his much-loved ancient striped flannel pyjamas, spectacles perched on the end of his nose as he read an article in the
Field
, and her heart yearned away again to Sam; tall, strong, passionate. She gave a tiny gasp of confusion and despair and Henry looked up, concerned.
‘Do come and get in,' he begged, throwing back the covers on her side of the bed. ‘It's much too cold to stand out there. You're shivering.' He wrapped her up tenderly.
‘I was watching the owl.' Gillian's teeth were chattering but not from cold.
‘Dear old fellow,' said Henry, returning to his article. ‘He's probably starving, poor old boy.'
Gillian huddled beneath the quilt surrounded by hot-water bottles – Henry couldn't bear electric blankets – and closed her eyes, shutting out the bedroom at Nethercombe. Sam would never cover her up, wrap her in things, as though she were an old woman. He would strip off her clothes, throw back the quilt, revelling in every inch of her smooth skin and lissom body. She rolled on to her side away from Henry, arms folded across her breasts, fists clenched. If only he had been given a passionate nature! Gillian screwed her eyes up tight at the unfairness of it all. If only Sam owned Nethercombe! A traitorous voice whispered that, if he had, there wouldn't be much left of it now but it was a faint sickly voice that was easily smothered under a wave of longing for his hard strong body that crushed and took and satisfied. Gillian groaned and Henry, mistaking it for a protest, a desire for sleep, took off his spectacles, dropped the
Field
and turned out his bedside light. He slid beneath the quilt, inserting an arm under Gillian's neck and, wrapping the other closely round her, pulled her into the curve of his body, tucking her cold feet between his calves.
Gillian lay rigid, silent, feeling his breath warm on her neck, the familiarity of his body at her back. If only he might be moved to desire, drag her over, blot out the temptations, satisfy her need, then, even now, her resolve might be weakened. Henry's hands moved, drawing her nearer still.
‘You're shivering,' he muttered. ‘I don't know why you wear this silly thing.' Gillian's breath was momentarily suspended. ‘You ought to buy a good sensible warm one.'
He tucked the quilt more firmly around her, settled himself and
slid almost instantly into sleep. Gillian stared resentfully, frustratedly, into the darkness but Henry's body warmth and his regular breathing imperceptibly soothed and relaxed her and presently she slept.
In the morning she went to see Lydia who, fresh from a skirmish with her ex-husband, was delighted to welcome her.
‘Whatever possessed me to marry him in the first place,' she cried, clashing coffee mugs and spoons, ‘I shall never know. What a fool I was!'
Gillian couldn't have wished for a better opening.
‘Oh, Mum, I know just how you feel,' she said plaintively.
Lydia's indignant hands were stilled and she glanced at Gillian warily.
‘What do you mean, darling? You can't possibly mean to compare Henry with Angus. Henry's so thoughtful and kind. Angus was always insensitive and selfish.'
‘Then why did you marry him?' asked Gillian cunningly.
‘Oh, you know what it's like,' said the unthinking Lydia. ‘One gets carried away by things when one's young. Girls are so foolish. And of course he wormed his way in with the family. Grannie and Grandpa adored him; he saw to that, of course. I was swept off my feet by all the wrong things.'
‘But that's just it,' cried Gillian, seizing her chance. ‘So was I! I was bowled over by Nethercombe and all that. Country living. You know? Henry's sweet but he's just so … Well.' Gillian shrugged. ‘He's boring,' she said flatly, at last.
Lydia put down the jar of coffee that she had been unconsciously crushing to her breast.
‘Oh, but darling, what man isn't?'
‘Mum! Honestly! Of course they're not all boring.'
Lydia turned back to her coffee-making with a sceptical lift of her brows.
‘They're not!' Gillian felt compelled to protest. ‘I know lots that aren't boring.'
‘Name twenty,' said Lydia provocatively. ‘Bet you can't.'
‘That's silly.' Gillian, cross at being deflected from the particular to the general, threw caution to the winds. ‘Anyway, I'm leaving Henry.'
‘Gillian! Oh no, darling. You mustn't! What's brought this on? Look, come and sit down and tell me all about it.' She pushed Gillian into a chair and put her coffee beside her. ‘You simply mustn't do anything foolish in a fit of temper.'
‘I'm not.' Gillian stared sulkily into her mug. ‘It's never worked. Not from the beginning. We're just – ' she hesitated, casting about for a phrase, and remembered Sam's words – ‘just like chalk and cheese. We have nothing in common. He and Gussie are better suited. It's just so dreary and boring.'
‘Oh, darling.' Lydia sat opposite, shocked and distressed. ‘I didn't realise. But even so, you must think very carefully. It's such an enormous step. You have to give a relationship every chance. Perhaps if you'd had a baby—'
‘Huh!' Gillian snorted derisively, conveniently forgetting the pill. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. We make love about twice a year.'
‘Oh dear.' Lydia remembered her thoughts at the wedding. So she'd been right after all. ‘Yes, I see.'
‘And don't tell me that there's more to life than sex. Or that passions fade and it's other qualities that count.'
‘I shouldn't dream of saying anything so commonplace,' bridled Lydia, affronted. ‘Even so … I suppose you've met someone else?'
‘Yes. Actually I have. But it's not only that. I'm not just being swept off my feet. Right from the beginning it's been wrong.'
‘It's not Simon, is it?' Lydia was following her own train of thought.
‘No,' said Gillian impatiently. ‘Of course not. His name's Sam Whittaker. You don't know him.' She wondered briefly whether to suggest an introduction and rejected it. Sam wasn't ‘meeting mothers' material. ‘We're going to France. He's got a house there and a business.'
‘France!' Lydia gazed at her aghast. ‘Oh, Gillian!'
‘Oh come on, Mum. It's not that far. When we get settled in you must come over. You'll like it. It's in Provence.'
‘But, Gillian. France! Oh, darling, please don't rush into this. What does Henry say?'
‘Nothing,' said Gillian sulkily. ‘He doesn't know yet.'
‘Well, that's something.' Lydia was relieved. Nothing irrevocable had yet been said. ‘You must have time to think.'
‘I've had time.' Gillian put her mug on the table. ‘We're going on Saturday.'
‘Going?'
‘To France. Sam and me. On Saturday. It's no good, Mum. It's all arranged.'
‘On Saturday? But what about Henry?'
‘He thinks I'm going with Lucy.' Gillian flushed. ‘It's no good,' she said again defensively, seeing Lydia's expression, ‘I just couldn't tell him. I shall write to him when I get there. Oh, Mum! Don't look like that. Honestly. I feel bad enough as it is. I thought at least you'd be on my side.'
‘Oh, darling, of course I am. You know that. I'm just so afraid that you might make a mistake. I only want what's best for you, Gilly. I only ever have.'
At the use of the childhood name Gillian quite suddenly broke down. She sat in her chair and bawled like the child she still was and Lydia hurried to her, kneeling beside her, cradling the fair head to her breast.
‘I love him, Mum,' sobbed Gillian. ‘I know I do. I can't bear to be away from him. He's everything. I never felt like this about Henry.'
Confused and frightened Lydia held her, longing, as she had from the day of her daughter's birth, to wave the magic wand and bring her that ever-shifting, unreachable prize that is known as happiness. Unable to bear the child's disappointment, unhappiness, even boredom, Lydia had hurried to bring her small treats, little pleasures that were calculated to wipe away the tears and sulks and bring smiles and
delight; had learned, too, to dread the loss of interest, the casting aside of book or toy, the clouding of the smooth childish brow, the small upturned face with its expression of dissatisfaction which heralded the next request. Even now, Lydia couldn't bear to see the petulantly turned shoulder, the droop of the pretty lips, that greeted refusal or denial. Holding Gillian tight, she tried to decide what was right for her.
‘Oh, Mum.' Gillian turned a tear-streaked, quivering face to Lydia. ‘Don't be cross. It's awful to be married to a man you don't love. You understand. You've told me how it was with Dad.'
Lydia was silent, knowing that, here, not all the truth had been told. It was, after all, Angus who had gone, exhausted by her demands and desires, hurt at being regarded only as a provider, his own needs and emotions ignored. Had she ever really thought about Angus, wondered about his hopes and fears, considered him as anything but a bottomless purse? Had her own relentless search for that will-o'-the-wisp, call it what you like – happiness, contentment, peace – which clothed its seductive shape in clothes, outings, holidays, finally driven him away? Had it been her own example that had set Gillian's feet on the restless, endless road? Lydia's mind shied away from such frightening ideas and she forced herself to smile down at her daughter.
‘We must do what's best for you,' she said. But what was best, really best, for Gillian's well-being? Could denial, selflessness, discipline, really be the answer? If they were Lydia realised that she could never impose them on Gillian. How could she, who had been so careless of such qualities, recommend them to others?
‘Oh, Mum. It won't be for long.' Gillian was smiling through her tears. ‘We'll have to come back to see to Sam's development. And you must come out. It'll be such fun. All that lovely wine and sun.' Gillian was already miles away from Nethercombe, its beauty and peace forgotten, hands stretched for the new toy. ‘Thanks for understanding. You're the best mum anyone could ever have.'
But Lydia, returning her daughter's embrace, had discovered, in that terrible flash of insight, that nothing could be further from the truth.
 
PHOEBE HENDERSON LOOKED WITH pleasure at her cottage. She went from room to room, all straight at last, and sighed happily. Now she could plan her house-warming party. There were a lot of naval families living in the area and Phoebe knew a great many of them. Despite the final breakdown of her marriage she had kept even her husband's closest friends who generally agreed that Miles Henderson had brought it on himself with his flagrant affairs and indiscretions. Nevertheless, the final separation and divorce had saddened her. Miles was an amusing companion – fun to be with, generous and kind – and he'd always been able to laugh her out of her hurt at his faithlessness. Well, nearly always.
Phoebe sat down at the kitchen table with a pile of invitation cards and lit a cigarette. Sometimes it had hurt too much to laugh. In her heart she believed what he said: that it meant nothing, that it was a physical urge, that it was she whom he loved. She worked hard at believing it and it was true that, all the time she was on hand and available, he never turned to anyone else. In the end, however, she'd been unable to go on laughing. Phoebe shook her head, balanced her cigarette in the ashtray and opened her address book. It had definitely gone beyond being a joke. When she discovered that Miles had been unfaithful with one of her closest friends the shame and jealousy were too much to bear and, frightened by her threats of divorce, he had promised to be faithful, sworn that he'd learned his lesson and his philandering days were over. Why had she believed him? Some months afterwards, he'd come back from sea and several days later, after they'd made love many times, he suggested, shame-faced, that she should have a checkup at a VD clinic. It was the end. After that, she couldn't bear him near her; the humiliation of that visit turned her sick to her stomach and she couldn't forgive him for it. At about
the same time AIDS was in the headlines almost daily, and she knew it was time for them to part.

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