The Ivy Tree (22 page)

I hadn't moved from the shadows of the passage. But the fraction before Julie turned, Donald looking past her shoulder, saw me standing there. I had been prepared for surprise, shock, even, in the recognition of everyone who had known Annabel before, but the startled amazement in Donald Seton's eyes jolted me, until I realised that, to him, I was a ghost of Julie. The look went, banished from his eyes immediately, but I wondered just what he had seen; a Julie grown older, thinner; not greyer, that would have been absurd, but somehow greyed? The eight years were dry in my throat, like dust.

Julie had seen me. I saw her eyes widen, then the same look spring in them.

I came out into the sunlight.

For a moment she stayed poised, as it seemed, between welcome and something else. The moment hung suspended for ever, like the wave before it breaks. I thought, Lisa was wrong, this is the worst yet: I can't bear it if she hates me, and God knows, she may be the one to have the right.

‘Annabel,
darling!
' said Julie, and dived straight into my arms and kissed me. The broken wave washed over me; the salt drops tingled and smarted in my eyes. She was laughing and hugging me and holding me away from her and talking, and the moments slid past with all the other moments, and was gone.

‘Annabel, you
devil
, how
could
you, it's been such
hell
, and we were so unhappy. Oh, I could kill you for it, I really could. And I'm so thankful you're not dead because now I can
tell
you. That's the worst of people dying, they get away . . . Oh, lord, I'm not crying – these must be those tears of joy they always shed like
mad
in books, only I've never believed them . . . Oh, it's terrific, it really is! You've come back!' She gave me a little shake. ‘Only
say
something, darling, for pity's sake, or I
will
think you're a ghost!'

I noticed that Donald had turned away, tactfully to examine the side of the Dutch barn. Since this was made of corrugated iron, it could hardly be said to provide an absorbing study for an archaeologist; but he seemed to be finding it quite fascinating. Lisa had withdrawn a little behind Julie, but she was watching unashamedly.

I looked at Julie, feeling suddenly helpless. What was there to say, after all?

I cleared my throat, smiled uncertainly, and said the only thing that came into my head. ‘You – you've grown.'

‘I suppose I have,' said Julie blankly.

Then we both laughed, the laughter perhaps a little high and over-pitched. I could see Lisa looking at me with her mouth slightly open. It came to me suddenly that she was staggered and dismayed at the ineptitude with which I was playing this scene; all the more feeble since she had seen the way I dealt with Grandfather. As far as it was possible for me to do so at that moment, I felt amused. Of course there was nothing to say. Here at least, Lisa was a bad psychologist. What did she expect me to do? Make a charmingly social occasion out of this? My part in the scene had been far more convincing than she knew.

The next second, uncannily, Julie was echoing my thought. ‘You know, isn't it silly? I've noticed it before, about meeting anyone one hasn't seen for a long time. You long and long for the moment, like mad, and then, when it comes, and you've got the first hullos said, there's nothing whatever to say. All that comes later, all the
where have you been and how did you get on?
stuff. For the moment, it's quite enough to have you here. You do understand, don't you?'

‘Of course, I'm just thanking heaven you do. I – I can't think of much in the way of conversation, myself.' I smiled at her, and then at Donald, now gravely waiting on the outskirts of the conversation. ‘I'm still English enough to regard tea as a sort of remedy for any crisis. Shall we go in and have it? How do you do, Mr Seton?'

‘Oh, lord, I'm sorry,' said Julie, and hastily made the introduction. ‘Only for pity's sake call him Donald, everybody does, at least, everybody he
likes
, and if he doesn't like them, he never speaks to them at all, which comes to the same thing.'

I laughed as I shook hands with him. ‘It sounds a marvellous way of getting along.'

‘It works,' said Donald.

‘Oh,' said Julie, at my elbow. ‘Donald has his very own way of getting through life with the minimum of trouble to himself.'

I glanced at her quickly. Nothing in Donald's expression showed me whether this was intended to have a sharp edge to it, or anything in Julie's for that matter. She looked very lovely and gay, and she was laughing at him.

She thrust an arm into mine. ‘Where's Grandfather? Surely he's not up in the field in this weather. It's far too hot.'

‘He's lying down. He does every afternoon now.'

‘
Does
he? I mean, does he
have
to?'

Lisa had gathered Donald up, so to speak, and, with the usual polite murmur about washing his hands before tea, was shepherding him ahead of us towards the house.

I said: ‘It's only a precaution. He has to be careful. He might be risking another stroke if he did anything too energetic, or had any sort of an upset. Go gently with him, Julie. I think my coming back has been a bit of a strain, but he's taken it remarkably well.'

‘And Con?' The sideways glance was disconcertingly shrewd.

I said lightly: ‘He's taken it very well, too.' I wondered, by no means for the first time, how much the eleven-year-old Julie had known about her cousin's disappearance. ‘You'll see him later. I imagine he'll take his tea up in the field with the men.'

‘Are you going to take it up? I'll help if you like, or we can make Donald come and carry everything – you don't exactly look as if you ought to be hiking loads around in this heat, if I may say so. What on earth have you been doing to yourself, you look so thin, and your figure used to be heaven, at least
I
thought so, which might mean anything, because when I was eleven my ideal was the Angel Gabriel and they're not supposed to have figures anyway, are they?'

‘Julie! At least you didn't piffle on at that rate when you were eleven, or if you did, I don't remember it! Where on earth did you learn?'

Julie laughed. ‘Donald.'

‘That I don't believe.'

‘Well, he never speaks at all unless it's necessary, so I have to do enough for two on one person's sense. Result, half my talk is piffle, whereas Donald's silence is a hundred per cent solid worth. Or would it be two hundred per cent? I never know.'

‘I see.'

‘And there was you.'

‘I?'

‘Yes. Nobody could piffle quite so well. The stories you used to make up. I can still remember them, and the funny thing is, a lot of them seemed somehow more real than you, or at any rate they seemed the reallest part of you.'

‘Perhaps they were.'

She gave me a swift look as we went into the house, and squeezed my arm. ‘When you look like that you break my heart.'

‘I don't see why.'

‘You look unhappy, that's why. Whenever you're not actually smiling. It's just a look you have. It's not like you . . . I mean, you weren't like that before.'

‘I meant, I don't see why you should worry over the way I feel.'

‘Don't you?'

‘No. Why should you care what happened to me? I lighted out regardless, didn't I? And now I come back, like a ghost to trouble sleep. Why should you care?'

The grey-green eyes were open and candid as a child's. ‘Because I love you, of course,' said Julie, quite simply.

The passage was dim after the glare of the sun. I was glad of this. In a moment I said, lightly: ‘Better than the Angel Gabriel?'

She laughed. ‘Oh, he stopped being top pop, years ago. Much better.'

In a way, Julie's homecoming was as exacting as my own.

Mrs Bates was, inevitably, lying in wait in the kitchen: ‘And very nice it is to see you, Julie, and very smart you're looking, quite London, I'm sure. A real shame I call it, the way they make you work at the BBC – not a chance to come up and see your poor Granda,
not
to mention others as I could name what would have liked a sight of you any time this past year. But there it is, birds leave the nest, which you might say is only natural, and them that is left has only to lump it, as the saying goes . . . And that was your young man that went through with Miss Dermott? “Not official?” And what does that mean, may I ask? In my day, if we were courting, we knew we was courting, and believe me, we knew just where we
was
. Now don't you bother, Miss Annabel, love. Cora's taking the men's tea up, which you may be sure ain't no bother for
her
, seeing as Willie Latch is along helping this afternoon. Go on in, then. I'll bring the trolley as soon as the tea's mashed, if you'll take the cakestand . . .'

Then there was Con, who came down unexpectedly from the hayfield, ostensibly impatient to welcome Julie, but curious, I knew, to see who had driven her down.

It was amusing to watch the meeting between him and Donald. We were quietly settled, waiting for Mrs Bates and the tea trolley, when Con walked in. He had presumably conformed by washing his hands, but he was still in his working clothes – old breeches, and a white shirt, short sleeved and open at the neck. He brought with him, into the rather charmingly old-fashioned room, the smell of sunshine and hay, and – it must be confessed – a faint tang of horses and outdoor, sunbaked sweat. He looked magnificent.

He greeted Donald with none of the curiosity that I knew he was feeling. If he had been wondering about Julie's new escort as a potential threat to his own position, the worry, I could see, was dispelled as soon as he entered the room, and saw the unobtrusive figure sitting quietly in the old-fashioned chintz-covered chair by the fireplace. I could also see, quite well, that he was pleased – as Donald rose to greet him – to find himself the taller of the two by at least three inches. The contrast between the two men was certainly remarkable, and I saw an odd expression in Julie's eyes as she watched them. Lisa's face, for once, was much more transparent: one almost expected to hear the proud, contented clucking with which the mother-hen regards the swan that she has just personally hatched. The only person in the room who seemed unconscious of Con's overwhelming physical splendour was Donald. He greeted the other man serenely, and then turned back to resume his conversation with me.

Grandfather came in then, followed immediately by Mrs Bates with the tea. The old man was using a stick, which I hadn't seen him do before, and I thought he looked more finely drawn than usual, with a waxy tinge to the skin.

‘Grandfather, it's lovely to see you!' Julie, as she rose to greet him, gave him a fond, anxious look. ‘How are you?'

‘Hm. You've controlled your anxiety remarkably well, haven't you? How long is it since you were here? Twelve months?'

‘Only ten,' said Julie. ‘Grandfather, this is Donald Seton. He's a London friend of mine who drove me up, such luck, and he's going to be up here all summer, working at West Woodburn.'

‘How d'ye do? Good of you to bring the child. Glad you could stay to tea. Working at West Woodburn, eh? What sort of work?'

As Donald answered, I noticed that Con, ostensibly talking to Julie, was listening carefully. Mrs Bates, lingering beside Lisa, hadn't taken her eyes off Donald.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bates,' said Lisa, pouring tea. ‘That's everything, I think . . . Annabel, I wonder if you'd help hand the cups?'

‘Let me, please,' said Donald quickly, getting to his feet. Con slanted a lazy look up at him, and stayed where he was.

Lisa – with great restraint – poured tea for Julie and Grandfather before she attended to Con, but when she did come to Con's cup, I noticed that she not only put sugar in, but even stirred it, before giving it to Donald to hand to him. Donald carried it across with no change of expression, and Con took it without even looking away from Julie, who was telling some story or other which involved a lot of laughter.

Mrs Bates had made no move to go, but busied herself rather ostentatiously, handing scones. The little black eyes had never left Donald.

‘London, eh?' This came as soon as he left his chair, and was detached, so to speak, from Grandfather's orbit. ‘So you've come up north for the summer, from what I hear?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what d'you think of the North?' This in the tone of a champion throwing down a rather well-worn glove. ‘I suppose you Londoners think we've not even got electric light in these parts yet?'

‘Haven't you?' said Donald, startled into a vague glance at the ceiling.

I said quickly: ‘Mrs Bates regards all Londoners as ignorant southerners who think the Arctic Circle begins at Leeds, or something.'

‘One wonders,' put in Julie from the sofa, ‘if they mayn't be right, sometimes. Not this year, it's been heaven
everywhere
.'

‘Even here?' said Grandfather, rather drily.

I saw a glance pass, like a spark across points, between Con and Lisa.

I said quickly: ‘Betsy, dear, Mr Seton isn't a southerner, really; he's from Scotland.'

‘Oh?' She appeared only slightly mollified. ‘I've never been up in them parts. But you
live
in London, like?'

‘Yes, I've got rooms there. But I usually spend the summer somewhere out on a – well, in the country. This year I'm at West Woodburn.'

‘For the whole summer?' I hoped the calculating glance that Mrs Bates shot at Julie wasn't as obvious to him as it was to me. But she underlined it. ‘How long are
you
staying, Julie?'