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Authors: Marcia Willett

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BOOK: Second Time Around
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‘Come on,' he said. ‘It's not that bad.'
Tessa wrinkled her nose, shrugged and then quite suddenly found herself telling him about Mathilda's legacy, Cousin Pauline and the tragic loss of her parents and her brother. She told him about her nightmares, how she'd started dog-sitting and how she thought she might die if she couldn't live in the house in the cove. Giles listened in silence, his eyes on her face. Kate had already told him something about her and he felt an old-fashioned urge to be allowed to look after her; to protect her. Whilst she talked he restrained these out-of-date feelings and poured himself more coffee.
‘So you see,' said Tessa, sighing heavily, ‘I just can't see how it can possibly work. I telephoned James Barrington—he's the lawyer—yesterday, and he says that he's had a letter from one of the others instructing him to sell. She doesn't even want to see the house. I begged him to ask her at least to look at it and he's agreed to give it a try.'
‘It's a bit odd, isn't it?' he asked. ‘Leaving it to three people. I agree with you. How
could
it possibly work, apart from selling it?'
‘I wish I could buy them out,' said Tessa wistfully, ‘but it seems to be worth rather a lot. I'm hoping that the other two might like to use it for holidays and I could live there between jobs.'
‘Could it be divided into three?' asked Giles. ‘And what about this cottage?'
Kate, looking through the glass panel in the door, saw the two heads close together and gave a sigh of satisfaction. She decided that she might have a browse in the little shop; perhaps buy a card or two or some mugs. No need to disturb them yet; there was at least another ten minutes before they had to leave.
 
 
BEATRICE HOLMES—WHO HAD ceased to be Matron for two whole months—sat listening to the rain drumming on the conservatory roof whilst Norah's voice drummed just as relentlessly in her ears.
‘ …and so I told him that I thought it was quite disgraceful. A whole three pence overnight! Of course, he cheeked me. “Everything goes up,” he said. “I have to cover my costs.” Well, you can imagine. “Cover your costs!” I said …'
Bea fiddled restlessly with the letter in her lap and wondered at what point Norah had become so penny-pinching. She had arrived to teach English at the preparatory school in Dorset when Bea had been Matron for five years or so. In the heavily male-dominated society they had automatically drawn together and, when Norah married and moved into Hampshire, they had remained good friends. Each summer Bea had spent some part of the holidays with her and Bernard, and they had always joked about how they would be tiresome old ladies together. She had sympathised with Norah's irritations at Bernard's feckless ways; his extravagance, his generosity to the undeserving, his tendency to pop round to the pub. He had always effaced himself, leaving the two of them to their own devices, but in the last two months Bea had begun to realise that it must have been no self-sacrifice on Bernard's part.
‘ …of course, the man's a saint but how on earth he puts up with it I can't imagine. She never leaves him alone for a minute and when I
found her there fiddling with the flowers although she knows
quite
well it's
my
week …'
Norah had passed along from the supermarket to the church with its long-suffering vicar and her archenemy, Miss Knowles. Bea thought regretfully of the little flat near the school. It had been snapped up two days before she—rendered brave by the thought of her inheritance—put in her own offer. There was nothing else that appealed to her that she could afford and she had given in to Norah's pleas for company. Bea had insisted on a trial run. Now, she gave thanks that she'd had the foresight.
‘ …The standard's dropped quite shockingly. “Tea bags,” I said. “I never thought to see that here.” Oh, they trotted out the usual excuses …'
Norah had come to rest in the tearoom and Bea decided that she should stay there for the present. She smoothed out the letter and got to her feet.
‘Where are you off to?' Norah eyed the letter. ‘Something wrong?'
‘No, no,' answered Bea soothingly. ‘It's the lawyers again. Asking me to go to see them. They're suggesting that I might like to look at the house.'
‘But you've told them to get on and sell it,' protested Norah. ‘Surely they don't expect you to go all the way to the West Country to look at a house that's going to be sold?'
Bea racked her brain for inspiration. ‘The thing is,' she said mendaciously, ‘that there might be one or two of my cousin's things that I should like to have as keepsakes. He's suggesting that I have a look before the sale.'
‘But you didn't know her,' objected Norah. ‘How can you have a keepsake of someone you don't know?'
Bea was visited by an urge to see how Norah would look wearing a potful of geraniums but resisted this unworthy impulse and smiled instead.
‘Well, you know what I mean. There might be one or two valuable things that I should like …'
‘I should have thought the money would be more useful. I've been thinking. Supposing we build a small extension on at the side beyond the kitchen? You know you were saying that we should have a sitting room each …'
‘Let's wait and see what happens,' said Bea quickly. ‘That's why I thought I'd go down and see the place. It's really not that far and it will give us a better idea of what I can afford.'
‘I suppose so,' said Norah grudgingly. ‘Look.' She brightened a little. ‘Why don't I come with you? Make a holiday of it. I haven't been to Devon for years. Bernard always liked decent weather and it does rain so down there. Why not, Bea? You can go any time, can't you? Let's go together.'
‘It sounds a wonderful idea … but it has to be next week,' lied Bea with an ease born of desperation. ‘This whoever-he-is,' she waved the letter, ‘is going on holiday.' Lie followed lie. ‘Next week's a busy one for you, isn't it? You've got Townswomen's Guild and meals-on-wheels. And haven't you invited Andrew Owen to lunch after decorating the church for Harvest Festival?' Andrew was the vicar and Norah was silent. Bea, scenting victory, shrugged a little. ‘Of course, Miss Knowles could take your turn at the WVS and I'm sure she'll be more than happy to feed Andrew. Still …'
Norah bridled a little in her chair. ‘Do you have to see this particular chap?' she asked peevishly. ‘Surely there are other members of the firm who can take you round the house?'
Bea breathed heavily through her nose and resorted to further untruths. ‘It seems my two cousins will be there, too,' she said, wondering if it was thirty-odd years in the close proximity to little boys which enabled the lies to roll so convincingly from her lips. ‘He's suggested that it's sensible for us to be there together so as to ensure fair play.'
‘Oh well.' Norah looked annoyed. ‘Then I suppose there's nothing
to be done. I can't leave poor Andrew to Miss Knowles's tender mercies …'
Bea made her escape, feeling as though she had been let off detention.
‘Oh, Bernard,' she muttered into the ether as she went to her room to find her writing pad, ‘I'm sorry I said those things about you.'
 
AS SHE SAT IN the train travelling west, Bea thought about Tony Priest and wondered how soon she might find another suitable flat in the town near the school. She knew now that she could not possibly consider spending the rest of her life with Norah. She began to think that she had never really known her at all. In those early days they'd been on several holidays together as well as seeing each other daily at school but Bea wondered if the friendship would have survived if it had been formed in any other environment. It was only to be expected that, over the years, they should have grown apart and to imagine they could live together had probably been madness. A few weeks together each year was one thing; the rest of their lives together was quite another.
Bea gazed out over the Exe estuary. The September day was misty and the silvery sea, creeping in over the mud flats, merged with the soft grey sky. She leaned forward to watch a group of dunlin running before the tide; to smile at the sight of a heron hunched in solitary contemplation. A sense of peace stole into her soul and she settled back contentedly, deciding to enjoy her little holiday. The lawyer had written to her offering to meet her at the station in Plymouth but she had refused, saying that she would take a taxi to his office. There was no earthly reason why she should go to see the house but there might very well be a few items of furniture that would be useful if she were going to be setting up in her own flat. Her thoughts drifted back to Tony Priest but she forgot him when the train pulled in at Dawlish and she saw seagulls perched on the breakwaters and the sea breaking
against the great sandstone rocks. It was years since she had made this journey and she gave herself up to the pleasure of recognising certain landmarks.
As the train approached Plymouth, Bea put on the jacket of her grey flannel suit, checked the contents of her handbag for the lawyer's letter and lifted her small case from the rack. She was one of the first off the train and the first into a taxi. The offices of Murchison, Marriott were situated in one of the city's Georgian crescents and Bea looked at the tall house approvingly as she paid the driver. Inside, at the reception desk, a young woman telephoned the news of her arrival and led her upstairs. She opened the door and smilingly bade Bea enter.
‘Good afternoon,' James leaped up to greet her and then paused as Bea turned from thanking the receptionist and fixed him with a piercing, assessing stare. The years swung back and he found that he was hastily smoothing down his hair and surreptitiously wiping the toes of his shoes down the backs of his trouser legs. ‘Good grief,' said James involuntarily. ‘It's Matron!'
 
ISOBEL BUMPED DOWN THE track towards the cove feeling tired and irritable. The day at the bookshop had started badly when she found the brewer's lorry parked outside The Hermitage, blocking Mill Street whilst the driver sat enjoying a cup of coffee in the bar. This amiable young man nodded cheerfully at her and said that he would call her when he had finished unloading. Cursing, Isobel left the Morris—Mathilda's bequest to her—parked behind the lorry and hastened into the shop. The day had gone from bad to worse. She had been driven to curtness by a customer who wanted a book on gardening without knowing its title, the author, or its publisher but was convinced that Isobel
must
know which book it was because it had been so well reviewed. At lunchtime she lost her purse—although it was found and dropped into the shop just before closing time—and later in the afternoon she was ticked off by a mother for reproving her child who was pulling books off the shelves and dropping them on the
floor. The door banged behind mother and child and, with a speaking glance at Pat and Laura, one of the two regular assistants, Isobel went through to the back of the shop to make coffee. The return of her purse cheered her a little but she was glad to get out into the fresh air of the early autumn evening.
She knew that it was tension that was making her so crotchety. Will, who was staying at the Royal Castle in Dartmouth, had made it clear that he was unwilling to sell the house and James had written to Tessa to tell her so. Unfortunately, having no other point of contact, he wrote to the house in Cobbold Road where the letter sat with her other post until she should return. Meanwhile Tessa was in Wales, dog-sitting two Weimaraners, longing to telephone James but afraid of being a nuisance or of hearing unpalatable news. Isobel also knew that, as a result of Tessa's pleadings, James had agreed to write to Beatrice Holmes again with the suggestion that she might like to choose some keepsake from amongst Mathilda's belongings, and in the hope that she might fall in love with the house whilst she was so engaged.
As she turned the Morris into its usual parking place she saw that James's car was already parked at the bottom of the track. She climbed out and stood undecidedly near the door into the kitchen remembering how she would once have gone in, shouting cheerfully to Mathilda, drawing curtains, checking that Mathilda had eaten her lunch. Swallowing hard she stared out to sea, watching the breakers crash against the shelf of sand and thinking of past evenings by the study fire playing Scrabble. The sound of a car's engine made itself heard above the sound of the surf and she turned to see Will's hired car pulling in beside James's Peugeot.
Her heart lifted at the sight of his cheerful countenance and raised hand, and she went to meet him, her loneliness abating a little.
‘Have you met her?' he called with a conspiratorial glance towards the house. ‘What's she like?'
‘Met who?' Isobel began to feel excited. ‘Is she here? The schoolteacher? '
‘James phoned to say she arrived yesterday,' he told her. ‘She's come down to see if there's anything she wants. Clever ruse, that.'
‘But even if she likes the place,' argued Isobel, ‘what then? Could you all squash in together?'
‘Well, I can't afford to buy her out,' said Will gloomily. ‘I had no idea it would be so valuable. It's fifty years behind the times inside.'
‘It's the position,' said Isobel, equally gloomily. ‘If you sell it the developers will move in. Oh, I can't bear it!'
Will smiled at her encouragingly. The whole affair had made him feel years younger. He had spent the last two weeks exploring the area and he was becoming more and more attached to the beautiful South Hams. One day he and Isobel had taken a picnic up on to Dartmoor. She had navigated, showing him the thickly wooded river valleys and the high bleak uplands with their outcrops of granite. There were still a great many holidaymakers about and, unable to find a quiet place to park, they had abandoned the idea of the picnic and Isobel had directed him to the small grey moorland town of Chagford where they had lunched in the Ring O' Bells, looking out over the market square. Afterwards they drove down to Fernworthy Reservoir, a tiny shining lake hidden amongst tall encircling pines, and had walked at the edge of the water and watched the mallard paddling idly in the reeds. Later, Will fetched the hamper and they drank their coffee at one of the picnic tables, nibbling the buns that Isobel had made. The sun was hot, dazzling from the surface of the reservoir where a rowing boat rocked quietly as its occupant bent over his rod.
Isobel talked non-stop about Mathilda until Will gradually built up a shadowy picture of his cousin and had become even more determined to hold on to her house in the cove. They discussed ways and means of dividing the house so that he and Tessa could share it and had almost discounted the third beneficiary until they learned the value of the house and cottage.
Now, as they stood together on the beach, Isobel smiled back at him. His silvery grey hair, like Mathilda's, was always ruffled and slightly
untidy and he had an eager look which gave her confidence and hope. The door opened and James appeared followed by a tall well-built woman in a grey suit. Her glance at them was keen and Will instinctively dropped his arm lightly round Isobel's shoulders as they moved forward to meet her. James was looking surprisingly cheerful and Isobel's spirits rose as she shook the woman's hand.
BOOK: Second Time Around
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ads

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