Second Time Around (19 page)

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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Second Time Around
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‘Certainly old, anyway,' snapped Bea rudely—and tried desperately to control her uprush of anger. ‘We've known each other for many years.'
With a look of patient resignation, Marian turned to the tea-tray. Her glance at Will said that, whatever kind of friend he was, he had her sympathy. Will tried to look non-committal. She began to deal with the tea.
‘The thing is,' said Bea, sitting upright on the cretonne, ‘I've really come to say goodbye.'
She paused whilst Marian continued to pour, head politely inclined, waiting for Bea to continue. Bea glanced at Will who sent her a tiny wink. Encouraged, she cast around for inspiration.
‘I'm so glad,' said Marian fatally, ‘that you saw the wisdom about not remaining in the town.' She smiled at Will. ‘Don't you agree, Mr er, Rainbird, that it is better to make a clean cut when certain parts of our lives come to an end? I'm sure you see the wisdom in Bea making a new life for herself. You can imagine how hard it would be for her to be on the edge of a community that she has served so faithfully.'
‘Don't talk about me as if I'm deaf, Marian,' said Bea, irritation returning. ‘Don't do that “Does she take sugar?” stuff.'
Marian passed her a cup, her lips tightening. Will absently patted his pocket for his pipe but, remembering where he was, took a cup of tea instead. She looked at him meaningly but he was afraid to smile back lest Bea should see and misinterpret his smile. He busied himself with the sugar bowl.
‘I had no intention of upsetting you, Bea,' said Marian, maintaining her saintly air of tolerance. ‘I have been very worried for you. Though you mayn't believe it, I have your welfare very much at heart.' She looked at Will. ‘It will probably come as no surprise to you, Mr er Rainbird,' (‘Oh, for goodness' sake call him Will,' said Bea, ‘and have done!') ‘that Bea has been a somewhat unconventional, if extremely popular, matron. If I may venture such a remark without being taken to task again.' She shot an unfriendly glance at Bea and smiled again upon Will. ‘Naturally we are all concerned for her future.'
‘I'm very gratified to hear it,' said Bea acidly, ‘though I'm sure you'll understand when I say that it comes as a bit of a surprise. Anyway,
there's no need to concern yourselves further. I'm delighted to tell you that I've inherited a considerable estate in Devon and I'm moving down there. In fact I have already moved. I'm sure, given your anxiety for my welfare, that you noticed that I wasn't about over Christmas or the New Year.'
Marian, who had come to attention at the words ‘considerable estate' ignored the jibe. She goggled at her. ‘An estate? But who … I didn't realise that you had …' She stopped.
Bea grinned evilly. ‘You didn't know that I had respectable relations? Landed gentry, even? No, neither did I. I am as surprised as you are, dear Marian. However, it solves the question of my future. I must be in Devon to oversee it.'
‘I see.' Marian looked dumbstruck. ‘And er, Will. Are you …?'
‘Oh, I come with it, d'you see?' said Will easily, avoiding Bea's anxious eye. ‘A kind of factor or land agent. She has to put up with me, too, I'm afraid.'
‘I think she's extraordinarily fortunate to have you,' she answered crisply. ‘So tell me.' She settled more cosily into her chair, trying to hide her envy, ‘where exactly is this estate? How large is it?' She laughed a little, making big eyes at Will. ‘We shall expect an invitation, you know. What fun! I don't know Devon too well.'
Will inhaled heavily through his nose and sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. ‘It's on the south coast,' he said casually. ‘Tucked right away by the sea. Difficult to find.'
‘This is so exciting. A considerable estate, you said. Is the big house in good order? How much land …?'
‘It's in very good order,' said Bea recklessly. ‘Much too big for me, really. Will has a little cottage in the grounds. And there's a dower house in the private cove with a cottage for staff and a boathouse …' She gulped at her tea.
‘Well!' Marian closed her mouth which had been hanging open during these revelations. ‘Well, I must say. We shall look forward to visiting you. Now where … ?'
Will shot his cuff and looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, Bea. We really ought to be on our way.'
Bea jumped to her feet. ‘Absolutely. Look, we'll pop in later, Marian. We've got to collect my bits from the flat …'
 
‘SORRY,' SHE MUMBLED LATER to Will as they drove back to Devon. They had left a message for Marian saying that they'd had to rush away, lest she should demand an address or a telephone number. ‘I warned you that I might behave badly.'
‘I think you were splendid,' said Will. He pulled hastily into the inside lane as a Mercedes snarled past, its driver gesticulating rudely. ‘Perfectly ghastly woman.'
‘I don't know why you had to go kissing her hand,' grumbled Bea, staring out at Somerset.
‘Neither do I,' admitted Will guiltily. ‘It just came over me. She unnerved me, standing up there on the steps …'
Bea glanced sideways at him, his hair rumpled, his slate-blue eyes fixed anxiously on the road, and was filled with remorse. ‘You were terrific,' she said. ‘I behaved shockingly. She always brings out the worst in me.'
‘“considerable estate”,' quoted Will, beginning to grin. ‘“Dower house in the cove”, “cottage for the staff”.'
‘Don't!' said Bea guiltily—and burst into hearty laughter. ‘Her face,' she moaned. ‘Her face when I was telling her!'
‘And what's all this about being unconventional?' he asked, settling down to a steady fifty, which was all the Morris was capable of doing comfortably. ‘We have an hour or so before us. New readers start here …'
 
 
ISOBEL WATCHED THE GROWING friendship between Bea and Will with interest. Occasionally Bea was seized with fits of independence and would fret at Will's refusal to be hurried or bullied. Will allowed these moments to wash over him and would carry on with the job in hand whilst Bea betook herself to the cliffs or the lane to walk off her irritation. The domestic decisions were generally taken, however, with very little difficulty or friction.
Having settled the sleeping quarters to everyone's satisfaction the next question was one of a shower room for Will. It was Tessa who insisted that it was unfair that he should have to wait his turn for the women to use the bathroom and that it would be fairer all round if a shower unit could be put in beside the lavatory behind the kitchen. This was undeniably true and so it was costed out and the three of them voted that it should be done as soon as possible. Another problem was how the bills should be divided. It was obviously unfair that Tessa should pay as much as the other two but she wanted to pay her share on the upkeep of the house and on its improvements.
Isobel could understand that; it made Tessa feel that the house was truly hers and that she had a say in it. She came back to the cove between jobs as often as she could and fitted in as easily as if she had never been away. Isobel wondered if the reason why it all worked so well was because the three of them made no emotional demands on each other. It was like being aboard a small ship; each assigned his
various tasks for the wellbeing of their small community but with no messy, emotional muddles.
‘It's not the same as being married,' she told Will, as they walked on the beach one wild March evening. ‘You can argue and discuss and do your own thing and no one gets uptight. Not in the same way that husbands and wives do, or lovers. You know what I mean?'
‘I think that's true,' he agreed. ‘The problem within an emotional relationship is that both parties need to feel that they are put first. You get the “what about me?” syndrome.'
‘That's so true,' sighed Isobel. ‘But what's the answer?'
‘The answer must be that each trusts the other to put him—or her—first.'
Isobel paused for a moment to watch the waves thundering in across the sand. They were both shouting to make themselves heard above the boom of the surf. Will thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked far out where the white horses hid the horizon. A gust of wind buffeted them and they braced themselves against its force.
‘It's all a question of trust,' said Will, as they turned towards the house. ‘You need to feel safe. To be able to say, “I don't have to worry about myself because my partner is doing that for me. This leaves me free to look after her—or him,” d'you see?'
‘You must have had a pretty good marriage,' said Isobel, as they reached the warmth and silence of the kitchen. Bea and Will had invited her to supper and inviting smells issued from the aged Rayburn. She put her hands to her ears which still seemed to be ringing with the sound of the wind and the sea. ‘That's a very idealistic approach to a relationship.'
‘I didn't say that I had achieved it,' he said cautiously as he followed her upstairs. ‘I was answering your question about the “what about me?” syndrome. You don't have to worry about “me” if someone else is doing it for you.'
‘Most marriages are the reverse.' Isobel, entering the sitting room, had to resist the urge to draw the curtains or put a log on the fire. So
little had changed that she still half expected to see Mathilda sitting in her chair, reading. ‘More like open warfare.'
‘I think that married people do often regard their partner as an enemy. Someone to be outwitted. There is a kind of triumph if one wins a skirmish or dupes the other. A desire to win points or to use emotional blackmail. It seems to be a series of battles rather than a love affair.' He watched her thoughtfully, wondering if this was a moment for a confidence. It was at such times that he learned about her life. ‘Was your marriage like that? A series of battles?'
‘Oh no.' She came to sit on the low stool beside the fire, staring into the flames. ‘We rarely quarrelled. Simon is very sweet-tempered and certainly put me first. The trouble was that I am a restless kind of person. I took him for granted.' She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. ‘I'm the kind of person that likes to stir things up. If the water gets too peaceful I heave in a bloody great rock just to see what will happen.'
She glanced around and sighed with satisfaction. It was good to be here. The Scrabble board was in evidence on the small fireside table and, in the corner of the sitting room, a jigsaw puzzle was spread out on the gate-leg table. It was Bea who did the jigsaw puzzle. ‘Bringing order out of chaos,' as James described it on his last visit to the cove. ‘Just like being Matron. She needs something to organise.'
It was evident that she was delighted to see him; that his reference to her as ‘Matron' brought back happy memories. They talked about the boys and recalled amusing incidents.
‘Of course,' Bea had said thoughtfully, ‘I should have guessed that James was destined to be a lawyer. From a small boy he liked things to be explained very clearly to him and he always abided by the letter of the law. The rule stated that on Sunday mornings each boy must put a clean handkerchief in his suit pocket. Towards the end of term I noticed that James seemed to have lost most of his handkerchiefs. As I watched him in chapel one morning I saw that he was getting quite portly. He looked like a baby Michelin man. Afterwards I examined
his suit. He had ten handkerchiefs crammed about his person, all quite clean and unused. He had obeyed the rule exactly.'
James had laughed with the rest and Isobel smiled as she remembered the story. She wondered where Bea was; probably in the study. It was she who had suggested that the study should be a ‘quiet room'. It was impossible for each of them to have a private sitting room and, whilst they could go to their bedrooms if they wished to be private, it was agreed that the study should be a place where letters could be written or peace and quiet could be found. A notice bearing the words ‘In Use' was made ready to be hung on the door handle at the appropriate times.
‘We must hope,' Will had said to Isobel, ‘that we don't all want to be quiet at once.'
Isobel listened to the wind howling round the house. No longer did she tuck up in the spare room with a hot-water bottle on these wild nights. She felt quite certain that no one would have minded if she used Tessa's room but she would never have asked. In many ways she felt that she no longer belonged as she had when Mathilda was alive. After Bea's arrival she had continued to do a certain amount of work about the house but Bea was not happy at watching Isobel work whilst she looked on; nor did she need Isobel to shop for her. Isobel began to feel nervous that she would soon be redundant. She did not know that Will had intervened on her behalf. He had explained to Bea on what terms Isobel had the cottage; Bea looked thoughtful, frowning a little.
‘I think that Mathilda would have wanted us to honour her agreement,' he added, looking unhappily at Bea's stern face. ‘I don't think she can afford the rent, d'you see?'
‘I understand that,' said Bea, ‘but it goes against the grain to be idle while someone works round me. I'm not that old yet.'
‘I know that,' said Will pacifically. ‘But we have to think about Isobel's pride.'
‘Do we?' asked Bea sharply. ‘I don't quite see that Isobel's pride is my problem.'
Will felt the tiny frisson of anxiety that he always experienced when Bea's antagonism surfaced; there had been several moments when he had felt the need to tread warily.
‘I think it might become our problem if she were to leave,' he said, ‘and we had some stranger living in the cottage.'
‘So what do you suggest?' Bea's voice was cool.
‘I don't know.' He shook his head. ‘She knows that she's not earning her keep, so to speak. She suggested leaving when we first arrived but I really do feel that in such a small community our neighbour is terribly important to us. And she was very good to Mathilda. We mustn't overlook that. I should hate to appear ungrateful.'
‘I can't quite see why
you
need be grateful,' said Bea, shrugging a little. ‘I think we should keep things in proportion. Isobel did a job for which she was paid, in kind. Mathilda left her the Morris as a sign of gratitude. If Mathilda had wished her to live rent-free in the cottage no doubt she would have left her that, too.'
‘That's true.' Will tried to keep calm. He knew that his personal feelings for Isobel coloured the situation but he also knew that championing of her cause would only antagonise Bea further. ‘Would you prefer to let the cottage to someone else who could afford to pay rent?'
‘I agree with you that it is better to have someone we know and like at the cottage,' said Bea at last. ‘What I can't understand is why Isobel should not try to find some other employment and so be able to pay her rent. It is clear that her arrangement with Mathilda no longer works with us. I see no reason why she should not work on the days when she is not at the bookshop. Even if she paid a nominal rent it would be better for her self-respect and better for us, too. Our pensions are not so enormous as to allow us to be foolishly philanthropic.'
‘I think that's perfectly fair,' said Will after a moment's silence. ‘In Isobel's defence I would merely say that I think she has been waiting to see how things worked out with us. If we don't require her help then I shall put it to her that she tries to find some other employment and that she pays a nominal rent until she can afford the full amount. I think she will do her best to do that. She doesn't want to be a parasite.'
‘I have never thought that she did.' Bea coloured a little, feeling that he was accusing her of being hard-hearted. ‘But I really think that it would be the best solution. There must be something she can do. She's a bright intelligent woman.'
‘I'll talk to her,' said Will. He had done so at the first opportunity.
Now, watching him as he filled his pipe, Isobel felt her heart warm towards him. How kind and tactful he had been to her on that occasion! She remembered how frightened she had felt. Here was change indeed. The house in the cove was no longer her second home; to wander about in, cook in, draw the curtains and make up the fire. With Bea's arrival there had been a subtle change. Although Will made it clear that Isobel's friendship was important, and he included her as much as he could, she missed those early days when it had been just her and Will in the cove. It had almost been like having Mathilda back. She liked Bea, however, and when Will told her how unkind Marian Goodbody had been Isobel, who knew how it felt to be rejected, had secretly sympathised with Bea's resentment and loneliness.
She could see, however, that things must change and she was grateful that they did not wish her to leave and were prepared to be very generous about the rent. She started once again to apply for the very few teaching posts that were advertised but, although she was once shortlisted, she was never offered a post. Eventually she managed to find a job working the lunchtime shift in one of the local pubs at the weekends and two days a week, and thus was able to squeeze a small amount of rent out of her earnings. Now, when she came to the house, she came as a guest and was careful not to wander in unannounced. She had invited Bea to the cottage for lunch and had found her an amusing, if
forthright, companion and Isobel was determined not to rock any boats.
As she stared into the flames she wondered if, once she heard that Simon and Sally were married, she would feel some kind of change in her own life. It was as if she were afraid to leave the cove and the safety it represented—or was it because she still hoped that Simon might yet change his mind and that he and Helen would be restored to her …?
‘Penny?' Will was watching her.
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Not worth that much, I'm afraid.'
She wondered why she never found his questions intrusive; perhaps it was because she felt that he really cared about her. When Will listened she felt that he really
heard
what she was saying. He thought about it and genuinely entered into her fears and ideas. So many friends listened with half an ear, her problems merely striking a chord in their own breasts so that, when she'd finished, their response was invariably, ‘Oh, I know
exactly
what you mean. When I was …' and she knew that they weren't really interested in helping her but had been waiting for the opportunity to tell their own story. Or, ‘I know
just
how you feel.' Whilst she was grateful at this attempt to sympathise she had an urge to scream, ‘No you
don't
! How I feel is unique to me. Please respect it. Try to understand me.' Even worse was the flat, ‘Tell me about it,' which Isobel always saw as a put down; as a ‘I've been through all that and far worse than you could be suffering it. You can't tell me anything about pain … or loss … or loneliness … or being broke …' or whatever it was that she had been about to communicate. ‘Tell me about it' always shut her up at once. She had a fear that her own problems had been brought about by her own selfishness and that she really had no right to sympathy. To have Will to talk to was a tremendous luxury.

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