The Way We Were (18 page)

Aunt Em smiles. ‘So did I. Odd, isn't it?'

‘Yes. And rather nice. Of course, Julia's family were wonderful to me. I can't tell you how I loved being with them. It's difficult to explain to Julia because it was natural for her but, though there were arguments and noise and all the hurly-burly of family life, there was none of those terrible undercurrents and tensions of my own life. It was so
normal
and utter heaven. And now she's rescued me again. They'll never know, any of them, what they've done for me. The trouble is, in some way it just adds to my own sense of inadequacy. One doesn't want to have to go through life being rescued.'

‘It wasn't your fault that Tom died,' says Em. ‘That kind of tragedy can happen to anybody. At least you have his child.'

‘But can't you see that in some ways that makes it much worse? Oh, I want my baby, of course I do, but I feel that I've already set the pattern for her – or his – life and it won't be the one I always dreamed of: no father, no happy normal family. The headmistress where I taught showed me exactly how it's going to be for the future. I'm hardening myself to it a bit but you can see the reaction in people's faces, and it's not just the older ones. With some people it's simply embarrassment rather than disapproval. They can't just enthuse in the way they would if there were a father on the scene. It's like when Tom died. Nobody quite knows what to say to you so they avoid you if they can. It's very isolating.'

‘I'm so sorry,' says Em gently. ‘You're quite right. I'm taking a very narrow view because I longed so much to have Archie's child. You get to the point when you think it would be worth anything to have a child: it becomes an obsession. All you see are pregnant women or mothers with small children and you'd sacrifice anything to be one of their number. I take your point. If there's anything we can do to help in any way you must ask.'

Tiggy smiles. ‘I might take you up on that. I spend hours wondering how I shall be able to earn a living for us both. Julia, bless her, says that she'll look after the baby while I'm working, but I'm not sure I could ask her to take on such a responsibility. Anyway, she probably only said it because the ghastly Angela was being nosy.'

Em's expression changes: her smile fades and she looks serious. ‘Angela? She's a bad girl,' she says.

Tiggy stares at her in surprise. ‘How do you mean, bad? Julia said that she had a bit of a fling with Pete before they got together and she likes to rub it in.'

‘I don't trust her,' says Em. ‘Angela's not the kind of woman who likes being dropped – well, nobody does, of course – and she's still trying to hurt Julia.'

‘I think Julia's afraid of her,' says Tiggy anxiously, after a pause.

‘With good cause,' says Em grimly.

The next day Tiggy drives herself to Tintagel, parks near the church and walks out across Glebe Cliff with the dogs. The castle has ceased to be the object of her interest; instead she is drawn to the cliffs and to the sea, though she looks back from time to time towards Tintagel Island and the dark entrance to Merlin's Cave. On this hot May day the water is clear green and dark purple, colours that remind her of a jockey's silks. Making her cautious way out between the bright-flowered gorse bushes to a little patch of smooth granite at the edge of the cliff, she finds she can look down, far down, to where the waves cream against the sheer rock face. Mesmerized, she stares downwards, inexplicably drawn to the clear aquamarine depths, feeling a little dizzy, almost light-headed: how welcoming the sea looks, how calm. It would be so simple to take that one last step into its infinite embrace.

A bird flies up, almost into her face, and she screams, moving back on to the grass, her feet slipping so that she sits down for safety and almost overbalances. She cries out again in fright, clutching at the coarse tufted grass, and the dogs bark frantically, their paws scrabbling amongst the loose stones on the slope above her. She inches back carefully, mocking herself for a fool, until she reaches safer ground where the dogs lick her face and she hugs them, trembling a little and giving herself time to recover.

Later, after a long walk along the cliffs with her eyes fixed towards the west, beyond Port Isaac Bay to The Mouls, she sits drinking coffee with the van door open to the sunshine and the dogs curled at her feet. A large black bird with red legs drifts upwards into view at the cliff's edge and she wonders if it might be a chough: perhaps it is the bird that brought her to her senses.

Tiggy shivers. Presently she turns to look across at the Norman church, with its strong square tower, and suddenly is moved to inspect it more closely. Its dramatic setting in the huge churchyard high on the cliff has already made a great impact upon her but now she decides to go inside. She shuts the dogs in the van with plenty of water and the windows partly open, and crosses to the lich-gate. There is no thatched roof to protect the coffin-bearers from the rain but she pauses for a moment with her hand on the long coffin stone and then walks slowly up to the porch.

Inside, she is instantly aware of the powerful, soul-moving atmosphere created by more than a thousand years of worship and prayer, and shaken by the sense of light and peace. Her glance takes in the massive stone font, upheld at each of its four corners by curving serpents, and at the crude heads carved between them; the figure of St Christopher with the Holy Child on his shoulder, set in a niche opposite the door; the sweep of the high arched beams above her. She makes her way up the aisle and sits down in a pew, staring at the rood screen, but taking nothing in except the need to sit for a moment and be silent.

Here, the conviction she's felt on the moors and out on the cliffs comes to her even more strongly: it seems that the deaths of Tom and her grandmother have given eternity the opportunity to break through the earthly barriers between life and death, bringing them close to her and offering courage and hope. She tries to pray for them, and for herself and her child, but no words will come – and, in the end, it seems unimportant. She is held in a silent communion in which no words are needed and presently she lights two votive candles, one for Tom and one for her grandmother, and then goes back out into the sunlit, wind-raked spaces of cliff and sea and sky.

That night Tiggy dreams again, the same dream: once again she seems to be present in the dream whilst at the same time watching what is happening. Tom is there, and Julia, and the shadowy third person who holds out the baby and says: ‘Her name is Claerwen, Clare for short.'

She wakes suddenly, just as she is stretching out her arms to take the baby, and lies huddled in the dark, trying to adjust to reality and feeling bereft. Knowing that she will not be able to go back to sleep for a while, she sits up and switches on the bedside light: nearly four o'clock. Tiggy groans, pulls on her dressing gown and pushes her feet into sheepskin moccasins. The Turk raises her head, watching Tiggy from the comfort of the bed, reluctant to stir unless it is absolutely necessary. Bella, sleeping in the old Lloyd Loom chair, stirs and stretches but makes no attempt to move.

Tiggy goes out on to the landing and down the stairs; before the kettle has boiled, both dogs arrive in the kitchen, slightly puzzled but expectant. She gives each of them a biscuit, makes tea and sits down at the table. Her gaze takes in the big, warm room, which is so similar to the kitchen in Julia's home in Hampshire and so central to family life: Charlie's high chair strung about with toys and teething rings, Andy's Fisher Price aeroplane, which has landed on the deep granite windowseat, Liv's
Milly-Molly-Mandy
books piled on the dresser. On the arm of the sofa lies Julia's discarded knitting: a jersey for Liv in chunky multicoloured wool, the several pieces rolled up and pierced by two thick wooden needles. On the wall by the fridge hangs a plastic notice board on which Julia jots her shopping list or special dates or things to be taken to playschool. A series of postcards tracing Pete's Mediterranean journey – Gibraltar, Toulon, Naples, Athens, Malta – are stuck round its edges. Across one corner he's written: ‘I love my Mrs B.' At some point Julia has responded with: ‘I love you too.'

Tiggy thinks: I wish Trescairn was my house. Mine and Tom's.

The thought triggers a memory. One evening, driving through the lanes from Blisland, she pulled the van close in against the hedge and stopped so as to allow a rider on a nervous horse to approach and pass. As she sat waiting, she glanced across the escallonia hedge into the cottage garden beyond. It was a pretty garden, somewhat overgrown and neglected, though it was clear that attempts were being made to tidy it up. Bedding plants, still in their pots, stood in a row beneath the open window beside a newly dug bed, and on the small patch of worn grass a young man was busy at work, rubbing down an old pine table. The front door was open to a cosy, cluttered interior and, as Tiggy watched, a girl appeared carrying two mugs. The young man straightened up, smiling with relief and pleasure at the interruption. He took his mug and, having kissed the girl with great tenderness, they both turned to look with tremendous pride at the table. As they leaned together in the doorway, Tiggy saw that the girl was expecting a child.

She was gripped with an agonizing sense of loss: she and Tom would never share such a happy, loving moment; never build a home together for their child. The pain was so intense that, even though the horse and its rider had passed, she was unable to put the van in gear and drive on; only when she saw that the young couple had become aware of the stationary vehicle and were staring curiously did she pull herself together and drive away.

Now, remembering, she finishes her tea and wonders if she should have a biscuit: anything to distract from the memory. Another memory rises in her mind's eye: a picture of them all sitting round the table in the middle of the night and Julia missing Pete and saying: ‘Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could be four years old again and have all our problems solved by the prospect of a chocolate biscuit?'

For no particular reason, Tiggy thinks about Angela and what Aunt Em said.

‘I'm afraid of her,' Julia admitted – and Aunt Em said, ‘With good cause.'

Tiggy's stomach tenses with anxiety and she stares at the notice board for courage.

‘I love my Mrs B.' ‘I love you too.'

She recalls the expression on Pete's face when he gave Julia the bottle of scent, and other gestures she's witnessed since, and shakes her head: it is impossible that Pete should be unfaithful to Julia with Angela. To begin with, the two girls are so unalike. Angela is thin as a pin, always chic, with sleek black hair and eyes so dark brown they are almost black. Julia is too rushed to be smart; her thick fair hair thrust behind her ears, one of Pete's old shirts tucked into her jeans, which are always a bit tight because of finishing up the children's breakfast toast and teatime treats. There is a generous warmth about Julia that is completely missing from Angela's character.

Yet, Tiggy reminds herself, Pete fancied Angela once: they had a fling.

She is distracted from these thoughts by a subtle change: it is no longer dark and the lamp's light glows less cheerfully as the early-morning light filters in at the curtains' edge. The Turk uncurls herself and stretches, stiff-legged, and goes to the door, followed by Bella, whose tail wags hopefully. Tiggy gets up and lets them out into the porch. She opens the back door and stands quite still, listening in delight. Flights of larks are ascending, their song bubbling up and up; and then, away to the east, beyond the black scrawled outline of Rough Tor, the sun seems to burst out of the earth, filling the world with brilliance.

CHAPTER TEN

2004

In Tavistock, Caroline shut the door of the terraced house in Chapel Street and set off into the town. Wonderful though it was to have Zack home again, she liked these moments when she left him busy with some project and went shopping alone. Zack wasn't a shopper; he didn't care much for sitting in a café idly drinking coffee when he could be getting on at home. Probably this was because he had so little time at home but, whatever the reason, Caroline was happy on this warm, sunny morning. She paused in West Street to look at the pretty linen clothes in the window of Wandering Nomads and then strolled on past the church and crossed Bedford Square where the stalls of the farmers' market had been set up. Caroline lingered beside the mouth-watering displays of cheese and preserves and crisp fresh vegetables but shook her head smilingly at the vendors' banter; she'd buy one or two treats on the way back so that she didn't have to carry the bags too far.

‘Are you sure you won't need help?' Zack had asked anxiously. ‘Should you be carrying heavy things?'

She'd assured him that she'd be fine; she was warmed by his concern but looking forward to her foray to the shops. After all, she had no intention of weighing herself down with heavy groceries – they'd do the supermarket run together later with the car – and it was hardly any distance to walk back home. She knew how lucky they were to be renting the cottage in Chapel Street; the owners, another naval couple, had been posted to Washington and were only too pleased to let their house to Zack and Caroline, especially as Zack had offered to undertake some of the landscaping work for the garden in their absence. It would be even nicer if it were their own house, of course, but with prices as they were this was a dream yet to be achieved. Meanwhile it was such fun to wander out like this, while Zack was laying paving slabs in the garden. He'd be enjoying himself; at breakfast he'd been busy with sketches and measurements, working it out, quite content for her to leave him to it.