Summertime Page 23

  ‘Please. I know I’ve only just had breakfast, but you’re making me feel hungry all over again!’

  Mabel Burlap gave her comfortable laugh, and before picking up Trilby’s breakfast tray she squeezed her arm with a hand that bore the thinnest of gold wedding rings.

  ‘I am very glad you’ve come to stay with us, my dear. Mr Piers, he spends too much time on his own, really he does, and that being so it’s good for him to have someone his own age around the place. I expect you’ll be wanting to change things, too, and that will be no bad thing neither. He may be a cook, Mr Piers, but he has no eye to comfort, really he doesn’t. So long as he has the radio, and a sofa, and a place to leave his boots and his dog, he says he’s as happy as the day is long, but I know better. Now come and see the hens.’

  From the moment that she followed Mabel out into the farmyard Trilby was entranced by the variety of animal life that abounded around and beyond it. Not just hens pecking about the yard, or ducks swimming on the large pond, or doves circling the old stable yard, but any amount of other life: the dipping of house martins and swallows over the water troughs, the brown and white cows in the fields beyond, the garden filled with small birds of every kind, a kingfisher making a sudden appearance, the brightness of its turquoise back providing a momentary flash of tropical colour before it disappeared into the green of the trees.

  For a second, as she watched Mabel throwing maize and corn for the chickens, and observed the wildness and variety of the life around her, the ceaseless movement, the precision of design of each piece of flora or fauna, the tiny white dove feathers scattered over the stable roofs, the buds on the rose bushes, and the brightness of the cockerel’s head, Trilby imagined Lewis in Holland Park, the dryness of his life, the ironed newspapers, the breakfast in silver tureens, the maids hovering, no sense of divine and beautiful disorder such as she saw here, only the lifeless outlines of great wealth.

  And still Piers was not yet back. The moment he was she imagined that they would run upstairs together and make love.

  What she did not know was that Piers’s tractor had broken down in the middle of Hundred Acre Field, and that as he walked off to find help neither love nor lunch was uppermost in his mind.

  Mabel, who was well used to the disappearance of men for hours at a time, laughed when she looked at the clock and saw, much later, that it was well past two o’clock. ‘That’s farmers.’

  Trilby nodded, trying to conceal her disappointment, and a few seconds later she heard the unmistakable sound of male feet on the gravel outside. ‘There he is!’

  Mabel nodded at Piers’ rough-coated retriever who always preceded him into the house. ‘You’ve got a rival here, in Topsie, miss. I must warn you, she’s been mistress of this house for far too long, and no mistake. Now, I’ll be going along. Mr Piers, he never does like if I’m around when he’s having his lunch and listening to the Archers and that.’

  ‘May is the most perfect month. Wherever you are, if you ask people what is the best time to visit, they will always say, “Oh, you must come back, but next time come in May!”’

  Piers and Trilby were sitting talking after their late lunch of chicken mayonnaise, new potatoes, tomato salad and lemon mousse, when Trilby stood up suddenly.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You cooked for me, so now I am going to wash up for you.’

  ‘No, don’t, really.’

  ‘No, do really. I love washing up. Soapy water, rolled-up sleeves, I have always loved washing up.’

  ‘Well, all right, but only because I don’t suppose Mabel will be coming in again until tomorrow.’ Piers patted the top of the retriever’s head as Trilby turned back momentarily from the old-fashioned butler’s sink. As Trilby went to say something, Piers quickly added, trying to look serious and not quite succeeding, ‘Topsie does not I am afraid approve of female persons living in the house.’

  ‘I shall be doing your washing up until I go, and that’s final. It’s the least I can do. Besides, I’ve missed it. I’ve missed all those everyday things.’

  ‘Topsie is not against you personally,’ Piers went on, trying to ignore the feeling of searing disappointment that had shot through him. ‘It was my own fault really.’ He stood, and picking up a tea towel he started drying up. ‘I am afraid I went through a bit of a phase, after National Service in Africa, fighting Mau Mau, and after my parents died. Well, that’s my excuse. Came back to England, but after Aunt Laura handed over the farm to me, I went a bit mad with the opposite sex. And then—’ He stopped.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then, of a sudden, I realised I was behaving really rather mindlessly. And so, I stopped. But it all left a bit of a scar on poor old Topsie here. I mean I told her you were only coming here for a little while, but once she’d seen how pretty you were, I am afraid I don’t think she quite believed me.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you believe you?’ Trilby looked at Piers who stared at her for a moment.

  ‘Isn’t there a poem called “Trilby Kissed Me”? Yes, I am sure there is a poem called “Trilby Kissed Me”.’

  ‘Why? Are you thinking of reading it to me?’

  This time Piers caught both her wrists. ‘No, I am not thinking of reading to you, no, reading was not what I had in mind at this moment, far from it, I am afraid!’

  Seconds later they were running upstairs to the first floor together, whispering and laughing, closely followed by the retriever.

  Outside his bedroom Piers opened the door. Topsie promptly and obligingly leaped from the door to the bed, at which her master equally promptly closed the door and snatching at Trilby’s hand whispered, ‘Right, now that we have Tops fixed up, I am afraid we’ll have to retire to your room for your bedtime story!’

  They tiptoed down the corridor, and into Trilby’s room where they drew the curtains to shut out the bright sunlight. By the light that was filtering through the curtains Trilby looked to Piers both beautiful and ethereal, and the moment to which he had been so looking forward arrived, and he was able to start unbuttoning her yellow dress.

  In fact, at once, and in unspoken agreement, they undressed each other by turn, slowly and carefully, as lovers-to-be so often do, and fell into bed together, unaccountably still whispering. It was as if they were afraid that someone was listening to them, that there was someone outside the half-open window, which, of course, in the country, there always is.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Trilby.’

  Sometimes he stopped and said her name out loud. It was such a pretty name. In fact to him it was actually the prettiest name he had ever known, just as she was the prettiest girl he had ever known, and her way of being the most engaging, the most delightful, the most enchanting. She was the depth and the height, the ultimate in complete happiness, and without her, it seemed to him now, he would surely not wish to live.

  Having leaned back against the wall and sighed over the subject of his thoughts Piers’s eyes fell on the calendar. Against next Sunday he had written the words The children for lunch! After which in less sophisticated writing was scribbled Steak and kidney and chocolate mousse please, please, please, please! And don’t forget!

  Piers smiled. The children liked to know where they were as far as their culinary delights were concerned and so they had taken to scribbling their favourite, longed-for dishes in his diary. He picked the calendar off the wall and put it in the centre of the kitchen table.

  When she came in later, Trilby could not help seeing what was written large by next Sunday, which she was meant to do, but for a second it seemed to Piers that she looked disappointed.

  ‘Of course, the children.’

  Piers pointed to the calendar. ‘These are not my children, in fact knowing how my mother went on after my father divorced her, I very much doubt if any of them have the same father. In fact I am quite sure they haven’t, but there you are, since our mother died, a few years ago, they’ve al
l been living under the same roof, with their maternal grandparents at Wake Park in Dorset, not far from here, only about fifty minutes, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘They must be quite a handful for a bachelor, even one who cooks.’

  Piers did not answer at first, continuing with his train of thought as if the children were something that he had at some time had to learn to talk about, yet still found a little difficult.

  ‘The children come and see their much older half-brother – that’s me – every few weeks, well, fortnightly, really. But don’t be too moved by their devotion, please, they only really come here to be fed by Mabel and me. Granny and Grandad’s board is not up to much, not exactly groaning with goodies. You know how it is – older people seem to be able to live on air. You want another piece of toast? But do you realise that means that you have eaten two today, Millicent!’ – he finished, mimicking an indignant old lady’s voice. ‘So, no, these are not my children, they are my mother’s children.’

  Trilby looked at him, and for the first time since he had met her it seemed to him that he had no hint of an idea of what she was thinking or feeling.

  ‘I have to take them out. They look forward to it so much.’

  ‘Of course, but I can’t stay while they’re here. I must go. I can’t have them meet me. It could risk everything, if they meet me and they know someone I know, they would be sure to tell, they wouldn’t mean to, it would just come out.’

  ‘Oh no, have no fear, I promise you they will not concern themselves with anything except playing table tennis and cricket and eating, that’s their fortnightly treat, coming here and being allowed to behave like children instead of little old people, which they have to do at their grandparents’ house.’

  ‘Well, just so long as you stick to not telling them anything more than they have to know and remember my surname is now “Ardisonne”. That’s what I told Mabel.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Ardisonne. I say, that rather suits you.’

  Trilby smiled. ‘It’s nice to feel single again, believe me.’

  Piers looked momentarily hurt but said, ‘Yes, I suppose it must be nice.’

  ‘Love and marriage do not go together like a horse and carriage,’ Trilby sang, ruthlessly but gaily, adding, ‘Don’t think I will stick around too long, Piers. I promise you, like the swallows I am only here for the summer.’

  Piers nodded, not believing her, only wondering if they had time to make love once more before he had to go outside again.

  The next few days were filled with idyllic sunshine, so much so that with the early morning sun flooding their bedroom it was difficult for them to stay in bed too long, but then again it was difficult for them to stay out of it too long too. In short it was difficult for either of them to do anything except make love. Indeed, Piers was so besotted with Trilby that he told the redoubtable Harold that for the next few days Harold must consider Piers to be on holiday.

  ‘Satan can disguise himself in many ways, you know that, Mr Montague?’ Harold told Piers with undisguised gloom. ‘Most especially in the form of a woman. Satan dearly loves, as I understand it, to appear to a man in the form of a woman who will seem to be all things to him, but will lead him down the path to hell.’

  But Piers had neither listened to him nor heard him, as Harold soon realised. He had fled back to the house, to the garden where Mabel had told Harold that she knew that they danced, under the cover of darkness and beneath the bright stars, while during the day they hung the wireless outside one of the bedrooms on a hook and once again danced, or lazed about under the old apple tree eating picnics and drinking wine.

  ‘He’s very keen on this one, Harold. Deserves a bit of time with her,’ Mabel declared.

  Harold knew very well that his wife kept in touch with Miss Laura in London, and that Mrs Montague liked to hear from Mabel what exactly was going on at the farm, so that when her nephew went up to stay with her once or twice a year the old lady could be quite sure that she was completely up to date. Although he knew all this, and put all the shenanigans down to women and their wicked ways, nevertheless a part of Harold hoped that Mabel would not keep Miss Laura in touch with what was happening now, because, it had to be faced, Miss Laura, who had lived at Charlton as a child, might not approve. Old ladies were like that, Harold had found; they liked to have a young man to themselves. And what was more Harold doubted very much that she would approve of Mr Piers having carnal relations.

  ‘Now, Mabel, not a word to Miss Laura, like, not a word, do you hear? Mr Piers might be ensnared with the devil and all his works, but it’s none of our business if he is, and we don’t want Miss Laura coming here and making trouble. Might affect us. After all, when all’s said and done, Miss Laura she buys us a lot of this new-fangled machinery. ‘Member when harvest was bad two years back, and she came in to help out with animal fodder and the new milking parlour? She’s a rich woman, is Miss Laura, and you don’t fangle with rich women, Mabel, you don’t at all. You treat ’em like the bees’ nest in the roof, you leave ’em to sort out theirselves, and that, you do really.’

  ‘What does you mean, Harold? I don’t know what you are talking about, I don’t really. What does you mean? I am sure I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve warned Mr Piers already, I’ve warned him that the devil is a woman, and that’s all I can do. You know good and well what I’m on about right now, I mean none of your tittle-tattle down the village. As far as we’re concerned this girl, she’s not here, doesn’t exist, Mabel. Not if we know what’s good for us.’

  ‘Your last word is not my last word, Harold. Same as all the rest. I know that this Miss Ardisonne is a good girl.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I do. Besides, you’ve not been near the house since she arrived, you don’t even know her, you don’t, she’s a little darling she is.’

  ‘I been emptying the rubbish bins, haven’t I, and this is what I found.’

  Harold held up a bottle and Mabel took it and frowned, trying not to look shocked. ‘She’s not natural then, Harold?’

  ‘She’s not natural at all, Mabel. But never mind what she is, don’t you go telling Miss Laura nothing when she rings you. I don’t want the old lady upset, Mabel, really I don’t. I don’t want her boat rocked. So long as she’s happy I know I can go and get me some new overalls. Or ask Mr Piers for a new harvester when needed, or anything I want, like. But if she starts getting restless, stands to reason she’ll find another way to spend her money, and we don’t want that, girl, do we?’

  Mabel swallowed and turned away. ‘I dare say you’re wrong, Harold, I dare say you are. She seemed such a nice little thing, first off. From the moment that she arrived I thought she was ever such a nice little thing, nice manners, and that, not to mention pretty ways with her, always opening the door for me, and helping with the dishes as willing as you could wish.’

  But the grim evidence was still in Mabel’s hand, and they both knew nice girls never dyed their hair, that was just not what nice girls did, everyone in Somerset knew that. The only girls that dyed their hair during the war were the kind that went off with American airmen, and were never heard of again.

  ‘Gone to London’ it was known as in Somerset. The only trouble was that this girl, from what Mabel could gather, she’d come from London, so there was no hope of her going back, she supposed, at least not for a while.

  ‘We seen it all before, Mabel, that’s why we have to be so careful like – at our last place, remember? It were all right, winter and summer, rain or shine, we were right as trivets at our last place, until when? Until when a few years had gone by and the young man found himself a new wife.’

  Mabel nodded. It was true. She picked up her coat, and turned away. ‘I’m off to W.I. market. It’ll take me an hour to walk there in this rain.’

  Harold watched her for a few seconds and then he called, ‘You take care of yourself then, do you hear, Mabel?’

  In his heart of hearts he hoped th
at he was wrong about this Miss Ardisonne or whatever she called herself, but somehow, since he had found that bottle of hair dye, he very much doubted it.

  ‘Piers?’

  ‘Hallo, Aunt Laura.’

  Piers tried to sound like his old self, but it was difficult. It was so hard to keep it under cover, remember not to let it affect his voice, the it bit of him that kept bubbling up and spilling over, and not caring who knew that he was in love.

  ‘Have you seen Mrs James lately – you know, the artist, Trilby Smythson? Has she telephoned to you, perhaps?’

  Piers knew at once that Laura knew, and this was her way of telling him. ‘No, I haven’t, Aunt Laura. Why?’

  ‘No good reason, it’s just that I have rung her studio a couple of times and no-one answers. I have Lola de Ribes and her husband coming to lunch and I rather wanted to ask her too. Never mind, I expect that newspaper man has dragged her off to somewhere exotic at the last moment and she just forgot to let me know. By the way, should I tell Lola that you are happy for her to come down to the farm? To come and see what could be done to the interior?’

  ‘No.’

  They both knew that Piers had said ‘No’ far too quickly.

  ‘How’s everything else?’

  ‘Thriving.’

  ‘Good. Keep in touch, Piers. And do take care of yourself.’

  Laura replaced the telephone without another word, and Piers was left, as he sometimes had been in the past, staring at the old black receiver that partnered the old black telephone that sat on a wobbly table beside the old blackened inglenook fireplace in the old nineteenth-century kitchen.