The Land of Summer Page 27

  He pulled off his shoes and lay back against the pillows on the bed, closing his eyes, the shawl close to his face, and before long it seemed to him he was drifting on a sensual barge, a place where life in its proper sense could not reach him, where there were no anxieties, only relief.

  He must have slept for quite some time, because he awoke with a start, feeling ice-cold. He sat upright, startled. Too much brandy! He swung his feet to the floor and started to scrabble about for his shoes, and as he did so his hand caught at something half hidden under the bed. He stopped, and bent down. It was a notebook. He picked it up from the floor and placed it on the bed, and having slipped his shoes on he stood up and prepared to leave the room, notebook, shawl, and hat box left as they were.

  But something drew him back to the notebook, as if he knew that, unlike the rest of the contents of the room, the notebook was something that would normally be forbidden to him.

  He opened the book and saw Emmaline’s handwriting. He stared at the writing, admiring its generous elegant form, looking only at the words and their formation, so that it was some time before he realised he was reading poetry, but what he read was like a blow to his chest, so full of pain and longing were the verses. He sat down on the bed again, and read on, and when he had finished he closed the book, put it on the bed, and covered his face with his hands.

  When Emmaline awoke the following morning to nothing but the sound of the sea and the mewling of the gulls she wondered for a moment where she was. Soon she rose from her bed, put on her gown and crossed to the window in her bedroom. Pulling the curtains back she saw a sight that made her catch her breath. It was a perfectly cloudless day with the sun well risen and shining on a flat calm sea, a stretch of water no more than a couple of hundred yards away, down the slope of the fields in front of the house and across a stretch of golden sand. So calm and fine was the day it seemed to Emmaline it could have been spring rather than late December; and although the sun was winter pale it still had strength enough to make the water of the Atlantic Ocean glint and shimmer as low-crested waves lapped the beach.

  Emmaline stood entranced, imagining she could spend the rest of her days in such a beautiful place, a house set in meadows back from the shore, in a bay of tranquil beauty and form, with high forelands at either end affording protection from the worst the wind could do, enfolding this particular stretch of beach as if to make it a private heaven.

  Nor was there a soul in sight, the only sign of life being a fishing boat making its slow progress out to deeper waters as it set off on its day’s work.

  Mrs Carew greeted Emmaline at the foot of the stairs as she descended. ‘I done the liberty of setting your breakfast in that room to the side of the main kitchen which has a fine view of the strand, so I’s a thought it fine for you if you took your meal there, madam. Sun shines direct in as well, being a southern aspect, and lord let’s say it, ’tis like a spring day now, is it not?’

  The ample Mrs Carew led the way along the polished wood-floored corridor through a large wooden door fitted with shining brass furniture into the kitchen area where off to the right, just as described, was set a breakfast room, with a large oak table big enough to seat eight people placed under a large window with a direct prospect of the sea. The kitchen itself was immaculate, with a polished iron range with gleaming brass fixtures, rows of shining copper pans on shelves and lines of plain white china jars with their contents labelled in blue lettering. The floor was flagstones and all the working tops had been made from slate, with two large ceramic sinks set immediately under another large picture window also affording a sea view to whoever was washing up or preparing food at that station. Emmaline was deeply impressed by the beauty and order of the kitchen, something for which she had longed at Park House, but at Park House she was rarely allowed downstairs, that being Mrs Graham and Mrs Field’s preserve.

  ‘’Twas all the late Mr Aubrey’s doing, madam,’ Mrs Carew said. ‘Afore my time, course, since I only been here the ten years now. Mr Aubrey made the whole place, d’you see – from basement to rooftop. Drew it all out of his head, thought up every fitting and every gadget you see here. He loved coming here, so he did, him and Mrs Watson. She was a lovely soul and beautiful too. Summertime they’d sit out there on the terrace, Mr Aubrey with his paints or his sketching book, and Mrs Watson in some booful gown made of what look like goss’mer – and this big straw hat she’d sometime have to hold one-handed on her head in the wind, see. There’s a big painting of that in the drawing room, madam. You can see it after you’ve had a good breakfast, and a good breakfast is what I’m to make for you, ’cos I unnerstand you need to build up your stren’th.’

  ‘Where’s Agnes, Mrs Carew?’ Emmaline asked as she settled down at the table in the sunshine. ‘Do you know where my maid is?’

  ‘Your girl’s out a-walkin’, madam,’ Mrs Carew replied, nodding her head seawards. ‘She’s had her breakfast and said she just had to go down and see the sea. There she be now.’

  Sure enough, down on the beach Emmaline could see the diminutive figure of Agnes, sauntering along at the very edge of the shore, with the ocean lapping over her feet. She wondered what it was like for Agnes, this first sight of the sea, her first experience of being at the edge of such vastness, of a seeming eternity of water that disappeared over the horizon on its way to cover two-thirds of the earth’s surface. Every time she saw the sea Emmaline felt as if she had never seen it before, unable to understand how such an endless, immeasurable amount of water simply did not rise up out of control, particularly when whipped by fierce gales, and flood the entire world, washing away all populations and burying them in fathomless graves at the bottom of what would then be one enormous, biblical ocean.

  ‘Hope you didn’t mind, madam,’ Agnes apologised when Emmaline joined her on the beach after she had finished her breakfast. ‘It’s just like – well. It’s just – I don’t really know what to make of it, see. I seen pictures, like, course. But pictures just don’t give a notion, not at all. It just goes on for ever, like, and it’s so beautiful. I never seen anything so beautiful as this place, and the sea, and – I just in’t ever seen nothing like it.’

  ‘It does quite take your breath away, Aggie, doesn’t it?’ Emmaline agreed. ‘Even on a flat calm day like this, the sense of eternity, the sense of vastness, mystery, the feeling that this is where all life began – that in the oceans life was formed and from out of their waters all life came.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought we all come from the Garden of Eden?’ Agnes puzzled.

  ‘In a way we do, Aggie,’ Emmaline said, taking her maid’s arm to turn and walk back along the long deserted beach. ‘Although, as I understand it, a gentleman by the name of Mr Charles Darwin would now have us see things very differently.’

  As they walked westwards towards the distantly glimpsed fishing village of Portloe, with mighty Nare Head clearly visible in the background, Emmaline explained to a rapt Agnes the theory of evolution as she had understood it from reading a shortened version of Charles Darwin’s great work. It somehow seemed a particularly apt thing to do.

  They were gone all morning, just as the morning was gone before they knew it. In Portloe they found a small inn with a dining room where they were served a lunch of freshly caught mackerel served with more large floury potatoes soaked in butter and black pepper and followed by Cornish ice creams, a delicious repast that they then walked off along the sands ahead of the now incoming tide.

  All of a sudden the weather was changing fast, the tide racing, with a strong wind picking up and blowing in a south-westerly, building waves that had been no more than six inches high into frothing breakers twenty times that size. Unsure as to how high up the beach the tide came the two young women decided to abandon their walk along the strand well before they got back to Porthollan, taking to the foothills first then clambering up on to the lane that ran back due east in the direction of Gorran Lodge, a destination they reached just in time for a tea
of hot scones filled with Cornish cream and Mrs Carew’s home-made strawberry jam.

  After such a day and such a walk, the longest walk Emmaline could remember taking, she fully expected to fall fast asleep in front of the roaring fire. She did not, finding that although she was physically tired her mind was fresh and awake, full of so many new sights and sounds. So instead of either taking to her bed for a rest, as advised by Dr Proctor, or even cat-napping by the warmth of the log fire, Emmaline sat with a pencil and a pad of paper and began to write down just some of the many colourful images that the day had brought her.

  Back in Bamford, at just about the time Emmaline had been sitting down to breakfast on her first morning at Gorran Lodge, the telephone had rung in Park House. Wilkinson took the call in the telephone room, before going to inform Julius that a Mr Freeman was on the line waiting to speak to him.

  Julius followed Wilkinson across the hall and quickly shut the door behind him.

  ‘This is Julius Aubrey speaking.’

  ‘And this is Dwight Freeman speaking to you,’ someone with a strong American accent replied. ‘I telephoned you before, Mr Aubrey, but sadly you were not available.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Julius replied, wishing as he always did when on the telephone to get straight to the point. ‘What might I do for you?’

  ‘No – what might I do for you?’ Mr Freeman laughed. ‘I would very much like to put some business your way, Mr Aubrey – having seen your wares in the new Nesbitt & Nesbitt catalogue.’

  ‘That is very good to hear, Mr Freeman,’ Julius replied. ‘But whatever you see in the catalogue you can order by mail. Nesbitt & Nesbitt run a first-class postal service.’

  ‘What they don’t supply is advice, Mr Aubrey,’ Mr Freeman returned. ‘I’m a widower, do you see – and without the help and advice of the gentler sex, I find myself at a bit of a loss when it comes to the matter of purchasing what I need for my new house. Now, my understanding of the matter is that you have a very fine business here in England, a business that includes advising clients on matters such as this.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Julius replied cautiously.

  ‘I won’t waste your time, Mr Aubrey, I assure you, sir. I won’t waste it now and I won’t waste it when we meet. I have a very fat wallet and I am anxious to take the best advice as to what I should purchase before I return home. So if you would do me the kindness of coming to meet with me and talk with me, I do assure you it really will be well worth your while.’

  So, reluctantly, Julius agreed to meet with the mysterious Mr Freeman the following day at his hotel in London, reluctantly because he was busy packing up and making ready to go and join Emmaline at Gorran Lodge in time for Christmas. But he knew it would be foolish to miss what sounded like a very sizeable order. He comforted himself that if he concluded the business swiftly in the morning he might still be able to catch the midday locomotive from Paddington to Truro, which meant he could be in Gorran Lodge and with Emmaline shortly after midnight.

  And so, having given Wilkinson new instructions for the packing of a small overnight case for his trip to London as well as the bags he would need for his time in Cornwall, Julius repaired to town to leave instructions for his workforce to cover the time he would be away.

  That night he played cards again. He could not resist it, and again it was that most illegal of card games – baccarat. It was the third game in the sequence and towards the end of the evening he was nicely ahead, a position he intended to keep given the appalling run he had just suffered, a series of games where for once both his luck and his judgement had deserted him. But not this evening, not this time, when he rode his luck and used all his skills. All was fine so far – the game was running smoothly, the conversation was friendly and the atmosphere was congenial, even though among the card players was a gentleman of the very highest rank.

  When time was called and all debts and promises were honoured, he found he was £423 to the good, which by any standards was a sizeable win for an evening at the table. Accepting the congratulations of several of his fellow players, mainly he noted those who had also been fortunate, although none as fortunate as he, he drank two glasses of champagne, and once the most distinguished of their number had departed he also took his leave to return to his hotel.

  After he had gone, the host suggested to the half-dozen gentlemen still remaining that they have a brandy and discuss the evening’s play. When drinks had been poured and fresh cigars had been lit, the host, a member of the aristocracy, announced that they had entertained a cheat at the table.

  Silence fell as those remaining looked round at each other as if one of them might be the culprit. When they were assured by their host that the suspect had already left the relief was palpable, but the shock was still toxic. Who could possibly have cheated in such company – company graced by a gentleman of the very highest degree? What sort of cad and bounder would risk life, limb and reputation by cheating at cards one of the best-connected gentleman in London if not the land?

  ‘The gentleman in question is the gentleman who was the last to leave us,’ their host finally disclosed. ‘There is no doubt about it. Evesham here and I,’ he continued, indicating the tall distinguished man on his right, ‘have been keeping close watch. We were alerted to the possibility after his first visit here, so during the last game and tonight we watched him very carefully. It would appear that the gentleman in question cheats by altering the size of the bets he has on the table after he has won or lost a hand. It is done with the utmost skill – one could even say legerdemain – and I vow that had he not made one very small but visible mistake on the very first night – one which aroused Evesham here’s suspicions since he was on the receiving end of the bet – my guess is that he would have got away with it. That this chicanery of his would have gone quite unnoticed.’

  ‘If this is so, Tommy,’ one of his friends enquired, ‘then what to do?’

  ‘Given that we have access to no other resources than ours, seeing that what we are doing here is illegal.’

  ‘Why the playing of baccarat should be deemed illegal passeth all my understanding,’ a corpulent gentleman in one corner grumbled. ‘I certainly don’t think our esteemed guest thinks much of the proscription.’

  ‘Beside the point, Percy,’ his host replied. ‘This is something we have to handle ourselves, because it is to do with ourselves and those like ourselves only, which is why we have to take care of the cad.’

  ‘How?’ the one called Tommy wondered. ‘Not like racing. Can’t exactly warn him off.’

  ‘Yes we can,’ his host assured him. ‘In our own way we can do precisely that – which is why I have despatched our two bulldogs off to follow Mr Aubrey to where he is staying, and there to take care of him. That is all. Now I think we should have one more drink and call an end to the evening.’

  The two so-called bulldogs – a small but effective partnership that consisted of the heavyweight Thomas Martin and his former runner who were regularly employed by the toffs of the town to take out anyone who overstepped the mark – dutifully followed their quarry back to his hotel in Mayfair, in the lobby of which once he had been admitted they took it in turns to keep watch.

  In the morning, after he had breakfasted in his room, Julius went down to the reception area and asked the concierge to tell Mr Freeman that he was here and ready to attend their prearranged meeting. Oddly enough the concierge, who had not been on duty when Julius had arrived, seemed to know him immediately, addressing him by his name, an odd fact which Julius was about to comment on, when the man was called away, leaving Julius to lean against the reception desk to read the headlines of the Morning Post, all the time watched by a thin-faced man sitting beside a pillar half hidden behind his own copy of the same newspaper.

  On being told that Mr Freeman was ready to receive him, Julius went up to the first floor and knocked on the door of Room 4 to announce his arrival.

  ‘Enter!’ an American voice called from within. �
�Come on in, please, sir!’

  Julius did as bid, entering the main room of the suite, which he found to be a good-sized and well-furnished room with a large display of flowers on the sideboard, beside which stood two suitcases, apparently packed and ready to go.

  ‘Hello?’ Julius called after a moment. ‘Mr Freeman?’

  ‘Hello, my dear fellow,’ an unmistakable voice said from the bedroom behind him. ‘How very nice to see you.’

  ‘Good God,’ Julius exclaimed when he saw who was standing in the doorway. ‘You? What in the name of God—’

  ‘I became disenchanted with the idea of Australia, alas,’ the man said, laughing at him. ‘You know how it is, no real racing, missing Ascot, all that.’

  ‘You bastard! You bastard! We have a legal agreement—’

  ‘Had. We had an agreement, but alas we do not any more. I burned my copy and yours too.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I stole your copy and burned it as well.’ The man smiled, lighting an oval-shaped cigarette. ‘You really should have kept it in a safer place than your desk.’

  Julius stared at him, wondering how the man smiling at him could possibly have gained access to his house and to his private papers.

  ‘Don’t bother trying to work that one out,’ the man suggested, reading his thoughts, tapping the ash of his cigarette into the fireplace. ‘You’ll just waste time. You were away somewhere, I was in the vicinity, so I took the opportunity to pay a visit to Park House and see if I could perhaps, let us say, annul that wretched document.’

  ‘You destroyed my copy of the agreement?’

  ‘It would never have stood up in court anyway, my dear fellow. Not worth the paper it was printed on. Now we have much more urgent business to conclude. I need some money.’

  ‘When do you not?’ Julius said angrily.

  ‘Since the agreement no longer exists—’

  ‘An agreement was made between us. You accepted the proposals, which were fifty per cent of any sales made through the catalogue, a capital cash payment and your fare to the country of your choice, which was Australia.’