Swimming Pool Sunday

  Louise and Barnaby had married soon after she left university. The wedding was a large glittering affair – only right for the only daughter of a man who, until recently, had been the local MP and, at one time, a cabinet minister. Louise Page – as she was then – had been a well-known figure on the local political campaign circuit. She had started to help out her father while she was at school and became even more involved after her mother died. When an election fell during her first year at university, she motored over from Bristol every weekend to put up posters and go from house to house with her clipboard, blue scarf and cheerful smile.

  When she rang Barnaby’s doorbell, she found a group of agricultural college chums watching the football, drinking beer, and unwilling to be disturbed.

  ‘What does it matter?’ said one of them, offering her a can. Louise stared.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘It matters … it matters …’ Her hands started to whirl helplessly in the air. ‘It affects your whole life! If you don’t vote for the right people …’

  ‘I’m not going to vote,’ said one of them. ‘Bloody waste of time.’

  ‘You must vote!’ Louise’s voice sounded through the house like a clarion. ‘You must! My God! You’re young, don’t you care?’

  ‘I’m going to vote.’ Barnaby’s voice came from the back of the room. Louise turned and looked at him. He’s huge, was her first thought. He sat on a smallish wooden chair that looked as though it might break under his weight, and cupped a can of beer in a huge paw of a hand. But his voice was gentle and Louise smiled at him.

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Not for your lot, though,’ said Barnaby, gesturing to her rosette. ‘I’m voting Green.’ He took a swig of beer while his friends exchanged derisive glances.

  ‘Green?’

  ‘You’re a bloody hippy, Barn.’

  ‘Going to join the hunt sabs too?’

  Louise ignored them and met his eye.

  ‘Well, good for you,’ she said. ‘At least you care.’

  And that would have been that had Barnaby not come to vote while Louise was on poll-monitoring duty. She smiled as he approached the polling station, and put her pen next to his name, ready to tick.

  ‘Well,’ she said, as he got near. ‘I don’t have to ask you who you’re voting for, do I?’

  ‘Not for you, if that’s what you mean,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to,’ said Louise. ‘In fact, I would have been disappointed if you had.’ Barnaby looked at her.

  ‘How long do you have to stand there?’

  ‘Another couple of hours.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Home, to wait for the results.’ She flushed slightly. ‘My father’s the Conservative candidate.’

  ‘John Page, I know.’ Barnaby grinned at Louise’s look of surprise. ‘We’re not all unaware yobs.’ He looked at her clipboard. ‘And is he going to win?’

  ‘I should think so. It’s closer run than last time, but still …’

  ‘And then you celebrate madly?’

  ‘Then we celebrate madly.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  Louise shrugged.

  ‘Hang-over.’ Barnaby grinned.

  ‘You know, it just so happens, I’ve got a very good cure for hang-overs.’

  His cure had been to take her to bed, with a directness that sent Louise, who was accustomed to sensitive thoughtful undergraduates, into slight shock. When they had finished, he went to make her a cup of tea, and she lay in his single bed, clutching the sheet up to her chin as though afraid of attack, shaking slightly, while thoughts, protests and attempts at indignation batted round her mind like butterflies. From his bedroom window was a view of some school playing-fields, and as she lay there, completely silent, a group of rugby players came running onto the field, dressed in bright-red kit. With their big burly legs, they reminded her of Barnaby, and suddenly she began to cry.

  ‘I thought you’d gone away,’ she wailed, as he came back into the room, and then stopped short, for this was not what she had meant to say at all. But it was too late. Barnaby, who, he later told her, had been pacing the kitchen anxiously, wondering if what he had just committed was an act of love or an act of violence, hastened to her side with a relieved solicitude. His tea was so strong it made Louise shudder, but she said it was lovely, and smiled at him with tears still dancing on her eyelashes, and Barnaby, feeling a sudden unfamiliar surge of tenderness, went straight away and carefully made her another cup, just the same.

  Since then they had never really talked very much about politics. Louise’s father stood down at the next election, which was a year before Louise and Barnaby married, and then, a couple of years later, was made a peer.

  ‘If only we’d known,’ Louise would say at regular intervals. ‘We could have been married in the House of Lords.’

  ‘But then we would have had to wait,’ Barnaby would reply, ‘and I would have had to move to Melbrook on my own.’

  Barnaby had accepted a job running a medium-sized estate, ten minutes’ drive from Melbrook, which he started two months after they married. He had been in the same job ever since. Louise had long ago given up suggesting he look for a more senior, more challenging, or more lucrative job.

  ‘We’re happy here,’ he would say, ‘that’s all that matters.’

  And for a long time they were happy. They moved into Larch Tree Cottage, and Louise commuted into Linningford for her job as marketing executive with a small publishing firm. Then she had Amelia and gave up her job, and then she had Katie. She was no longer involved in politics, her father wasn’t an MP any more, and besides, Melbrook was in a different constituency. Besides which, she no longer felt quite as fervent about it all. For a few years, the minutiae of the children, the school run, village gossip and church fêtes kept her going. I’m lucky, she would tell herself at frequent intervals, I may not have a career, but I have a loving family and a happy life.

  It never occurred to her to question why she needed to reaffirm these facts to herself quite so regularly. Nor did she understand why, as the tenth anniversary of her marriage to Barnaby approached, she began to get edgy and irritable; to attack Barnaby with unreasonable complaints and heap bitter criticisms on the village, her life, his job, Britain. It didn’t help that her brother had recently moved with his family to a reportedly exciting new life in New York; nor did it help that Barnaby couldn’t begin to understand or, it seemed, sympathize.

  ‘But you grew up in the country!’ he once shouted, when her impatience with Melbrook had spilled over into a suppertime diatribe.

  ‘I know!’ she retorted angrily. ‘But it was different! It was exciting! We had important people to stay, and we had interesting discussions, and we had a flat in London, and we went to parties at the House of Commons, and …’ she broke off, feeling foolish. ‘You just don’t understand,’ she finished feebly.

  ‘I do understand,’ said Barnaby bitterly. ‘You wish you’d married someone intelligent and important and glamorous. Not a country bumpkin like me.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Louise, a little too late. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

  And then Cassian Brown had moved into the village. Smooth and sophisticated and intelligent and charming. Barnaby had distrusted him on first sight. But Louise had been enchanted when, at a welcoming drinks party at the vicarage, Cassian revealed, first that he was interested in politics, and then that Lord Page had always been a particular hero of his.

  Cassian was a young lawyer with the biggest law firm in Linningford, a huge prestigious concern with offices in London and all over the world. He had been seconded to the Linningford office for two years to run the commercial litigation department, and had, he said charmingly to Frances Mold, decided to take the cottage in Melbrook as soon as he saw its exquisite view of the church. He smiled at Frances, revealing perfect white teeth against tanned, not quite English-looking skin. Frances said faintly, ‘How nice,’ and Bar
naby nudged Louise. ‘What a creep,’ he whispered in her ear.

  But Louise didn’t think he was a creep. On the way home from the drinks party she’d been full of exhilarated chatter.

  ‘He actually remembered that speech of Daddy’s,’ she said, striding ahead into the darkness. ‘That one about housing.’

  ‘It’s a famous speech,’ said Barnaby brusquely. But Louise wasn’t listening; her thoughts had moved on.

  ‘His grandparents were Italian,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘Whose grandparents?’ said Barnaby, feeling a deliberate angry need to misunderstand.

  ‘Cassian’s, of course,’ said Louise. Her voice sounded, to Barnaby, light and happy. ‘Bruni, they were called, but they changed it to Brown when they came to England. It’s a shame, don’t you think? He went to Oxford,’ she added irrelevantly, ‘like Daddy.’

  Barnaby couldn’t bear it any more.

  ‘Do we have to keep talking about this chap?’ His voice thundered through the dark street. Louise turned back, unsure how to react.

  ‘Well …’ she began, in hesitant mollifying tones. But as she marshalled her thoughts, her initial instinctive desire to pacify was taken over by indignation. ‘Well!’ she repeated. ‘So now I’m not allowed to talk to anybody, is that it? One interesting person comes to live in Melbrook and we’re not allowed to talk about him. Well, fine. What shall we talk about? Oh, I know, the lambing. We haven’t talked about that for at least an hour.’

  Her voice held an unfamiliar sarcasm, and Barnaby stared at her through the darkness for a few moments, unable to read her expression. Then he shrugged and walked on.

  ‘What?’ demanded Louise, grabbing him as he went past. ‘What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Talk to me!’

  Barnaby paused and looked at her. Then he said, ‘I haven’t got anything to say,’ and strode on ahead.

  Maybe, thought Louise now, turning over onto her front and resting her sunbaked cheeks on her hands, maybe if Barnaby had talked to her a bit more, instead of listening to all those silly rumours; maybe if he’d trusted her a bit more, then they wouldn’t have had all those awful rows. With a painful jolt, she remembered the last one they’d had. She’d been pink and outraged; he’d been obstinately determined. He’d actually told her, commanded her, to stop seeing Cassian. She’d shrieked back, in frustrated anger, that she was going to see whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and if he didn’t like it he could bloody well move out.

  She still wasn’t sure where those last words had come from, but once they had burst out into the air, there was no taking them back. Barnaby had gazed at her, a look of disbelief on his face, and the air had seemed to resonate with shock. And Louise had slumped heavily into a chair, wanting to say, sorry, she didn’t mean it, but, somehow, unable to.

  ‘Mummy!’ Drops of water pattered onto Louise’s back, and a shadow fell over the sun. ‘Can I have a two-penny piece to throw?’

  ‘Can I have one, too? Can I have a pound coin?’ Louise reluctantly looked up. There were Amelia and Katie, standing over her in breathless excitement, dripping water onto her bathing-suit and leaving wet footprints on her towel.

  ‘Did you see me do a handstand?’ asked Katie. ‘Did you see when I did cycling in the air? Did you see when Amelia nearly did a backward somersault?’ She hopped up and down, so that her hair flew out and sprayed Louise with water.

  ‘Careful!’ said Louise, sitting up. ‘You’ll get people all wet. Now, where’s my purse?’

  ‘Here,’ said Amelia, promptly, holding it out. She watched carefully as Louise unzipped it. ‘A two-penny piece,’ she said. ‘Or a penny.’

  ‘And a pound coin for me,’ said Katie, doing a quick bunny jump on the grass.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Amelia. ‘A pound coin will never show up. And what if you lost it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t lose it,’ said Katie, giving Amelia a disdainful look.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Louise. ‘A tuppenny piece each. Now go and play.’

  ‘Watch me dive,’ begged Amelia. ‘I’ve got a really good dive.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Louise. ‘After lunch I’ll come and watch.’

  Daisy stood at the edge of the grass and wondered where to sit. She had hastily changed into her swimming-suit as soon as Meredith had gone, then hurried down the stairs and out into the sunshine. Mrs Mold had been very welcoming at the entrance table, and had said, unfortunately, she was a bit tied up at the moment, but why didn’t Daisy introduce herself to a few people; she’d soon find that everybody was jolly friendly.

  And Daisy had smiled and nodded. Now she peered anxiously around, trying to ignore the spasms of nerves in her stomach; trying to look confident, and wondering who she could approach. To the right was a group of women, all gaily laughing at something. But most of them seemed much older than Daisy. She wouldn’t know what to talk to them about. Only one looked anywhere near Daisy’s age, and she was busy with a baby.

  Dotted round the pool were more little groups of families and friends, as well as a few loners, stretched out on chairs or on towels. None of them looked up at Daisy, or smiled, or waved her over. In desperation, Daisy looked around for the American woman whose bedroom she’d walked into, but she was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the friendly owner of the house.

  Daisy took a hesitant step forward. She was going to have to sit down somewhere. People would start to stare at her if she stayed hovering on the edge of the lawn all afternoon. She would simply find her own spot now, she decided, and then perhaps talk to people a bit later on.

  Slowly, self-consciously, she wended her way through the chattering groups, stepping over beach-mats and bags, apologizing whenever she came within six inches of someone’s towel, until she reached a quiet patch of grass some way from the swimming-pool. Quickly she spread out her towel and lay down, trying to ignore the latent blush of embarrassment that was spreading over her cheeks.

  From his steamer chair at the side of the pool, Alexis Faraday watched Daisy’s progress with slow lazy amusement. His eyes followed her, swivelling under brown lizard lids, taking in her hair, her eyes, her pale skin and her gawky grace. She moved, with painful awkwardness, between the prone bodies on the grass, apologizing where there was no need, biting her soft pink underlip anxiously. When she reached her destination, she looked around, hesitated, then abruptly spread out her towel and lay down, as though avoiding gunfire.

  Alexis stared at her for a few more seconds, and when it was obvious that she was not going to sit up again, he looked away. For Christ’s sake, what was he doing, staring at a child like that? She couldn’t be more than eighteen. Less than half his age, he realized, with a sobering thud, and he deliberately closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

  A few moments later, he heard a cool attractive American voice beside him.

  ‘So this is how the esteemed lawyer prepares his cases. Lying flat out in the sun.’ Alexis opened one eye and grinned.

  ‘So this is how the great artist composes her canvases,’ he parried. Meredith shrugged, pulled up a deck-chair, and sat down.

  ‘This is work,’ she said. She smiled conspiratorially at him, and her eyes gave a tiny challenging glint. ‘We all have to take inspiration from somewhere,’ she elaborated.

  ‘Aha! Yes.’ Alexis shifted on his chair, and regarded Meredith quizzically. ‘Inspiration. So should I expect to see Man sleeping by swimming pool in your next collection? And will I recognize myself?’ Meredith grinned.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But you never know, you might get into one of Ursula’s water-colours.’

  ‘Of course.’ They both involuntarily looked towards the terrace, where Ursula stood happily, an old paint-stained smock of Meredith’s over her bathing-suit, gazing at the scene before her, with brush in hand. Tell me,’ Alexis added casually, ‘how is Ursula’s painting going?’ Meredith looked away.

  ‘She paints a lot,’ she said distantly.

  ‘
And, no doubt, she’s improving as she goes,’ suggested Alexis gravely. Meredith bit her lip. ‘Something like that.’ There was a short pause, then suddenly Meredith emitted a strange snuffle that sounded a bit like a laugh. Alexis looked at her in mock-surprise.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Meredith shook her head and clutched her mouth. Her shoulders shook.

  ‘She’s terrible!’ she whispered suddenly, and gave a half-suppressed, half-hysterical giggle. She leaned closer to Alexis. ‘I can’t tell you how bad she is! I thought she’d get better; I even encouraged her, but …’

  Alexis began to chuckle.

  ‘And the thing is,’ Meredith continued, wiping her mirth-filled eyes, ‘everybody in Melbrook thinks she’s a fucking genius! She’s even had a show!’ She began to shake again. ‘And I bought the first picture!’

  Suddenly she sat up. ‘And where were you at the show?’ she demanded. ‘We sent you an invitation.’

  ‘I know you did,’ agreed Alexis. ‘I was working, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You work too hard,’ said Meredith accusingly. ‘We never see you.’ She pushed back her long dark hair, and a pair of green eyes shone at him out of a tanned vibrant face. ‘I thought country lawyers were supposed to take every afternoon off to play golf.’

  ‘They do,’ said Alexis. ‘Unfortunately I don’t play golf.’ Then his expression changed and he sighed. ‘You’re right, I don’t come over here enough. I should do, it’s really not very far. But then, you know, these days I don’t really seem to do anything enough.’

  He seemed about to elaborate, and Meredith leaned forward interestedly. But suddenly Ursula’s voice broke in from behind.

  ‘Oh, Meredith dear,’ she said. ‘My painting’s going so well today! You must come and have a look. And, look, it’s Alexis! When did you get here? Hugh never said.’

  ‘Ursula!’ Alexis stood up, an elegant man with a slim figure which belied his greying temples and slightly hooded eyes. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Now let me come and look at this painting. Meredith, you can give us your expert opinion.’

  He linked arms with each of the women, giving Meredith a little conspiratorial squeeze. And as he did so, and as they began walking together towards Ursula’s easel, bare arm linked with bare arm, bare leg brushing against bare leg, Meredith felt her stomach leap, and her cheeks pinken and, in spite of herself, her heart begin to beat just a little more quickly.