The End of Summer

  “How was London?”

  “Hot and stuffy.” He grinned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Full of exhausted businessmen in winter suits.”

  “Did you … achieve what you went to do?”

  “That sounds very pompous. Achieve. Where did you learn a long word like that?”

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yes, of course I did, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “When—when did you leave London?”

  “Early this morning … about six o’clock … Grandmother, is there any more tea in that pot?”

  She lifted the teapot, took off the lid to look. “Not really. I’ll go and make some more.”

  “Get Mrs Lumley…”

  “No, her feet are hurting, I’ll make it. I want to talk to her about dinner anyway, we’ll need to put another pheasant in the casserole.”

  When she had gone, “Delicious, pheasant casserole,” said Sinclair, and he took my wrist in his fingers, ringing it, like a bracelet, with his fingers. His touch was cool and light. He said, “I want to talk to you.”

  This was it. “What about?”

  “Not here, I want you all to myself. I thought after tea we’d go out in the car. Up to the top of Bengairn and watch the moon rise. Will you come?”

  If he wanted to tell me privately about Tessa, I supposed that the inside of the Lotus Elan was as good a place as any. I said, “All right.”

  Driving in the Lotus was, for me, a new experience. Lashed low into the seat by the band of my seat belt, I felt as if I was on my way to the moon, and the speed with which Sinclair took off did nothing to dispel this impression. We roared up the lane, paused for a moment at the main road, and then streamed out and on to it, the needle of the speedometer climbing to seventy in a matter of seconds, and fields and hedges and familiar landmarks flying up and falling away in dizzying succession.

  I said, “Do you always drive so fast?”

  “Darling, this isn’t fast.”

  I left it at that. In no time it seemed, we were at the hump-backed bridge, slowed slightly, and then swept over it—leaving my stomach suspended somewhere two feet over my head—and poured down towards the roadworks. The lights were green, and Sinclair accelerated, so that we were through the obstruction and well beyond before they changed back to red.

  We came to Caple Bridge and the thirty-mile limit. In deference to the local police constable, and much to my relief, he changed down, and idled the Lotus through the town at the regulation speed, but once the last house had dropped behind, we were off again. Now, there was no traffic. The road, smoothly cambered, curved ahead of us, and the car leapt forward, like a horse given its head.

  We came to our turning, the small side road that led to the south, climbing in a succession of steep bends, up to and over the summit of Bengairn. Fields and the farmland dropped below us; with a roar of tyres we crossed the cattle grid, and were now on the moor, the blown grass patched with heather, and populated only by mildly interested flocks of black-faced sheep. The cold air, blown through the open window, smelt of peat, and there was mist ahead of us, but before we had driven into this, Sinclair turned the Lotus into a lay-by, and switched off the engine.

  The view spread before us, the valley quiet beneath a sky of pale turquoise, more green than blue, and washed, in the west, with the pink of sunset. Far below, Elvie Loch lay still and bright as a jewel, and the Caple was a winding silver ribbon. It was very quiet; only the wind nudging at the car, and the cry of curlews.

  Beside me, Sinclair undid his seat belt, and then, when I did not move to follow his example, leaned over to undo mine. I turned then, to look at him, and without saying anything, he took my face between his gloved hands and kissed me. After a little, I pushed him gently away. I said, “You wanted to talk to me, remember?”

  He smiled, not in the least put out, and heaved himself around in order to reach a pocket. “I’ve got something for you…” He took out a small box and opened it, and it seemed that all the sky was reflected in the star-sparkle of diamonds.

  I felt as though I was rolling, somersaulting, topsy-turvy down a long, steep bank. I came out of it reeling and stupid. When I could speak, I could only say, “But Sinclair, that’s not for me.”

  “Of course it is. Here…” He took out the ring, tossed the little box casually on to the shelf on the dashboard, and before I could stop him had taken my left hand and thrust the ring deep on to my finger. I tried to pull away, but he held on to my hand, and closed it, clenched round the ring, so that the diamonds bit into my flesh and hurt.

  “But it can’t be for me…”

  “Just for you. Only for you.”

  “Sinclair, we have to talk.”

  “That’s why I brought you here.”

  “No, not about this. About Tessa Faraday.”

  If I had thought this would shock him, I was mistaken. “What do you know about Tessa Faraday?” He sounded indulgent, not in the least upset.

  “I know that she’s going to have a baby. Your baby.”

  “And how did you find that out?”

  “Because the night she rang up, I heard the telephone and I went to answer it, on the upstairs extension. But you’d answered it already, and I heard her … telling you…”

  “So it was you?” He sounded quite relieved as though some small dilemma had been solved. “I thought I heard the other line cut off. How very tactful of you not to listen to the end of the conversation.”

  “But what are you going to do about it?”

  “Do? Nothing.”

  “But that girl is having your baby.”

  “Darling Janey, we don’t know that it is my baby.”

  “But it could be yours.”

  “Oh, yes, it could be. But that doesn’t mean that it is. And I am not taking the responsibility for another man’s carelessness.”

  I thought of Tessa Faraday and the image I had built up of her. The gay and pretty girl, held, laughing, in the curve of Sinclair’s arm. The successful, dedicated ski-er, with her own chosen world at her feet. The young woman, approved and admired, lunching at the Connaught with my grandmother. “Such a charming girl” my grandmother had said, and she was seldom mistaken about people. None of this had anything to do with the impression that Sinclair was trying to give me.

  I said, carefully, “Did you tell her that?”

  “In so many words, yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  He shrugged slightly. “She said if that was how I felt, she would make other arrangements.”

  “And you left it at that?”

  “Yes. We left it at that. Don’t be too naïve, Jane, she’s been around, she’s a sensible girl.” All this time, he had not loosened his grip on my arm, but now he let it go, and I was able to unfold and stretch my cramped fingers, and he took hold of the ring between his forefinger and thumb, and turned it a little, to and fro, as though he were screwing it on. “Anyway,” he said, “I told her that I was going to marry you.”

  “You told her what?”

  “Oh, darling, do listen. I told her I was going to marry you…”

  “But you had no right to do that … you haven’t even asked me.”

  “Of course I’ve asked you. What did you think we were discussing the other day? What did you think I was doing?”

  “Play acting.”

  “Well—I wasn’t. And, what’s more, you know I wasn’t.”

  “You’re not in love with me.”

  “But I love you.” He made it sound entirely reasonable. “And being with you, and having you back at Elvie, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. There’s such a freshness about you, Janey. One moment you’re as naïve as a child, and the next, you come out with something so astonishingly wise. And you make me laugh; and I find you deliciously attractive. And you know me almost better than I know myself. Isn’t all that better than simply being in love?”

  I said, “But if you marry someone, it’s for ever.” r />
  “Well?”

  “You must have been in love with Tessa Faraday, and now you don’t want anything more to do with her…”

  “Janey, that was entirely different.”

  “How different? I don’t see how it’s so different.”

  “Tessa’s attractive and gay and very easy to be with, and I enjoyed her company enormously … but for a lifetime … no.”

  “She’s going to have that child for the rest of her life.”

  “I’ve already told you, it almost certainly isn’t mine.”

  It was obvious that from that angle he considered himself invulnerable. I tried another tack. “Supposing, Sinclair, just supposing, that I didn’t want to marry you. Like I said the other day, we’re first cousins…”

  “It’s happened before…”

  “We’re too close … I wouldn’t want to risk it.”

  “I love you,” said Sinclair. It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. I had often imagined it happening in secret teenage day-dreams. But never like this.

  “But … but I don’t love you…”

  He smiled. “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “But I am. Quite sure.”

  “Not even enough to … help me?”

  “Oh, Sinclair, you don’t need help.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong. I do. If you don’t marry me, then my world will come crashing in little pieces around my ears.”

  It was a lover-like statement, and yet I did not believe it was said with love.

  “You mean that literally, don’t you?”

  “How perceptive you can be, Janey. Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  He was suddenly impatient, dropping my hand as though he were bored with it, turning for diversion to search for a cigarette. There were some in his coat pocket. He took one, and lit it from the lighter on the dashboard. “Oh, because,” he said at last.

  After a little, “Because?” I prompted him.

  He took a deep breath. “Because I’m over my ears in debt. Because I have either to find the money to pay it, or the security to borrow and I haven’t got either. And if it all comes out, which it’s in deadly danger of doing, then I have every certainty that my managing director will send for me and reluctantly inform me that he can do very nicely without my services, thank you.”

  “You mean, you’ll lose your job?”

  “Not only perceptive, but also quick on the uptake.”

  “But … how did you get into debt?”

  “How do you think? Backing horses, playing blackjack…”

  It sounded very harmless. “But how much for?”

  He told me. I couldn’t believe anyone could have so much money, let alone owe it. “You must be out of your mind. You mean, just playing cards…”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane, you can lose that much in some gambling clubs in London in a single evening. And it’s taken me the best part of two years.”

  It took me a moment or two to accept the fact that any man could be such a fool. I had always thought my father was completely unrealistic about money, but this …

  “Couldn’t Grandmother help you? Lend you the money?”

  “She’s helped me before … without obvious enthusiasm, I may add.”

  “You mean, this isn’t the first time.”

  “No, it isn’t the first time, and you can take off that shocked, pie-faced expression. Besides, our grandmother doesn’t have that much money lying around. She belongs to a generation that believes in tying up her capital, and hers is all in trusts and investments and land.”

  Land. I said, casually, “How about selling some land, then? The … moor, for instance?”

  Sinclair sent me a sideways glance, full of reluctant respect. “I’d already thought of that. I’d even lined up a group of Americans more than anxious to buy the moor, or if they couldn’t do that, then to take it yearly at a substantial rent. To be honest, Janey, that’s why I took this bit of leave, to come north and put the idea to her. But of course, she won’t think of it … though what possible good it can be to her as it is, is more than I can imagine.”

  “It’s rented out already…”

  “For peanuts. The rent that little syndicate pays her scarcely covers the cost of Gibson’s cartridges.”

  “And Gibson?”

  “Oh, to hell with Gibson. He’s past it anyway, it’s time he was pensioned off.”

  We fell silent once more. Sinclair sat smoking, and I, beside him, tried frantically to sort out a confusion of thoughts. I found that what astonished me was not his soulless attitude—I had already suspected this—nor the fact that he had got himself into such a mess; but simply that he had been so frank with me. Either he had given up all idea of our getting married, and so had nothing to lose, or else his conceit of himself was without bounds.

  I was beginning to be angry. I lose my temper slowly and seldom, but once I do I become quite incoherent. Knowing this, and anxious for it not to happen, I deliberately battened down my finer feelings, and concentrated on staying cool and practical.

  “I don’t really see why it should be my grandmother’s decision any more than yours. After all, Elvie will belong to you one day. If you want to sell off great chunks of it now, I should think that that would be your concern.”

  “What makes you say that Elvie will belong to me?”

  “Of course it will. You’re her grandson. There isn’t anyone else.”

  “You talk as though it were entailed, as though it had come down through generations, from father to son. But it isn’t. It hasn’t. It belongs to our grandmother, and if she chooses, she can leave it to a cats’ home.”

  “But why not you?”

  “Because, my darling, I am my father’s son.”

  “And what is that meant to mean?”

  “It means that I am a no-good, a ne’er-do-well, a black sheep. A true Bailey, if you like.” I stared at him blankly, and suddenly he laughed and it was not a pleasant sound. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, little innocent Jane, about your Uncle Aylwyn? Didn’t your father tell you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I was told when I was eighteen … as a sort of unwanted birthday present. You see, Aylwyn Bailey was not merely dishonest, but incompetent as well. Five of those years he spent in Canada, he spent in jail. For fraud and embezzlement and God knows what else. Didn’t it ever occur to you that the whole setup was a little unnatural? No visits. Very few letters. And not a single photograph in the whole of the house?”

  It was suddenly so obvious that I wondered why I had never realized the truth for myself. And I thought of the conversation I had had with my grandmother, only days ago, and the tiny glimpses she had let me have of her only son. He chose to live in Canada, and finally to die there. Elvie never meant very much to Aylwyn … He looked like Sinclair. And he was very charming.

  I said, stupidly, “But why did he never come back?”

  “I suppose he was a sort of remittance man … probably our grandmother imagined that I would be better off without his influence.” He pressed the button that lowered his window, and tossed away the half-smoked cigarette. “But the way things turned out, I don’t suppose it made any difference, one way or the other. I’ve simply inherited the family disease.” He smiled at me. “And what can’t be cured must be endured.”

  “You mean everyone else has to do the enduring.”

  “Oh, come, it’s not easy for me either. You know, Janey, it’s odd that you should bring that up—about Elvie eventually coming to me, because the other night, when we were discussing selling the moor and what to do about Gibson, that was my final ace, the one I’d kept tucked up my sleeve. “Elvie will be mine one day. Sooner or later it will be mine. So why shouldn’t I decide now what is to be done with it?” He turned to me and smiled … his charming, disarming smile. “And do you know what our grandmother said?”

  “No.”

  “She said, ‘But, Sinclair, that’
s where you are mistaken. Elvie means nothing to you except as a source of income. You’ve made a life for yourself in London and you would never want to live here. Elvie will go to Jane.’”

  And so this was how I came into it. This was the final piece of the jigsaw and now the picture was complete.

  “So that’s why you want to marry me. To get your hands on Elvie.”

  “It sounds a little bald put that way…”

  “Bald!”

  “… but I suppose you could say that that was the rough idea. On top of all the other reasons I have already given you. Which are real and true and entirely sincere.”

  It was his use of those words which finally tipped my temper over the bounds of control, like a boulder sent rolling down a hill.

  “Real and true and sincere. Sinclair, you don’t even know the meaning of those words, and how you can use them, in the same breath … as telling me all this…”

  “You mean about my father?”

  “No, I don’t mean about your father. I don’t give a damn about your father and neither should you. And I don’t give a damn about Elvie. I don’t even want Elvie, and if Grandmother leaves it to me, I shall refuse it, burn it down, give it away, rather than let you get your greedy hands on it.”

  “That’s not very charitable.”

  “I don’t mean it to be charitable. You don’t merit charity. You’re obsessed by possessions, you always have been. You always had to have things … and if you didn’t have them, you simply took them. Electric trains, and boats, and cricket bats and guns when you were small. And now fancy cars, and flats in London and money and money and more money. You’d never be satisfied. Even if I did everything you wanted me to, married you and handed Elvie over, lock, stock and barrel, that wouldn’t be enough…”

  “You’re being unrealistic.”

  “I don’t call it that. That’s not what it’s called. It’s simply a question of getting your priorities right and knowing that people matter more than things.”