The letter from Angie landed on the mat at home a week later. She picked it up with a feeling of foreboding, hearing the postman’s mournful whistle and the squeak of the garden gate.
‘I’m taking Jinx out,’ she called to her mother. On a whim, she set off, not for the beach, but up past the tennis club, where a path led alongside a field of ripening grain. By the tennis courts was a bench where she sat and took out the letter. The place had a deserted feel about it. Behind her, Mr Varcoe, the groundsman, was re-liming the lines on the grass courts.
The envelope smelt of scent and stiff elegance, and opened easily. She read it twice, which was necessary, for the sentences rambled about in Angie’s careless manner.
Darling Bea,
Thank you for yours of last week. It’s funny to think of you being back in Cornwall. How are Cloud and Nutmeg and Jezebel? I do miss them, but I’d rather be here. You wouldn’t believe what a marvellous time I’m having. Last night Katie Halpern’s dance was in a gorgeous garden near Hyde Park with strings and strings of gold and silver lanterns and a band on a platform like a boat in the middle of a tiny artificial lake. The night before, we sat through a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Regent’s Park, and of course I wished I’d listened a bit more when Miss Simpkins made us read it, but, heyho, it seemed difficult and boring then, not magical and funny. I must tell you, I often see Rafe and his brother at parties. They both look terribly dashing in their officers’ uniforms. Gerald’s already a Captain, and a lot of the girls are mad for him, but the talk is of him getting engaged to Katie. Rafe is awfully sweet to me and we often speak of you. Mummy’s asked for Carlyon to be ready at the beginning of August so I’ll look forward to seeing you for a few days then.
Beatrice sat for a long moment, lost in thought. Gradually she became aware of the normal sounds of summer around her. Birds singing, Mr Varcoe’s pottering, someone sawing wood a couple of gardens away. Jinx lay panting, waiting patiently for his walk. There was nothing to suggest that life was any different from five minutes ago and she couldn’t say exactly how, but it was. Something had shifted. The thought of walking back home to her parents and continuing with the routines of her life seemed completely impossible.
Jinx gave a little bark to remind her he was there.
‘Yes, all right,’ she told him. She made herself stand up.
She’d go on, that’s what she’d do. She’d walk Jinx through the fields and go home and then she’d think what to do next. She refolded the letter carefully and slotted it back in its envelope. She stared at her name, distorted by Angie’s rounded scrawl, and felt a quick shaft of anger. Quickly she tore the letter to shreds, which she thrust deep into the Brookers’ privet hedge. This badly scratched her hand, but she welcomed the pain. Only when she unclipped Jinx’s lead, by the field, did she notice the gathering beads of blood.
The Wincantons came in August as promised. Well, Oenone and her children did, but they were often busy with visitors and Beatrice felt uncomfortable about inviting herself up. Some days, though, she was asked to the house and went eagerly, trying to make herself believe that all was the same as it had always been. And it was – on the days when it was just Ed and Peter, Angie, Hetty and Bea again, and they went riding or swimming, or simply hung about the garden, squabbling about who cheated at croquet.
Angie and Deirdre, the large-boned girl who’d been tactless about Beatrice at the Christmas party, shared a birthday picnic on the beach. Beatrice indulged her new hobby, taking pictures with a camera she’d bought.
But there were times when she saw that her old relationship with the Wincantons had changed. One day she was foolish enough to call at the house without an invitation and found that a party of young people, three men and a girl, had arrived by car from London the evening before. Though Angie asked her to join them, the invitation was graceless and Beatrice quickly regretted accepting. Ed and Peter weren’t about and Angie treated her rather distantly. She found herself hanging around on the edge of the group, feeling gauche.
There was a single bright point. One of the men caught her admiring the motor car, which was dark green and sleek.
‘Is she easy to drive?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I’ll show you what to do, if you like,’ he said, opening the driver’s door. ‘Hop in and I’ll get her going.’
The moment when the car first rolled forward under her control was terrifying. She stalled immediately.
‘Left hand down,’ he cried, when they were off again. ‘Now straighten.’ They took off down the drive, and out into the lane, to the cheers of the others.