All the way home he talked about the game he’d been playing and she had to interrupt him to ask about the student who’d come to look at the cottage.
‘Did Miss Marsh say if she wanted to live there?’ she asked just as they turned into the lane which led to their house.
‘No,’ he said, so vaguely that she could tell he was still thinking of other things. ‘I didn’t see her today.’
She thought that was probably the end of the matter. It was a shame. It might have been fun to have the young woman as a neighbour just for a few weeks, until the end of term. Then she had to pull right into the hedge, because a Land Rover was turning out of the lane, and she forgot all about it.
Felicity had expected that Peter would arrive home early that night, but in fact he was later than usual. She had started to feel a niggle of concern; the road from town was a notorious accident black spot. But he arrived before that could develop into serious anxiety and relief made her affectionate. She took him into her arms and kissed his neck and his eyelids and followed him upstairs, sitting on the bed while he changed. Then they heard cars on the drive and she had to run down to greet their guests and the hall was suddenly full of male voices and laughter. She was pleased Peter had friends. There was nobody at the university he met socially. And she had always liked the boys, the courteous Samuel, the shy Clive, the lecherous Gary. She liked the taut bodies, fit from walking over the hills, and the way they admired her. She knew they thought Peter was lucky to have her. Clive especially adored her. She was flattered when he followed her around the room with his eyes. She liked to see him flush when she paid him attention. Yet when the four of them were together she couldn’t help feeling excluded. The men had nothing in common except an interest in natural history, but that passion was all-consuming and she couldn’t share it.
They were very polite to her. Samuel had brought her the script of his latest short story. ‘I thought you’d be interested. You know I value your opinion.’ She kissed them all in turn, enjoying the momentary touch of her hand on a muscular shoulder, a strong back. When Samuel’s dry lips touched her cheek she had a shiver of excitement.
‘Go through to the garden,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you tea.’
But Peter, who was in an excitable mood, said they didn’t want tea. They wanted beer, and they all followed her into the kitchen to fetch it, getting in her way when she wanted to prepare the meal. Peter was loving every minute of it. Felicity wasn’t sure about Samuel – it was hard sometimes to tell what he was thinking – but the rest of them were true believers as far as Peter was concerned. They thought he was the cleverest man they knew, that he’d been overlooked at work because of politics. His records were only rejected by the Rarities Committee because of petty jealousies. This was their chance to show him how much he was appreciated by them. How devoted they were. And he blossomed under their attention, became charming and generous. He poured drinks for them and held court.
At that point she sent them on to the lighthouse ahead of her. She felt trapped by them, that she couldn’t breathe. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll just lay the table and I’ll catch you up.’ Usually she could cope with them en masse like this, enjoyed having them in the house, but today it was too much for her.
Samuel offered to help, but she refused him too and stood at the kitchen door to wave them off, a straggling, laughing line, her son bouncing around them like an untrained puppy. She watched until they’d climbed the stile and were out of sight and she was sure she had got rid of them.
She laid the table on the terrace, taking her time, polishing the glasses with a tea towel when she took them from the tray, though they were straight from the dishwasher and there was no need. The sun was still warm, but the light was softer now. She poured a large glass of white wine from the bottle left in the cooler, chose one of the chairs at the long table and looked out over the garden.
At last she felt she should join them. She had promised. But she wouldn’t follow them over the stile and along the edge of the cornfield. After collecting James from school, she’d changed into a simple linen dress. It was sleeveless and full length. Slit down one side, it allowed her to walk but not to climb with dignity over fences. She would take the path through the meadow, along the bank of the stream. It would take a little longer, but she knew they wouldn’t return immediately from the lighthouse. James would want to poke around in the rock pools for crabs. The adults would humour him and then they would sit in the soft evening light and talk. By the time she reached them they would only just be ready to leave.
She set off towards the meadow then returned and checked that she had locked the house. Beyond the cottage the field dipped towards the burn. In winter, the land here was marshy and occasionally it flooded. A public footpath ran along the opposite bank and there was a simple plank bridge to join it. As she passed the cottage she checked the door. She still couldn’t quite convince herself that she’d imagined the intruder in the house. It was locked. It occurred to her that this might have been another argument in her campaign to persuade Peter to let Lily live there; it would be a deterrent to thieves to have the place occupied. Close to the burn the grass was shorter in irregular patches. It looked as if someone had taken a scythe to it, but she couldn’t imagine why anyone would. She stood for a moment in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the water. She’d heard that otters were back in the area and, though she had no idea what signs she should watch out for, she always stopped here, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Here, the burn was freshwater still, and very placid. There were cows in the field, released from evening milking. They’d softened the bank and she left the footpath briefly to avoid the mud. There was a small wrought-iron gate with a drop latch, and beyond that the character of the landscape changed. The grass was cropped by rabbits. There were scratchy bushes of buckthorn and bramble. The bed of the burn was sandy and it was shallow and wide and smelled of salt. The lighthouse was straight ahead of her. Although she couldn’t see the others she fancied she heard them, a burst of laughter which could have been Gary, James shouting for attention. She looked at her watch. Already it was eight-thirty. Peter usually hated eating late, but he wouldn’t mind so much tonight. She knew he would be enjoying himself.
She found them in the watch tower, which stood on the seaward side of the lighthouse. Once it had been a coastguard lookout. Now birdwatchers used it to watch for seabirds. They were sitting on the bench in a row, looking out over the bay. Although it was the wrong time of the year for seabirds, the watch tower pulled them in. Other men relaxed in the pub, but this was where they felt most at home. As she climbed the wooden steps she heard desultory conversation. She waited, silent, listening.
‘What is it with sea watching?’ Gary said. ‘I mean can anything be more chilled? It’s like Zen, or something.’
Felicity smiled to herself. What would Gary know about Zen? He knew about sound systems and rock music and acoustics. But Zen?
For a moment nobody answered. Clive leaned forward, his attention caught by something on the horizon. He had an old pair of binoculars which his mother had bought for him when he was about twelve, but his vision was legendary.
Then Peter spoke. Pedantic, as if he was in front of a class of students. Weighing every word.