Summer House by Marcia Willett Read Free Book Online Page A

feel even worse, but he hadn’t wavered. There was simply too much on his mind to undertake the role of host and, anyway, it was the wrong time of year. Perhaps at Easter or in the spring: Annabel was a true urbanite and he suspected that only the most obviously pretty aspects of moor and the coastline would really appeal to her.
    He drove along Bossington Lane and into Porlock, which on this cold Sunday afternoon was almost deserted, and then out on to the Toll Road. He loved this steep lane winding through Allerpark Combe, with those huge trees clinging to its sides and the clatter of the water far below him. He slowed to watch a swirl of starlings settle like a ragged grey cloud on a gaunt, bare tree, and saw delicate, pretty snowdrops gleaming pale amongst a thick covering of crisp, crunchy beech leaves. He’d forgotten about Annabel now and was thinking about something Lottie had said to him just after lunch when they’d been clearing up together. He’d talked about all the travelling he’d done in the last two years, and how he’d still had no inspiration for the new book, although he’d been able to use the experiences for some travel articles and short stories. Not only that, he’d told her, it was as if the travelling had made his restlessness worse and his sense of incompleteness had grown stronger. She’d been stacking the dishwasher, rinsing dishes at the sink. The kitchen was long and narrow and they moved like dancers, pausing, waiting, as they passed to and fro, in and out of the breakfast room.

    â€˜Have you thought about spending some time down here?’ she’d asked. ‘Oh, not necessarily here at the High House. But a bit closer to us all. You know, Matt, I have a feeling that the answer to your searching is here with us. I don’t know how. I just feel that something will guide you towards some kind of answer to your restlessness and the subject of your new book, and it will be all part of the same thing.’
    He’d paused to look at her, a wineglass in each hand, longing to believe her. He had great faith in Lottie.
    â€˜But how d’you mean?’ He’d sounded like a child longing to be convinced.
    She’d frowned, taking the wineglasses from him and putting them into the dishwasher. Matt knew that later Milo would come in and repack it all. He could always get three times more stuff in than anyone else.
    â€˜It’s just a feeling I’ve got,’ she’d answered. ‘That the two things are tied up together and that you need to step back from everything and wait.’
    â€˜And you don’t think that I can do that in London?’
    â€˜No, I don’t. There’s too much going on, and even your travelling has an ulterior motive. It’s not simply holiday, is it? You’re always making notes, testing your reactions for ideas. Step right out of it just for a few months.’
    â€˜And the family bit? Being with you all?’
    She’d dried her hands and turned to look at him.
    â€˜Your mother has just died, Matt. The death of someone close to us reveals all kinds of terrors and pain within ourselves. I think that you’ve never truly come to terms with Tom’s death though you’ve written out a lot of it over the years. What you don’t need to do is to fill your life with more clamour and busyness and travelling so as to silence the fears and deny the mourning. You need to allow thoughts
and memories to surface. I don’t mean that you have to be introspective, cudgelling your brain to remember things; just a period of quiet emptiness with people who love you close by in case you need company or to talk about the past. We’re frightened of silence, aren’t we? Switch on the television, pick up a book, make a telephone call. Anything rather than sit in silence. We’re always trying to get away from where we are, from the here and now. We think that life is always going