Summer House by Marcia Willett Read Free Book Online Page B

to begin tomorrow, or somewhere else. But sometimes waiting patiently in silence reveals things …’
    She’d rubbed her fingers across her eyes. ‘Look, what do I know? It’s just what’s come to me over these last few days, that’s all. And then you being here, and the photographs …’
    â€˜They’re odd, aren’t they?’ he’d said eagerly, relieved that she’d agreed with him about the photographs. ‘As if Mum and I had a secret life somewhere that I can’t remember.’
    She’d stared at him, clearly shocked by this idea. ‘Show them to Imogen,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry, Matt. I’m honestly not trying to tell you what to do about all this.’
    â€˜I know that,’ he’d said quickly. ‘And I like the idea of some quiet time. I could clear up all the odds and ends and come down at Easter for a couple of months. It sounds a great idea. I think I’d like to find my own pad, though.’
    â€˜Of course you would. But your room is here if you want it. You know that.’
    Now, as he passed across Birchanger Bridge and drove up towards the toll cottages, he realized that he was growing excited by the idea. Lottie was right: he’d always made sense of life by writing about it; by retelling it to himself in stories so that he could come to grips with it. Even his grief for his mother he’d re-shaped into an odd, rather gripping short
story which had been published by the ‘Books’ section of The Times . It was as if he were unable to grieve normally but must take his grief and turn it into something else: yet the familiar haunting lifelong loneliness remained. It was much worse than loneliness: it was the anguish of real loss and separation from someone dear and irreplaceable – but for whom?
    There was nobody at the tollgate so he got out to put the money in the slot and then drove on again, up the hill to the cottage.

CHAPTER SIX
    The stone cottage was built into a fold in the hill, facing across Porlock Bay towards Hurlstone Point. With Julian’s four-track and Imogen’s hatchback pulled on to the hard-standing beside the cottage there was no room for his own car. He pulled off the road, parked opposite and climbed out. From this vantage point he could see across to Bossington: there was the High House, with its tall round chimneys, clearly visible perched high above the village and, lower down by the stream amongst the trees, he could make out the red-tiled mansard roof of the Summer House. The sea was a soft pearly grey, smooth as ice; a container ship seemed to skate on its surface, gliding down the Channel from Bristol.
    He turned as Imogen opened the door, a finger to her lips.
    â€˜Rosie is asleep,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to have a proper grown-up conversation. Come in here. Jules is asleep too, in front of the television. So tell me about Nick.’
    He sat at one of the stools at the pine counter while she switched on the kettle.

    â€˜I don’t know anything more than I told you when I phoned. They’re having problems and Alice has taken the children off to her parents.’
    â€˜I wonder if Nick’s been playing around.’
    He shrugged, uncomfortable with this kind of speculation. She grinned at him.
    â€˜OK. I know you hate a good gossip. Listen, we’ve had details of a cottage in Dulverton. Like to come with me to have a look at it tomorrow?’
    He nodded; it would give him a chance to see if there might be anything to rent for a couple of months. It would be unlikely, of course. Most holiday cottages would be already booked for the spring and summer, and any that weren’t would be very expensive. He wondered whether to mention this new plan to Im now but, instead, decided to show her the photographs before Jules woke up.
    â€˜I’ve got something to show you. I found them in Mum’s rosewood box.’ He took the folded