Free A Summer in the Country by Marcia Willett Page B

crayoned in black with a large pink tongue.
    â€œThis is Oscar saying thank you. Please come to tea. Love Hermione.”
    The writing sloped alarmingly, slipping off the page, and die name was drawn in alternate blue and red crayon. Hermione. Louise was still staring at it when she heard the knock at the door. It opened an inch or two.
    â€œMay I come in?” called Brigid.
    Only a lifetime’s habit of good manners made it possible for her to answer. She was still sitting at the table when Brigid came into the living room. Louise forced herself to smile at her, trying to summon the control needed to rise, offer tea.
    â€œI see you found it.” Brigid nodded towards the card. “She sent it to me and I dropped it in earlier. I’m going over to see them later in the week and she seems anxious that you should come too. Would you like to, d’you think?”
    â€œIt’s …” Louise swallowed in a dry throat, “… it’s very kind. There’s no need at all.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think it’s politeness. Thea’s a darling but she’s not conventional. I think she simply liked you. And Hermione—”
    â€œThe thing is,” interrupted Louise, quickly, “trying to fit everything in. A fortnight isn’t long.”
    â€œI quite understand that. And there’s no reason at all why you should go …”
    She fell silent and, through her own fear, Louise dimly noticed that Brigid was looking very drawn.
    She thought: I can’t deal with this.
    â€œWell then.” Brigid smiled awkwardly, made as if to go. She looked as if, in some way, she had been recently hurt.
    â€œHave some tea.” Louise heard her own voice with surprise and cursed herself. “I’ve only just made some and I’m old-fashioned enough to make it in a pot. Can’t bear the mess of squashed teabags in the sink.” She spoke randomly, getting up, taking a mug from the dresser, whilst all the time an echo inside her head was saying: I can’t
do
this. I can’t
    Brigid placed her hands about the mug, as if they were cold, and gazed into the tea. Louise sat down again and stared at her.
    â€œAre you OK?” She spoke quite gendy.
    Brigid’s eyes were wide and blank with fright. “Yes, of course. Just a few things on my mind.” She smiled a quick, automatic smile. “So then. What about Thea?”
    â€œMaybe. Later on. Shall we see how things… you know… pan out?”
    â€œYes. Right. You’d love the Old Station House. And the girls. You’ve met Hermione, of course, and Julia and Amelia are gorgeous. And there’s Percy, of course. Thea’s famous. She writes and illustrates children’s books and there was the show on the television. Not that you’d know if you don’t have children. It was an absolute cult a few years ago—T-shirts and mugs and toys …”
    â€™Toys?”
    â€œPercy the Parrot. He was gorgeous. Unfortunately, my boys were too old for him but we always watched the programme. It was a huge success. Anyway, have a think about it and let me know. Thanks for the tea.”
    The front door closed. In the silence which was left behind her Louise trembled, clammy hands knotted together. It was as if a huge wall of black water stood above her; building, rising, towering, threatening to engulf her. She could hear it roaring and then realised that the noise was inside her head. Dizzily she stumbled towards the table and sank into her chair, dropping her forehead on her arms, but, even now, she could not cry.
    B RIGID, BACK in her own home, roamed resdessly. Her usual sense of peace, of sanctuary, was destroyed by her fear. What was Jenny coming to tell her? She’d telephoned several times but Jenny’s answerphone was permanendy switched on and she’d been unable to make contact What could be wrong? It was three years now since Brigid had agreed to let one