The Mermaid Garden Read online

  From then on she had sponsored him personally, taking an interest in his schoolwork and hobbies. When she had learned of his love of art, she had seen to it that he had all the materials he needed and even helped him herself, with the little knowledge she had, until that became too limited and she had employed a young man from Buenos Aires to spend the summer tutoring him. Lorenzo and Maria Carmela were both proud and grateful, but Maria Carmela suffered terribly from the fear that Rafa would be taken away from her; that somehow, this gift of a child would not be hers forever.

  She went outside to feed the parrot, Panchito. He sat on his perch, basking in the sunlight, preening his green feathers in preparation for the day. She held out a handful of nuts, which he took one by one, using his beak and claw—he didn’t like his breakfast to be rushed. Señora Luisa had enabled Rafa to rise above the low expectations thrust upon him by virtue of his birth. He had a good job, he earned well, he had a nice life … why was he now on the brink of throwing it all away?

  Clementine left work early. Sylvia had convinced Mr. Atwood to take his wife out for dinner, and Clementine had booked the famous Incoming Tide restaurant and nipped out to buy a bouquet of roses for him to give her, along with the present she had bought. She would have given him her bouquet if she could have been sure no one would notice, but Sylvia had put the flowers in water and placed them on her desk.

  So Clementine departed at five with the roses tucked under her arm, dripping water down her coat. She looked forward to an early night, watching TV, forgetting about Joe and the prospect of seeing him the following night. At least she wasn’t pregnant. She was overwhelmed with gratitude for that. He might be a little coarse, but he hadn’t taken advantage of her when he so easily could have. Perhaps he was a rough diamond—a gentleman beneath his workman’s overalls. She smiled at the thought of her mother and what she would make of him. Her mother was a terrific snob, boxing everyone in four compartments—proper, trade, common, and foreign, proper being the only acceptable box.

  She found her father and Marina in the kitchen, having tea. Her father was ruddy-cheeked, having been out fishing for most of the day, while Marina was glowing with happiness.

  “Clementine,” she said, smiling up from the table, “come and join us.”

  “How was your day?” asked her father.

  “Dull.” Clementine unhooked a mug and helped herself to a tea bag.

  “You’re earning money and gaining experience, which is very important.”

  “Great, Dad. Thanks.”

  “We’ve found our artist,” Marina announced.

  “Hurrah!”

  She ignored her stepdaughter’s sarcasm. “I think you’ll like him. He’s very handsome.”

  “I’m not interested. Look, he’s your project. He’s got nothing to do with me. After all, I can’t paint and have no interest in art.” She poured water into her mug and added a dash of milk.

  “Do you want to join us for dinner?”

  “I’ll eat it in front of the telly.”

  “We’re having bass. Your father caught it this morning.”

  “Well, if there’s enough, I’ll have some.”

  “Of course there’s enough,” said Grey proudly. “It’s a four-pounder, at least.”

  “Wow, well done, Dad.”

  “Fancy coming out with me this weekend?”

  Clementine pulled a face. “Why?”

  “Just thought you might like to come out in the boat. How are those sea legs of yours?”

  “I’ve never had sea legs, Dad. I hate boats and the sea makes me sick, if you remember.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “I don’t think growing up changes either of those things.”

  “It does change attitude,” interjected Marina coolly. “Why don’t you spend some time with your father?”

  “Okay, so you’re bristling for another lecture. Is that it? I can’t run off in the middle of the sea.”

  “No lecture, just haven’t seen much of you.”

  “That’s because I’m working, Dad. Welcome to the real world.”

  Marina’s good mood evaporated as Clementine sucked the air out of the room, replacing it with her dark presence. She glanced at her husband and felt nothing but contempt for her stepdaughter, who constantly rebuffed him.

  “Another day, then,” said Grey, trying not to look disappointed.

  6.

  The following morning Mr. Atwood strode into the office, his natural good humor overshadowed by a thunderous look. Clementine, who felt a great deal better after a good night’s sleep, was already at her desk, looking at pictures of Buenos Aires on the Internet. Sylvia was late.

  “If my wife hadn’t been so delighted with her pink mixer, I would sack you for the card you chose.”

  Clementine hastily clicked out and pulled her most innocent face. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Atwood.”

  “Don’t try that with me. You know exactly what I mean. The card was inappropriate, not to mention insulting.”

  “Not to your wife, surely.”

  “Of course not, you silly girl.”

  “I thought it was funny.”

  “So did she—at my expense.”

  “Well, at least she had a laugh on her birthday.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lippy this morning.”

  “I had porridge for breakfast. It tends to make me a little feisty.”

  “Well, have an egg tomorrow, instead. I don’t expect my secretary to answer back.”

  “You could have read the card when you signed it.”

  “I pay you to do that.”

  She shrugged. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.”

  He huffed irritably and strode across the reception area to his office, straightening the magazines on the way. Clementine wondered whether he was the sort of man who folded his clothes before making love. She suspected he was.

  Sylvia arrived looking uncharacteristically tousled.

  “You look like you’ve got out of bed backwards,” Clementine remarked.

  “I did,” she replied, grinning mischievously. “Freddie stopped by for breakfast, that’s why I’m late.”

  “That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard.” Clementine clicked into Buenos Aires again. “I think I’m going to go to South America instead of India.”

  “You’re not still thinking of that Argentine, are you?”

  “Dreams are cheap.”

  “You get what you pay for.” Sylvia shot into the loos to tidy up. When she came out, her hair was neatly brushed into her usual updo, her makeup flawlessly applied, her floral dress without a crease. Clementine wondered how it was possible to do all that in the lavatory.

  “I’m meeting some friends for dinner tonight. D’you want to come?” Sylvia asked her.

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you bring Joe?”

  Clementine’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I kind of gave him the idea that I’d hook up with him tonight, so I suppose I should.”

  “Give him a chance. I don’t know what you want—heart flutters and stomach cramps, I expect—but life isn’t like that. The point is, does he make you laugh and is he a good lover? Anything more than that is a bonus, or restricted to romantic novels. You wait around for that sort of hero, and you’ll grow old alone.”

  “What a happy soliloquy first thing in the morning.”

  “Sorry, lovely, but I’m just giving you a dose of realism.”

  “I’ve had far too much realism recently. I’m going to go to Buenos Aires, to while away my days dreaming.”

  “Now Argentines, apparently they’re the worst.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everyone knows. They’re notorious for being irresistibly charming and compulsively unfaithful.”

  “You’re thinking of polo players, but go on, repeat the old cliché.”

  “They make good lovers but bad husban
ds.”

  “I’m not planning on marrying one. I don’t intend to marry at all, ever.”

  Sylvia looked bewildered. “Why not?”

  “I come from a broken home. I never want to do that to a child.”

  “That’s silly. You can break the cycle.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “I’m divorced, and yet I’d give it another go. I’d marry Freddie, if he ever left his wife. They rarely do, though.”

  “My father left my mother,” said Clementine bitterly. “I’d never want to be the wedge that drives a family apart like Submarine.”

  Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe their love was so strong—”

  “Weren’t you just saying that kind of love is reserved for romantic novels?”

  “And the very lucky few.”

  “Ah, so you do believe in love?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t believe it happens to each and every one of us. That’s all. You might grow to love Joe if you give him a chance.”

  “Do you love Freddie?”

  “I love the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he makes me laugh. I love who I am when I’m with him. But do I love him? Like, would I die without him? I’d be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t be brokenhearted.”

  “Don’t you want something more?”

  “Of course. Every little girl wants to find her prince. But there’s no point hankering after something you can’t have. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not one of the lucky ones.” Sylvia grabbed her handbag. “I think I’ll go out for a ciggie. Will you man the phone?”

  Clementine watched her leave. She didn’t imagine she was one of the lucky ones, either, but deep down inside, she hoped there was more to love than Joe.

  “I think we’ll put Rafa in the suite at the top,” said Marina, sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso thoughtfully. “No one’s booked it for months, and it’s a shame to let such a beautiful set of rooms go unused.”

  Harvey was up a ladder in his blue boiler suit and cap, screwdriver in hand to mend the curtain pole that had come away from the wall at one end. “That’s the nicest bedroom in the house,” he said, pausing a moment. “Used to be young William’s room when he was a boy.”

  Harvey remembered the Duke of Somerland’s children fondly: three rambunctious boys with big blue eyes and smiles that held within them the promise of a whole heap of mischief. He had been just a lad himself, employed to help the estate manager, Mr. Phelps, chopping logs and sweeping leaves. He still felt nostalgic when Mr. Potter burned the leaves in autumn. It took him back to an innocent time in his life when things had been less complicated.

  Ted and Daniel did the heavy work these days as Mr. Potter was too old—older than he was, and he was as old as the hills—so he delegated, and his sons dug and planted and cut back. Harvey suspected that Marina kept him on out of compassion, because she knew how much the place meant to him and understood the need to deny the years for as long as possible. After all, retirement for Mr. Potter would be as good as putting him in his coffin and placing it in the ground.

  Now the gardens looked as good as they had when the duke had owned the property—better, even, because Marina had such a clear vision of what she wanted and the determination to see it done. He watched her fondly from the window. She was always neatly dressed, with crisp white shirts and slacks, or pretty dresses in summer, never jeans. Being short, she always wore heels to give her height. He felt paternal towards her, a feeling he relished, having never married or fathered children. The funny thing was, she blossomed beneath his praise, and that made him feel good. This glamorous woman, who seemed to have the world at her feet, needed him.

  “Is that a new watch, Harvey?” Marina asked, noticing the silver glinting on his wrist.

  He shook his arm out of his sleeve. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

  “It’s very big.”

  “That’s why I like it.”

  “It looks very expensive.”

  “It’s an Omega.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  He was distracted by a damp patch in the corner of the room. “Looks like there’s a leak,” he said, frowning.

  “A leak?”

  “Might be a blocked gutter. Nothing I can’t fix.”

  She grinned at him affectionately. “You always have just the right thing in that shed of yours. It’s better stocked than any hardware shop.”

  “That’s because I don’t throw anything away. You know, I have a wireless from the nineteen fifties and the first black-and-white television I bought in the sixties.”

  “And a healthy supply of Agritape and baler twine,” she added humorously, for it was a running joke that the Polzanze was held together by agricultural tape and string.

  “So, where are you going to put Mr. Santoro?” he asked, leaning on his screwdriver.

  “Paul had the blue room last year, but it’s a bit run-down, needs to be redecorated. The suite, however, has the original wallpaper, which is so pretty, and a little sitting room for him to paint in. It has a splendid view of the ocean, and when the wind blows over the roof, it whistles. It’s got a special energy up there.”

  “That’s because William was a very happy boy. He and his brothers used to play up there all the time. It was the children’s floor.”

  Marina drained her coffee cup and stole a passing thought of her own children playing up there, had she been so blessed. “He’s come from Argentina; I want him to see the best England has to offer.”

  “He’ll see it here, there’s no doubt about that.” Harvey gave the pole a good pull to make sure it was firmly fixed to the wall.

  “I think he’ll be perfect, don’t you? My old ladies won’t know what’s hit them when they arrive for their week. I just hope the word spreads and people come.”

  “They’ll come,” Harvey reassured her. “Life has its ups and downs, but mark my words, it always goes up after a down.”

  Marina dropped her gaze into her empty cup. “Am I a fool, pinning all my hopes on Rafa Santoro? I know nothing about him. He could be an axe murderer, for all I know.”

  “You have to trust your instincts. I sense he’s a good man.”

  “Do you?” She looked up at him.

  “Yes, though I can’t say whether he’ll help put this place back on its feet again.”

  “We’re on our knees, Harvey.”

  Harvey stopped working on the pole and looked down at her. “I know.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it. I hope that if I don’t talk about it, it won’t happen.”

  “It’s quiet, all right, but it’s just temporary.”

  “I hope so, Harvey. We need money, fast.”

  He came down the ladder and stood at the bottom, screwdriver hanging at his side. “Now listen to me, Marina. You have to keep going. It’s like walking a tightrope: look ahead or you’ll lose your balance. Things will work out; people will come. We’ll weather the recession like everyone else, and it’ll blow over just like a storm.”

  “Do you really see blue sky ahead?”

  “Not a doubt in my mind.”

  “I like your mind, Harvey. I wish I could curl up in it until the storm’s gone.”

  He smiled at her. “I think William’s floor will be perfect for Mr. Santoro. Why don’t I give the blue room a lick of paint?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Shall we go and have a look at it now?”

  “Yes.” She stood up eagerly.

  “Let’s have a look at William’s floor, too, and see if there’s anything that needs to be done in there.”

  “Yes, let’s.” Her voice brightened. “You can fix the leak later.”

  As Marina and Harvey passed reception to get to the stairs, Jennifer paused her telephone conversation and smiled at them guiltily. Harvey shot her a reproachful look, knowing she was indulging once again in a private call.

  “I’ve got to go, Cowboy,” Jennifer hissed once they had gone. “I shouldn’t be talking t
o you during working hours. I’ll get fired.”

  The voice on the other end of the line chuckled in amusement. “Any nonsense from them and I’ll take it out on their daughter. She’s a liability as it is.”

  “Oh, Nigel, that’s not fair.”

  “She’s a useless secretary, and scruffy to boot. At least Sylvia is well dressed and properly groomed.”

  “Clemmie’s young.”

  “So are you, Jen, and you take pride in your appearance.”

  “That’s because I never know when you might saunter in here like John Wayne with your hand on your gun.”

  “I’d like you to put your hand on my gun.”

  “Is it loaded?” she giggled.

  “It’s always loaded, ready to go off with the slightest touch.”

  “Oh, you dirty boy. Back on your horse!”

  “Can I see you tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I won’t call you again.”

  “Text me instead. I like receiving sexy texts.”

  “Do they turn you on?” he whispered, mouth very close to the receiver.

  “Yes,” she whispered back.

  “How much?”

  “So much, I grow hot.”

  “And wet?”

  “Shame on you, Mr. Atwood!”

  “You love it.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Same time, same place. I’ll go and polish my gun.”

  “Easy now, Cowboy. Don’t overpolish it.”

  “Fear not, my precious. I’ll leave the best for you.”

  Grey was in the library reading The Times when Jake found him. His face looked old and weary in repose, a sadness hanging over him like a cloud. It lifted when he saw his son.

  “Ah, Jake,” he said, putting down the paper.

  “Dad, I’ve been thinking about how to revive the business.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.” Jake sank into the big leather armchair opposite his father. “We need to do events. Get people in through a shared interest.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Literary dinners. Something like that, anyway. A club of sorts. People pay to be members, and they get to come to lectures. It’s so quiet here, it’s off-putting. We need an air of activity.”