Swallowtail Summer Read online

  Dedication

  This book is for my sons Edward and Samuel, Ally and Rebecca, and my grandson. But it’s also in memory of Jane Wheelhouse, a dear friend who was such a great inspiration to all who knew her.

  Title Page

  Swallowtail

  Summer

  Erica James

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  The Inspiration for Swallowtail Summer

  About the Author

  Copyright

  There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery

  the time when we were happy.

  Dante Alighieri

  Chapter One

  The taxi trundled along at a leisurely speed, as though the driver had all the time in the world to cover the short distance from the station to the riverside village of Linston.

  In the passenger seat, his stomach churning with anticipation, Alastair Lucas was on edge, a state of mind that was not helped by the annoying rattle in the door panel beside him. He was tempted to ram his elbow hard against the panel to see if that would silence the noise, but he didn’t think the taxi driver would appreciate him doing that.

  To ease his anxiety, he focused his attention on looking out of the windscreen, at the sky that was littered with puffy white clouds and the sun that was already shining brightly. Rain must have fallen in the night, making the wet road glisten in the early morning sunlight. The passing scenery was wholly familiar to him, yet he was seeing it through new eyes, comparing it to the rich and varied landscapes that had been home to him since he’d gone away nine months ago.

  ‘Where did you say you wanted me to drop you off?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Linston End,’ said Alastair, ‘it’s on Linston Lower Road.’

  ‘That’ll be one of those exclusive places along the river, then, lawns right down to the water’s edge. Some lovely old houses there. I like those traditional properties, especially the thatched ones. Must be a nightmare to maintain though. Are you visiting?’ The man was probably thinking of the large backpack and scruffy holdall in the boot of the car.

  ‘No; I’m coming home.’

  ‘Been away have you? Somewhere nice?’

  With no apparent expectation of a reply from Alastair, which was something of a relief to him, the man continued on with his chatter. ‘But I doubt you could find anywhere better than here. As my wife is always telling me, and she’s a local girl through and through, there’s nowhere in the world better than the Norfolk Broads. Okee-smokey, here’s Linston Lower Road, what number are we looking for?’

  ‘No number,’ said Alastair, suddenly wanting to have this last part of his journey over with. ‘I’ll tell you when to slow down.’

  ‘Right you are. Bet you’re looking forward to a decent cuppa, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where you go in the world, there’s nothing like coming home to a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘It’s just around the bend after the beech hedge and the sign for Grebe House,’ said Alastair, thinking that a nice cup of tea couldn’t be further from his thoughts. The churning in his stomach had increased and his mouth was now dry. ‘You can drop me off at the gate if you like,’ he said, when the driver spotted the sign for Grebe House and slowed the car yet more, then began to turn the steering wheel.

  ‘No, no, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly or not all.’

  Alastair’s first glimpse of the thatched house as the car travelled the length of the hedge-lined drive filled him with irrational dread, had him wanting to tell the driver to turn the car around and take him back to the station.

  But that would be the coward’s way out. He was home to face his demons and put the past to rest. Pulling himself together, he cast his mind back to when Linston End had been a place of great happiness for him, when it was the only place he wanted to be.

  Thirty years ago his great Aunt Cora had left him the house in her will. Her generosity had not come as a surprise; Cora had repeatedly voiced her desire for him to inherit Linston End, knowing that ever since spending most of his childhood holidays with her, he loved it like a close friend.

  It was Cora who had taught him to sail, and Cora who had shared her love of the Broads and its fascinating but threatened wildlife. It was Cora who had insisted, when he became a teenager, that he should bring with him a couple of friends for the summer holidays, not wanting him to be bored of her company.

  Dear old Cora, she had given him so much, and now he was about to betray her, or so it felt. Would she be spinning in her grave at the thought of what he was about to put in play? He hoped not. He wanted her to understand that this was important to him, that to be happy he had to take this drastic step.

  When the taxi driver had driven away, Alastair stood on the doorstep, his luggage at his feet. He was visited by a memory from a long time ago – the memory of his seven-year-old self arriving for the summer holidays. It was the first time he was to spend the holiday without his parents who, as actors, were starring together in a play touring the country. Normally they tried to avoid this happening, but in this instance there had been no avoiding their being away at the same time and so Cora, a woman not known for her love of children, having none of her own, was approached to take care of Alastair. Initially she had been unwilling, but had capitulat
ed so long as her great nephew would not interfere with her bird watching, or any of her other pursuits and daily routines. His behaviour must have met her high standards, for from then on she invited him to stay every summer, and always without his parents. ‘They’re busy people and need time to themselves,’ she would say.

  Alastair pushed the key into the lock of the front door and in a further attempt to distract himself, he recalled the knee-trembling apprehension he had experienced as a boy that day when the taxi driver had dropped him off that first time. Cora had originally intended to collect him from the station herself, but for whatever reason she had changed her mind at the last minute. She had greeted his cautious ring of the doorbell with a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck and the words: ‘Ah, so you’re here, are you? Good. Now then, stow your suitcase over there, go to the lavatory if you must, and then come with me. We haven’t a moment to lose. We’re off to Ranworth Broad to see some swallowtail butterflies.’ No sooner had he done as he’d been told, than he was being hustled outside and down the sweep of lawn to the boathouse, running at breakneck speed as though their lives depended upon it.

  That was how life was with Cora: time was of the essence, not a second was to be lost. Life was to be lived to the fullest; otherwise, as she often said, what was the point? She had been one of the most spontaneous and passionate people he had known and it was how Alastair had wanted to live his own life. It had not always worked out that way, but now he was determined to follow Cora’s advice to the letter.

  He opened the door and stepped into the large octagonal hall. The spacious and airy entrance always took visitors by surprise, but then the whole house was a clever blend of quirky and traditional Broadland architecture. Closing the door behind him, his heart – his treacherous heart, forever prone to nostalgic sentiment – gave a small, but unmistakable lurch at the prospect of what he planned to set in motion.

  Thousands of miles away, his decision had been an act of much-needed liberation. Now though, as the familiar embrace of the house welcomed him home, and reminded him how good it had been to his wellbeing over the years, that it had always had the power to lift his spirits, even when life had felt more than he could cope with, he experienced a shadow of doubt.

  He dumped his luggage at the foot of the stairs and walked through to the kitchen at the back of the house. He stood at the French doors to look out over the lawn and to Linston Mill on the other side of the river. The three-storey mill was privately owned, and one of the most photographed landmarks along this stretch of the River Bure. Artists flocked to it, too.

  Originally built as a drainage mill for the surrounding marshland, it had a sense of isolation to it, in that to reach it one had to use a boat from this side of the river. There was the more inconvenient option by which it could be approached, and that was the long way round by road, but that entailed having to leave your car three hundred yards away from the mill and take the footpath that snaked its way through a dense copse of trees.

  As a child, and when Cora had deemed him old enough to do it alone without coming to grief, he had often rowed over to visit the owner of the mill, an eccentric old boy who had been Cora’s closest friend. Back then Alastair never once considered they might be anything other than friends with a mutual interest in birdwatching, but as an adult he suspected there had been more to it than that.

  For the last ten years the mill had been a second home for a couple of architects from London who had modernised it and occasionally let it out to friends. Linston End had been a second home for Alastair also, until two years ago, and shortly before his sixtieth birthday, when he and Orla had taken the step of moving here permanently from London. Something they had always planned to do once he retired from a longstanding career in banking and asset management. Risk assessment had been his particular forte, which was ironic, given the risk he was now about to take at the age of sixty-two.

  With that thought, he turned away from the garden and view of the river and mill, and looked at the central island unit where, next to a glass vase filled with flowers, there was a note.

  Welcome home!

  I’ve filled the fridge and made you your favourite shepherd’s pie – after all that foreign food you’ve been eating, I thought you’d like something simple and English!

  Your bed’s made up and I’ve put all your mail in a cupboard in your study. I reckon it’ll take you until Christmas to work your way through it!

  Best wishes,

  Sylvia.

  P.S. Neil plans to cut the grass in a couple of days if that suits you. Oh, and he had to get the hedge trimmer fixed, the motor packed up on him.

  Sylvia and Neil Finney had worked at Linston End for many years and from what Alastair could see, they had kept the house and garden in good order while he’d been away. Again he felt a stab of guilty betrayal at what he would have to share with them in the coming days. But who knew, maybe they would welcome a change.

  But telling Sylvia and Neil of his plans was the least of his concerns. Explaining to his friends would be a far harder sell. He wanted to believe they would be happy for him, but he feared they might well think he was mad, that grief had tipped him over the edge. Just one of the things he had to tell them was bad enough, but the combination of the two – two bombshells – would quite possibly feel like the ultimate disloyalty to them.

  He took off his leather jacket, hooked it over the back of a chair, and after filling the coffee machine with water, he retraced his steps out to the hall. He thought briefly about taking his luggage through to the utility room and the washing machine, but instead found himself drifting around the ground floor of the house, as if reacquainting himself with the rooms and their contents. With each step he took, he experienced the haunting sensation that he wasn’t alone, that Orla was here, that any minute he would turn and there she would be. Surprise!

  Nowhere did this sensation hit him more forcibly than when he came to a stop in the conservatory, which he and Orla had built on to the house after Cora’s death. Apart from her studio in the garden, where she had spent so much of her time, this had been his wife’s favourite room. It had been very much her space rather than his.

  Abruptly he turned on his heel and went back to the kitchen.

  He poured himself a mug of black coffee, and took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket.

  Who to ring first, Simon or Danny?

  Chapter Two

  ‘He’s back, then?’ remarked Sorrel Wyatt, when Simon came off the phone. She was finishing the job of emptying the dishwasher, paying particular attention to lining up the handles of the mugs in the cupboard, arranging the plates so that the pattern of each one was in the same position as the one beneath it, and placing the cutlery in the drawer in neat organised piles. She hated to open the cutlery drawer and find it in disarray.

  ‘He flew in at the crack of dawn and is already home,’ said Simon, grinning happily. ‘He says he wants us all to go up for the weekend.’

  Poor old Simon, thought Sorrel, these nine long months he’d missed Alastair like a dog misses its owner, and now that his oldest friend was home he was practically wagging his tail and running around in circles ready to go walkies.

  Joined at the hip didn’t come close when it came to describing the relationship between Simon and Alastair, and Danny too. They had been friends since being at school together and such was the strength of their friendship Sorrel, Orla and Frankie had accepted that in marrying into this trio of best buddies they had to recognise that the three men more or less came as one, a sort of BOGOF, except in this instance, it was a case of buy one, get two free, plus wives.

  Even on their honeymoon, Simon had sneaked away to phone Alastair, despite promising he wouldn’t. That broken promise, as absurd as it had been for Sorrel to expect Simon to keep, had always rankled with her. It had been foolish of her, but it had been a test on her part. A test that Simon had
failed.

  ‘I thought he wasn’t due home for another month,’ she said, going over to where her husband was leaning against the table, on which the remains of breakfast still lay, along with that morning’s partially read newspaper. Her hands moving automatically, Sorrel began tidying things away, and with an irritation that she found difficult to hide.

  She would never have thought she would become one of those awful wives who complained of her husband getting under her feet when he retired, or nagged that the bulk of the domestic chores always seemed to fall to her, but she had indeed turned into that very wife.

  Retirement for her had come a year before Simon’s and, after saying goodbye to her colleagues at the sixth-form college in Cambridge where she had been an administrator, she had had a full twelve months to establish herself at home, stamping her mark on the days by carving out a new routine to follow. She joined the local tennis club and threw herself into ‘local good causes’, including helping as a volunteer at Chelstead Hall, a local National Trust property. It was the kind of work women of her ilk were destined to do. Simon had not felt any such compulsion when he retired; instead he mooched about the house like a bored teenager. Alastair going off when he did had not helped matters.

  ‘Change of plan apparently. He wants us all there,’ Simon repeated, rubbing his hands together, and with what Sorrel imagined unkindly as another wag of his tail.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I heard you the first time.’

  ‘I’ll give Rachel a ring, shall I? Then Callum.’ He was effervescent with eager excitement. That’s what came of having so little to do with his time, she thought.

  ‘Why?’ The question was disingenuous of her. She knew exactly why.

  ‘Because Alastair wants to see us all; the whole gang. He has something important to tell us.’

  Sorrel considered this last statement, taking her time to tease it out. ‘Is there something you’re not sharing with me?’ she asked. Was it possible that this summons to Linston End was more than just a get-together to welcome the conquering hero home? A man who was home much earlier than planned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’