Distant Voices

by Barbara Erskine

The girl was watching me half fascinated, half, I was sure, afraid herself, now that Pete had gone. I took my chance and pulled myself up onto the bunk where he had been sitting. I felt less at a disadvantage off my knees. I gave a feeble smile. ‘You couldn’t spare some of that coffee you were making, could you?’

  She stared at me a moment longer and I thought she was going to refuse but she stood up and groped her way to the galley. A second later she was back with a mugful. She handed it to me without speaking and I drank it gratefully. It was only just warm and very bitter but it comforted me a little.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  She was still watching me in silence when Pete reappeared some minutes later.

  Sam turned to him. ‘You can’t throw her overboard, Pete. That would be murder.’

  ‘And aren’t you prepared to murder, sweetheart, for a million pounds?’ he asked her sarcastically.

  I saw her lips tighten till the flesh round her mouth drained of colour but she shook her head. ‘Not murder, Pete.’

  He looked at me for a moment – he had not taken off his waterproofs this time – then he stooped and caught my elbow, pulling me to my feet. I cried out with fear, but instead of dragging me up on deck he pushed me in front of him towards the bows of the boat. ‘You’ll have to forgive us if we deprive ourselves of your company Miss Marshall,’ he said with meticulous politeness. ‘Until I decide what to do with you. It’s a wild night as you cannot have failed to notice and I need Sam to help me sail this tub.’

  He pushed me into the forward sail locker and pulled the door shut behind me, leaving me alone in the dark. I had already seen there was a padlock on the outside of the door; I did not need to hear the click to know he had locked me in.

  The spare berth was furnished with a plastic-covered foam mattress; apart from the neatly stacked sailbags which more than half filled the small space, it was empty. There were no portholes.

  I sat down hugging my arms around me to try and keep warm as the tears began to slip down my cheeks.

  Later I wrapped myself in one of the sails; the cold crackly Terylene was little comfort but it was better than nothing and I must have dozed a little for I awoke to find the motion had lessened. I could hear feet above my head. I peered up half expecting the forehatch to open but it didn’t. Instead I heard a deafening roar as the anchor chain began to run.

  We had been rocking gently for some time when the sound of an outboard engine came to my ears. It drew close, hovered for a while then drew away again. Then at last the lock rattled and the door was pulled open. The light which streamed in was blinding after the darkness.

  ‘Good morning Miss Marshall. I trust you slept well.’ Pete reached in and took my arm.

  This time we were going on deck. He propelled me up the companionway into the cockpit and, dazed, I glanced round. Sam was standing at the wheel. The oilskins were gone; she was dressed in shorts and a striped T-shirt, her blonde hair blowing in the sun. She grinned at me.

  ‘I hope you can swim,’ she said.

  I tried to struggle but his arms were round me, lifting me over the rail, and there was nothing I could do to save myself. No time to think. I heard myself scream and then the icy water closed over my head.

  I fought it madly, choking desperately until at last in a haze of bubbles I rose back into the air and only then did I realise that I was less than a hundred yards from the shore. As I began to swim I glanced over my shoulder at the yacht. Her sails set, she was already drawing away on a starboard tack. Only Sam turned to see if I had surfaced. The yacht, I noticed suddenly, had no name.

  I lay on the beach until my clothes dried on me and I stopped shaking, then half faint with exhaustion and hunger I made my way up over the sand towards the dunes. My head throbbed but I was so grateful to be back on land and in one piece I could ignore it. I slipped and staggered as I walked but there at last was a road and in the distance I thought I could see a house.

  I was still staring at the road sign incredulously when a lorry drew up beside me with a squeal and hiss of brakes. The driver leaned down from his cab and grinned. ‘Salut!’ he said.

  I stared at him. The first thing that came into my head was a sob of disbelief. ‘This isn’t France!’ I said.

  I saw the easy smile vanish off his face. He looked at me hard for a moment, taking in my crumpled, salt-stained clothes and tangled hair, then the huge panting engine was silenced and he opened his door, jumping down beside me. He was a tall man, in his forties, broadly built, with brawny arms and his face as he looked down into mine was gentle and concerned. ‘You are English, yes? What do you mean this is not La France?’ His accent was heavy.

  I shook my head trying to blink back my tears; he would never believe me. No one would ever believe me.

  But he did. Two minutes’ gentle probing revealed to him that I had no money, no papers and had not eaten for nearly twenty-four hours. The last news seemed to cheer him slightly. It was something he could put right.

  That French routier restored my faith in men. The vast lorry stowed safely off the road, he escorted me into a small restaurant in the next village and proceeded to order what seemed to me to be a feast.

  ‘There. Better. Yes?’ He said at last. We had not spoken while the soup was on the table. It was scalding, full of onions and cheese and quite beautiful.

  ‘Much better.’ I managed a quite presentable smile. I had borrowed his comb and washed the salt off my face. ‘I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t arrived.’

  He leaned forward and put his brawny arms on the table, pushing the plates aside. ‘Now, when we are finished you will telephone home, yes?’ He poured me some more of the ordinaire wine.

  ‘But I was running away from home,’ I protested. ‘If I ring –’

  He interrupted with a very Gallic shrug. ‘Bien sûr. But to run away without money; without passport; that was not well planned, eh?’

  The patron took away our soup plates and replaced them with succulent helpings of fish dressed in a rich sauce.

  I sighed. ‘You are right. I will have to ring my father,’ I said. It seemed a terrible thing, after my terrifying bid for freedom, to have to admit defeat.

  ‘This father he is a tyrant, yes?’ Jean-Pierre was watching me. I could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes. ‘This I do not understand. I thought English girls were, how you say, liberate.’

  ‘Liberated.’ I smiled back. ‘They are, most of them.’

  ‘Bon. Then perhaps you can phone someone else. Your boyfriend?’ He tore a piece of bread from the baguette which lay between us on the red and white chequered cloth and began to chew it thoughtfully.

  Boyfriend. Ben? What would Ben say if I rang him and told him that I was marooned in France without money or passport, wining and dining with a lorry driver after being thrown overboard by drug smugglers? The only thing missing was the shark-infested sea!

  I saw him grin. ‘You have thought of something funny yes? That is good. You are not unhappy any more. Things are never so bad as they would seem, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. Suddenly I knew what I was going to do.

  ‘I have thought of someone,’ I said.

  We had a café filtré, then at last we commandeered the patron’s telephone and made the call. I don’t know who answered but when Jean-Pierre went back to our table he had summoned Robin Hamilton to the phone.

  ‘Robin? It’s Anna. Listen I’m in France.’

  ‘I thought you were in bed with a headache!’ I could hear the amusement in his voice over the phone. ‘Did you do a bunk?’

  ‘Sort of. I’ll explain later. Robin, can you come and get me? Can you bring my passport and some money?’

  ‘Where will I find them?’

  ‘You mean you will?’ I was incredulous for a moment.

  ‘The party is appalling without you and I can be on the next hovercraft. Where do I find your things?’ His voice was matter of fact as though he was asked things like this every
day. Perhaps journalists are. Behind it I could hear the sound of music and laughter.

  When I rejoined Jean-Pierre he had ordered another carafe of wine. ‘Tout va bien?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘I told him where I’d be, just as you said. Are you sure you don’t mind …’ I was embarrassed suddenly. This complete stranger had become a friend in the space of less than two hours; a real friend. His lorry was empty and he was on his way home for twenty-four hours’ rest before taking a load back to Paris, and he assured me he could think of no more delightful way of passing some of the time than with me!

  We met Robin at seven that evening. He had taken the ferry to Boulogne and hired a car there. In the back was one of my own suitcases. He had gone to my room, rifled my drawers and cupboards and made his own selection of clothes. I saw Jean-Pierre eyeing him with obvious approval and I was pleased. I didn’t think I was going to regret throwing myself on Robin’s mercy. Nevertheless I was sad when Jean-Pierre had to go. One day, we promised, we would visit him, but before then I had a way of life to change.

  When he had gone Robin produced my passport from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘But you also need money. It was conspicuous by its absence in your handbag.’

  He was looking at me closely. ‘Do I get an explanation?’

  I nodded. ‘I rather think you do. Also, probably, a good story. I owe you a lot for coming like this.’

  He grinned. ‘You do indeed.’ He opened the door of the red Renault for me. ‘But first of all, I think, a change of clothes and dinner. I’ve checked us into a hotel.’

  It was a double room.

  ‘One of the things I owe you?’ I asked, looking round. Strangely I did not feel angry.

  He swung my case onto the bed and went to push back the shutters. Outside the street was noisy with traffic; two men were having an argument immediately beneath the wrought iron balcony; the air was full of the sound of their shouting and the smell of French cooking.

  He turned and leaned with his shoulder against the wall, looking at me. ‘Not unless you want,’ he said. ‘I could just about restrain myself to a chaste neighbourliness, provided I get my explanation; I am not quite such a lecher as Parker. Do I gather you told him where to go? The atmosphere at your idyllic home has not been all sweetness and light since you left.’

  ‘Did Don lose his contract?’ I had taken my silk négligé from the case.

  Robin shrugged. ‘Still not signed as far as I know. He’ll get it though. Parker doesn’t do business entirely with his balls. He’ll make Don sweat but if he got as far as going down to Sussex, he’ll sign.’

  To my surprise I found I didn’t really care. The house; Don; they were already in the past, as were, I suspected, my flat, my allowance and my car! I had a leisurely bath and then we went out to dinner.

  By halfway through I was beginning to realise that I liked Robin Hamilton very much. He was unlike any other man I had known; relaxed, humorous, totally unconventional and, for the first time I found, as his fingers closed over mine on the table, a man whose touch did not leave me rigid with dislike. On the contrary I felt an unmistakable tingle of excitement.

  There was a lot to talk about that evening and some of it involved the police. Robin was not prepared to ignore the method of my arrival in France. He took it very seriously indeed.

  And he used the story. It made the headlines in most of the papers in England, but as far as I know they never caught Pete and Sam.

  The other story, the one about a businessman who tried to sell his daughter for a contract, Robin kept to himself.

  In our bedroom that first night together, as I waited for him to come upstairs from phoning his paper and Don, to tell him where I was, I went once more to the window and looked out. The sound of an accordion floated up from the café across the street and I could hear laughter and the sound of singing. I thought for one short moment about Ben. It was without regret.

  When Robin returned at last he came over to the window and put his arms around me. ‘I told Don, among other things,’ he said softly, ‘that you and I were driving on down to the Riviera for a few days.’

  I turned to look up at him. His face was only inches from mine. ‘I should like that,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘No strings attached. We’ll see how it goes, shall we?’

  I remembered Ben and all the strings that had surrounded that relationship and laughed. ‘No strings,’ I agreed, and I was surprised to realise that I really meant it. I was content to see what time, and the freedom to be myself at last, would bring.

  ‘I told Don that his little Anna has grown up,’ Robin added. ‘She makes her own decisions from now on.’

  ‘She does indeed,’ I whispered. ‘And one of my first is about you.’

  While I was waiting for him to come upstairs from his phone calls I had changed into my négligé, and now, loosening the belt I let the pale blue silk slide gently from my shoulders to the floor. Robin had not packed any nightdresses, so of course I wasn’t wearing one.

  Rosemary and Thyme

  The sound of the flute had taken her completely by surprise. It was as pure in its way as the sound of the robin’s song which was cascading with icy beauty across the garden. This was not a small child painfully practising before school, this was adult music, expert, complex. Elizabethan. Shivering, as she listened, Lesley glanced down with distaste at her mud-caked gardening gloves. They were cold, clinging to her fingers, no longer comforting against the earth. Peeling them off she stooped and picked up her thermos. A secret indulgence this: steaming bitter coffee, redolent of past breakfasts, but here in the cleansing air of dawn safely apart from memories. Sipping, she could feel the darkness of her mood lifting and dispersing with the music.

  Beyond the herb beds and the low box hedges she could see the sea. The sun, hard silver behind bars of dawn cloud, threw no heat yet across the glitter of the water. Behind her, in contrast, the churchyard wall was smothered in warm blossom. Espaliered pears clung unpruned the whole length of the soft old red brick and as she turned to watch a wren darted in and out of the white flowers.

  From the yew tree behind the wall the robin was pouring out its heart to the dawn, the sweetness of the song a sharp counterpoint to the sudden harsh ringing cry of a gull overhead until, as though indignant at being outclassed by the music of the flute, it stopped singing and with a flirt of its tail vanished.

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Lesley put down her mug and tiptoed across the beds, brushing aside the delicate fronds of rosemary with their veil of blue flowers. At the wall she reached up and cautiously she peered over. She could see nothing. The shadows in the depths of the churchyard were thick and dark. Suddenly the music stopped.

  ‘Oh no!’

  She had spoken involuntarily and half embarrassed she waited, expecting some response from the musician.

  None came.

  The silence unnerved her slightly. She had expected a voice, or a face amongst the holly branches, or even the sound of retreating footsteps. Uncomfortable with the intensity of the quiet she raised herself on her toes and peered further over the wall.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  At the sound of her voice a blackbird hurtled out of the hollies near her, shrieking in alarm. Otherwise there was no sound.

  Turning, she followed the wall to where an old wooden gate led from the garden into the churchyard itself. She pushed at it. It was swollen and stiff to open but with a protesting creak it allowed her to pass. Beyond the wall, where a few moments before she had stood and listened to the music, the sun was gaining strength. A small streak of gold touched the clouds.

  The gravel path was thickly overgrown, but still it crunched beneath her feet as she moved cautiously forward. The church was locked. The old ivy-covered graves slept in silence.

  The music when it came again was quieter, sadder. She listened, turning slowly round, trying to work out where it was coming from.

  Beyond
the church the path wound between the graves towards the lych gate and the lane which led up from the village.

  Slowly she walked on, following the music towards the avenue of majestic yews and a tangled thicket of old rose bushes. Leaving the path she walked on feeling the dew soaking, ice cold, over the top of her boots from the long, uncut grass.

  The young man was standing looking down at a newly dug grave. Tall and slim he appeared to be dressed entirely in black. In his hand she could see the long outline of the instrument he had been playing. She stopped. He had his back to her, he hadn’t seen her yet; she could still turn back. She hesitated, unwilling to leave, but not wanting to intrude on his obvious grief.

  Seconds ticked by. Beside her the robin, reassured by her stillness, hopped out of the ivy which clung around the stone coping of a vault and came to rest only two feet from her. It bowed and half spread its wings and danced across the arm of a cross near by. Distracted, she watched it for a few seconds. When she glanced back at the young man, he had gone.

  She shrugged. He must have looked round and caught sight of her. Slowly she made her way back towards the gate, conscious of the newly rising sun throwing warmth through the still-bare branches of the trees. She could understand grief too raw, too new to be shared, but at the same time she was overwhelmed with regret for the beauty and emotion of the music which had gone with him.

  She did it automatically, as she would have done for a friend, conscious that she had scared the mourner away, putting together in recompense the nosegay of rosemary with its intense blue flowers, the gaudy bells of lungwort, cowslips and sweet violets, then retracing her steps, she followed the path towards the grave, her own offering to whoever lay beneath that soft black earth, a bright, fragrant bouquet in her hand.

  The robin led the way, bobbing ahead with flirtatious friendliness, its beady eyes fixed on her face.

  The church door was open. Someone must have been there to unlock it while she was preparing the flowers. Unable suddenly to face the thought of meeting anyone, of speaking, embarrassed by the presumptuousness of her little posy for the unknown grave, she tiptoed on the grass, following the path between the yew trees past the vault to the tangled rose bushes. Now the light was stronger, the shadows gone, she could see how old they were – great thick woody stems, most of them dead, or only sustained by suckers, threaded with thistle and goose grass, entwined with ivy. Beyond them there was an old grave, surrounded by railings, the stone moss-covered, cracked and crumbling. She glanced round, lost. Surely it was here she had been standing when she saw the young man. Feeling foolish suddenly she cast around, searching for the mound of newly turned dark earth.