Subtle hints of colour gently moved against the greyness overhead, as if someone outside were playing weak lights through the leaded glass.
Thom rose from the bed, a slow and awkward movement because of the stiffness in his left arm and leg – it always took a little time for the muscles in both to loosen up, even after only a short nap. He shuffled to the window behind the bed and peered out, his feet cold against the bare floorboards. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, not quite believing what he saw a short distance away.
A half-moon waxed in the night sky, providing enough silvery light to see the stretch of grass and scrub directly below, but it was what lay just beyond at the dark edge of the surrounding forest that had drawn his attention . . .
Thom pressed closer to the window so that his nose almost touched the glass; his breath misted the thin barrier between himself and the night.
He quickly cleared the vapour with a wipe of his flattened hand and looked again, this time holding his breath and squinting his eyes.
It was hard to tell from this distance, but the cores of the dancing lights seemed very small, only the halos around them initially making them appear larger than they were. These surely were the same tiny creatures – beings – he had come upon in the woods earlier that afternoon, only now their colours were more intense, sharper, vivid – more beautiful. And there seemed to be many more of them, all weaving and diving in arcs and loops, with no regular pattern, yet without collision, their movement exquisitely synchronized.
The spectacle – the greens, the blues, the purples, and now the denser colours, the mauves, indigos, the deep blues – was astonishing . . . and breathtaking. His chest was tight, his lungs frozen sacs, and he had to force himself to exhale, the glass before him immediately clouding once more. Again he rubbed at the window with the palm of his hand and the tiny gemstone lights reappeared, dancing among the shadows, some now flitting crazily, while others hovered, their light strong but flickering, as though it was movement that gave them puissance, their energy generating the luminescence.
Thom was unaware that he was smiling in the shadowy room, his face lit both by moonlight and the auroral ballet below, colour tinges fluttering across his whitened skin in faint playful shades, only the reflections in his eyes sharp and stunning.
Occasionally, he breathed a sigh or murmured a sound of wonder as if observing some splendid but silent pyrotechnic display, and soon he lost all sense of time itself. And next morning, he neither recalled dawn’s arrival, nor leaving the window to climb back into bed.
SOMETHING BANGED against the front door below. Then the iron bell-pull grated rustily and he heard the dull, wasted clunk of the long-neglected bell itself.
Thom had awakened only moments earlier, sunlight pouring through the bedroom’s windows, dust motes dancing in the brilliant shafts. He had lain there pondering the lights, his face creased in puzzlement, bedsheet pushed down to his waist, not even the numbness tormenting the left side of his body distracting the thoughts. Twice he had seen them, these tiny glittering orbs, and he could only wonder at their source. If he hadn’t come across them in broad daylight, he might well have thought he’d only dreamed them last night.
Another bang against the front door, someone using the old brass knocker this time and, momentarily forgetting his condition, Thom attempted to whip back the sheet. He winced as the stiffness turned to a stab of pain and became still again, waiting impatiently.
An even sharper knock on the door now, as if someone was frustrated by the lack of response. He thought he heard a voice calling.
‘Okay, okay,’ Thom muttered, easing his legs over the side of the bed. He sat on the edge. ‘Okay!’ he said aloud and irritably as yet another clunk of the bell, this time a looser sound, almost but not quite, a clank, came from below.
Leaning forward with a groan – Jesus, it felt like he had a hangover – he grabbed the cargoes draped over the arm of the two-seater settle close by the bed, mumbling curses as he dragged them on. One foot got caught up in a leg and he had to wriggle his ankle to free it, his curses becoming louder and more angry. Finally, he stood and hauled the stone-coloured trousers over his hips, snapping them shut easily because of the weight he’d lost recently, then reached for the white linen shirt hung over the opposite arm of the settle. Shrugging the shirt over his shoulders and slipping his arms into the sleeves, he limped across the room to the door.
As he began to descend the winding stairs, right hand slipping round the newel to steady himself, creaking floorboards cool beneath his bare feet, the bell rang yet again, clank becoming a hoarse clang. Light streaming from the stairway’s window momentarily blinded him and he almost stumbled, saving himself by bracing his arms against the curved wall and newel post. He blinked rapidly, and as the haze cleared he thought he saw something small scurry across the ground floor landing to disappear through the slightly opened bathroom door.
Thom blinked again, not quite believing what he had seen. Imagination? Still half-dreaming? No, he was sure he’d caught sight of something scooting across the floor. Maybe a mouse. No, too big. Some kind of animal from the forest then. Oh God, not a rat. Please not a rat. Maybe it was to be expected, with the place being empty all these years. Who knew what other creatures had set up home inside the cottage in the absence of human occupation?
He reached the foot of the stairs, the big oak door to the living-room in front of him, the doors to the cupboard and bathroom to his right. Cautiously, he pushed the bathroom door further open and peered inside. The little room was in darkness and he tugged at the hanging light-switch. A heavy double-click and light vanquished most of the shadows. There was nothing amiss though, nothing unusual, nothing out of place. Thom was about to step inside and search the nooks and crannies, anywhere a smallish animal could hide, when there was more rapping and ringing at the front door.
Torn between further investigation and answering the door, Thom bit into his lower lip, did another quick scan of the tiny room, then backed out, leaving the light on but the door closed behind him. He could do a thorough search later.
He called out as he went through into the octagonal-shaped room and the sounds outside ceased. Drawing back the bolt at the bottom of the painted door (he hadn’t bothered with the top one) and turning the long key in its lock, Thom yanked the front door open, ready to give the impatient caller a piece of his mind. Instead, he stood there open-mouthed.
She was stunning. Not quite beautiful in the conventional way, but nevertheless stunning. So stunning, in fact, that he gawped a moment or two more.
Long black hair fell in wild tangles to her shoulders, and her eyes, set wide above high cheekbones, matched its darkness. Hollowed cheeks led to a firm but gently pointed jaw and her nose, while still feminine, was strong, the nostrils slightly flared. It was a striking face, handsome rather than pretty, and sensual perhaps rather than beautiful. She was smiling at him and there was an implicit challenge, one that went with the gentle, amused mocking in her dark, gypsy eyes.
‘Good morning, Thom,’ she said, tilting her head to one shoulder to scrutinize his face. Just in those three words he could detect the slight Shropshire lilt that betrayed the county’s closeness to Wales, this mixed with the faintest burr of the south-west counties, a fine, comfortable blend that was pleasant to the ear.
‘Uhh . . .’ was all he could find to say.
She gave a laugh that came from deep within her throat, so that it sounded like a chuckle.
‘Not quite awake then?’ she said. ‘I thought you might still be sleepin’, s’why I banged on the door so hard and kep’ at the bell.’ The missing letters in her speech hardly mattered at all, for there was still something soft and pleasing in her accent. ‘S’gone nine, you know.’
Her smile seemed to drink him in, the look in her eyes a little too knowing. It was seductive though, God, her whole persona was seductive.
She stood about five foot six and he guessed her to be in her late twenties,
maybe early thirties. Her high breasts swelled against a plain, buttoned blouse and her skirt was long and loose, flimsy and gaily patterned. The blouse was short-sleeved and her bare arms were tanned a tawny-gold; that same colouring in her face enhanced the whiteness around her pupils – which he now realized were so darkly brown that they appeared black – and the perfect flash of her smile. She carried a large wicker basket, a red-chequered teacloth covering its contents.
‘Hugo told me about your illness, but he never explained you had no tongue in your head.’ She stuck a fist against her hip, her other arm looped under the basket’s handle.
He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, embarrassed and a little perplexed. ‘Hugo didn’t tell me anyone was . . .’ He stopped, vaguely remembering that Hugo had mentioned something about looking in on him occasionally. He lightly slapped his head. ‘Sorry, he did say . . . I just didn’t expect . . .’ He was surprised, and annoyed, at his reaction.
‘Uh, won’t you come in?’ He stood aside, waved a hand at the room behind him.
‘Can’t fix your breakfast without comin’ in, can I?’
Still smiling, she brushed past him and dumped the obviously heavy basket on the centre table, while Thom remained by the doorway as if transfixed. There was a certain arrogant vanity about her, but then who could blame her for that? He had caught her scent as she went by and, although he was no connoisseur, it was unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t subtle, nor was it particularly distinct; it wasn’t teasing, but it was . . . it was strangely intoxicating, as though some mild stimulant was part of its mix. The perfume hinted at fresh forest air and musk, plus one other indefinable ingredient, Lord knows what.
Forgetting to close the door, Thom followed after the woman, noticing the thonged sandals she wore, the pleasing shape from lower calf to slim ankle. She was still smiling as she unpacked the wicker basket – fresh bread, two milk cartons, fruit, and other items to which he could pay no attention.
Glancing up at him, the woman said, ‘Name’s Nell Quick, and I’m very pleased to meet you, Thom.’ Her voice was low-keyed, husky in a whisky-and-cigarettes way. She stopped her task for a moment to study his face.
At least he had finally remembered to close his mouth.
‘You look very tired,’ she said in her soft lilt. ‘Is it the illness or didn’t you sleep well on your first night home? I s’pose the cottage will take some time gettin’ used to again.’
He returned her smile, even though he felt mildly uncomfortable under her bold, almost mocking gaze. Was she flirting with him?
As if to answer his unspoken question, Nell Quick allowed her eyes to rove down his bare chest, a deliberate action he was sure was meant to be interpreted as such. He began buttoning up his shirt, the fingers of his left hand fumbling awkwardly.
‘Let me do that for you,’ she said immediately, stepping round the table and reaching forward.
‘No.’ A little too sharply.
She froze, but the smile remained on her lips and in her eyes.
‘Uh, sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I can manage. Got to get use to it. My physio told me the more I persist, the easier it’ll become.’ He shuffled his feet as if the stone floor was cold. ‘Look, thanks for the food. I . . .’
‘Oh, I’m here to cook for you. Hugo wants me to build you up again. He told me you used to be quite athletic when you two were boys. I bet you both got into mischief, didn’t you?’
‘Honestly, I can manage. I don’t need a nursemaid.’ It came out with more annoyance than he intended; he hadn’t meant to snub such kind consideration.
If she took any offence, it didn’t show. ‘Nobody’s nursemaidin’ you, Thom. I’m just bein’ a good neighbour, is all.’
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You live close by?’
She had already turned towards the cooker to switch on its grill and a ring. ‘Not far,’ she replied over her shoulder. ‘Now, how would bacon and eggs suit you? You could cut the loaf if you want to be helpful. Have some fruit first – there’s apples, plums, all nice and freshly picked. We’ll soon have you feelin’ well again.’
He could only watch helplessly as Nell busied herself by taking two eggs and plastic-sealed bacon from the fridge, which had been well stocked – by her? – before his arrival yesterday. Once preparations were under way, she pulled a small transistor radio from the basket and placed it on the table, pressing a button so that music instantly filled the cottage with new and, because the set was pre-tuned to Classic FM, unobtrusive life. She adjusted the volume so that the music was background noise that would not interfere with conversation.
Realizing resistance was pointless, Thom said, ‘I think I’ll just wash and shave first.’
Again smiling, and with that same amused little gleam in her dark eyes, she waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t be takin’ too long now, you should always eat breakfast nice and hot. Put some shoes or slippers on too – this stone floor will still be mornin’ cold.’
Thom backed towards the door, aware of the silly grin on his face, but unable to rid himself of it for the moment, a hand unconsciously flicking hair away from his forehead again.
As he closed the door behind him and paused outside, he heard the music’s volume turned up again. Nell Quick was a great surprise to him and he wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or grateful for Hugo’s presumption that he would need a nursemaid. He decided he could only be bemused.
He crowded into the bathroom – it was so compact that one person did, indeed, constitute a crowd – and stood over the toilet, his combats unzipped in the two strides it took to get there. As he relieved his bladder, which had been protesting dully throughout the morning’s exchange, Thom remembered the creature he thought he had seen dashing for cover earlier. He looked at the floor around him as he peed, squinting into the darker corners and niches. He was soon wondering if he had imagined the whole thing. After all, he’d been roused from a deep sleep by the persistent knocking at the door and in truth had not been properly awake as he’d staggered down the stairs, half-blinded by sunlight, and brain busy with other thoughts. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, maybe just a figment of his overstretched imagination, or a remnant of whatever dream he’d been having. He would make a thorough search later, see if there were any holes in the floorboards or skirting that a small house pest could squeeze into. But had it been that small? He thought not, but nevertheless dismissed the matter from his mind. By the time he had finished shaving and washing, the episode was almost forgotten.
He went back up to the bedroom, most of the stiffness gone from his arm and leg, and slipped on a pair of soft moccasins he’d bought from a pricey Covent Garden shop.
He was still sitting on the unmade bed running fingers through his untidy hair when he heard footsteps on the landing outside the door. Then Nell Quick was leaning against the door-frame, one fist on her hips as before.
‘Christ . . .’ he said, with a start.
‘I called, but you obviously didn’t hear me.’ Same full, slightly lascivious smile, same veiled intention in her eyes.
‘You shouldn’t have—’ he began to say, but she interrupted with a laugh.
‘I’m used to lookin’ after people, Thom, ’specially men. I’m a trained nurse, didn’t Hugo tell you? I’ve been carin’ for Sir Russell some time now.’
‘Maybe so, Ms Quick—’
‘You jus’ call me Nell.’
‘Okay – Nell. But what I’m trying to say is, I enjoy my privacy. That’s why I came up here to Little Bracken, to get away from all the friends and acquaintances who think I need mollycoddling.’
‘’Specially the girls, I bet.’ Her eyes shone challengingly.
‘No, not particularly. Well, maybe one or two, but that’s not the point.’ He rose from the bed and spoiled his next assertion somewhat by reaching for his cane. ‘I’m quite fit, actually, well on the mend.’
She eyed the aid and he cringed, silently cursing himself.
> ‘It’s just the mornings,’ he hastily explained. ‘Leg’s a bit stiff until I really get going. Gets tired quite easily, too, but I’m working on that.’
‘I can help you there.’ By now she had stepped into the room, shortening the gap between them. ‘I’m good at easin’ men’s stiffness.’
He did a double take.
‘Know how the muscles work, y’see,’ she went on, letting the smile fall away when he had expected an even more licentious one. ‘I have my own herbs and balms that can do wonders for ailin’ limbs and bodies. Natural cures, mostly forgotten now, but effective, you jus’ wait and see.’
She was less than a foot away, deliberately invading his space, her deep eyes studying his. His discomfort began to turn to irritation once more.
And yet . . .
And yet he could feel the tension – the sexual tension – between them and, for the first time since the outset of his illness, Thom felt a stirring, a reaction in his body over which he had no command. Her coquetry was plain and, at another time, would have been exciting, even welcome; but this morning, and in these circumstances – so fast, so unexpected – he could only be confused. And anxious, for he had been celibate for some time, even before his stroke, and right then he was not sure of his own adequacy, how much damage his system had sustained. Nell Quick was certainly alluring, gloriously so, in fact, and another man might have grabbed the opportunity to prove himself to himself. Not right then, though. No, he wasn’t ready. And, he had to admit, he was too scared.
He went to the sideboard and pretended to search for something, but in truth, putting distance between himself and this unsettling woman.
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