by Liz Berry
“But the tradition is finished now, isn’t it? Mr Aylward hasn’t got a son. Mr Fletcher is going to inherit, and he is married to someone from Manchester, so I suppose there aren’t any Kenward daughters at the farm.”
“Mrs Carlton-Winters is living there.”
“So, no son and no daughter.”
He stared at her, his pale blue eyes intense.“There’s always a son, always a daughter. Always two are chosen. Always two Guardians.”
Ice crept down Clare’s back. She said,“What do you mean? I don’t understand. Guardians of what?”
He smiled, his eyes clearing.“Did I say guardians? What on earth was I thinking of? Clare, I must be on my way. You’ve looked around the church?”
Clare was relieved.“Oh yes. The flowers are wonderful. Are they for something special?”
He beamed.“A celebration. Yes, I think you could say a celebration. And a thanksgiving. I’ll pass on your comments to the village ladies. The whole village contributed, you know. They will be delighted you liked them.”
“They will?” said Clare, dazed:
He hesitated and said gravely,“We would like you to know that we are all very pleased that your mother has brought you home, Clare. Please give my regards to your mother. Tell her I am here if she needs to talk to me.”
Clare said slowly,“My mother knows you?”
He grinned, suddenly charming.“Of course. I went to school with her. My name is Trevor Holmes. I’m the vicar here, of course. I’m a Kenward—on my mother’s side.”
“I’ll give her your message,” Clare said, guardedly, and watched him go into the church. He had been calling her Clare. How had he known her name? How had he known that she too felt she had come home?
Chapter 5
Clare continued on along the lane into the centre of the village, where old overhanging houses jostled around the Sun and Moon Inn. But this morning even the Inn was closed and quiet. Where the road widened there was a great tithe barn, and a Market Cross set on an island in the centre. Back from the road, with room in front for a couple of cars, was the village shop.
Like a camel scenting water, Clare headed towards it. It had the familiar post office sign, and an ‘open’ card, hanging on its door, but when she pushed open the door, and took the two steps down, she found it deserted.
She could see that the shop stocked practically everything. There was a refrigerated display of food, groceries, boxes of apples and oranges, sweets, stationery, magazines, even children’s plastic wellies. At the back, the post office counter was also unattended. A mug of tea steamed on the counter. A wasp buzzed against the window.
Clare was thinking wildly of the Marie Celeste, when the bead curtain behind the counter parted and a tall, bald man with tattooed arms panted into the shop hugging a sack of potatoes, chivvied by a small woman with a sharp voice.
“See there, you great lump! Didn’t I tell you she’d be along this morning? And you poking about in the cellar. What sort of state be your shirt in now?”
The big man winked at Clare and dumped the sack next to the apples. A cloud of dust rose, followed by an anguished cry from his wife. He brushed his T-shirt down, banged the dust off his hands and stuck one out to Clare.
“Dave Gregg. And my wife, Betty, Village Postmistress.”
Startled Clare shook his hand. Betty Gregg smiled at her warmly.“I’m a Barton, m’dear. Or Barleycorn as it used to be in the old days. Born in the village of course. But this’n here be a foreigner.”
“That’s right,” said Dave Gregg, cheerfully.“Only been here fifteen years. I’m an ex-pat Londoner.”
“I’m Clare. I’m from London too. Wanstead.”
“Know it well. Went fishing there often enough as a boy.”
Betty Gregg said, disapprovingly,“Clare? Clare? That’s not right. It ought to be…”
Dave Gregg said quickly,“You’re staying at Ravensmere, I hear. Betty said you’d be in this morning.”
“But…” Clare swallowed. How could Betty Gregg have known, when she hadn’t made up her mind where she was going until she had left Ravensmere? And how did they know she was staying there anyway?
Dave Gregg grinned at her expression.“Betty always knows. Women’s intuition. Nothing much happens up at the House that we don’t know. The whole village revolves around that place.”
His wife snorted indignantly.“We just know to look after our own. ‘God’s in the ground at Ravensmere’ my dear Ma used to say. And there’s the old rhyme too:
“Guard Ravensmere well
Its stones and its hollows,
Health and prosperity
Always doth follow.
Let Ravensmere die,
Let the land be torn open,
The end of the world
Is surely betokened.”
Clare said, surprising herself,“Mr Fletcher seems to have plans to tear the land open. They’re going to build a load of houses there.”
Dave Gregg shook his head.“Factories, love, not houses.”
“Lot of nasty rumours circulating, m’dear,” Betty agreed.
“A factory!” Clare said, dismayed, and tried not to remember yesterday’s vision.
Dave said gloomily.“More like an industrial estate. Be the end of the village, of course. And the farms. Beats me. Plenty of derelict industrial areas in the country that could be redeveloped for factories. No need to take good farming land.”
Betty Gregg’s smile had disappeared. She shook her head.“He’s a wrong’n, that Fletcher. Always jealous and making trouble. But it won’t do him no good. Not now. His time is over. They won’t let it happen.”
“Who won’t?”
The woman smiled at her.“How are they up at the House? It’ll be nice seeing Frances again. I always had a soft spot for her.”
Clare stared at her.“How do you know who my mother is?”
The little woman raised her eyebrows.“Well, who else would you be m’dear? It’s the time. We’ve all been waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Why, for you to come, of course, m’dear. We knew your ma wouldn’t keep you away.”
Clare took a deep breath. She felt totally disorientated. Were all the people in this place a little crazy? She said quickly,“I just came in to buy some picture postcards and some stamps to send to my friends.”
“Some nice ones of Wells and Bath.”
“Haven’t you got any of the village or Ravensmere?”
“Oh no, m’dear. We like to be private and quiet. If people don’t know we’re here, they’re not likely to want to come, are they?”
Clare stared into the dark eyes of Betty Gregg, who smiled back at her blandly.
Clare came out of the shop and wandered on up the deserted village street thinking. It must be all imagination. Of course there was nothing weird about this place. It was just that it was a weekday, and everybody was at work. And if Betty Gregg had heard there were new people staying at the House, she could have guessed they would walk down to the village this morning. She was making too much of it. Letting her imagination take over. Like seeing the children in the field. It was just overwork and stress and being in a new place. And what about the flowers in the church, and the vicar, her mind prompted, was that all imagination too?
Someone was watching her.
Once again she could feel eyes on her back. She spun round quickly and looked along the street. A figure in motorbike leathers was lounging on the shadowy stone seat under the Market Cross, his booted feet up on his motor bike. He was staring at her insolently, almost predatory. A lazy black tom watching a mouse he was going to eat.
Annoyed, Clare turned her back and walked on. At least he was a real person. Waiting for his mates probably. Nothing weird or strange about that. And then, suddenly, her heart was beating extra fast. She had identified the sound that had awoken her last night. The unexpected sound that had ripped apart the quiet had been a motor bike.
Clare looked back at the market cross. The motor bike was still there, but the stone bench was empty.
She took a deep breath and walked on quickly. She saw she was coming to the end of the village. After a terrace of eighteenth-century houses with sash windows and panelled doors, the houses began to spread out again. There were four Victorian villas set in tree-shaded gardens. One had a brass plate on the gatepost: Dr S McKinnon, MRCS, LRCP, DCH, MFHom.
At least they have a doctor, Clare thought, relieved. They aren’t still relying on a village witch! There were even two cars parked in the drive, a battered van and a bright red sports car that looked brand new.
Clare leaned on the low garden wall, admiring the car and the immaculate flower beds.
“Good morning.” A very tall, thin woman unwound herself like a genie from behind a clump of ornamental pampas grass, and advanced briskly towards Clare. She transferred her gardening fork to her left hand and extended her right to Clare over the garden wall.“Sarah McKinnon. Thought you might be along today.”
Clare put her fingers into the long bony hand.
“You’re exhausted. Been working too hard. Burning the candle. Won’t do, you know.” She had a deep, gruff voice, but her eyes were kind, and Clare felt a sudden flow of warmth and energy moving up her arm.
“M-my A-levels. Are all the people in this village psychic?” Clare stammered, trying to joke.
“Quite a few of the women and some of the men,” said Dr McKinnon, matter of fact.“Nothing to worry about. I’ve been in practice here for fifty years. It’s a good place.”
Clare was surprised. Dr McKinnon looked brown and fit and only in her fifties.
“Seventy-six years old,” she said, reading Clare’s mind.“They won’t let me retire. Nobody to take my place.” She opened the garden gate.“Come and have some coffee with us, Clare.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a nuisance ...” She stopped.“You know my name!”
“Know your mother. Matter of fact, brought her into the world. Have you met my great-nephew James Kenward yet? He’s chopping down a bramble for me this morning.”
Clare followed her around the house to a beautiful Victorian conservatory, where a cheerful young man with ginger hair was pouring coffee into some elderly cracked mugs.
“You must have smelled it,” he said, grinning.“Aunt Sarah said you might be along soon.”
Dr McKinnon said,“James is Mr Aylward’s Assistant Land Agent. Assistant to Mr Fletcher that is.”
He sat down next to Clare, grinning at her expression.“I hear you had a run in with him yesterday. He went off to London this morning in a very tetchy mood. Out of my hair for a few days, thank goodness. There’s no love lost between Mr Fletcher and me. He’d get rid of me too, if he could.”
“Why doesn’t he?”
“Mr Aylward wouldn’t hear of it. My gran was his wife Caroline’s sister.”
Clare’s head spun with the web of family relationships. She gave up and said,“Do you live on the estate?”
“I’ve digs here, with Aunt Sarah. Until October. Then I’m getting married.” He leaned back grinning and rubbed his hands.“Hasta la vista. No offence, Aunt.”
“None taken, randy lad. They’re moving into the stables cottage next to you, Clare. Have you settled in yet? How do you like it?”
“It’s great. All the furniture is brand new, television, everything.”
James was grinning complacently.
“It was you!” Clare exclaimed staring at him.“I knew Mr Fletcher wouldn’t have spent so much money.”
“It was Mr Aylward. Sent for me nearly a year ago. Told me to sort out the best architect in Bath and get the block converted and furnished by the end of May. Fletcher was hopping mad. He was on holiday at the time and when he came back the work was already under way.”
Clare said slowly,“Why the end of May?”
James shrugged.“The old man must have had a reason. He always has a reason, but sometimes it’s years before you find out.”
“Frances wouldn’t stay in the House.” Dr McKinnon poured herself another cup of coffee.
Clare looked startled.“You mean he converted the stables just for my mother?” For the first time she realized how odd it was that they weren’t living in the House. There must be plenty of spare rooms there.
And then it hit her.“But how did he know she was coming? She only decided a few weeks ago.”-
Dr McKinnon shrugged.“How does he know anything? He just does.”
Clare said,“Someone left us a beautiful vase of roses. Was that you too?”
“That was Mai, my fiancée. If you like I’ll give you a lift back to Ravensmere and introduce you to her. I’m going back to work.”
It turned out that the old van belonged to James and the sexy little sports car belonged to Dr McKinnon.
Clare got into the van chuckling, and waved her goodbye.“She’s a fantastic person.”
“The best,” James agreed.“I sometimes think the whole place would fall apart if it wasn’t for her. She knows everybody. Keeps things on an even keel. There’s been a lot of bad feeling recently.”
“Roger Fletcher?”
James hesitated.“And other things, maybe.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“He’s a great one for the nitrates and factory farming.” He grimaced.“Likes to screw the last few pence out of the land.”
“But isn’t that right? I mean, good business practice?”
“Trouble is he doesn’t respect the land or the animals. He takes everything and doesn’t give anything back. In the long run it doesn’t pay. If you look at the old records here everything is less productive at Ravensmere than it used to be in the last century. Yield per acre down. Livestock less fertile. His methods don’t work. Or maybe it’s something else I can’t fathom.”
Clare looked at him sideways.“Does it matter? Mr Fletcher said it’s all going to be sold to developers when Mr Aylward dies.”
James looked upset.“It matters to me. It matters to everyone here. It should matter to everybody in the country. It’s not just about a rich man’s private estate, Clare. A lot of the countryside is owned by big companies now anyway. It’s about conservation and the environment. We’re destroying the countryside. We can’t go on ruining good land that can grow food.
“They’ve got up a protest group in the village. Mrs Carlton-Winters, of course. Always daggers drawn with Mr Aylward. Big feud.”
He hesitated, then said abruptly, as though it was forced out of him,“They don’t know Fletcher’s been negotiating with Nuclear Energy. That’s confidential, by the way. I’ve not told anyone. Not even Mai. I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
Nuclear Energy Clare felt a strange sensation as though the bottom of her stomach had fallen away.
“You know there’s a problem with the disposal of nuclear toxic waste? Nobody knows what to do with it. This country actually imports it. Ravensmere’s off the beaten track, all nicely hidden away. They could take more waste from Japan and Europe.”
“But I thought ... I mean I heard Sellafield’s dangerous. That report about children with leukaemia and cancers in the area ...”
“Exactly.”
Clare felt ill. She looked out of the window as they turned through the gates into the golden lime walk, and the vision came again, clearer, more detailed. Devastation, pollution. A land poisoned for ever. The vision had been true.
“It mustn’t happen,” she heard her voice saying, hoarsely. James glanced at her curiously.“How do we stop it?”
“Mr Aylward can’t know what’s going on. We have to tell him.”
James looked uncomfortable.“He’s... well, he’s a strange, man, Clare. He let Roger Fletcher take over. I don’t think he cares about Ravensmere. Until a few years ago he only used to come down occasionally. He moved back permanently about three years ago.”
“He has to care.” Clare thumped the seat.“He has to understand w
hat he’s doing. He has to be told.”
“Sooner you than me. He hardly sees anyone now, anyway.”
“Perhaps he’ll leave you the estate instead of Roger Fletcher,” Clare suggested hopefully.
He shook his head.“There’s no chance of that.”
“But why not? He doesn’t have a son and heir, does he?”
“His only son died years ago. But I’ve always known I wouldn’t inherit. It’s... well, it’s just not possible. There are other factors... Only the Guardians...” He stumbled to a halt looking flushed, and it was with obvious relief that he stopped the van abruptly and stuck his head out of the window.
“Hi, gorgeous. Want a lift?”
The tall young woman who had been striding up the drive ahead of them turned, laughing. She had a golden-brown skin, and short dark hair tapered into her neck. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and mud-encrusted gum boots. She got into the van next to Clare.“Sorry about the squash. We wouldn’t have this trouble, of course, if he got himself a Roller.”
“Nowhere to put the ol’ muckspreader,” said James.“Clare, meet my intended, Mai Lee. She’s Head Gardener here. And she never stops talking.”
Mai leaned across and punched him on the shoulder, and grinned at Clare.
“Nurse Meredith’s daughter I presume.”
“You’re another Londoner,” said Clare, surprised, hearing her accent.
“I’m from the Mystic East,” said Mai, grinning.“East Ham, London, to be precise. My family are mixed Caribbean and Chinese. Lot of Chinese in the West Indies. I’ve been working here two years now.”
“How did you get to be Head Gardener. That’s important, isn’t it? I mean Mr Fletcher didn’t strike me as being exactly pro-women.”
“The old man himself took her on,” said James.
“True. I’ve only spoken to him twice. Thank God. Scary. And I mean, scary. I’ll never forget my interview, Clare. He read through my application very slowly. Then he just looked at me, and went on looking, like he was X-raying my mind.