As Sunday mornings go, it was nothing special. The sky was a soft shade of grey, bright enough to cast pale shadows, but nothing to write home about. Kit raised his head from the pillow and felt the muzziness bequeathed by the wine of the night before. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair, felt the stubble on his chin and slid out of bed.
The parted curtains revealed the pallid morning and he threw up the sash window. He breathed in the cool air, which smelt of spring, but his head refused to clear. He knelt down, rested his chin on the sill and looked out over the rolling farmland. “One day, my son,” he murmured to himself, “all this will be yours.” Then he realised, fully and for the first time, that it was, indeed, all his, along with its pleasures, its pains and its responsibilities.
He thought of Jess the night before. How different she had seemed, how full of enthusiasm, how relaxed. He found himself smiling at the memory of her company, recalled her childlike joy as they turned the pages of the books in his father’s study, felt strangely proud that she had agreed to work with him at keeping the reserve going, even though, since the day of his arrival, both she and Elizabeth had made it obvious that this was what they wanted more than anything else. But what really surprised him was how easily she seemed to read him.
It was time he started to make something of it all. He felt different. Responsible. Critical of past actions. Determined.
He went to the bathroom, showered, shaved, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He must do something about his limited wardrobe. Apart from a couple of sweatshirts, one sweater, three T-shirts and two pairs of jeans bought in Totnes, he had nothing in the way of clothes, and there was a limit to the number of garments he could utilise from his father’s chest of drawers.
He made a mental note to have his hair cut some time during the coming week, and went downstairs. The kitchen carried all the hallmarks of a late supper. He cleared away the pots and pans as the kettle boiled, noticing the crust on Jess’s plate. He could see her there now, sipping her wine, her eyes keen and flashing. Eyes so full of life, so full of love. He was surprised by the thought.
He looked out across the gravelled yard towards the stable. There was no sign of activity. He looked at his watch. A quarter past nine. Jess and Elizabeth would probably be out and about by now, even though it was Sunday. They seemed ungoverned by the days of the week, both happy to be on the land at all times and in most weathers. April was not far away. Soon the reserve would be opened up to those who wanted to look round it and the two of them would be getting things ready.
He wondered what Jinty was doing in Lambourn, but found that hard: he could not picture her face clearly. It puzzled him.
The kettle whistled and brought him back to earth. He made the coffee, drank it, then felt moved to get out into the fresh air. He pulled on a sleeveless jerkin of his father’s and went out of the kitchen door and across the farmyard, glancing up towards Jess and Elizabeth’s accommodation as he did so. The door at the top of the steps stood ajar. Odd. He climbed the steps to close it, and heard a whimpering noise from within.
“Hello?” He waited for a reply to tell him that all was well. It did not come. His stomach tensed. He called again. “Anyone there?” No sound.
He pushed open the door, slowly, until it rested against the wall, wide open. The narrow hallway stretched ahead of him with the doors to the rooms down its left-hand side standing open, all except the third one, which led into Jess’s room. He stepped forward gingerly, looking into the first room, the kitchen, and the second, the bathroom, both of which were empty. He walked on, then tapped on Jess’s door. He thought he heard a sound, then nothing.
He turned the handle and pushed. The door refused to move. “Jess? Are you there?”
No reply. Then the sound of something being knocked over – a chair? “Jess? Is that you?”
A sharp cry, then silence once more. Kit tried the handle again and still the door remained immovable. “Are you all right, Jess?” He heard a muffled, indistinct sound from within that told him something was wrong. He stood back from the door then ran at it with his shoulder. The solid timber refused to yield and his body crumpled against the slatted panel, an agonising numbness driving into him. He clenched his teeth at the pain, put his other arm up to ease the throbbing joint and at the same time shot out his foot in the direction of the lock. The door refused to budge. Again and again he landed blows upon it, now using both arms to brace himself against the wall opposite. At the fourth or fifth attempt he heard a crack, and as the shooting pains ran up his thigh he continued to pound at the door until the panel next to the lock began to splinter.
With one final kick the door flew open and he lurched forward into the room. As he did so, someone sprang at him. He saw the blurred features of a tall, bearded man before he toppled backwards under the force of the oncoming figure. As the wind left his body he arched forward to catch his breath and hung on to the man, who was now trying to push past him. The figure, black clad and unkempt, turned and landed a punch over his eye – the one that only recently had been relieved of its stitches. Needling pain stabbed into his skull, but he clenched his hands around the rough woollen sweater and hung on tenaciously as his opponent made a bid for the door. Drawing on reserves of strength he had not known existed, he pulled his assailant to the floor and did his best to dodge the punches that were now being rained down on him.
As one of them, misplaced and mistimed, landed on the plain wooden boards, he levered himself around and clambered on the back of the now sprawling body, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, the cowering figure of Jess in the corner.
A fist landed on one side of Kit’s jaw and he let out a cry, then retaliated with a punch that connected with his assailant’s right ear. Desperate now, he grabbed at the man’s matted black curls and tried, with all his remaining strength, to turn the head away and prevent its owner from lining up yet more accurate blows. As he did so the man shot out an elbow that landed on Kit’s chin. He felt his teeth slice into his bottom lip and tasted blood. He reached out to grab the man’s arm, but he was tiring and missed. His assailant spun round, landed a final punch in Kit’s stomach and bolted.
Kit tried to leap up and go after him, but he fell to his knees, gasping for air through the mixture of blood and saliva that filled his mouth. He turned to where Jess sat huddled in the corner, and saw that her shirt was torn and her jeans were unbuttoned. Her reddened eyes showed that she had been crying, but now she was silent and shaking, her breath coming in short, irregular bursts. He watched, gasping for breath, as she pulled the remains of her ripped shirt over her breasts. A rising tide of rage filled him with renewed strength.
“He didn’t . . . ?” They were the only words he could form through gritted teeth.
Jess shook her head, then wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed.
Kit watched as she shuddered with fear and relief. He pushed himself up from the floor and went across to where she sat. With one hand he wiped the blood from his chin, and with the other stroked the back of her head.
For several minutes the two of them sat there, saying nothing, as they fought for breath and the strength to move. Kit got up first, then held out his hand to Jess. She took it, clutching her ripped shirt together with her other hand, and looked at him, half terrified, half embarrassed.
Kit did not know whether to stay or leave. “Are you . . . ?”
“I’ll survive. Thank you.” Jess tried to smile through the tears, and Kit thought how unfair it was that the girl who had last night been happy for the first time since he had arrived had been, within a few hours, reduced to a quivering wreck.
“Was that him?”
“Dave. Come to get his own back. Give me my comeuppance.”
Kit was unsure what to ask or how deep to probe.
Jess looked at the floor. “He started out by saying he missed me. Asked me why I’d gone back to see him if I wasn’t interested any more. Told me that Philippa wasn’t a pat
ch on me. I told him that I only went to see him to stop him from operating round here, to get him to leave Philippa alone. Then he came on heavy. Tried it on. When I wouldn’t have any of it he got physical – like he always did. Seems to think that women go for that sort of thing.” She looked at Kit and he saw panic in her face. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
Kit held on to the now splintered door. “Of course.”
She leaned back against the wall and sighed deeply. “Oh, God! Why is my life so messed up?” She spoke with angry resignation. “Why am I in such a bloody awful mess?”
Kit looked at her steadily. “Not your fault.”
“Who else’s, then?”
“Life? Fate?”
“No. Can’t blame them. Must be me. Huh!” She smiled a melancholy smile.
Kit’s breathing assumed its normal rate. He sized her up. “You are amazing.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t feel amazing.”
“You don’t look it at the moment, but you are.”
Jess grinned at him, not sure if he was making fun of her. “What do you mean?”
“You just seem to be so sorted. Not like me.”
“Oh, I think you will be focussed. You’re just a bit confused.”
“You can say that again. I feel so bloody stupid.”
“Why?”
“Made a fool of myself. Let my heart rule my head.”
“Was it your heart?”
“I thought it was.”
Jess smiled understandingly. “Do you think it might have been your pants?”
He looked across at her and found himself smiling back, feeling not the slightest bit annoyed. “Was it that obvious?”
“Not for me to say.”
Kit looked away. “It was pretty powerful.”
“It can be.”
He looked back. “How do you know?”
“Me and Dave – at first. Not now. Not for years. Past tense. Then the light dawned.”
“But he . . .”
“Beat me up? Yes. But it wasn’t just that. You gradually realise that something’s missing. A sense of purpose. Of wanting to do things together as well as wanting to be together. Of feeling the same way about things. When you find it’s not there, what you have left doesn’t seem to be as big as it was.”
“Or as important?”
“No.”
“Perhaps I’m just a typical man. Ruled by my pants.”
She raised her hand and ran her finger lightly over his lip. He flinched, then looked down at her, her shirt gaping, showing the contours of her body. He raised his hands and lightly folded the shirt to cover her, then saw the pale blue of her eyes and, without thinking, put his arms around her and kissed her, feeling her relax into him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world.
As they eased apart he lowered his hands and a worried look flickered across his face. “I’m sorry. Too soon.”
“Not for me. What took you so long?”
“Distractions.”
“All gone?”
“All gone.” Suddenly Jess no longer looked like a frightened creature that needed his protection. It was he who needed and wanted her. It took him a few moments to find the words. “This might sound stupid.”
“Risk it.”
“It’s you that I want to do it for. And it’s you that I want to do it with.” A weight was lifted from his shoulders as the admission of his true feelings drifted out on to the air.
“I’m glad.” She rested her head on his chest and put her arms around his waist.
It was as if a heavy cloud had drifted by and he had walked out into sunshine.
Late in the afternoon Elizabeth returned from her work down at the Spinney and found no trace of either of them. They kept out of her way, not yet ready to explain the events of the morning. She set about making her own supper in the small kitchen in the barn and noticed, as she carried the meal to her room, the state of the door to Jess’s room. She set down her tray, took a closer look at the splintered timbers, then went down the stairs and out into the farmyard, glancing up at the window of Kit’s room. He was standing to one side of his window, talking to a small, fair-haired figure standing opposite him.
Elizabeth stopped, paused briefly, then quietly retraced her steps. She ate her meal, then wrote some letters before retiring for the night at a quarter to nine.
That night, Jinty lay awake in her room at Lambourn, listening to a tawny owl hooting in the tree outside her window and hoping that soon it would decide to give the vocals a rest. In the shadowlands between wakefulness and sleep, she saw Kit’s face smiling at her. The smile never faded, but the face became smaller and smaller until finally it was no more than a speck in the distance. She sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly wide awake, and realised, with complete certainty, that it was over.
Chapter 31: Lover’s Knots
(Galium aparine)
Malcolm Percy, from Marchbanks Books in Totnes, prided himself on his punctuality. He had never arrived anywhere later than five minutes early, and today would be no exception. He checked the time and the address of the appointment in his diary for the umpteenth time over a coffee in the George at Lynchampton, and when he was confident that the fifteen remaining minutes would allow him to reach West Yarmouth in ample time, he paid his bill and returned to his gleaming dark blue car, grinding to a halt on the gravel outside the farmhouse at 9.55 a.m. precisely.
He was surprised by the nature of the property. He had expected a crumbling old farmhouse of iron-grey pebbledash or dreary stone, not a Queen Anne vision in mellow brick. Perhaps the prospective quarry of book-club volumes and cheap thrillers he had resigned himself to encountering might be boosted by a set of the Waverley Novels or G. A. Henty. Not much to get excited about, but a cache of Mills and Boon was unlikely judging by outward appearances. He was still examining the elegant elevation when Kit opened the front door and enquired whether he could be of assistance.
But Mr Percy was overwhelmed by the beauty of the house. “Wonderful proportions,” he said, without looking down from the line of the roof or the upstairs windows.
Kit assumed he had been sent round by the estate agent, anxious to salvage at least some of his potential commission.
“Ah. I’m afraid it’s no longer for sale.”
“Oh, I wish, I wish. Way out of my league but simply lovely.” Mr Percy clapped his hands together, lowered his eyes to meet those of his interlocutor and, masking any shock he might have felt at the battered face of the householder, introduced himself. “Malcolm Percy from Marchbanks Books in Totnes.”
Kit remembered the appointment he had, not surprisingly, forgotten. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.”
Mr Percy, in his suede loafers, pink cotton trousers and navy-blue sweater, shook hands with his potential customer and tried not to stare at the swollen lower lip as he walked into the flagged hallway of the old farmhouse.
“It’s this way.” Kit motioned his visitor to climb the stairs, and the bookseller, his eyes darting around for literary prey, followed. They entered the untidy book-lined study that Kit now thought of as his own.
“What a lovely room.” Mr Percy pushed the silver-grey hair out of his eyes and adjusted the silk handkerchief at his neck.
Kit frowned. The room was far from lovely: it was stuffed with the impedimenta of a lifetime’s interest in natural history and garnished with a generous supply of dust.
“Which books, exactly, are you thinking of selling?”
“Well, all of them, really.” And then, feeling slightly awkward at clearing out his father lock, stock and barrel, “I might keep a few – on wild flowers, estate management and stuff, but most of them can go.”
“I see.” The bookseller scanned the shelves. “What we’ll have to do is go through them together, working out what you want to keep and what you want to sell. I didn’t realise there were quite as many, I’m afraid. It looks as though I’ll have to come b
ack with the van.”
“Fine.”
Mr Percy moved closer to the shelves and ran his eyes along them. “I’m afraid these might be difficult to shift.” He tapped the spines of the paper-bound transactions of assorted natural-history societies carelessly. “No one really has space for them nowadays. I mean, we can take them off your hands but I can’t really offer what they’re worth simply because of storage.”
Kit had expected as much. The verbal appraisal continued. “Plenty of dust-wrappers, which is good – too many people lose them or tear them. Don’t realise that a book is more valuable with them than without.” His face lit up at the sight of a large volume. “What’s this?” Kit watched as the other man prised the book from the lower shelf and took it over to the desk. “May I?”
“Oh, yes.” He cleared a space among the papers and paraphernalia, and the bookseller laid down the volume and opened the front cover. “Goodness me. Well I never.” He stared at the title page with his hands planted on his hips. “Oiseaux remarquable du Brésil. Is this the sort of thing you’ll be selling?”
“I guess so. I really need to raise some money to cover inheritance tax.”
“There are more, then?”
Kit went to the places he had remembered Jess going to for the books she had shown him, and pulled them out one after another.
Malcolm Percy became progressively paler as they piled up on the desk. “Could I sit down, please?” he asked.
Kit looked worried. “Of course. Are you all right?”
The bookseller did not speak for a moment. Then he asked, “Can I use the phone?”
“Go ahead.” Kit pointed to the back of the desk. The bookseller picked up the handset, dialled a familiar number, sat back and waited. “Stephen? Do you have that auction realisation list handy? The one from Sotheby’s. Natural history. Yes. Can you get it for me? Thanks.”
He looked up at Kit and smiled weakly. Kit, still baffled, stood quietly by the desk.
“Yes? Right. Can you read out the figures for each of these?” He looked up again at Kit and mimed for pencil and paper, which Kit pulled from a drawer and laid in front of him on the small patch of desk to one side of the pile of books.
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