‘Andrew wouldn’t like you accepting a lift from me,’ he commented.
‘No, he wouldn’t. He hates you.’
‘I know. I don’t care for him either.’ Harry changed his mind about asking her if she still hated him; she had told him so often enough before and after the time she had reciprocated Andrew’s adoration. Tressa was bound to say yes and that would put the old barrier up between them. He glanced at the stony profile of her delectable little face, and didn’t mind if it took him forty years to achieve his lecherous aim.
His aftershave was strong and overpowering in the confined space. Added to the brandy lingering on his full smooth lips, expensive tobacco ingrained in his fine clothes, it was a totally masculine smell. It didn’t have quite the same sensuous quality that drew Tressa time and time again to Andrew, but she tried to ignore the fact that she found Harry’s combined male scent pleasing.
All too soon for Harry, creeping round the bends and tickling the stretches of straight lane he usually crashed along, destroying anything overhanging from the hedges, choking the area immediately behind the sedan with dust, the journey was over. He pulled in at the bottom of Tregorlan’s track.
‘There you are, Tressa.’
‘Thank you.’ Turning her back on him she put her hand on the door handle.
‘Will you be taking your little boy on the beach outing?’
Was he trying to detain her? Without turning round, she answered, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering if he was too young for that sort of thing, that’s all.’
‘He’ll be fine as long as he’s not exposed to the sun.’
‘Do you know, I often think it’s about time I got married, had a family. After all, I’ll be thirty-two this year. Have you heard from Laura today? I hope she’s all right. I don’t like my niece having such a bad-tempered brickbrain for a father.’
A feeling of dread was filling the inner reaches of Tressa’s stomach. He was only chatting conversationally to her but there seemed to be a ring of evil intent about it. Be afraid of him, Tressa. Be very afraid of him. The danger will come in an unexpected way.
‘L-look, Harry, I really must go.’
‘Of course. Good night, Tressa.’
Tressa pushed down on the door handle. It didn’t move. She pushed harder but it was stuck fast. She yanked it upwards, thinking that she was trying the wrong direction. The door handle wouldn’t budge. She panicked. Pumping the handle up and down she pushed and shoved and then pounded on the door with her fists. She was trapped. ‘Let me out! Let me out of here!’
Harry jumped out and ran round to the door on the outside, wrenching it open. ‘It’s all right, Tressa. It’s open. What’s the matter? Are you claustrophobic or something?’ He seemed genuinely surprised at her distress. ‘I pranged the hedge on the way home from Launceston this afternoon. There’s a dent in the door. That’s what made it stick.’
Tressa was standing beside him now, on shaky legs, feeling very foolish. She was panting, chest heaving. Perspiration was dripping down her back. In the quietness of the evening she realised the engine was still running. If he had intended to trap and ravish her he would at least have turned the car’s engine off.
‘I’m sorry, Harry.’ How could she explain? The man was a rat and a louse but he didn’t deserve her assumption that he was a rapist. ‘I… I thought, I…’
A dark look passed over Harry’s face like a rain-filled cloud. ‘I hope you will remember in future, Tressa, that I would never, never hurt you. You’re shaking. Can I walk you up the track?’
‘No. I’ll be fine. Thank you for the lift, Harry.’
‘Any time, Tressa. I’ll do anything for you, any time.’
He drove off like a fiend, sending the car screeching round bends, decapitating cow parsley and swaying foxgloves. A few yards away from the turning to Tregorlan Farm he ran over and killed a badger.
Tressa turned tail, running up the track to escape from his dust storm. She saw Andrew sauntering towards her, relaxed, whistling, hands in his pockets. He had come to meet her. She ran straight into his arms.
Not realising her anguish he was overwhelmed that she had missed him so much after such a short parting. She clung to him, burrowing her face against his familiar body, touching him, kissing him, reassuring herself that she was safe whenever they were together. He was her love, her life, her very essence. Aroused by her intensity, Andrew took her onto the moor and laying her down gently on the soft turf made love to her with the same abandon she had greeted him with. When their passion was spent, he held her clamped to him and stroked her hair and hot tender flesh. With love like this to share there was no need for words.
The sounds and smells of the moor filled his senses, as Tressa’s desperate need, and his, had a short time ago. Black earth, pungent ferns, timeless stones, wild flowers, chattering stream, buzzing insects, the dome of hazy darkening sky streaked with fiery colours all around them. Andrew loved these things of Nature, but he loved the woman in his arms to the depths of his soul. He would suffer Hellfire for her if events ever demanded it of him.
At that moment he understood the terrible, aching loneliness Spencer Jeffries must have suffered when his wife had died. Fear made Andrew pull Tressa closer and closer to him. If he ever lost her his life would be an endless unendurable void.
Chapter 19
Two weeks went by, and still hoping that Ince would come to the farm and retake his job, Spencer had not looked for anyone to take his place. He managed with Laura and Harry’s help and the time Bert Miller put in to earn extra money. Now rain had stopped work in the fields, and although he was cross about it, Spencer sought the opportunity to mend his marriage properly. He hoped he would find Laura alone with Vicki. There had been a constant friendly stream of villagers visiting the farm – friendly to Laura – to show they believed in her innocence. Spencer wasn’t worried about their lukewarm attitude to him, he just wanted his family to himself.
He had killed a chicken and left it hanging up in a corner of the yard, to drain its blood. When he went to take it down off the hook it had disappeared. Thinking there was a thief about, he hastened away to tell Laura. He was surprised to find she had the chicken in the back kitchen. It was immersed in hot water in the old tin bath to make the feathers easier to pluck. Sitting on a low stool, her face full of grim determination, sleeves rolled up above her elbows, Laura was plucking it.
‘I was going to do that,’ he said carefully. He was going out of his way not to upset her these days.
‘It’s time I learned,’ she replied simply, hiding the distaste she felt at the pungent smell and the feel of warm, wet feathers.
‘Who told you what to do?’
‘No one. I’ve watched you several times.’ She pushed off the wet feathers which were climbing up her wrists. ‘It isn’t very easy to get a grip.’
‘You’ll soon get the knack. Try a little twist to the wrist with a good hard tug. You might find it easier.’
Laura followed his advice and gave a little squeal of delight when the next feather came out on one quick pull rather than a tug and struggle. ‘I did it. It took me five minutes to get the first feather out.’ She looked at him solemnly for some moments. ‘Did you want me for something?’
‘No. No, I, um, like I said, I was going to pluck the chicken. Can I get you a cup of tea? For when you’ve finished?’
He was so desperate not to sound patronising, Laura’s heart was warmed through. She had watched him control his rancour over the wet weather, careful not to make angry remarks. He was kind and polite but since their row he had not called her by any terms of endearment. For her part, she was careful to give him space, staying quiet for longish periods so as not to annoy him with chatter that might sound forced. They had a lot of fences to mend, there were still many things they could not discuss, like money or future events that involved them both. Ince’s name was never brought up. But Laura felt they had just made a little more headway.
>
‘I’d love some tea. Would you mind taking some milk and biscuits out to Vicki and Benjy? They’re in the playhouse.’
‘Right, fine. Be ready in fifteen minutes then.’
Spencer poured out the tea when Laura came through with the plucked chicken. She laid it on the draining board with its giblets and gazed at her handiwork. ‘It looks so small now it’s bare,’ she said, washing her hands.
He came to see. ‘You’ve gutted it too. I am impressed.’ Then he rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘I am proud of you, Laura.’
Laura was gladdened by his praise. ‘It’s not a pleasant task but someone has to do it. I’ll skin and gut a rabbit the next time we have one.’
She dried her hands and turned round. Spencer had not moved away and they were very close. Then they were looking into each other’s eyes. Laura was sure he was going to kiss her and she closed her eyes. The best chance for their marriage to work was for their physical relationship to resume. She had thought to make the first advances but Spencer was old-fashioned where women were concerned, and after what he had called her at Hawksmoor House, she feared he would think her too forward.
Spencer was longing to make love to Laura again. Here was the chance to make the first approach and the resulting closeness would help to resolve many of their knotty problems. He would be able to hold her and say sorry convincingly. He raised his arms to hold her close.
And then Vicki ran into the room, her little face indignant, her golden hair damp.
Laura moved past Spencer. ‘Oh, Vicki, darling, mind the clean kitchen floor. Remember to take your boots off when you come indoors in wet weather.’
‘Sorry, Mummy. But Daddy didn’t bring our biscuits.’
Laura bent to kiss her daughter’s peeved face. ‘I’ll get them for you.’ She put four plain biscuits into a sandwich box so they wouldn’t get wet on the journey back to the playhouse and pulled up Vicki’s hood, tucking in her hair.
‘Thanks, Mummy. Are you going to join us? We could have a tea party.’ Vicki tugged on her hand. ‘Say you will. You can be the grand duchess in our game.’
Laura glanced at her watch. ‘All right, darling. I can spare twenty minutes.’
‘But Laura, I’ve poured you a cup of tea,’ Spencer said, his heart dipping.
‘That’s all right. I’ll put it in a flask.’
In two minutes Laura had put on her mackintosh and boots, and with the flask in her pocket she was dashing across the yard in the rain holding Vicki’s hand and the pair were laughing and giggling.
Spencer sat down gloomily and picked up his mug of tea, feeling superfluous. If only Laura could love him as much as she loved Vicki.
* * *
Joy Miller ticked off items on Felicity Lean’s weekly grocery order as she placed each one into a cardboard box.
‘Can you pass me a packet of baking powder please, Bruce?’
‘Certainly, honey.’ He came up behind her where she was leaning over the counter, put the baking powder down beside the shopping list, and covertly ran a hand up her leg.
Joy closed her eyes to enjoy the caress. Bruce was so good at this sort of thing. Her skin crept deliciously every day in anticipation of these moments. Instinct made her open her eyes and stand up straight, momentarily frightened that they had been caught out. ‘Quick, darling, I see a customer coming. Oh, it’s Dolores Uren.’
Joy’s sudden movements back to respectability obliged Bruce to disentangle his thick hand from her suspender. He rolled his eyes, making his heavy features look shifty, sniffed like a ruttish dog and ran his nicotine-stained fingers through his hair.
‘Hell, I’m horny today. Roll on dinnertime, then I can take you upstairs and give it to you real good.’ Thanks to Daisy’s almost daily jaunts to Rosemerryn – to make sure for herself that Spencer was treating Laura right – their visits upstairs to Bruce’s neat little room were frequent. Even when not on duty his mistress often found an excuse to be in the shop around dinnertime. ‘We haven’t seen the Uren woman for ages. She usually sends that eldest boy of hers in for shopping, all done up like a dog’s dinner these days, poor little sod. He asked Mother if she wanted a delivery boy now he’s got a bike. She said she’d think about it.’
‘That would be very useful for those who are infirm or busy. Mrs Prisk was only saying yesterday that no one’s seen Mrs Uren about for nearly two weeks. Not even us, her closest neighbours. We were beginning to think she was getting as elusive as her husband. She’s been too busy putting her house to rights.’ There was kindness and admiration in Joy’s voice. ‘There’s been curtains going up, furniture and things going inside in a steady stream. She had washing out again on the line last night, long after the dryth had gone out of it. There’s so much sound of cleaning and scrubbing coming from her house, I should think you could eat off her floors by now.’
‘She’s well dressed today,’ Bruce remarked, going to the door to open it for Dolores. He liked to pay his mother’s customers these little courtesies and it had paid off, for there had been a small rise in the takings. ‘Quite an attractive woman. I see someone’s given her a pram.’
‘That was me,’ Joy said, crossing her fingers that her infidelity wouldn’t give rise to her needing it again. She was always careful with Bert, and spurned his occasional approaches vigorously, usually with success, but in the heat of the moment with Bruce…
Dolores rewarded Bruce with a small smile as she passed through the open doorway with baby Emily held on her wide hip. Joy noticed with a start that the woman was pregnant again. It was all too easy to get that way.
Dolores placed her book of food coupons on the counter. ‘I’d like a bag of sugar and a box of porridge oats please, Mrs Miller. And a bottle of disinfectant.’
‘Three Hands or Maxi-Clene?’ Joy asked, reaching round to the nearest shelf.
‘What? Oh, I don’t care what brand the disinfectant is. Give me the cheapest.’ Dolores paid for her goods and picked them up.
Then she looked Joy full in the face and for one horrible moment Joy felt that she could see right into her mind, that Dolores knew of her unfaithfulness to Bert. And Joy’s sense of shame was growing, a different sort of shame, over something which Bruce hadn’t noticed. Kilgarthen had been inhabited by a wife-beater before. The vile schoolmaster whose filthy ways had been responsible for the burning down of the village school. Only Laura Jeffries, Jennings as she was then, had been brave enough to do something about it. Now there was another wife-beater in Kilgarthen. Joy had heard the sounds and seen the signs next door to her, but her desire to mind her own business and her preoccupation with Bruce had made her ignore them. Dolores Uren’s face showed the signs of a once savage beating, the fading yellowing marks of bruises, a swelling not quite vanished, a cut on her cheekbone barely healed, and dark circles of fear and lack of sleep under her eyes. Joy wanted to say something, ease the other woman’s burden by offering a haven of safety in her own home if it was ever needed. But dark gypsy eyes, harbouring a hundred secrets belonging to others, made the words stick in her throat.
Dolores had something to say, brief and succinct. ‘I want to thank you for the clothes and pram you sent round. Everybody in the village has been very kind to us. Working here you see more of the people than I do. Please pass on my thanks, will you?’
‘I’d be glad to,’ Joy murmured.
Dolores left without another word and Bruce didn’t notice that his paramour’s mood had taken a swing into guilt-filled quietness. Later, when he tried to lead the way upstairs, Joy resisted, pulling back on his hand, looking as if she was about to cry.
‘What’s up with you?’ he demanded, impatience replacing his exuberant anticipation. He hated the sudden changes of mood women were susceptible to.
‘I don’t feel like it right now, Bruce. Can we just sit down and talk?’
‘Talk? What the hell for? Why spend time talking when we can enjoy ourselves.’ Bruce hated the very thought. Talking? Carol had been a great
talker, she had even talked while he’d availed himself of his conjugal rights. She had talked because she’d hated sex and it had been one ploy to turn him off her. It had sent him into the beds of numerous other women before and during the war. When the war had ended, Carol had been even more reluctant to receive his loving. She and the children had settled into a cosy life without him, routines and habits which he did not fit into. Carol had become fat, middle-aged and as comfortable as a parlour cat in the war. Life with her had been stupefying. Bruce had resented it. Never a level-headed man, he had got into fights, at work and the local bars, with cuckolded husbands and outraged fathers, one of a girl under age.
At work one day, after a night of drinking and brooding, he’d got into a fight with another logger and fists had flown. The other man had died from the beating he had received. Bruce had slipped off, packing his bags and getting out of town, before the police could pick him up. He had travelled around Canada and then the world, living off favours from former army buddies. Only the sudden longing to come home and see the county of his origins had been true in the tale he had given his mother. He planned to make a final run to South America. He’d have to move on soon. It was only a matter of time before the Canadian police approached his mother in this insignificant little Cornish village.
While living here Bruce had been happy to keep his sexual encounters exclusively to Joy. She had been leading a boring life and he had provided the exciting outlet she’d wanted. He’d taken it for granted that she knew it wasn’t a permanent arrangement. That she’d enjoy it while it lasted, be grateful for their time together, leaving her free to live on pleasant memories or look for another lover. Why the hell was she ruining things now?
With a sliding heart, Joy knew that Bruce would never understand her feelings. It had taken eight weeks for the shame of her betrayal of her husband and children to catch up on her. Bert had always been a hard worker. The family had been hard up until recently but Joy had never gone without money in her purse, her children had never gone without clothes on their backs, food in their tummies. Bert loved her. He was not the best-looking man in the world, he wasn’t clever, perceptive or sophisticated, but he was honest, kind and loyal.
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