Playing for the Ashes

by Elizabeth George

  Not that he and the Queen discussed marital embraces as such. Martin had far too much respect for Her Majesty to do anything more than hint at the topic and then move on.

  But for the last four weeks, their milk-route conversations had petered off at the high point of Water Street, where the countryside stretched to the east in hop fields and fell to the west in a grass-covered slope that dropped to a spring where watercress grew. Here, Martin had taken to pulling the milk-float onto the narrow strip of pigweed that served as verge in order to spend a few minutes in quiet contemplation.

  This morning he did no differently. He let the engine idle. He gazed at the hop field.

  The poles had been up for more than a month, row upon row of slim chestnuts some twenty feet tall from which strings crisscrossed to the ground below. The strings made a diamond-paned lattice up which the hops would eventually grow. The twiddlers had seen to the hops at long last, Martin realised as he surveyed the land. Sometime since yesterday morning they had worked the field, twirling the juvenile plants eighteen inches up the string. The hops would do the rest in the coming months, creating a maze of heavy green drapery as they stretched towards the sun.

  Martin sighed with pleasure. The sight would grow lovelier day by day. The field would be cool between the rows of plants as they grew to maturity. He and his love would walk there, just the two of them, hand in hand. Earlier in the year—yesterday, in fact—he would have shown her how to wind the tender tendrils of the plant onto the string. She would have been kneeling in the dirt, her gauzy blue skirt spread out like spilled water, her firm young bottom resting against her bare heels. New to the job and desperate for money to…to send to her poor mother who was the widow of a fisherman in Whitstable and left with eight young children to feed, she would struggle with the vine and be afraid to ask for help lest she somehow betray her ignorance and lose the only source of income that her starving brothers and sisters have except for the money her mother brings in making lace to dress up ladies’ collars and hats, money that her father ruthlessly swills away in the pub, falling down drunk and staying away all night when he isn’t drowning in the sea in a storm while trying to catch enough cod to pay for the operation that would save his youngest child’s life. She’s wearing a white blouse, with short puffy sleeves and a low neck scooped out so that when he, the burly overseer of the job, bends to help her, he sees the beads of perspiration no bigger than pinheads glistening on her breasts and her breasts rising and falling so quickly because of his nearness and his maleness. He takes her hands and shows her how to twirl the hop plants on the string so the shoots don’t break. And her breath comes quicker with the touch of him and her breasts rise higher and he can feel her hair so soft and blonde against his cheek. He says, This is how you do it, Miss. Her fingers tremble. She can’t meet his eyes. She’s never been touched by a man before. She doesn’t want him to leave. She doesn’t want him to stop. His hands on hers make her feel quite faint. So she swoons. Yes, she swoons and he carries her to the edge of the field, her long skirt sweeping against his legs as he strides manfully between the rows and her head lolling back with her neck so white so pure so exposed. He lays her on the ground. He holds water to her lips, water in a little tin cup that is handed to him by the toothless crone who follows the field workers in her dogcart and sells them water for tuppence a cup. Her eyelids flutter open. She sees him. She smiles. He raises her hand to his lips. He kisses—

  A horn honked behind him. Martin started. The driver of a large red Mercedes was apparently unwilling to risk the wings of her car by easing between the hedgerow on one side and the milk-float on the other. Martin waved and put the float into gear. He looked sheepishly at the Queen to see if she knew about the pictures he’d been painting in his head. But she gave no sign of disapproval. She merely smiled, her hand raised and her tiara shimmering as she rode to the abbey.

  He pointed the float down the hill towards Celandine Cottage, a fifteenth-century weaver’s workplace and home that stood behind a ragstone wall on a slight rise of land where Water Street veered off to the northeast and a footpath led west to Lesser Springburn. He glanced at the Queen once more, and despite her sweet face telling him that she didn’t judge him ill, he felt the need to make an excuse.

  “She doesn’t know, Majesty,” he said to his monarch. “I’ve never said anything. I’ve never done…Well, I wouldn’t do, would I? You know that.”

  Her Majesty smiled. Martin could tell she didn’t quite believe him.

  At the bottom of the drive, he parked the float, pulling off the lane so that the Mercedes that had interrupted his daydream could glide quietly past. The woman driving it gave him a scowl and two fingers. Londoner, he thought with resignation. Kent had started going to the devil the very day they had opened the M20 and made it easier for Londoners to live in the country and commute to work.

  He hoped Her Majesty hadn’t seen the woman’s rude gesture. Or the one that he’d made in return once the Mercedes had swung round the bend and sailed off towards Maidstone.

  Martin adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could study his reflection. He checked to make sure there was no stubble on his cheeks. He gave a feather-light pat to his hair. This he carefully combed and sprayed every morning after spending ten minutes massaging a tablespoon of GroMore SuperStrength into his scalp. He’d been actively involved in improving his personal appearance for just over a month now, ever since the first morning when Gabriella Patten had drifted out to the gate of Celandine Cottage to fetch the milk from him in person.

  Gabriella Patten. The very thought of her made him sigh. Gabriella. In an ebony silk dressing gown that whispered when she walked. With the sleep still clouding her cornflower eyes and her tousled hair shining like wheat in the sun.

  When the order had come to start delivering milk to Celandine Cottage once again, Martin had filed the information in the part of his brain that took him through his delivery route on automatic pilot. He hadn’t bothered to wonder why the regular request for two pints had been changed to one. He merely parked at the base of the drive one morning, rustled in the float for the cool glass bottle, wiped the moisture off it with the rag he kept on the floor, and pushed through the white wooden gate that fenced the cottage drive from Water Street.

  He was putting the milk into the shaded box at the top of the drive where it nestled at the base of a silver fir when he heard footsteps coming along the path that curved from the drive to the kitchen door. He looked up, ready to say, “Morning to you,” but the words caught somewhere between his throat and his tongue when he saw Gabriella Patten for the very first time.

  She was yawning, stumbling slightly on the uneven bricks, with her unbelted dressing gown fluttering as she walked. She was naked beneath it.

  He knew he ought to turn away, but he found himself mesmerised by the contrast of the dressing gown against her pale skin. And such skin, like the underside petals of granny’s nightcap, white as shelduck’s down and edged in pink. The pink of her burned him in the eyes, throat, and groin. He stared and said, “Jesus.” It was as much thanksgiving as it was surprise.

  She gave a gasp and drew the dressing gown round her. “Good Lord, I’d no idea…” She raised three fingers to her upper lip and smiled behind them. “I’m awfully sorry, but I didn’t expect anyone. And certainly not you. I always thought the milk came at dawn.”

  He’d begun backing away at once, saying, “Nope. No. Just about this time. Just about ten A.M. is the usual here-abouts.” He reached for his peaked cap to give it a pull and cover more of his face, which felt like embers were burning down it. Only he hadn’t worn a cap that morning. He never wore a cap from April Fools’ on, no matter the weather. So he ended up tugging at his hair like some simpleton on one of those fancy-dress television programmes.

  “Well, I’ve a lot to learn about the country then, haven’t I, Mister…?”

  “Martin,” he said. “That is, Snell. Martin.”

  “Ah. Mr. Martin Snell
Martin.” She came out of the latticework gate that separated the drive from the lawn. She bent—he averted his eyes—and flipped up the top of the milk box. She said, “This is quite lovely. Thank you,” and when he turned back, she’d taken the pint of milk and was holding it between her breasts, in the V made by the closure of her dressing gown. “It’s cold,” she said.

  “Forecast is for sun today,” he replied stoutly. “We should see it by noon or thereabouts.”

  She smiled again. She had the softest eyes when she smiled. “I meant the milk. How do you keep it so cold?”

  “Oh. The float. I got some holders’re insulated special.”

  “Do you promise I’ll always be able to fetch it like this?” She gave the bottle a turn so it seemed to rest more deeply between her breasts. “Cold, that is.”

  “Oh, yes. Sure. Cold,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Martin Snell Martin.”

  He saw her several times a week after that, but never again in her dressing gown. Not that he needed reminding what the sight of her had been like.

  Gabriella. Gabriella. He loved the sound of it inside his head, trembling like it was set to violins.

  Martin readjusted the rearview mirror, satisfied that he looked his best. Even if his hair wasn’t much thicker than it had been before he started his treatments, it was far less wispy since he’d begun with the spray. He rustled in the back of the float to find the pint of milk he always kept coldest. He wiped off its moisture and polished its foil top on the front of his shirt.

  He pushed through the drive’s gate. He noticed that it was off the latch and he said, “Gate, gate, gate,” just above a whisper to remind himself to mention it to her. The gate didn’t have a lock, of course, but there was no need to make it easier for anyone who might want to intrude on her privacy.

  The cuckoo he’d pointed out to Her Majesty was calling again, from somewhere beyond the paddock that lay to the north of the cottage. The lark’s song had been joined by the twittering of redpolls perched in the conifers that edged the drive. A horse whinnied softly and a rooster crowed. It was, Martin thought, a glory of a day.

  He lifted the top of the milk box. He started to place his delivery inside. He stopped. He frowned. Something wasn’t right.

  Yesterday’s milk hadn’t been fetched. The bottle was warm. Whatever condensation had gathered on the glass and dripped to the bottle’s base had long since evaporated.

  Well, he thought at first, she’s a flighty one, is Miss Gabriella. She’s gone off somewhere without leaving a note about her milk. He picked up yesterday’s bottle and tucked it under his arm. He’d stop delivering till he heard from her again.

  He started back towards the gate, but then he remembered. The gate, the gate. Off the latch, he thought, and he felt a flutter of trepidation.

  Slowly, he retraced his steps to the milk box. He stood in front of the garden gate. Her newspapers hadn’t been fetched either, he saw. Yesterday’s and today’s—one copy each of the Daily Mail and The Times—were in their respective holders. And when he squinted at the front door with its iron slot for the post, he saw a small triangle of white resting against the weathered oak and he thought, She’s not fetched the post either; she must be gone. But the curtains were opened at the windows, which didn’t seem practical or wise if she’d taken off. Not that Miss Gabriella appeared to be either practical or wise by nature, but she’d know enough not to leave the cottage so obviously unoccupied. Wouldn’t she?

  He wasn’t certain. He looked over his shoulder at the garage, a brick and clapboard structure at the top of the drive. Best to check, he decided. He wouldn’t need to go in or even to open the door all the way. He’d just need a peek to make sure she’d gone. Then he’d take away the milk, he’d carry the newspapers off to the rubbish, and he’d be on his way. After a peek.

  The garage was big enough for two cars, and the doors to it opened in the centre. They usually had a padlock, but Martin could see without a close inspection that the lock wasn’t currently being used. One of the doors stood open a good three inches. Martin went to the door and with an indrawn breath and a glance in the direction of the cottage, he eased it open one inch more and pressed his face to the crack.

  He saw a glimmer of chrome as the light struck the bumper of the silver Aston Martin that he’d seen her spinning along the lanes in, a dozen times or more. Martin felt a peculiar buzzing in his head at the sight of it. He looked back at the cottage.

  If the car was here and she was here, then why had she not taken in her milk?

  Perhaps she’d been gone all day yesterday from early morning, he answered himself. Perhaps she’d got home late and forgotten about the milk altogether.

  But what about the newspapers? Unlike the milk, they were in plain sight in their holders. She’d have had to walk right past them to go into the cottage. Why wouldn’t she have taken them with her?

  Because she’d been shopping in London and her arms were filled with packages and she’d simply forgotten to fetch the newspapers later, once she’d set the packages down.

  And the post? It would be lying right inside the front door. Why would she have left it there?

  Because it was late, she was tired, she wanted to go to bed, and she hadn’t gone in the front door anyway. She’d gone in through the kitchen so she hadn’t seen the post. She had walked right by it and gone up to bed where even now she was still asleep.

  Asleep, asleep. Sweet Gabriella. In a black silk gown with her hair curled against it and her lashes like buttercup filaments against her skin.

  It wouldn’t hurt to check, Martin thought. Most definitely, it wouldn’t hurt to check. She wouldn’t be miffed. That wasn’t her way. She’d be touched that he thought of her, a woman alone out here in the country without a man to see to her welfare. She’d likely ask him in.

  He settled his shoulders, took the newspapers, and pushed open the gate. He made his way along the path. The sun hadn’t struck this part of the garden yet, so the dew still lay like a beaded shawl on the bricks and the lawn. Against both sides of the old front door, lavender and wallflowers were planted. Buds on the first sent up a sharp fragrance. Flowers on the second nodded with the weight of the morning’s moisture.

  Martin reached for the bell-pull and heard its jangle just inside the door. He waited for the sound of her footsteps or her voice calling out or the whirl and clank of the key in the lock. But none of that happened.

  Perhaps, he thought, she was having her bath, or perhaps she was in the kitchen where, perhaps again, she couldn’t hear the bell. It would be wise to check.

  He did so, going round to thump on the back door and wondering how people managed to use it without knocking themselves senseless on the lintel, which hung only five feet from the ground. Which then made him think…Could she have been in a rush to get in or get out? Could she have rendered her sweet self unconscious? There was neither answer nor movement behind the white panels. Could she be lying this very moment on the cold kitchen floor, waiting for someone to find her?

  To the right of the door, beneath an arbour, a casement window looked into the kitchen. And Martin looked into the window. But he couldn’t see anything beyond a small linen-covered table, the work top, the Aga, the sink, and the closed door to the dining room. He’d have to find another window. And one preferably on this side of the house because he was feeling decidedly uneasy about peering through the windows like a Peeping Tom. It wouldn’t do to be seen from the road. God alone knew what it would do to business if someone drove by and saw Martin Snell, milkman and monarchist, having a peek where he oughtn’t.

  He had to climb through a flower-bed to get to the dining room window on this same side of the house. He did his best not to trample the violets. He squeezed behind a lilac bush and gained the glass.

  Odd, he thought. He couldn’t see through it. He could see the shape of curtains against it, open like the others, but nothing more. It seemed to be dirty, filthy in fact, whic
h was even stranger because the kitchen window had been clean as brook water and the cottage itself was as white as a lamb. He rubbed his fingers against the glass. Strangest of all. The glass wasn’t dirty. At least, not on the outside.

  Something jangled in his mind, some sort of warning that he couldn’t identify. It sounded like a flock of snow buntings in flight, soft then loud then louder again. The noise in his head made his arms feel weak.

  He climbed out of the flower bed. He retraced his steps. He tried the back door. Locked. He hurried to the front door. Locked as well. He strode round the south side of the house where wisteria grew against the exposed black timbers. He turned the corner and made his way along the flagstone path that bordered the structure’s west wall. At the far end, he found the other dining room window.

  This one wasn’t dirty, either outside or in. He grasped onto its sill. He took a breath. He looked.

  Everything seemed normal upon a first glance. The burltopped dining table, the chairs surrounding it, the open fireplace with its iron fireback and its copper bedwarmers hanging upon the bricks. Everything looked fine. The pine dresser held dishes, an antique washstand displayed the makings of drinks. To one side of the fireplace stood a heavy armchair and across the room from it, at the foot of the stairs the matching armchair—