Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  ‘I can bear with it for a while, then I find it monotonous.’ He paused. ‘In the very short time you’ve been here I think you did very well to find any entertainment at all other than the cinema or theatre, and I think you’re very bold to attempt a night trip on the river this time of the year.’

  His few words of praise pleased her out of all proportion.

  ‘It’s a case of fools rushing in, I’m afraid. What were you going to photograph when I spoilt things for you?’

  ‘You mean tonight? An owl which had just picked up a vole.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s the second time I’ve butted in on you.’

  ‘The third,’ he corrected. ‘But it’s I who owe you an apology. I must have nearly scared you out of your wits.’

  He took a photograph from his pocket-book and handed it to her.

  ‘I assure you I had no idea there was anyone living at the Mill when I took that. I’ve brought the negative with me and there are no more prints of it, so if you want to destroy them both—’

  Sara looked at the photograph and saw herself leaning out of the bedroom window, one bare arm outstretched in an apparent attempt to capture an owl which was winging away. She remembered the brilliant flash of light which had startled her on her first night at the Mill and suddenly burst out laughing.

  ‘Destroy it! I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s priceless. Sara Seymour, the only girl who catches owls with her bare hands. I might even have it enlarged with your permission.’

  ‘I’ll do that for you myself—with pleasure. I’ll deliver it to you the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Lovely. And will you autograph it for me?’

  His lips curved into an amused smile. ‘That will be an honour, madam. So few people ask me these days.’

  ‘Talking about photographs, did you hurt yourself when you fell out of that tree?’

  ‘Which particular tree? Crawling out on to branches too slender for my weight is getting to be a habit.’

  ‘Is it? I’d better remember that. I expected to find you all bruised and bleeding, and with at least a broken leg. I was at the top of the Mill tower at the time and I ran all the way down the steps and through the garden, then crashed through masses of all kinds of prickly things to get to your side.’

  He threw his head back and roared with laughter. Remembering her barely-healed scratches and the tear in a new pair of slacks, Sara gave him an indignant look.

  ‘I don’t see it’s anything to laugh at. Suppose you’d been badly injured?’

  He sobered immediately. ‘You’re right, it wasn’t much of a joke for you.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose there is a funny side to it, me running like a scalded hen. But suppose it been serious? With no proper road up to this place there wouldn’t seem much point in telephoning for an ambulance.’

  ‘Too true. Under those circumstances an ambulance wouldn’t be much use. It would still be a job for a police call, though. Those boys would be able to decide within a few seconds whether it was work for a helicopter or a river launch and stretcher party.’

  ‘Heavens! I’d no idea I’d come into safari country.’

  ‘The wildest of the wild,’ he told her. ‘We even have a pub to which the beer has to be carried by boat.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘True enough. I’d be glad to show it to you come the spring.’

  ‘ “In the spring” is a vague sort of term, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know that I’ll be here when the weather’s suitable for river trips. I—’

  Suddenly she felt there was no longer any need for reserve between them. She took him into her confidence regarding the terms of her inheritance and her intention to lease Fenchurch Mill when the time was appropriate. Then she told him about her boutique in London, but as she spoke about Desmond’s suggestion for using the proceeds of leasing the house to open another teenage shop, a heavy frown appeared on his brow and his face darkened.

  ‘Lease the house to some suitable client, if that’s what you want to do, but I’m sure your aunt will turn in her grave if you put her money in that cheap kind of business,’ he said emphatically.

  Sara’s chin came up sharply. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me clearly enough. Cheap. That’s what it is, and since you’re in it you must be quite well aware of the fact. Selling gimmicky clothes and tawdry beads and things to youngsters who don’t know what to do with their money. If you ask me, it’s a pretty low kind of business. On the whole, Fenchurch Mill would be better in someone else’s hands.’

  Stung at the injustice of his remarks, Sara jumped to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? What gives you the right to stand in judgment on people? My clothes are neither tawdry, gimmicky, nor cheap—’

  ‘Cheap—no. The teenager of today has money to bum, but tawdry and gimmicky I stick by—and I’m as entitled to make judgment as anyone else. The dress you’re wearing—you didn’t get that from your boutique, did you?’

  ‘Well, no, I—’

  ‘I thought not. It shows taste and discrimination. It’s—it’s like a summer’s day and utterly charming. And I’ll wager you didn’t search the back streets of Norwich for such a dress.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Then I’ve made my point, haven’t I? Thanks for the coffee. I’ll say goodnight to you.’

  Before Sara could gather her wits together he had left the room, picked up his coat and let himself out of the front door.

  CHAPTER IV

  Fuming, but near to tears, Sara resisted the temptation to run after him and shout to his back that he was insufferable, intolerant, extremely rude and above all a prig and a stuffed shirt.

  Twice she had tried to tell him that the dress she was wearing had been designed and made by herself. It was part of a new design in match-mate co-ordinates, consisting of a sleeveless evening coat—which she had not worn tonight for obvious reasons—a mini-dress, slacks and tunic. She often did this, made up her own designs and wore them in the shop, then if enough of their friends and customers admired it, had a batch made up. Colours and fabric designs varied, of course, but ...

  She caught sight of herself in the long hall mirror. Like a summer’s day—utterly charming. Her anger died momentarily. It was rather different from most of the clothes she had been designing. It was softer, more feminine. Perhaps she ought to design more like it. But when she had first shown it to Des he had scarcely given it a second glance.

  ‘It’s like a nightgown. The dollies won’t go for that. They want something more lively.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she had answered.

  And now Hugh’s taunting, biting comments came back in full. Tawdry. Gimmicky. But they weren’t! Trendy, eye-catching—they were the words she would use. Was it just a matter of words? Did they mean the same thing?

  Usually she went to sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, but tonight she was restless, turning Hugh’s words over in her mind, arguing against them strongly to herself.

  Sunday morning was bright, a cold-looking sun making the frost glint like diamonds. The gaunt stems of last year’s growth were feathered white, and small crystal droplets hung from the twigs. But Sara found no joy in nature’s elaborate stage setting. The quarrel with Hugh still rankled and in addition she was beginning to have doubts about her partnership with Des who had put very little money into the business venture—to be exact, only fifty pounds. But to be fair, his energetic and persuasive selling methods had balanced that out. She would have designed the clothes, opened the boutique and waited for customers. He canvassed every discotheque and coffee-bar he could find, and he could talk a manufacturer into giving extended credit for goods. But their business was certainly not tawdry and Hugh had no right to criticize in the way he had done.

  What did he know about it? Youngsters had every right to wear what they wanted to and to change their minds about it overnight. If the rapid changes of mind made for enormous dead stocks an
d inflated prices of what was the trend of the moment, it could not be helped.

  Good heavens! If clothes were merely a protection against changes of weather conditions, sheepskins would be the thing for the winter and painting with wood for the summer. Ridiculous nonsense!

  She glanced out of the window and saw a variety of birds pecking at the frozen ground, apparently without getting any sustenance whatever. Moved instantly, she foraged in her small stock of food supplies for bread crusts, broken biscuits, and rinds from bacon cut with a good deal of the fat. She put the lot on a plate and carried it out to scatter on the frozen lawn. A pair of starlings made an immediate rush towards the food and began squabbling over it while sparrows hopped to peck industriously or flew away with some choice morsel to deal with privately. Thrushes swooped in low and a pair of blackbirds bullied their way about. A small gull wheeled low, but did not land, and gaily coloured tits forsook their perches to sail away with bacon rinds.

  The small excitement was over within minutes and Sara went indoors again and viewed the prospects of a very long day without even Sunday newspapers. Thoughts of Hugh intruded constantly, and she told herself she hated him, yet wished he was here to talk to, even to argue with.

  In an effort to banish her thoughts she got out the vacuum cleaner and carried it upstairs. She made her own and the spare room spotless, then dealt with the landing. She hesitated before entering the room which had been her aunt’s, then marched in. When, eventually, the house was leased, the room would not remain some sort of shrine.

  Plugging the vacuum cleaner in, Sara went energetically to work, but as she got close to the dressing table her aunt’s photograph seemed to demand her attention. Deliberately she tried to disregard it, but the time came when she had finished with the whining machine and took up the duster. She left the dressing table to the last, then finally picked up the silver frame. For a while she studied the gentle-looking face under the dark severely-drawn back hair. Then she noticed the boned, high-necked lace collar and the stiffly puffed out sleeves, also the tiny watch hanging from a brooch shaped like a bow of ribbon.

  ‘Aunt Esther,’ she said to herself, ‘I wonder if you were sent dizzy by quickly changing fashions?’

  It was a ridiculous idea, of course. In those days change was slow and when it came, more lasting. Sudden impulses were not the thing. Was life any better for that? Sara could not answer the question, but growing slowly within her was the idea that Aunt Esther would not have liked her money to go to anything so transient in its nature as the business of trendy fashions.

  Sara put down the photograph and gave a rueful smile. It was idiotic, of course, to allow oneself to be influenced by the surmised thoughts of a dead woman she had never even met, but influenced she certainly was, and she denied strongly that Hugh’s cutting words had anything to do with it.

  She put the cleaning things away, washed her hands and made a cup of coffee, then drank it as she gazed out of the kitchen window. Suddenly she came to a decision. Whatever revenue came from leasing the house should go to some worthwhile cause. There were scores of them, perhaps hundreds. Every week television and radio sent out appeals for some worthy cause.

  Cause! Her aunt had one—women’s suffrage. Sara had the right to vote, but had never yet bothered to use it, and there were thousands like her. There were other thousands, too, the ones who made protest marches and shouted down public leaders. Her aunt must have taken part in such activities in spite of her gentle looks. Who was right and who was wrong?

  Unable to decide, Sara went into the sitting room and took pen and paper. She wrote her address as care of the boatyard, then began to think how she should tell Desmond of her change of mind. Certainly he would not understand that it sprang from a vague thought. In the end she wrote a polite but bald little note that informed him she was not prepared to back the opening of another boutique, either in London or elsewhere. Next she put on her coat and went out to the launch. She noticed that the air had become even colder and looked up at the sky. The east was still bright, but leaden clouds were on the western horizon and the ice around the launch, now about half an inch thick, was spread widely out from the bank.

  The engine started with a splutter and she had to wait a few seconds before she could engage forward drive, but otherwise she had no difficulty. The car gave no trouble either and she soon found a post box.

  Getting into the car again, Sara sat for a few moments wondering what she should do with herself for the remainder of the day. It was still only eleven o’clock and the vista of time before her seemed endless. She started the vehicle and reflected that as the narrow lane was an almost impossible place in which to turn around, she would have to go as far as the main road junction and make the manoeuvre there. She reached the corner and saw another car standing outside a cottage on the other side of the road. She was about to pass when a man stepped out of the car with newspapers in his hand. It seemed fairly obvious he was delivering them, so Sara lowered her window and called to him,

  ‘Excuse me—are you selling papers?’

  He came closer to her. ‘They’re mostly ordered, but I have a few spares.’

  ‘I’ll be glad of some. Three or four if you have them.’

  He smiled. ‘I can deliver some for you starting next Sunday, if you like.’

  ‘Why, thanks. I’m at Fenchurch Mill.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was occupied again. I’m afraid I can’t offer to deliver for you there, but if Barker’s boatyard is any use to you—’

  ‘That would be fine.’

  She made her turn-about with four newspapers on the seat beside her and an arrangement for daily as well as Sunday papers to be left for her at the yard. She smiled as she drove back. At home there had always been plenty of newspapers and she very rarely even glanced at them. Now she was looking forward with glee to lounging on the settee and wallowing in newsprint.

  A few snowflakes drifted on to the windscreen as she was entering the yard and by the time she had backed the car into the shed they had sprinkled an already white ground. She stepped into the launch and as she moved off she heard the crunch of ice under the bows and noticed how the snowflakes built quickly on the little foredeck. A minute or two later she had to switch on the wiper to keep the screen clear.

  Snow was falling heavily when Sara closed the front door. She kicked her shoes off in the hall and went to the sitting room window, the newspapers temporarily forgotten. She was surprised to see how quickly the waters of the Mill basin were turned into a white sheet, imagining the flakes would soon melt and become one with the dark pool.

  This, she thought, would be rather wonderful if the fall continued. No traffic of any kind to turn the pure white into a brown squelch, no boot or shoe prints to break the soft even surface. There was something in favour of isolation after all.

  It was nearly half an hour before Sara moved away from the window and in that time the only movement she had seen, except for the falling snow, was a solitary gull. She dropped on to the settee and picked up the first paper. The headlines screamed the news of the outside world at her. A bank had been robbed. A society woman had died from drug-taking. There had been a disastrous fire. A young girl was missing from her home. Strikes were threatened or already in progress. Not a single piece of good news anywhere. It might have been last week’s paper or the week before that, or any other week that Sara could remember. Surely there was some good news somewhere? She turned the page and Hugh Cornish looked back at her, but a slightly different Hugh in a stiff white collar, white bow-tie and other accoutrements of full evening dress. A caption underneath the photograph read: Mr. Hugh Cornish, Guest speaker at an important gathering of the Nature Conservancy Group.

  Sara read the accompanying text and was informed that ‘owing to the indiscriminate use of chemical sprays, detergents and artificial fertilizers, the fauna and flora of the country were being rapidly destroyed.’ Instances were given of rivers in which fish were no longer to be found and o
f land which was becoming near desert. Other causes were mentioned—the levelling and grubbing up of hedgerows to make larger fields, the use of over-heavy farm machinery which destroyed the texture of the soil, the felling of large trees which stood in the way of such machinery.

  Reading on with only a very mild interest, Sara discovered that it was not only the ruthless polluters of land and water who were to blame, but also some misguided landowners who thought the best way to care for land was to let nature have all its own way. Here, Hugh pointed out to his listeners, since the beginning of time man had struggled to control nature for his use and very survival and must continue to do so, but with great care lest he killed what he was trying to shape for his own use.

  Sara put the paper down. She thought she had a glimmer of an idea of what Hugh was talking about from what had happened to the land at the back of the Mill. Just how long nature had had her own way there she had no idea, but it was the nearest thing to a jungle she had ever seen. How could it be looked after properly? It was her responsibility now.

  Turning to another page of the paper, Sara read on idly for a few minutes, but her thoughts soon returned to Hugh. If only they had not quarrelled, she could have asked his advice about the land. But they had, and she could not see him apologizing as he so obviously thought himself in the right. As to herself—well, she simply did not have anything for which to apologize this time. When she had been in the wrong she had been quick enough to say so.