She said softly, 'Matthew Selby, I love you very much.'
He bent to kiss her. 'And I you. Never forget that.' He straightened and patted his pockets. "Damn, I'm out of cigarettes. When we've had tea I'll go and get some, and order a daily paper at the same time. We mustn't lose touch with the outside world.'
*
Kathy Markham paused, wooden spoon in hand, as she heard the front door close. 'That you, darling?'
'Who else are you expecting?' Her husband came into the kitchen, and she lifted her face for his kiss.
'It could have been William. He went fishing with the Rowe twins, but he should be back by now.'
'I saw him coming up Green Lane as I passed. He won't be long.'
'You might have given him a lift.'
'In that condition? Not on your life. I'd advise you to make him strip on the back step.' Guy stood at the kitchen window, staring down his sloping garden to the lower road and the cottages that crouched there. 'Had a good day?'
'So-so. Angie's a bit fraught about that French she was set, but it's her own fault. She shouldn't have left it till the last minute, as I've been telling her the whole holiday.'
'Baudelaire, isn't it? Pretty heavy going.'
'That's hardly the point.' Kathy sampled the casserole and shook in some more salt. 'By the way, there's a new man in the village. He came into Miller's while I was buying stamps. From what I heard, he and his wife will be at Hinckley's for the next month or so.'
'I didn't know Freda took in lodgers. At least, not with their wives!'
'But Freda's not there. Apparently she's gone off somewhere, and left instructions for the place to be let.'
'Bit sudden, wasn't it? She never mentioned it when we saw her last week.'
'Well, you know Freda. She's probably got herself a new man and gone waltzing off with him. I do wish she'd pull herself together. It's two years now since Bruce left her. She can't go on like this indefinitely.'
'Who says she can't? Several devoted husbands round here avail themselves of her services.'
Kathy stared at him. 'You are joking, aren't you?'
'Indeed I'm not.'
'But that's awful! Who are they?'
'Ah, that'd be telling! Anyway, it's only hearsay, and highly slanderous.'
'For heaven's sake, Guy! Now you've gone that far, you might as well finish it.'
'All I'm saying is, she could run quite a lucrative line in blackmail, if she'd a mind to.'
'But you—' She broke off as a small figure materialized beyond the frosted glass of the back door. 'See to William, will you, darling? Make sure he takes his boots off before he comes in—Carrie washed this floor today.'
And as the concerns of her family took precedence, Freda Cowley and her affairs were pushed temporarily from Kathy's mind.
At The Willows Residential Home on the top road, old Mrs Southern was being difficult again.
'She wouldn't touch her supper,' Nurse Ironside reported to Cook, exasperation in her voice. 'And she's still got this bee in her bonnet about it being Christmas.'
Cook clucked disapprovingly and tipped the contents of the plate into the slops bucket. 'Waste of good food, that is. I don't make my cheese pies for Carrie Speight's hens. Christmas, indeed! If she thinks I'm cooking turkey at the beginning of September, she can think again. What started her on that, anyway?'
'Who ever knows what starts Mrs Southern off?' The nurse paused, ashamed of her outburst. 'Oh, she's a nice enough old thing, plummy voice and all, but as stubborn as they're made. Once she's got something into her head, there's no way of shifting it. But when I asked why she thought it was Christmas, that cunning look came over her face and she wouldn't tell me. Just kept saying, "Aren't there any presents for me? I've not even had a card this year." She was quite upset about it.'
Cook tutted resignedly. 'Going round the twist, if you ask me. We'll have her as daft as Miss Sampson, you mark my words.'
Pammy Ironside shook her head. 'No, you're wrong there. She gets some odd ideas now and then but she's bright enough. Reads everything we give her, and without glasses, too, for all she's well past eighty. Eyes like a hawk.' Pammy giggled. 'She caused quite an upset with Ivy yesterday, insisting there was dust on the dresser. She was right, too —there was! It's tragic, really, her being paralysed like that. Like being a prisoner inside her own body.'
'Give over—you make my hair stand on end, the way you talk!' Cook hesitated, then said gruffly, 'Think she'd get some bread and milk down, if I did some for her?'
Pammy smiled. ‘I think she just might. Bless you, Cook.'
In his little cottage opposite the post office, Police Constable Ted Frost, comfortably paunched and looking forward to retirement, locked up for the night. It had been a good day. The boy had brought some corn cobs back from the farm, a present from Mr Davis, and Margie had cooked them just right. He was partial to corn on the cob, even though he couldn't regard it as English. Still, with salt and pepper, and plenty of butter dripping over it, it took some beating, that he would admit. And tonight it was followed by rabbit, which Benjie'd shot himself.
A lot to be said for being based in the country, Ted reflected complacently. All very well for the Smart Alecs in Shillingham and Broadminster, zooming round in their Pandas. He was quite happy with Westridge and his old bike, thanks all the same.
'Go on, Jack, I'm surprised you don't die of boredom!' they teased him, at intermittent training sessions. (He'd been 'Jack' to his colleagues, for obvious reasons, since the day he joined the Force.) Well, it was all right for them to spend their lives chasing bank robbers and the like, but he was too old for that now, and truth to tell had never really fancied it. The village bobby, everyone's friend. That was more his line. Apart from the odd complaints of 'scrumping',
Westridge was a law-abiding place, and he'd nothing to complain of in that.
The old black retriever thumped his tail as his master checked the back door. When Margie wasn't looking, a portion of rabbit had found its way into his bowl. Ted winked conspiratorially at the animal. Wonder if old Rover associated the tasty morsel with those leaping, flashing forms he'd chased so enthusiastically in his younger days? But that was being fanciful. Of course he didn't.
Chuckling to himself, the policeman started up the stairs, pausing as he always did at the window on the half-landing, from which vantage-point he could see half the village spread before him. Even as he watched, several of the lights went out, one after another. Well, it was almost eleven, and folks were up early hereabouts.
Belching comfortably, he went on his way to bed.
CHAPTER 2
Jessica stood in her dressing-gown at the bedroom window. Immediately below was the cottage garden with its crazy paving and its tangle of roses, sunflowers and Michaelmas daisies. Directly opposite, a patch of open ground sloped up to meet the garden of a house on the road above. Jessica studied the back of that house curiously. It was very large and a network of fire-escapes crisscrossed the facade. An hotel, perhaps.
Matthew came in with the breakfast tray. 'You shouldn't be standing, darling.'
She held down a spurt of irritation. He was, after all, taking care of her. 'I'm all right, I've got the crutches.'
Her resentment may have reached him, for he said softly, 'You know the first things about you that attracted me? That gorgeous husky voice and the way you moved—like a dancer. It can't be easy, having to hobble on two sticks.'
Jessica lowered herself into a chair. 'Oh, I shan't waste this. I'll work on the role of invalid till I've got it perfect. The part may come up one day.'
Matthew poured some orange juice. 'It must be useful, being able to file experiences for future use. I suppose novelists do it, too.'
'Whereas you, poor love, are stuck with the material you're offered!'
He smiled. 'With the Sandons, that's colourful enough.'
'Tell me about them.'
'Dominic and I were at Cambridge together. We weren't close, but w
e met at parties and so on. When he read my biography of the Barretts last year, he got in touch and asked if I'd consider one on his family. They came over with the Conqueror—"Sans-dents", originally, which I'd have thought they'd want to keep quiet about!'
'Not an impressive soubriquet. But you hadn't met his family till last week?'
'I knew his brother, Leo. He's unmarried and lives with them at the Hall, as does their mother, Lady Alice.'
'How gloriously feudal! And his wife doesn't mind?'
'Not in the least. She's French, and accepts that noblesse oblige. There are also three sons in their late teens—quite a menage.''
'And they live there all the year round?'
Matthew gave a short laugh. 'Don't sound so incredulous! They have a place in London, but this is their base. Dom's a conscientious landowner and takes a great interest in the estate.'
'And what's the French wife like?'
'Charming. I'm sure you'll like her.'
'I'll be summoned to meet them, then?'
'Invited's the word. I believe they're fans of yours.' He folded his napkin, glancing at her empty plate. 'I'll take these things out of your way while you dress. Can you manage?'
'Yes, darling, thank you.'
She knew, despite his matter-of-factness, that the domestic trivia irked him. After a summer free from writing, during which they had met and married, he was anxious to get back to work. The last thing he needed was a wife unable even to wash the dishes.
The telephone shrilled suddenly on the bedside table and she lifted it. A voice said quickly, 'Freda? It's Charles. Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get you for days.'
‘I'm sorry,' Jessica said, 'we're new here. I'm afraid—' The phone clicked abruptly and the dialling tone bleeped in her ear. She lowered the receiver, staring at it with raised eyebrow. Then, with a little bang, she replaced it on its cradle. 'Charming old-world courtesy!' she said aloud.
Matthew's voice called up the stairs. 'Was that the phone? I had the water running.'
'For our landlady, I presume. He didn't wait for explanations.'
Slowly and with difficulty she washed and dressed. This was the worst time, she assured herself. In a week or two, things would be much easier. Thank God she'd be mobile before rehearsals started.
She eased herself on to the dressing-stool and critically studied her reflection. Her dark hair, expertly shaped to her head, would have to fend for itself till her return to London. She'd no intention of letting a village hairdresser loose with a pair of scissors. For the rest, high cheekbones, wide expressive mouth, clear skin which, offstage, required the minimum of make-up; and, beneath finely arched brows, those large eyes, a smoky shade between slate and blue, which gave her face in repose a brooding quality. It was good material to work with, she thought impersonally, and repaid the care she gave it.
Plunging her fingers into the jar of skinfood, she began her daily massage.
*
Carrie said nervously, 'Good morning. I—I saw the car, and wondered if Mrs Cowley was back?'
'I'm afraid not,' Matthew replied. 'My wife and I have taken the cottage for a month.'
'A month?' She stared at him in bewilderment. 'But I don't understand. She never said she was going away.'
'Unfortunately I can't help you. We dealt directly with the agents.'
'They might know something, Matthew,' Jessica called from the sofa. 'What was their name—Bayliss?'
'Oh, I don't want to bother anyone,' their visitor said hastily. 'It's just that it's awkward, not knowing how long I've got. She's always told me before, so I can fill in if I want to, while she's away. There are always ladies asking.' Seeing Matthew's blank expression, she added, 'I clean for her, you see, two mornings a week.'
His face cleared. 'Then you're just the person we're looking for. Could we take you over? Come inside for a moment and we can discuss it.' He stepped aside and she came diffidently into the room. Matthew said easily, 'Our name is Selby, and you're—?'
'Speight, Carrie Speight.' She smiled shyly at Jessica, and her eyes rested briefly on the plastered leg. She'd a pleasant face, Jessica thought, almost pretty when she smiled, with large, gentle eyes and a childishly full mouth. Her hair looked youthful too, caught back in the nape of her neck. At Matthew's gesture, she perched on the edge of a chair.
'As you see,' he continued, 'my wife isn't able to look after us at the moment.' He made it sound, thought Jessica, amused, as if she normally spent her life scrubbing floors. 'How much time could you spare us?'
'Well, sir, like I said, I come to Mrs Cowley two mornings, Tuesdays and Fridays.'
'It's Tuesday today.'
'Yes, sir. That's why I was wondering. I could stay now, if you like.'
'Please, but we really need more than two mornings.'
Carrie turned to Jessica. She was used to dealing with the mistress of the house, and Matthew's command of the interview flustered her.
'You see, mum, I go to Mrs Markham in Upper Westridge Mondays and Thursdays, and to The Willows all day Wednesday.'
'The Willows?'
'The Nursing Home. Well, Residential, they call it. Old people, like. I help there at weekends, too.'
'You lead a busy life, Miss Speight,' Matthew said drily.
'I could cook your supper, though, if that would help, and dinner too, on the mornings I'm here.'
'That's very good of you,' Jessica said in her husky voice. 'Probably after a week or so, I'll be able to do more myself.'
'Yes, mum.' Carrie glanced uncertainly at Matthew, and when he remained silent, stood up. 'Well, I'll make a start, then.' She bestowed her shy smile on them and turned towards the kitchen, more at home in the cottage than they were themselves.
'I didn't ask about references,' Matthew said in a low voice, 'but she must be well-known in the village. I imagine she's honest enough.'
'I'm sure she is, and she's putting herself out for us. You'll be generous, won't you, darling?'
'Of course. Well, since that's satisfactorily settled, I'll get down to a bit of work, if you'll excuse me. Would you like to sit in the garden?'
'Not just yet. I see the paper's come; I'll glance at that first.'
'Then I'll retire to the study.' He bent and kissed her, his eyes already absent-minded, planning his day. Jessica felt a touch of envy, but things could be a great deal worse. At least they had now acquired Carrie Speight.
Nor was it the last time that day she congratulated herself on their acquisition. Having cycled up the hill for provisions, Carrie proved herself both a competent cook and pleasant enough company. Matthew had not emerged from his study, from which an occasional burst of typing erupted, and Jessica, unused to being alone, was glad of someone to talk to. Sitting in the kitchen while Carrie prepared lunch, she questioned her about the village.
'Well, I don't know that a great deal happens,'' Carrie answered doubtfully. 'I mean, there are concerts at the school and Harvest Supper and cricket matches, but not what you're used to in London, I expect.'
The supreme understatement. 'But what do you do in your spare time?'
Carrie smiled. 'I don't have very much. I like to keep busy. Mostly I just go for walks. But the gentlemen go to the pub—there are three in the village—or to the Cricket Club, and a lot of the ladies play tennis and squash, though I suppose that's not much use to you.'
'Not at the moment, certainly.'
Carrie continued deftly chopping onions. 'How did you hurt your leg?' she asked conversationally.
'I fell down some rocks on holiday. Silly, wasn't it? I spent the rest of the time in hospital, and had to go to another in London when we got back.'
'So you're here for a rest, while it gets better?'
'Not exactly. My husband's writing a history of the Sandon family, and will be using their library for his research. Also, of course, he'll have to interview them and so on, as he collects his information.'
'Oh,' said Carrie, impressed. 'He writes bo
oks, does he, your husband?'
'That's right.' Jessica accepted that her own name, if mentioned, would arouse no more recognition than Matthew's. She seldom appeared on television, and Carrie Speight was unlikely to be au fait with names from the West End stage. 'You said you worked at the nursing home,' she went on, reverting to village topics. 'Is that the house we can see from here?'
'That's right, mum. Very nice it is, too. They've got their own furniture, so it really is like home for them, poor old souls. And Matron's such a kind lady.'
Matthew was extracted from the study for lunch, which he and Jessica ate in the living-room. Carrie, who had volunteered to stay and wash the dishes—'to save the gentleman bothering—' had, at Jessica's insistence, shared the meal, though she ate in the kitchen.
'Wasn't it incredible,' Jessica said, sampling the fluffy omelette, 'that she should arrive on the doorstep like that, just when we needed her?'
'Yes, it was very lucky.' Matthew's tone was abstracted and she realized that for him the meal was an interruption, and he was anxious to return to work. Her impression was confirmed when, as soon as he'd finished eating, he excused himself. 'Get Miss Speight to settle you in the garden before she goes. The fresh air will do you good.'
Another task the admirable Miss Speight could relieve him of, Jessica thought, and was ashamed of her bitterness. She must accept that Matthew was as much obsessed by his work as she by hers. She wouldn't care for interruptions if she were rehearsing or learning her lines—which latter task, she reminded herself, she could usefully undertake.
It was therefore in Carrie's company, not her husband's, that she saw the garden for the first time. It was triangular in shape with the house at its apex, and less private than she'd appreciated. To the right, an open fence was all that separated it from a field, while another field lay beyond the wall at the far end. Jessica could see cows grazing there. Unlike the profusion of flowers at the front, here it was mostly grass—little different, in fact, from the land which surrounded it. A lacy conifer stood in the centre, with a rockery at its foot. Three wide, shallow steps led from the back path down to the grass and these, with Carrie hovering anxiousiy beside her, Jessica carefully negotiated.
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