A Stranger Light

by Gloria Cook

  ‘Yes. A family might have given our marriage a purpose. Justine and I should have stayed simply as friends. I’m thankful we’ll always have that.’

  ‘I thought I’d married for the right reason – love. Now I’m not sure how much I love Nate. People say the war, the uncertainty of everything, heightened our emotions, making us do foolish and spontaneous things. Perhaps it was like that for Nate and me. While GI brides and babies have been shipped off to the States to start a new life with their husbands, Nate did it in reverse, for my sake, and I’m terrified he’ll hate settling here and end up hating me for it.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance you might rediscover what you had with Nate?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m scared I made a terrible mistake when I married him. And now Faye’s in a quandary about her marriage proposal.’

  Mark’s brows shot up. ‘The Scottish laird has offered her marriage?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have disclosed that. I phoned Faye to reassure her I had no hard feelings over her changing her mind about selling Tremore to Nate and me, and she told me Fergus Blair had proposed the same afternoon he went to Roskerne. She confided in me because we’re the same age, I suppose, and both facing an uncertain future. She doesn’t want everyone to know yet, to be pressurized one way or the other. You won’t mention it, will you?’ She studied Mark. What were his feelings about this? It seemed he had no inkling Faye was in love with him. He was frowning in thought, but otherwise his thin face was expressionless. But why should he be thinking about love? He had not long given up on his futile marriage and was still coming to terms with his POW experiences. It was too early for him to be considering a new romance.

  ‘I see. Did she say how long this chap is staying around?’

  ‘He has to go back for a business meeting at the end of the week. Faye’s planning a dinner at the Watergate Bay Hotel for you and Uncle Tris, and Susan, to meet him.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that.’ Mark suddenly felt weary. The ride had drained nearly all his energy. ‘It’s really a family thing. Are you going home soon? I think I ought to return and take a rest. Tell your mother I’ll call on her another day, if you would.’

  ‘I must get back to Carl.’ He helped Lottie up. ‘And I’ve got packing to finish off. We’re moving out tomorrow into a house on the outskirts of Truro, in a tiny hamlet called Highertown. It belongs to a friend of my stepfather’s. He’s a doctor and travels about a lot doing research and he’s happy to let the family use it. I shall find it very strange living away from home. Nate’s looking forward to us being on our own. He’s quite overwhelmed by my family. He’s at Highertown now getting things ready.’ At last she dredged up a smile. ‘He’s been quite excited by it. He’s promised we’ll have a farm of our own before the baby’s born. I should consider myself lucky, shouldn’t I? There’s so many people going through far worse difficulties.’

  ‘Yes, there are,’ he said, as they walked along with the horse and Addi. ‘But it doesn’t mean we must feel guilty just because our own problems are less. Suffering is suffering. I’ll drop in to see you when you’ve settled in, if I may, Lottie.’

  ‘I’d like that. Thanks Mark. It’s been good talking to you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nate was not in the house at Highertown. He was in Taldrea, one of the neighbouring hamlets to Hennaford, at Coose-Craze Farm, the farm that Lottie had set her heart on buying while he was still in Texas, before it was bought from under them. The farm rested roughly in the middle of a densely wooded area and was a world of difference from the vast open spaces he had been used to on the ranch. But he could see enough sky and nature to ease his soul, and he unexpectedly liked the cosy feel of it. The sheep and cattle in the fields seemed healthy, and the wheat, barley and other crops appeared not to be attacked by blight or disease. When he bought the property off the retired major – and he would do so by fair means or otherwise, for he was utterly determined to get it for Lottie – Coose-Craze would be just right for them to make a fresh start.

  The track leading to it was more rutted and potholed than was usual for an undressed approach to a local farm, and although Nate was wearing walking boots, he had purposely come dressed smartly, in new English-bought tweeds. He had made some casual inquiries about the new owner of Coose-Craze, and he had gleaned that Major Randolph Gittens was close on to being a septuagarian and was irascible and unapproachable. And also, ‘He’s a bit mazed in the head. Thinks he’s back in the days of the British Raj, he does.’ His workforce tolerated him because he didn’t interfere with anyone. Nate had come prepared, spruced up like a prosperous American gentleman to talk to an old-fashioned English gentleman, and bringing a gift. Clamping a bottle of gin under his armpit, he hoisted his trousers up at the knees, and it took a while to avoid the deepest mud heaps. When he owned this farm he’d order the track gravelled.

  The farmstead had the usual barn with a loft above the cowhouse, stable and hay store. There was a cart-house and a long, low piggery. These and other outhouses circled the yard. Beside the goathouse were wrecks of a dog cart and a trap, much infiltrated with weeds and nettles. A surly billy-goat, tied on a long rope to an ash tree, stared at Nate while chewing on what seemed like a white shirt. Nate thought he’d best mind his own business about that. There was a lot of rusted old farm equipment lying about, as if past owners had been content to keep relics of the past. Nate would order it all to be scrapped properly and safely, or it would be dangerous for Carl to toddle about here. He wended his way through a clucking, quacking and gobbling medley of hens, ducks and turkeys. He was wary of the geese, plump and white and hard beaked. Ford Farm’s geese could see off a stranger more ruthlessly than the Jack Russells.

  A young, long-haired border collie with a dirty coat nipped into the yard with the intention of taking a drink from the granite horse trough under the plain, cast-iron pump. It veered off course at spying Nate and raced up to him. With a timely raised hand and a firm command, Nate managed to get it to lie down. ‘I like you, boy. I wonder what you’re called.’ As he moved on, the collie lapped up some water then chased off to roam the fields. The farmhouse was run down and only about the size of two average cottages. Its whitewashed walls were coated in decades of dirt and climbing moss. Nate made a mental note of the work and extensions he’d be asking Jim Killigrew to do on it. Some of the outhouses needed rebuilding. He was looking forward to the challenge, which he’d include Lottie in every step of the way.

  He rapped on the solid door, causing some of its peeling brown paint to fall and scatter over his boots like rust. He used his handkerchief to dust them clean. A dog barked somewhere, but not the young collie, he was sure. This one sounded bigger or heavier, and he looked about cautiously. A minute or two ticked by. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go round the house and through the cattle yard at the back to see if anyone was about. He would collect mud nearly up to his knees. He rapped on the door again.

  ‘Wait a minute, will you?’ A hurried female voice. Nate heard a key being turned in the lock. The latch was lifted and the door juddered as it was opened a crack. ‘Whoever you are, you’ll have to push on it. Door’s stuck. And be quiet. You’ll wake him up.’

  Who was ‘he’? As far as Nate knew, there were no children in the house. He pushed on the door. It jarred and creaked and finally yawned open with a shuddering groan. A young woman faced him. She was of average build, had flowing dark brown hair and was wearing a man’s shirt rolled up to her elbows, corduroy trousers, and a folded down apron round her trim waist. She had dark, probing eyes. In one hand she held a paring knife and a potato she had been peeling. ‘People don’t never come to the front door. What can I do for you?’

  It was a simple question, not delivered in a blunt or rude way. Nate saw she was dauntless, yet ordinary and uncomplicated. ‘Pardon me, miss. Is Major Gibbons at home? I’d like to see him.’

  Her mouth gaped at Nate’s Texan accent. She looked him over. ‘He’s dozing in the fro
nt room. There will be merry hell to pay if he’s woken up. He’s a mighty fierce old boy. Are you a film star?’

  Nate thought he might pass for that in his expensive three-piece suit and shiny silk tie. He had let his sandy hair grow since the days it had seen Army butchery, and it was curling about his neck and temples. Not feeling tense today, because he had a sense of purpose, he had slipped back into his normal free and easy manner. ‘My name’s Nate Harmon, miss. I haven’t come far. I’ve been living in Hennaford until recently. Perhaps you know my wife’s family, the Harveys. Perhaps I could come in and wait for the major to wake up?’

  ‘Yes, I know them. Of course! You must be Lottie’s GI husband. My name’s Violet Treloar. Everyone calls me Vi, except the major, he’s a stickler for correctness. I don’t mind you waiting for him if you don’t mind coming into the kitchen. Don’t expect a welcome from him, though. Hospitality’s not on the top of his list, not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Thanks, Vi.’ The instant Nate stepped into the slate-paved passage, he liked the feel of the place. It was dark but not gloomy, small and low-ceilinged but not claustrophobic. It smelled of dogs, fresh baking and dried lavender. Violet seemed chatty. He was pleased to have the opportunity to find out something more about the major. In view of the major’s terse reputation, he probably had a tough time ahead.

  ‘Who the bally hell is at the door?’ a loud gruff voice suddenly bellowed, not as if from within the house but at a distance.

  ‘Here we go.’ Violet rolled her eyes. ‘He’s pushed the window up and is bawling out of it. He does it all over the house. He thinks me and the men and the dairymaid are always on parade. It’ll be easier to talk to him outside, Mr Harmon, not that it’ll be much use to you.’

  Nate went back out through the porch with Violet following. He saw a man’s head, wearing a deerstalker’s hat, sticking out of a small sash window. ‘Violet! Who is it, for God’s sake? Who’s this chap?’

  Violet made a wry face at Nate. In the full daylight, he could see she had a healthy complexion. A few early wrinkles were gathered at her eyes from outdoor work. ‘It’s a Mr Nate Harmon, Major. He’d like to see you.’

  ‘What about?’ Major Randolph Gibbons had a voice like a dinner gong.

  ‘What shall I say?’ Violet asked Nate.

  ‘It’s a matter of business,’ Nate told her.

  ‘A matter of business, Major.’

  ‘Tell him to bugger off! You shouldn’t have answered the door to him. Get on with your work, Violet. And next time you’re in the house, wear a frock! You’re a woman, for damn sake!’

  ‘I’d better go back in,’ Violet said to Nate, totally unruffled by her employer’s coarseness and umbrage. ‘’Fraid he was woke up. You won’t get nowhere with him today. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Violet. For now.’ Nate shot her a friendly smile and made for the open window, skirting some wayward shrubs. ‘Please hear me out, Major.’

  The major snorted like a cantankerous horse and made to slam the window down, but it was stuck fast. Caught out for the moment, he shook himself bolt upright, glared out through the glass and looked prepared to do battle. Nate could see he would stubbornly fight to the last shot. ‘Harmon? Nate? What kind of a bloody name is that?’

  Nate was to learn that the major swore in almost every sentence. ‘Forgive me for calling without first asking for an appointment, Major.’

  ‘A Yank!’ the major roared, throwing up his arms as if insulted. ‘What possible business could a British gentleman have to do with a bloody Yank? Clear off or I’ll set the dog on you. Interrupting a chap’s tiffin. Damned cheek!’ The major spoke in quick clips making his bristling grey eyebrows jerk above his hooded eyes and his waxed moustache jerk above his twitchy upper lip. Nate could smell tobacco and gin on him. In his angry passion spittle fell in blobs on his tweed front.

  ‘If you allow me the honour of speaking to you for a few minutes, sir, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say,’ Nate said diplomatically. Here was an argumentative man, much out of his time, who liked to keep the colonials in their place. To placate the blustering old fool, Nate bowed his head. ‘I’ve brought this. Perhaps it would help your tiffin along nicely?’

  Randolph Gibbons stared at the large bottle of Booth’s gin Nate held up to his eye level. He slowly ducked under the window and thrust out a hairy paw for the bottle. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place, blithering idiot? Climb in through. Won’t have that useless young female disturbed from her work again.’

  It was a struggle for Nate to get his broad frame through the space and he scraped his stomach on the latch, hurt his legs, banged his head and nearly lost a shoe, but he would have ripped the window frame out if necessary. The cramped front room was stuffed with paintings of famous battle scenes, cane furniture, breakfront bookcases, paperweights, ornaments of dogs, and, curiously, a collection of dolls, many in foreign costume. Amid the clutter, Nate was on parade in front of the simmering little person. In gaiters and brogues, a gold watch chain as big as a town mayor’s regalia hanging outside his checked waistcoat, the major was stock still, taking in every inch of him. Then he brought the gin up in front of his chest and screwed up an interrogatory eye. ‘Want a drink yourself?’

  ‘I take mine in a tumbler. Can’t bear a man who can’t take his liquor. There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘Right answer!’ Major Gibbons boomed. Leaning against the drink trolley – the opened shape of the world globe – he splashed out two large gins. From the stains on the threadbare carpet, obviously laid well before his time here, he was often careless this way. ‘Well, what do you want? Don’t think to waste my time, Harmon. Serve over here, did you?’

  The major flopped down in a club chair, bringing a walking stick into handy reach. Nate took the liberty of seating himself on the buttoned day bed. While his host lit up a fat cigar, he told him about his war history and its consequences. ‘So I ended up marrying a Cornish girl.’

  The major tossed back an enormous gulp of gin. ‘Well, you’re a bloody damn fool! A woman should follow her husband, not the other way round. No wonder she’s got no respect for you.’

  Nate hated that remark. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’ve got a certain look about you. Seen it in the officer’s mess and in the ranks. Brow-beaten under a petticoat government. You should be ashamed of yourself. Just one step away from a nancy boy.’

  ‘I can assure you, Major, my wife is a wonderful woman.’ Nate was ruffled and had to fight to keep a steely composure. He saw all too clearly the truth of the offensive little man’s sneers. Lottie really did have no respect for him. How did that happen?

  ‘So you gave everything up for love? Your funeral. Never saw the point in saddling myself with a memsahib. I’ve met the family you’re wed into. The Harveys. Well known in farming circles. Dined at a table next to ’em in the Red Lion one market day. If your wife is anything like her mother you’ve done well in the looks department. Emilia Harvey, or Bosweld, I should say, is the most striking woman I’ve ever seen. A fine filly. As proud as a Grand National winner. Now, Harmon, let’s get to the reason you’re here.’

  Resolute once more, Nate put his fingertips together to show he was in control. He was utterly determined about this. ‘I want to buy this farm from you, Major.’

  Gibbons sprang forward on his chair. ‘Straight to the point. I'll give you that. Can’t stand a chap prevaricating. Got no intention of selling up. Drink up and bugger off.’

  Nate stared coolly at the old man. ‘I shall make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Gibbons maneuvered his narrow shoulders as if preparing for battle.

  ‘I’ll give you double what you paid for it, Major.’ Nate leaned forward to show he wouldn’t back off.

  ‘If you think I’m going to hand over a piece of England’s green and pleasant land to a jumped-up Yank you can think again. Stuff your dollars up your jacksie. Don’t think y
ou could have been much of a military man, Harmon, otherwise you’d know when to withdraw. Jolly decent of you to bring the gin, but off you go before I take a trip to my gun cabinet. See yourself out the way you came in.’

  Nate knew he must leave things where they were today. Major Gibbons was going to be a hard nut to crack, but he had found his weakness. Gin. Next time he would bring cigars. ‘I won’t be leaving the matter like this, Major. Thank you for seeing me. I’ll bring a crate of the clear water with me next time. I’ve found a good supplier.’ On the black market.

  Gibbons helped himself to another tumbler of gin. ‘You’ll risk life and limb.’

  ‘My wife wants this farm. She’s worth any risk.’ As he said it, he meant it. He loved Lottie more than ever. He’d get her this farm, build her a house as big as a mansion, and somehow, whatever it would take, he’d regain her respect and make her fall back in love with him.

  He entered a second fight to haul himself out through the window. This time he ripped the seat of his trousers. He put a hand there to cover his shorts. ‘Damn, how will I explain this to Lottie?’ He heard chuckling at the window. The major was there, a little unsteady and swinging his empty glass. He grinned maliciously and bawled at the top of his voice. ‘Lofty! Lofty! Where are you, damn it! Intruder! Get him boy!’

  Nate heard loud fierce barking. Forgetting his indignity, he made a dash for it as from round the side of the house a white bull terrier came bounding into view. It wasn’t a breed that lent itself to this dog’s given name, but any dog protecting its master’s territory could be fierce.

  * * *

  ‘Are we really going to Roskerne tomorrow?’ Maureen was heading for Tremore Farm’s washhouse swinging a basket full of eggs. Pearl and the twins were with her. She had collected the afternoon laying, one of the jobs Tristan had given her to pay her dues for breaking his stopwatch. Now she must wash them carefully and count them. Bob or Len would write down the number of eggs on the chart.