In the Mists of Time

by Marie Treanor

  Harry was standing at the bar with his half pint. “Bad business,” he said heavily.

  “The worst should be about this time tomorrow,” Louise said. “I feel for the poor souls right down by the sea.”

  Harry blinked. “You mean the storm?”

  “Yes,” she said as though surprised. “You should be high enough up to avoid any flooding. We’re hoping it won’t come as far up as the B&B, but we’ve got sandbags at the ready.”

  Alan, the landlord’s son who was serving, said, “The minister’s been organizing parties to help the older folk prepare. Some of the blokes from the big house are helping.”

  “I heard that,” Louise said warmly. She wanted to hug him. “You might need to watch your own back door, Al.”

  “We will. What can I get you?”

  Chrissy, Izzy and Thierry came in then, and a couple of lads with guitars on their shoulders—Glenn’s pupils—although Glenn himself was absent, no doubt staying in with Jack.

  It was hardly the most relaxing half hour Louise had ever spent in the pub, and there were plenty of stares from the locals, but Louise held her head high and ignored them, deliberately spoke to Thierry about the new computer and how quick and easy it made her admin, and smiled and chatted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. And when her drink was finished, she refused all offers of accompaniment.

  As the fresh air hit her, she drew a deep breath and hurried for home. Someone shouted in the street. It took a moment to penetrate that it was aimed at her.

  “Not with your fancy man tonight?” Followed by youthful guffaws. Teenage lads. Kids. No threat, no way of hurting her. And yet she felt hurt, betrayed, rejected by the village and the people she’d always clung to while most of her contemporaries left. Now, at last, she wanted to cry, but she was damned if she would.

  * * * * *

  Even when she went home, she could tell by the half-awed, half-pitying look in Cerys’s eyes that the village grapevine had stretched out while she was gone. No doubt the girl would hand in her notice in the morning, and it would be harder to find someone else to replace her, let alone someone her parents liked as much. But that was tomorrow’s worry.

  “How’s my dad?” she asked Cerys.

  “The carers have just left. There doesn’t seem to be much change.”

  “Ok, thanks Cerys. See you at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be there. Good night, Louise.”

  Louise made herself a cup of coffee and pottered about tidying and preparing for the morning, trying to numb her brain with activity. When she checked on her parents, her mother was awake and reading in bed. In the other bed beside her, her father slept, snoring and groaning, his chest wheezing like a squeaky door.

  “I don’t like the sound of him,” her mother whispered.

  “It doesn’t seem any better. Did he have his last dose of the antibiotic?”

  “Yes, the carers gave him it.”

  “Maybe he needs something stronger… Let’s see how he is in the morning. The monitor’s on, so just shout and I’ll come.”

  “Thanks, dear. Sleep well.”

  Some chance. “You too.”

  She’d just made it to her own room when her phone rang. Thierry.

  Her heart hammering, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Are you all right?”

  At the sound of his voice, she closed her eyes. I am now. “Yes. A bit ticked off about the bloody village. But it does help you to see who your real friends are. How are you holding up?”

  “Me? Fine, if I know you are. How’s your dad?”

  “Not so good. We might need to get the doctor back in the morning.”

  “Tell me if I can help.”

  “Thanks.” The silence wasn’t awkward. She liked feeling his presence on the other end of the phone, listening to the faint whisper of his breath. She just wished he were closer. And, suddenly, it hit her, so hard and obvious that she wanted to laugh. “Thierry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to come for tea tomorrow? With my parents and me?”

  There was a pause, just long enough for her to wonder wildly if she’d got it wrong. And then he said, “I’d love to,” and there was such warmth in his voice that it almost felt like a kiss. “Good night, Louise.”

  “Good night, Thierry.”

  * * * * *

  Although she had an unexpectedly undisturbed night, Louise woke to the windows rattling and rain battering against the glass. And her mother calling through the monitor. She bolted out of bed, dragging her robe around her as she all but fell out of her room and staggered across the hall to her parents’ room.

  Illuminated in lamplight, her mother was propped up in bed, gazing at her still husband.

  “I can’t hear him,” Louise’s mother said in a frightened voice. “Is he all right?”

  Louise hurried across the room, her heart in her mouth, but even before she got to the bed, she could hear his troubled wheeze.

  “He’s breathing,” she said at once. “I think the wind outside just drowned it out for you. It’s wild out there, and it’s going to get worse.” Gently, she smoothed the skin on her father’s forehead. It felt hot and oddly tight. “On the other hand, I think he’s fevered,” she added as calmly as she could. “I’m going to call the doctor anyhow.”

  She drew the quilt down to let the air cool him. He grunted a couple of times but didn’t wake up. “We’ll leave him like that for a bit,” she said. “Do you want some tea or are you going back to sleep? It’s only six o’clock.”

  “I’ll have tea, but only if you’ve got a moment. We’ve got four guests, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, but they don’t want breakfast at seven! Cerys will be round to help me at eight. I’ll bring you some tea and leave a message at the surgery.”

  “You’re so good, Louise,” her mother whispered. “I don’t know where we’d be without you.”

  More than anything, that appalled her. She went and sat on the bed to hug her mother. “Hey, it’s not that bad. You’ll never shake me off, and Dr. Cameron will give Dad something stronger to blast his infection into next week. By the time Aidan gets home, he’ll never guess Dad was even ill.”

  “When is Aidan coming home?”

  “Thursday or Friday, I think, but he’ll be staying here for the next week. He and Chrissy are going to decorate the cottage.”

  “Is he going to marry Chrissy?” Her mother was old-fashioned, but so far as Louise knew, she’d never mentioned marriage to Aidan.

  “I don’t know,” Louise said. “Maybe.”

  “I like Chrissy. Aidan’s lucky.”

  “Yes, he is.” Louise stood. “I’ll get that tea.”

  * * * * *

  Dr. Cameron arrived just after eight, pronounced the fever quite normal and advised paracetamol.

  “I’d give the antibiotic another day,” she added. “If there’s no improvement tomorrow, we’ll try something else. Don’t look so worried, Mrs. Grieve. He’s in no immediate danger!”

  “Thanks for coming out,” Louise said as she walked with the doctor to the door.

  “That’s what I’m for,” Dr. Cameron said, although she never seemed particularly glad to be making house calls. “Love the smell of your breakfasts in the morning! You might want to avoid the harbour route when you go out, by the way. The waves are right over into the gardens opposite.”

  “It’s meant to be even worse at second tide tonight,” Louise said ruefully.

  * * * * *

  “Wild day to go fishing!” Louise said to her guests as she served them their bacon and eggs. “But at least the rain’s gone off for now.”

  “Good day for the salmon,” John, the oldest of them, said cheerfully. “And even if it isn’t, it beats sitting in a stuffy office.”

 
“What is it you do?” Louise asked, fetching the coffeepot.

  “Insurance.”

  Louise paused, the coffeepot poised in her hand. “Not London and Scottish Life, by any chance.”

  “No, I’m glad to say,” John replied, exchanging knowing glances with his colleagues.

  “Why glad?” Louise asked, going over to the table and pouring coffee into each of the cups.

  John shrugged. “It’s no secret their stock is down since the Duplessis affair. They’ve lost public confidence.”

  “Because they were hacked?” Louise guessed.

  “More because they prosecuted,” John said dryly. “And didn’t pay out. Duplessis had the public sympathy.”

  “I don’t even remember hearing about it at the time.”

  “It was a bigger deal in France. But word spreads in the digital age. If you researched the companies offering life insurance or health insurance, you’d see London and Scottish discussed pretty negatively.”

  Louise smiled. “Unlike your own company?”

  John winked. “Obviously.”

  “He’s not in sales, honestly,” the woman said wryly. Her name was Caroline.

  As she went back to the kitchen, Louise couldn’t quite work out if they knew about Ron and Thierry and her and were being kind, or if they were fishing for information, or just gossiping about a competitor.

  * * * * *

  In true Scottish style, the sun was out by the time Louise had the time to hurry down to the seafront and the old fishermen’s cottages. Although the tide was receding, it had managed to breach some of the sandbags, and the village was out in force to help. Among them, she was glad to see the men of Ardknocken House. She waved but hurried on to Angus’s house. An old friend of her grandfather’s, he’d been a favourite with her and Aidan all her life. He’d taught Aidan to sail and even tolerated having his boat hijacked from time to time.

  She found him outside his cottage, dementedly sweeping sea water out of his garden while the wind tried to blow him back inside.

  “Did it get in the house?” Louise asked him, taking the brush from him. “Let me take a shot.”

  “Not this time,” Angus said grimly. “But it’ll be worse tonight.”

  “We’ll get more sandbags.”

  “There are no more. The council’s run out. It’s like this all the way up the coast. I’ll put the kettle on, and you can tell me how your dad is.”

  As he toddled inside, Louise brushed what she could of the water towards the drain. At the gate, she saw Glenn and the minister hurrying past together. Apparently, the alliance Glenn had made fun of was in progress.

  “Is it true we’ve run out of sandbags?” she asked the minister.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Got a beach full of sand,” Glenn said. “We’ll get more.”

  “Are all your guys down here?” Louise asked.

  “Apart from Dougie and Jim. The plan’s to get our fishing guests fed early and back to the B&B before the worst of the storm hits.”

  “The latest weather forecast has the height of the storm coincide with high tide,” the minister added. “I’m afraid we’re going to get a battering.”

  Louise propped up the brush and went inside to tell Angus there would be more sandbags at least. After a very quick tea and chat, she pushed on to Aidan and Chrissy’s cottage.

  Chrissy was already there, piling loose rocks in front of the sandbags already there.

  “Did it get in?” Louise asked.

  “Not this time. But word is it’ll be higher this evening. At least we haven’t got carpets and furniture in yet. How’s your dad?”

  “Not great, but the doctor doesn’t seem to think there’s much to worry about. I don’t want to stay away long, though. Can I do anything here?”

  “No, thanks.” Chrissy got to her feet with a rueful grin. “I think I’m pissing against the wind here anyhow. If the sea’s determined, I don’t think there’s much more I can do. The boys are in the village doing what they can.”

  “I saw them. It’ll be appreciated.”

  “How are you doing?” Chrissy asked.

  “Well, right now there’s more to worry about than stupid photographs and village gossip.”

  “And magical mists.”

  Louise looked up at the sky, where clouds scudded by in the wind, almost like a film in fast-forward. “I defy any mist to settle in this,” she said wryly.

  * * * * *

  By the time Thierry arrived at the B&B for tea, there was no sign of blue sky. It was unrelieved shades of dark grey and black, and the wind had risen spectacularly, driving the rain horizontally into the face of anyone daft enough to be out in it.

  He’d been down on the beach, shovelling sand into the last available makeshift bags and sacks when, in the face of the furiously rising tide, Glenn had declared a halt and advised everyone to pile into the big car for home and a snack meal out of the way of the fishing guests.

  “I’ll be up later,” Thierry said, surrendering his spade. “If I’m not needed in the village.”

  “Okay,” Glenn said. “We’re organizing accommodation for any flood victims, just in case. Don’t touch the bread knife.”

  That was the second time he’d mentioned the bread knife. Ignoring it, Thierry let himself be run off the beach by the gale, then strode against the wind towards the High Street to buy some chocolates before making his way towards the B&B. His heart was light because Louise still wanted to see him after the public shit had hit the fan.

  He’d been afraid it would drive her away, that whatever they’d found together was far too fragile to stand such an intolerable intrusion on her privacy and reputation. Yet she’d invited him for tea. Even in the midst of crisis, he was sure the whole village would soon know that he’d been to the B&B and exactly how long he’d stayed. In fact, for all he knew, Mrs. Grieve might even contribute to the information pool. She seemed surprisingly tolerant of the Ardknocken House residents, perhaps because of an imperfect understanding of their past crimes. Still, she must want better than him for her daughter…

  Louise opened the door, smiling in welcome and blushing so adorably that he wanted to crush her in his arms and take her to bed to watch her flush some more in all the places he couldn’t see with her clothes on. Containing himself, he just said, “Hello,” and stepped over the threshold.

  As she hastily closed the door on the wind and rain, every nerve tingled in awareness. She was close enough to kiss. But he was no longer sure of the right moves, and this was her parents’ house. In any case, while he took off his dripping coat and hung it on the spare hook, she opened the living room door and led him inside, and the moment was lost.

  Mrs. Grieve was setting the table from her wheelchair and gave him her usual warm, friendly smile. Mr. Grieve, asleep in his armchair, didn’t look—or sound—so good. Thierry said hello to him anyway and gave the chocolates to Mrs. Grieve, who seemed delighted with them.

  “Oh my, you’re soaking!” she exclaimed.

  “I’ll dry out. It’s lovely and warm in here.”

  “Oh no, you must be so uncomfortable! Louise, aren’t there some of Aidan’s clothes still here?”

  “Maybe. I’ll go and look. Come on up, Thierry.”

  Aidan’s bedroom was bare and swept clear of everything that had presumably once marked it as his.

  “He doesn’t even sleep here much anymore,” Louise said, going to the chest of drawers under the window. “As you probably know! And he’s packed everything else up, ready for moving to the cottage. But, knowing Aidan, he’ll have left us a few things to wash…and here they are.” She produced a pair of worn jeans, socks and a sweatshirt, which she dropped on the single bed. “Duly washed.”

  Then she turned to face him, a slightly desperate desire clouding her beautiful blue eyes. Thierry smil
ed slowly. “At which point, you exit the room gracefully, before I drop my pants.”

  She lifted her chin. “Or what, Monsieur Duplessis?”

  “Or I fuck you senseless and you feed your parents a burned meal.”

  “Might be worth it,” she said breathlessly, brushing past him.

  His cock strained against his jeans. A fantasy flashed across his mind and clung. Of her dropping to her knees as he loosened his jeans, and taking him into her mouth, looking up at him with that mixture of shy hope and blatant lust that drove him wild.

  “When?” he asked in a slightly strangled voice.

  “Soon.” Was she purring?

  Laughter, frustrated but nonetheless genuine, spilled out in response. “You are a tease, Miss Grieve.”

  “But I deliver in the end. Come down when you’re ready.”

  “Don’t say come to me right now!”

  “Is down all right?” she flung innocently over her shoulder, and as he started purposefully after her, she slipped out the door.

  * * * * *

  Although Mr. Grieve looked morose and said nothing comprehensible throughout the meal, it was still pleasant in surprising ways. In Mrs. Grieve, he caught a glimpse of what had made both Aidan and Louise as charming and curious as they were, and he wished he’d known their father when there had still been some of him left.

  As it was, he only seemed to be held upright by the arms of the dining chair and a strategic cushion. No one could persuade him to eat anything more than a tiny spoonful of soup, which Louise put in his mouth, and most of which dribbled down his chin. He did make what seemed to be a voluntary swipe at the bread at one point, so Louise cut him a slice and buttered it for him, but he only crumbled it in his hand, gazing vacantly at the plate and the reflection of the electric light sparkling on the blade.

  Mrs. Grieve discreetly wiped his nose. Thierry couldn’t begin to imagine what this was like for her, or for her children. Although Louise bore the brunt of care, she did so through choice. He was under no illusions about the baggage that came with her, or the burden she carried, but the desire to share it with her, and the images in his mind of doing just that, were growing stronger.

  Anything was possible if the love was there.