Tessa stood there, mesmerised, holding the purple stone. The moment she closed her eyes she felt a cool, calm vibration from deep within the stone. She didn’t want to put it down. ‘What is this?’ she asked, remembering that Portobello Market was not the sort of place to stand around with your eyes closed.
‘Amethyst,’ he said, and added, ‘from Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall?’
‘Oh yes. Cornwall is full of crystals – deep in the rocks.’
Tessa opened her eyes in astonishment. She’d spent the whole summer there, without knowing about gems like this amethyst hidden in the rocks beneath her feet.
‘Are you drawn to that one?’ he asked, watching her reluctantly replacing it on its tray.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you should have it. Amethyst is brilliant for fear and anxiety. It’s the calming crystal.’
She had to have it. ‘How much is it?’
‘A shilling.’
‘I’ve got to pay my rent.’ Tessa searched in her purse, found two sixpences, and handed them over. She watched the man lovingly wrap her precious amethyst in white tissue paper.
‘Don’t let anyone else handle it,’ he warned. ‘Keep it only for yourself, a secret amulet. I keep mine in a little bag – always with me.’ He pulled a faded velvet pouch from his top pocket. ‘I’ve got carnelian, for my solar plexus, rose quartz for kindness, and a fluorite for happiness.’
‘And what’s that blue stone round your neck?’ Tessa asked, intrigued.
‘Aw – that’s turquoise – real turquoise as used by the Native Americans. It’s a sacred stone. It holds the knowledge of the ancient world. You should have one,’ he added seductively, ‘to match your very lovely turquoise eyes.’
‘I’d love one – but not today,’ Tessa said, carefully putting the tissue-wrapped amethyst in the inner pocket of her bag. She lingered, wanting more of this man’s unique knowledge. ‘How do you know so much about crystals?’
‘It’s my passion,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled the world collecting them. My name’s Nick, by the way – and yours?’
‘Tessa.’
‘Well, Tessa – I hope to see you again sometime. I run workshops on crystal healing. You’d be good at it, I can tell.’ Nick’s eyes were magnetic as he studied her face, then he rummaged in a tin with a dented cream lid, and produced a leaflet. ‘What I’m teaching is ground-breaking. You’re welcome to come on one.’
‘I might do that, thanks – Nick.’ Tessa took the leaflet and tucked it away to study later.
She debated whether to tell Paul about her exciting discovery. He won’t like it, she thought sadly, and he’ll think Nick was chatting me up.
Keep it secret, she decided.
The first of many secrets she needed to hide from Paul.
‘I hate my mother.’ Paul picked up his violin with an angry flick of his arm. He settled it under his chin, and Tessa watched his expression change from hating Penelope to loving music. She didn’t ask him why. By now she was used to him saying that. He wore his hatred like a hat turned backwards, a badge of rebellion.
‘I want to play you something I’ve been working on. Will you listen?’
‘Sure,’ Tessa said. ‘You know I love to hear you play.’
She sank into the beanbag chair in Paul’s attic study. His parents were in Italy, and they had the big house to themselves on a winter Saturday. Tessa gazed down at the rose garden below the window, its bare brown twigs still dusted with frost. Her eyes were drawn to the archway in the box hedge, half-hoping to see the mysterious Violetta again.
‘Are you listening or not?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘No you’re not. You’re more interested in the garden.’
‘So you want me to look at you as well as listen?’ Tessa said. ‘You don’t own me, Paul. Wait and see if your music grabs my attention.’
‘It will,’ he predicted, tuning the violin. ‘It’s the Bruch violin concerto. It begins like the sea, with the wind blowing and the waves curling higher and higher. You’ll like it. But look at me, please – PLEASE!’ he snapped with sudden intensity. ‘I can’t bear to play to someone who is staring out of the window. That’s exactly what my mother used to do – but if Amelia was doing it, even badly, she’d sit there looking besotted.’
Tessa swallowed the words she wanted to say about why Paul was punishing her for Penelope’s past crimes. ‘I’m listening,’ she repeated patiently. Understanding Paul was like a project to Tessa. He was challenging, like Selwyn had been, but he was like that because he needed her to give him something he’d never had. Healing love. Nurturing praise. Part of her was flattered that he thought of her as some kind of mothering angel, and part of her was nervous about his intensity and whether she could handle it.
Paul began to play, a deep frown over his brow, his eyes closed, his body swaying with the haunting music. It was indeed like the waves of the sea, and technically difficult. Tessa held her breath, praying he wouldn’t make a mistake, lose his temper and smash things. But he played perfectly, and with passion, his eyes alight with a kind of love different from human love. Music was his true language, his only language, and no one except Tessa understood that. What she was hearing, and seeing, was the transformation of an angry young man into a loving, eloquent being: a being striving for perfection.
Having witnessed his fury at failure, Tessa was thrilled to hear him playing so well, to see the frown soften into joy as he played the last note with a flourish.
‘Fantastic! Fabulous – I LOVED it,’ she smiled and jumped up to give him a hug.
‘Thanks.’ Paul gazed at her radiant face. Then he did something surprising. He put the violin down on the table and reached into his bureau, taking out something small enough to conceal in his hand. He came towards her, hesitantly, with strange excitement in his hazel eyes.
‘I’ve wanted to play you that music ever since I first saw you, Tessa, the day we fished you out of the sea in Cornwall. I – loved you – yes – loved you, fell in love with you the minute I saw you. I made myself learn to play the Bruch concerto, for you, so that one day I could play it to you, perfectly, and – and give you – this.’ He uncurled his long musical fingers to reveal a small, dark blue velvet box in the palm of his hand.
‘Paul!’ Tessa gasped in surprise. At last! She was to be given a ring! And in that moment she again saw Violetta, the azure-blue eyes looking over Paul’s shoulder, looking down at the ring box like a mother watching a child unwrap a most treasured gift. It’s her ring! Tessa thought instantly. She didn’t dare tell Paul. Keeping it to herself was so hard, almost impossible, for it was stunning to encounter a loving spirit, a spirit who loved Paul, who had always loved him since he was tiny. She thought Violetta was an angel and a grandmother, and a gift of joy. Violetta had helped Paul to play the music. She was helping him now, eagerly, to give the ring, wanting to see it sparkle as if it had stayed locked away for years. A ring in waiting. For her.
‘Open it, Tessa.’ Paul was shaking with excitement.
Tessa picked up the tiny box, with reverence, her eyes glancing into his. She opened the hinged lid, and the ring inside came instantly to life.
‘This is – unbelievable,’ she whispered, looking down at the twinkling, deep purple stone. An amethyst. Set in rose-gold, with minute diamonds on each side. ‘It’s beautiful, and perfect.’
‘It’s not new,’ Paul said. ‘It belonged to my grandmother. She left it to me, and I hid it away for years, hoping I’d one day find you, Tessa.’ He looked at her soulfully. ‘Will you wear my ring? On THIS finger?’ He took the ring finger of her left hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘Will you? Will you marry me, Tessa?’
CHAPTER 11
Starlinda
‘There’s somebody up there, in Tessa’s field.’ Freddie stood at the landing window in The Pines. It had a view over the roof tops of Monterose towards the wooded hills beyond, and in the winter when the trees were bare it was poss
ible to see the top edge of Tessa’s field where it adjoined the wood. ‘I can see smoke rising.’
‘Not the first time, is it?’ Kate said, joining him. ‘Here, use Dad’s field glasses.’ She handed him Bertie’s binoculars in their brown leather case.
Freddie put them to his eyes. ‘Whoever it is has got no business up there, lighting a fire.’
‘How long since you’ve been up there?’ Kate asked.
‘Not for a long time,’ Freddie said guiltily. He hadn’t been to the field since his panic attack. In fact, he hadn’t walked anywhere. ‘We should go and take a look,’ he said, ‘before dark.’
‘I’ve got a cake in the oven,’ Kate said. ‘You go.’
‘I don’t intend to confront anyone, not on me own,’ Freddie said. ‘It could be Romanies, or it could be hippies.’
Kate took the binoculars back. ‘Let me have a look. Are you sure the smoke’s in Tessa’s field? Or is it in the edge of the wood? It could be the forestry people.’
‘No,’ Freddie said. ‘That wood’s been sold. Herbie told me. The woods along the hill were part of Mileswood estate, and they’ve been split up into small plots and sold to private buyers, and some of them have ruined the wood. Cut it all down. Breaks my heart to see it.’
‘And the nightingales don’t come any more,’ Kate said. ‘We didn’t hear them once last summer, did we?’
‘No one seems to care,’ Freddie said. ‘If they go on like that, the day will come when those hills will be barren, and our ancient woods gone forever. Our bluebell wood. Granny Barcussy’s cottage is up there somewhere on the other side of the wood. I used to go up to it through the sheep fields, but it’s hard to work out which section of the wood it’s in now, and who owns it. If I’d had the money, I’d have bought it and done it up. Last time I saw it, the roof had fallen in. It’s nothing but an overgrown ruin now – breaks my heart.’
‘You took the girls up there a few times, didn’t you?’ Kate asked.
‘I did – and they loved it. I used to sit on a log and think about Granny Barcussy. She was wonderful to me. Lucy and Tessa used to play inside the ruined cottage – they thought it was magic. Especially Tessa. You know what she was like. She even told me she could see Granny Barcussy in there.’
‘We should tell Tessa what’s happening to the woods. She might get her hippie friends to come with SAVE THE TREES banners.’
‘That doesn’t work,’ Freddie said. ‘It didn’t save the station, did it?’
‘No.’ Kate looked sad. She and Susan and half the population of Monterose had campaigned with banners to stop the station being closed under the Beeching cuts. It had changed the town, and changed the community.
‘I’ll pop up to the field in the lorry,’ Freddie said.
Kate looked surprised. ‘Have you given up walking?’ she asked. ‘You always enjoyed a good walk.’
Freddie mumbled an excuse and went out. He hoped he’d never have to tell Kate about his panic attack. He wanted to be strong and reliable for her, not someone who couldn’t even walk home on his own.
He started the lorry, noting that the fuel gauge was low, and drove it down through Monterose and up the lane to Tessa’s field. The thin column of smoke expired as he pulled into the gateway. Someone had seen him arrive and put the fire out. Taking his mother’s ebony walking stick from the cab, he climbed the locked gate and padded upwards close to the hedge. Goldfinches bobbed ahead of him, pausing to feed on teazels and thistle heads. Pathetically few, Freddie thought, remembering the vast flocks he’d seen in his youth. He counted them. Seven. Seven goldfinches left in the world, he thought, and where are the yellowhammers and linnets?
Halfway up he paused, looked back at the comforting sight of his lorry, then at the edge of the wood, and between the trees a shadow moved swiftly, and in silence. The shadow of a man in black, with a black hat pulled down over his brow. Instantly Freddie had goosebumps along his arms and up the back of his neck. The winter afternoon was still, each blade of grass crisp like a carefully pencilled drawing. Down on the Levels, mist crept across the fields, tinged by the last pink hour of sun.
Someone was watching him, he was sure. Pretend you haven’t noticed, he thought, and walked on, pleased to see the young trees he had planted sticking up out of the rough grass. Lime, oak and beech, now about six foot high. Their fallen leaves lay round each sapling and filled the wire rabbit guards. Freddie touched the tightly closed ruby red bud of a lime tree. It felt good to have grown them from seed.
He walked on, determined to go right to the top, watching the copse with a sidelong glance. Whoever it was didn’t want to be discovered. There was no further movement, only the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. Freddie thought about the times when he had seen spirit people. Was this a spirit? He didn’t think so.
The wood had always been fenced off by a simple barrier of posts and wire, low enough to step over. Freddie was shocked to see a brand new fence glinting in the sunlight, higher than his head, the dense wire netting ferociously topped with two taut strands of barbed wire. A notice painted in red on an old door said PRIVATE LAND. NO SHOOTING. He could hear the blackbirds in the wood making a fuss, sending warning cries zipping through the wintry silence.
Freddie had always felt at home in the woods and fields. It was his homeland. Why this hostile fence? He walked along it, touching the unfriendly wire, and right at the end, in the corner of the field, was a metal gate set into the fence. It was padlocked, and a well-trodden footpath led down towards the copse. Someone was fetching water from the spring. Someone living behind that new high fence.
It’s HIM, Freddie thought. It has to be him.
‘I’m not wearing that,’ Tessa scowled at Penelope. She put the camel coloured suit firmly back on the rail.
‘Why not?’
‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’
‘Open your eyes, dear,’ said Penelope smoothly. ‘This is a classic. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one in your wardrobe. It’s such good taste.’
‘This one has our own exclusive label,’ said the sales assistant who had been standing patiently. She turned the corner of the jacket and revealed the sleek satin label. ‘It would make you look elegant and classy.’
‘Won’t you at least try it on?’
Tessa looked at Paul who sat in one of the green velvet chairs, his long legs crossed and his foot tapping the air in annoyance. ‘Don’t pressurise her, Mother dear,’ he said. ‘We only came in here for coffee!’
‘I am not pressuring anyone. I know how to choose clothes. Now try this on, Tessa, please. You’ll be surprised at how good you’ll look.’
Tessa took the suit into a changing cubicle, resentment smouldering in her eyes. ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she hissed at the sales assistant who came teetering after her on her stilettos. She took off her skirt and coat, and slipped into the camel suit. The fabric felt smooth and expensive, and the satin lining slid easily over her bare arms. She looked at herself in the mirror, and a stranger stared back, a lost child in a camel jacket with huge shoulder pads, her embroidered white cheesecloth blouse looking crumpled and ridiculous inside the lapels of the jacket. It was the colour she hated.
‘Stand up straight,’ Penelope said as she appeared from behind the curtain, but Tessa stood limply, her mouth pursed, her arms hanging.
‘Don’t bully her, Mother dear.’
‘It’s a beautiful fit on you,’ said the sales assistant. ‘With a different blouse and some smart shoes, it will look perfect. It is a classic. I have two in my wardrobe. I wouldn’t be without them.’
‘I hate it,’ Tessa said. ‘And when would I wear it?’
‘You’re just being awkward,’ Penelope said.
‘No. I’m being honest. I hate the colour. And I wouldn’t wear it at work. I work with special needs children and we all go to work in jeans.’
‘Yes, but you’ll be giving up that job when you marry into our family,’ Penelope said.
‘Oh, you’ll soon change your mind when you’ve got Paul to look after, and a house to run,’ Penelope smiled patronisingly.
‘We don’t want that kind of life, Mother dear. This is the 1960s,’ Paul said.
‘We’ve got suits in other colours,’ said the sales assistant. ‘How about navy? Or bottle green?’
‘No thanks. I need a colour with resonance and energy. Like aquamarine or apricot.’
‘Apricot?’ Penelope lowered her voice a whole octave, as if apricot was some kind of disease. ‘But – how vulgar.’
‘There’s no demand for those kind of cheap colours in our store,’ agreed the sales assistant. Ignoring the glare in Tessa’s light blue eyes, she smoothed the camel jacket, tweaking and adjusting it to flatter Tessa’s 38-24-38 figure. ‘It really is nice on you. It’s what everyone is wearing this season.’
‘Excuse me – but I’m a person, not a ceramic mannequin,’ said Tessa, twisting herself out of reach. ‘And I’m taking this off.’ She caught Paul’s eyes gazing raptly at her and realised he was enjoying her standing up to his mother. She retreated to the cubicle and changed back into her denim skirt and her extravagant Afghan coat.
‘Please don’t waste your money on this, Penelope,’ she said, handing the camel suit back to the sales assistant. ‘I’ll never wear it – I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’
An Arctic chill glazed Penelope’s eyes. She tapped her fat cheque book on the counter. ‘What do you think, Paul?’
‘Me?’ Paul looked uncomfortable and annoyed. ‘I think you should put the cheque book away, Mother dear. Tessa likes to choose her own gear.’
‘Gear? Paul, I’m merely trying to offer her some guidance on the kind of life she will have as a member of our family. I didn’t expect rudeness and ingratitude.’
‘She’s just being honest, Mother dear.’
‘Don’t you speak to me in that patronising tone.’
The sales assistant stood awkwardly, arranging the camel suit back onto its hanger while Paul and Penelope argued in undertones. But Tessa was staring across the rails of clothing at a pair of bewitchingly powerful blue eyes. A Goddess in a white trouser suit was walking towards her, her golden hair tumbling softly around her shoulders, a bright turquoise, beaded bag sparkling, a pair of turquoise ankle boots peeping from under the flared white hem. Her aura was huge and magnetic, a drift of gold and aqua in the air around her, and she was looking directly at Tessa with those extraordinary eyes.
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