by Morag Joss
James straightened up in his chair and looked embarrassed. He glanced over at Sara, who raised an eyebrow sternly at him. ‘Well, this place,’ he said uncertainly, ‘the whole thing, it’s … all very … big and …’ He waved an arm hopelessly.
‘If you mean it’s all rather grand,’ Dr Golightly said gently, ‘I probably agree. But it’s also a gracious building. Architecture matters, don’t you feel that? I looked at several places, but I bought this one and set the clinic up here because it seemed to offer a haven—it’s spacious, surrounded by trees, it’s high, it overlooks the entire city. Didn’t you feel that, up in the Wisteria Suite? I always hope that beauty helps people forget what’s not really important and connect with what is. That’s the true, the only purpose of beauty, to my mind.’
The intelligent eyes looked a little crestfallen and James, obedient to the same impulse not to disappoint that had prevented him being rude about the Wisteria Suite to Sister Yvonne said, ‘Oh, of course, it is a wonderful house, yes. I just mean, naturopathy, I mean, if it’s that great, why isn’t everybody doing it?’
‘But everybody shouldn’t. There are many, many acute conditions for which conventional medicine is more appropriate, even essential.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not a zealot, believe me, either by inclination or experience. I lost my own wife eighteen years ago. She was forty-two and was so depressed she killed herself. Naturopathy couldn’t help her, nothing could. I’m not offering cure-alls. And the approach we adopt here involves patients in their own treatment, so if you really feel—’
‘Oh, look, I … I really am sorry … about your wife, I didn’t mean—’ And he was. Along with the sense that he had been brutal, he was taking in the news that Dr Golightly had been married. Not that his not being gay, no … no, certainly not, but … well, it did put a dispiritingly sterile slant on what could have been a rather diverting little crush on his doctor.
Dr Golightly raised a hand. ‘No, please, I tell you that only to demonstrate that I am the last person to overlook serious symptoms, or to try to insist on a naturopathic regime for every condition. I am not offering miracles. I have a perfectly ordinary part-time NHS practice in town, as you know. But naturopathy is an extremely effective approach for conditions like yours, for patients who have the time and the means. That’s an unfortunate fact of life, as far as I’m concerned. We’re a charity, so when we can, we subsidise certain patients, but on the whole I can only suggest a stay at the Sulis to patients who can afford it. And even then I am very keen to see that they are not wasting their money. So I only admit patients who are well disposed to the idea behind it, of course, otherwise there’s little point.’
There was a silence as Dr Golightly put his glasses back on and flicked casually through James’s records.
‘I am, really,’ James squeaked. ‘I mean, I will give it a go. It isn’t unpleasant, is it? The treatment, I mean?’
Dr Golightly smiled, removing the top from his fountain pen. ‘Heavens, no. Am I to take it then that you, James, are making a commitment to us? If so, we are ready and willing to make ours to you.’
‘Yes he is,’ Sara said. Her eyes told James to bloody well say so, too, which he did.
‘Good,’ Stephen Golightly said, looking up and holding James’s gaze over the top of his glasses in a blue-eyed stare, ‘then we’ll start you on a Scottish Douche, twice daily. That’s simply the application of hot and cold water up and down the spine, alternately, which tones up the spinal nerves and perks up circulation, followed by a salt rub.’ James looked dolefully at Sara. ‘And daily constitutional hydrotherapy.’ In the stunned silence Dr Golightly explained kindly, ‘That’s body wrapping in cold, wet sheets, followed by hot packs on the neck, lower back and soles of the feet. To fight any incipient infection.’
James’s stare at Sara grew reproachful. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘Oh no,’ Dr Golightly said, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘We have daily massages, yoga, therapeutic pool exercises, discussions on health and lifestyle, those are mainly with Sister Yvonne. Also daily art therapy run by a professional artist, who is my daughter-in-law, Hilary. We strive for a family atmosphere here, so you can appreciate it helps to actually have family involved. Although music therapy is sadly suspended temporarily, as we have a vacancy to fill there, but we’ll be getting that going again as soon as we can.’ He coughed a little apologetically. ‘It can be a challenge, finding the right people. We had someone who left at Easter, before we could replace her. Now, what else do you need to know—ah yes, nutritional therapy. Almost the most important thing of all, particularly when the problem is a digestive one, like yours. We’re vegetarian of course, and nearly a hundred per cent organic. My son Ivan manages our organic garden out near Limpley Stoke. We have three acres. All the main vegetables and fruit, herbs of course, and even a small cereal and seed crop, rye and sunflowers. We make all our own bread, wholemeal, mixed-grain and low-gluten, and our own pasta, too. No coffee is served. For you we’ll go for the low salt, low fat, gluten-free and high fibre options and see how you do.’ He bent his head and made some more notes, and looked up again. ‘Do you have any questions?’
James had heard enough. He shook his head and rose, trying to look keen. Dr Golightly beamed his happy smile at him again and shook his and Sara’s hands warmly. ‘James, it’s good to have you here, and I hope we’ll soon have you restored in body and spirit. I’ll let you go now. I expect you’ll want to meet the other patients. Why not go along to the library? They’ll be having tea.’
Visions of a pot of Assam, scones, jam and clotted cream swam giddily into James’s mind, but Dr Golightly walked them to the door saying, ‘Herbal, as you’d expect. Caffeine’s a no-no, obviously. I suggest camomile or peppermint, with one of Ivan’s celery and rye flatbreads,’ and they swam right out again. ‘Oh, and did I mention that we don’t serve alcohol? Goes without saying, really,’ he added, holding open the door and pointing further along. ‘Library’s that-a-way. Goodbye!’
That settles it, James thought, with a departing, stagey grin. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight maximum. Then he’d make Sara come back for him. She would take him home. Whatever Tom had made her promise, Sara was his best friend. She wouldn’t let him stay here and suffer.
CHAPTER 14
I VAN PICKED THE blue shirt off the floor next to Leech’s bed. ‘What’s this doing here?’ he asked, pleasantly. Leech, busy with a leather flail in the centre of the shed, looked up. He loved being spoken to by Ivan, even when he could not give an answer. He was smiling as he shook his head.
‘What’s this shirt doing here?’
Leech’s head continued to shake as he mumbled through the scarf over his mouth, ‘Don’t know,’ hopeful that he was about to be told. But Ivan only dusted the shirt off, folded it loosely and slung it over the handlebars of the bicycle which stood just inside the door.
‘Haven’t a clue, have you? Remind me to take it back to the house,’ Ivan said, and Leech nodded his head happily. ‘We’ve nearly finished,’ he went on, dumping another load of cut rye on the floor, not realising that for Leech this was disappointing news.
Leech turned and bent back down to his work. Ivan had cut the rye crop late on Saturday, just before the rain, and armfuls of it were spread around them now on a huge canvas sheet that covered most of the floor. It had been outside drying for Leech was not sure how long, and today, with a thing that Ivan had told him was an old-fashioned flail, he was beating it until the chaff and grain separated. They had worked for a long time, for as soon as Leech had cleared the patch of floor in front of him Ivan would push along the next load. In between bringing in loads, Ivan would gather up the stuff that Leech had just done into wide shallow pans and cart it off outside. Then he would let the breeze carry away some of the chaff, and then he sieved and separated, working outdoors on a line of trestle tables that he had set up.
The air inside the shed prickled with floating, broken chaff that swirled up in the little cyclone made by
Leech’s circling arms; papery sharp, near-invisible needles danced up and cut into the inside of his nose. The back of his hand was streaked with smudges of mucus mixed with blood where he had scrubbed it against the itchy, stinging, broken membranes of his nostrils. His eyes were bloodshot and smarting. Ivan had told him to keep his mouth closed. Once when he forgot, he had sucked in a lungful of air that hit the back of his throat like a handful of thrown sand. Coughing, he had stumbled out of the shed and Ivan had given him Coke to drink and a scarf to cover his mouth. I told you to keep your mouth closed, can’t you even remember that much, he had said, tying it at the back of his head for him.
It was hot work but he did not mind, for Ivan was here and was keeping him supplied with bottles of Coke and was even joining in the flailing occasionally, in between fetching and carrying loads and dishes of grain. And now they had nearly finished. Ivan had come back to the doorway of the shed and was motioning him to take the scarf off his face. Come on outside, Leech.
Leech’s tobacco, papers and matches were waiting on the ground outside the shed, next to a bottle of water and a towel. Ivan waited until Leech had rolled a cigarette. Here, he said, wetting a corner of the towel from the water bottle and holding it out. For your eyes. Press this against your eyes. Leech solemnly bathed his stinging eyelids, laid the towel aside and lit his ciggie, blinking. Keep your eyes closed for a bit longer, Ivan said, it’ll help. You can come down to the house for a bath, later. Go on, shut them, relax. Leech lay his head against the wall of the shed and smoked, watching red and yellow shooting stars exploding in the dark of his closed eyelids, as more tears formed and rolled down his cheeks. He smiled in the silence, knowing that Ivan was near. Keep them shut, Ivan’s voice was saying, and hold out your hand. Leech, smiling and obedient, did so, and a soft tickling sensation spread over his palm. Speaking over the gentle rattling sound and Leech’s amused little sighs came Ivan’s voice again. It’s a pure, organic, hand-produced crop, Leech. Leech tried to look but was half-blinded by the sudden light and the tears which again flooded his eyes. Don’t open them, rest your eyes. They’ll be better soon. But you can feel it in your hand, can’t you? Not everyone could do what you’ve done, stand for hours and hours threshing by hand, Leech, you’re a wonder. Ivan was saying that. Leech drew hard on the cigarette, smiling again, as Ivan picked the grains out of his hand and returned them to the bowl. Mustn’t waste any, there isn’t a lot. A difficult year, what with the wet spring and cold summer. But still, there’s enough for—oh, ages, Ivan was saying dreamily now. Ivan had a nice, slow voice and Leech felt his sore eyelids grow heavier. He sneezed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His nose pricked as if he were sniffing pins, his eyes watered again and he drew hard again on his cigarette. Ivan was talking again. There’s enough here to keep the clinic going for ages, he said. You’ve helped to grow and harvest this, Leech. That’s your work and mine running through our hands. Leech removed the cig from his dry lips and struggled to say, for some of the paper had stuck, and Mother Nature’s. It’s Mother Nature’s work, too. Ivan laughed then so that Leech laughed too, glad to have made a joke, for it seemed that was what he had done. You’re quite right. Mother Nature’s behind the whole thing, Leech. Indeed she is.
* * *
IT WAS hard not to be actually angry with the weather. Sara, leaning against the open door, looked out under the dripping eaves of the hut at the top of the garden and down through the white roses which climbed through the apple trees below, their waterlogged blooms hanging in the wet like used and scrunched-up Kleenex. Far away and above the treeline at the top of the valley, at seven o’clock on this August evening, the sky was thick and white. And out of its apparent solidity a steady cold rain was falling, greasing the paths that criss-crossed the garden and drenching again the six lime trees in the bloated meadow on the far side of the valley. Their water-laden leaves now gleamed indecently with the over-lusty, acrylic viridity of a fluorescent felt-tipped pen. It was only weather, but it had been fine all day until now, and it was impossible not to take it personally. Sara sighed loudly and turned back to Andrew who was sitting with his cello, his bow resting on his knee, staring at the music on the stand.
He looked up and said simply, ‘I don’t feel like playing. I only said I wanted to come up here so that I could be with you.’ Sara smiled.
‘You’re not getting away with that. Come on, let’s have a bit of your Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen.’
Andrew sighed and began the theme from the Magic Flute on which Beethoven had written twelve variations. Sara watched him as she listened, impressed equally by his playing and the sight of his long legs and his wonderful face when he was concentrating. There were, of course, little criticisms of his playing that she could think of but she had no intention of stopping him to make them, and so curtail her own pleasure. When he came to the end of the first variation she crossed to the music stand, closed the music and kissed him on the lips.
‘Very good. You’re very good, do you know that?’
‘Yes. Actually you’ve no idea how good I can be.’
‘Remind me.’
Andrew pulled away. ‘If only. But you don’t like to when Joyce is around, do you?’
Sara sighed, conceding. ‘Seems as if she’s been here for ever.’
‘Well, you did take her on.’
‘You should try to understand. It’s no different from you and your children, really. Now we’ve both got people to look after.’
‘It is, as a matter of fact, entirely different.’ After a silence he went on, ‘It’s only a week, isn’t it? Wednesday today. How much longer?’
‘At least we’re by ourselves for a while. Even with the rain it’s nice to be up here by ourselves, isn’t it?’ She shivered. ‘Isn’t it?’
Andrew stood up and put his cello away as Sara moved the chair and music stand to the wall. Although it was not late she lit the two oil lanterns that hung from the roof and immediately their glow lent the hut the illusion of warmth. Andrew closed the half-glazed doors and pulled the tatty velvet chaise longue round so that they could lie wrapped together in the lantern light, watching the view of the soaked garden and valley through the streaks of rainwater hitting the glass. They lay in silence for some moments, relaxing in the gratifying absence of Joyce.
‘She doesn’t like being on her own for long,’ Sara warned. ‘It’s as much as I can do to get away for an hour every day to run along the towpath. She’ll come barging in soon.’
Andrew shifted under her and coughed. ‘Damn,’ he said, continuing to stroke her thigh.
‘Tell me the latest about the case,’ Sara said, after a minute. ‘You know that’s what’s making you miserable. That, and this,’ she added. She did not have to explain that this meant not the rain nor even the need to escape Joyce, but the growing mutual wish to make love right then and there, and the also unspoken risk that they were bound to be interrupted if they tried. The tension between desire and its constraint seemed to be twisting the very air they breathed. It would not be long, Sara thought, before they began to resent each other just for having the power to arouse each other so pointlessly. ‘What’s happening with the case?’
‘It’s police business. Confidential. I’m not meant to discuss it,’ Andrew said rather officiously, wondering if perhaps they could, perhaps if they didn’t take quite all their clothes off? Not ideal of course, but in the circumstances better than nothing. He shifted again and looked at his watch. They had only been up here ten minutes, after all.
‘I know that. So?’ So she wasn’t even pretending to believe that that was his reason for not wanting to embark on conversation. She was waiting for his answer.
‘We’ve had Mrs Takahashi’s PM results,’ he said in a tired voice, ‘and it’s exactly what I expected. Cause of death is asphyxiation. There’s bruising to the upper arms and the skull injury that she sustained when he knocked her out cold against the wall or got her so punch-drunk she couldn’t put up any real resis
tance when he strangled her. No fingernail evidence. We found a dent and a couple of her hairs stuck on the wall of the pub corridor, at just the right height. Oh, and she was pregnant. Just a few weeks. Sorry—you can’t want to hear this.’
Sara had shuddered in his arms. For a reason she could not fathom, the fact of the poor woman’s pregnancy suddenly brought her to life, so that the brutality of her killing felt like a new blow, becoming now also a new death. Not even the sight of the contorted blue face in the dim and grubby pub corridor had made her feel this. But now, the thought of a baby conceived never to be born, conceived to wither in its mother’s belly, not knowing that it had existed but never quite lived, was unbearable. She was struck by the thought that Andrew had to face such appalling truths if not quite every day, then too often. As she watched the trails of rainwater sliding haphazardly down the window glass she wondered shamefully how she could have been so self-obsessed that she had refused even to try to understand this.
‘What’s next, then?’
Andrew considered in silence. Then he said, ‘She was killed no later than about ten o’clock that morning, according to the PM, probably earlier. Rigor was well established, and the stomach contents were hardly digested. Her last meal was fried egg and toast. Hilary Golightly confirmed the time she had breakfast, anyway.’ Sara squirmed in his arms. ‘Her husband claims he was meeting her at 12.30 at the RPS and got there slightly late, at 12.38. If we can find the evidence that he was in Bath earlier then that would be significant. Not conclusive, but significant, in the absence of anything better.’
‘How are you going to get evidence like that, though? Bath’s seething with people on Saturdays in the summer. Unless he spoke to somebody who remembers him? And wouldn’t he take care not to do that, if he’d come to murder his wife?’