The Fields of Heaven

by Anne Weale

  “I hope you feel better in the morning.” His tone could not have been more coldly courteous. “Goodnight.”

  The next day promised to be the same, but shortly before noon Henry came pelting down to the beach to announce excitedly that the Guardia had come to the house and Maria was having hysterics.

  “What the devil...?” exclaimed Charles, rising to his feet.

  “I think it has something to do with Imelda,” said Henry. “The only word I understood was senorita, and they said it several times.”

  “In that case you’d better come with me, Imelda,” said Charles, looking to where she was sitting up on her woven grass sunbathing mat.

  “No, not you, children. We’ll stay here,” remarked Mrs. Wingfield firmly, seeing that they meant to follow their uncle.

  “Oh, Granny, we want to see the Guardia,” Sophie protested.

  “Later, perhaps. Not just now.”

  Half way up the path to the house Imelda halted.

  “What’s the matter?” Charles asked from behind her.

  She turned to him, her face stricken, their estrangement forgotten. “My family ... could there have been a car accident? Would the Guardia bring that kind of news?”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder, and tightened his fingers in a brief, firm grip of reassurance. “It may not be anything serious.”

  The policemen’s motorbikes were propped side by side in the courtyard, and they and Maria were in the sitting-room, all talking at once, when Charles arrived on the scene. He quieted the island woman’s melodramatic exclamations, and put a single curt question to the senior Guardia. The man replied, and Charles turned to Imelda. “None of your family has been hurt.”

  “Th - thank goodness for that,” she said unsteadily. “I should sit down if I were you.” He held a short conversation in his easy idiomatic Spanish, and gave an instruction to Maria. Then he turned again to Imelda. “They’ve brought a message from Norfolk. There’s been some trouble at the shop.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “A fire. They have no information about the cause, but apparently the damage is fairly extensive, and it’s advisable for you to return to England as soon as possible.”

  Maria reappeared with a bottle of Fundador and some glasses on a tray. The policemen took off their white crash helmets, and wiped their sticky foreheads. They wore breeches, with black leather Sam Browne belts and knee-boots. But the removal of their helmets made them look considerably less formidable.

  “Have some brandy,” advised Charles, putting a glass into Imelda’s hand. “I’m going down to the beach to tell Grandmother what’s happened. I shan’t be gone for more than a minute or two. Don’t worry: I’ll help you to deal with everything.”

  When he had left them, Maria demonstrated her sympathy by making clucking noises and patting Imelda’s hands. Then she turned to talk to the police, making frequent mentions of “Don Carlos” and “Senorita Imelda”, but in what context Imelda was unable to guess.

  Sipping the brandy Charles had given her, she was conscious not of distress at the bad news but of relief that it had put an end to the unbearable constraint between them.

  By the time the others arrived, the Guardia were preparing to depart. As Charles had told her when he was talking about Menorquin customs, they left most of the brandy in their glasses, not because they were not supposed to drink while on duty, but because on an island where spirits were very cheap, it was considered courteous, not wasteful, to do so.

  As, the roar of their engines diminished, Mrs. Wingfield said, “This is very upsetting, my poor child. What can have happened, I wonder? Charles, isn’t it possible to telephone Sergeant Saxtead and find out precisely what has occurred?”

  “Yes, that’s what I propose to do.” He looked at his watch. “I wonder what chance we have of getting seats on an aircraft today, or tomorrow? It could be a week before there are any cancellations. That’s the only drawback about an island. Without reservations, it can be almost impossible to leave Menorca during the tourist season.”

  “How long would it take you to motor back?” enquired his grandmother.

  “Forty-eight hours, and Imelda would be exhausted when we arrived. Besides, the ferry to Barcelona is as heavily booked as the airlines, and even if it were not, I wouldn’t be keen on doing that long fast run in a hired car. Somehow or other we must get ourselves on board an aircraft.”

  “But it isn’t necessary for you to go back to England,” said Imelda.

  “My dear girl, you don’t imagine that I’d let you go back alone? I didn’t tell you everything at once. The fact is that the shop is completely burnt out, and both Mrs. Walsham and young Mutford are in hospital, suffering from burns. They’re not on the critical list, but their injuries are not minor ones. I’m going along the cliffs to the Hotel Alfonso Tres to make some telephone calls. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do you want to come, kids?”

  While he and the children were gone, the two Englishwomen discussed the bad news.

  “What could have started it? All the wiring was renewed and checked before I moved in,” said Imelda. “And neither Sam nor Mrs. Walsham smoke, so a cigarette end can’t have caused it.”

  “Unless one of the customers dropped one, and Mrs. Walsham didn’t notice it smouldering,” said Mrs. Wingfield.

  When Charles returned, two hours later, he was able to put an end to their conjectures. As the children had lunched at the hotel, they were sent to have their siesta and while the grown-ups had lunch, he told them the outcome of his telephone calls. Luckily there were four vacant seats on a package tour flight leaving Menorca at ten o’clock that evening, and landing at Gatwick at midnight.

  “It’s not one of John’s aircraft, but I’ve been in touch with him and arranged for a car to be waiting for us,” Charles explained. “We should be in Norwich by four - the roads will be clear at that hour - which will give Imelda time for a few hours’ sleep before going to the hospital. When I spoke to Sergeant Saxtead, I asked him to tell Mr. and Mrs. Betts that we were on our way home and expected to arrive in the early hours.”

  “Did the sergeant tell you more about the fire?” asked his grandmother.

  “Yes, it was caused by one of those deep fat pans for frying chips.”

  “But I haven’t a chip pan,” put in Imelda.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Walsham has and took hers to the shop,” suggested Mrs. Wingfield.

  “I suppose that must be the explanation. But how very

  unlike her to let the fat become so hot that it caught fire. She’s not at all a careless person.”

  Charles said, “It seems she was called away from the kitchen soon after starting to heat the fat. When it ignited, instead of covering the pan, which would have smothered the flames, she panicked and rushed for help. She never reached the street because she tripped and fell, knocking herself out. Fortunately Sam Mutford turned up before the fire had spread beyond the kitchen. He carried her outside, called the Fire Brigade, and then dashed upstairs to save as many of your personal belongings as possible, Imelda. By the time the firemen arrived, the back of the house was an inferno and Mutford himself had to be rescued.”

  “So Mrs. Walsham wasn’t burnt, as we first thought?” said his grandmother.

  “No, merely concussed. She’ll be discharged in a day or two.”

  Thus it was that at half past eight that evening Charles and Imelda were driven to the airport by Paco. But owing to some technical fault which was not explained in detail it was nearly one o’clock in the morning before the passengers were allowed to board the aircraft and three before they landed at Gatwick

  The car organised for them by John Brancaster was not a self-drive one, as Imelda had expected. It was a large black limousine with uniformed chauffeur to drive

  it.

  Charles apologised to the driver for keeping him waiting, and the man said he had been notified of the delay and had had a nap. Certainly he looked fully alert as he nicked a r
ug round Imelda. By this time she was exhausted and hardly able to keep her eyes open. She made an effort to stay awake until they had left the lights of the airport behind. Then sleep could no longer be resisted.

  When she woke, it was light, and they were passing through the centre of Norwich. Charles was telling the driver which road to take out of the city.

  She had been so deeply asleep that it was a little while before she stirred. And before she reached that stage she discovered that she and Charles were no longer in different corners of the car, separated by several feet of opulent hide upholstery. They were both in the centre of the seat, and she was leaning against his chest, and his arm was round her waist. The surprise of this discovery almost made her jerk upright. Her heart began to pound so violently that it seemed he must feel it too. But apparently he didn’t and she stayed where she was, pretending not to have woken, until they slowed down for the turn through the tall gateway to the Hall.

  Then, as she was about to go through the motions of rousing, Charles gave her a gentle shake. “Wake up, Imelda. We’re almost home.”

  For a few seconds longer she stayed in the shelter of his arm. Then she sat up and rubbed her eyes. As she did so he shifted his position so that, if she had been genuinely half awake, she might not have realised that she had been sleeping in the crook of his arm with her head on his shoulder.

  But she did realise it, and she had made up her mind what she meant to do when the car reached the sweep in front of the house. And when they got there, she turned and looked Charles in the eyes, with her warmest smile. “You’ve been wonderful to me. Thank you. She leaned towards him and kissed his lean, sunburned cheek.

  The answering expression in his eyes when she drew back to see his reaction made her absolutely certain that the reason he had come back to England with her was not merely kindness. But he did not say anything because by then the car had stopped, and Mr. Betts was hurrying out to receive them.

  Within a quarter of an hour of their arrival, Charles and Imelda and the driver were eating a substantial breakfast while Mr. and Mrs. Betts recounted everything they knew about the fire, and showed them the photographs which had appeared in the previous night’s issue of the Eastern Evening News.

  After breakfast, the driver set out on his return journey, and Charles fetched his own car from the garage and took Imelda to see what was left of Victoriana.

  Even though the newspaper pictures had prepared her for the wreckage of her property, it was still a shock to see the charred shell of the building she had left in good order. What had not been destroyed by the fire had been ruined by the water necessary to extinguish the flames.

  “Poor old Bessie. I hope the shock hasn’t been too much for her,” said Imelda as she tapped on Mrs. Medlar’s door.

  But the old lady was in high spirits. Once the danger to her own home had passed, she seemed to have enjoyed all the fuss. She held them captive for an hour while she gave them her own account of the conflagration.

  “Well, that seems to have put paid to my career as a dealer,” said Imelda, when they were driving to the hospital in Norwich. “I can’t possibly afford to rebuild.”

  “You could sell the site and rent a shop.”

  “Yes, but where should I live? I don’t much fancy digs again, having had a taste of independence.”

  He did not answer immediately. After a pause, he said, “I expect there’s a solution to that problem. While you’re visiting the casualties, I’ll ponder it.” He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but when she glanced quickly

  at him she saw the ghost of a grin.

  At the sight of her visitor, Mrs. Walsham began to cry. Imelda did her best to comfort her, but without much success. Nothing she could say would convince the little Londoner that what had happened was not an unforgivable disaster.

  “Have you seen that poor boy yet?” Mrs. Walsham asked, in a quavering voice, when Imelda’s repeated reassurances had staunched the flood to some extent.

  “No, I’m going to visit Sam presently.”

  “If it hadn’t been for him, I should have been burned to death,” Mrs. Walsham exclaimed, with a shudder. “He saved my life, and I’m sure he must have known I didn’t like him.” She began to sob again.

  It was a relief when the Sister came to put an end to the visit.

  “It’s unfortunate that this should have happened just when she was beginning to come to terms with the loss of her husband,” said Imelda worriedly, as they walked away from the side ward.

  “It’s bad luck for you, having your shop wrecked, and your summer holiday spoiled,” the Sister said sympathetically. “What a shame when you’ve only been open a short time. Those wretched chip pans are a menace!”

  Sam was among a dozen or more patients in a large ward. He was lying with closed eyes when Imelda approached his bedside and, not wishing to wake him if he were sleeping, she hovered uncertainly by the footrail until the man in the neighbouring bed lowered the magazine he was reading and said, “Hey, Sam, there’s a young lady to see you.”

  Immediately Sam’s eyes opened. “Imelda! You got back quickly!” He made an attempt to sit up, but flinched and sagged against the pillows. His hands and forearms were swathed in dressings, and evidently the involuntary pressure on his elbows had caused him considerable pain. In spite of it, the sight of her lit a warmth in his eyes.

  “Oh, Sam, fancy risking your life to save my worthless bits and pieces. I would rather have lost everything than have you hurt,” she exclaimed.

  ‘I’m not that badly hurt,” he said cheerfully. “A bit singed here and there. Nothing to worry about. You look great, Imelda. A tan suits you. It’s too bad you had to rush back. Have you seen the shop yet?”

  She nodded. “We just came from there.”

  “We?”

  “Charles Wingfield came back to England with me.”

  The light died out of Sam’s eyes. “I see. That was decent of him. You’ll need someone to help you deal with everything. How much of a write-off is the place? They hustled me off in an ambulance while it was still on fire, but there was a picture in the paper last night which made it look a total wreck.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The man in the next bed remarked, “They say the mess from the water is as bad as the fire damage, more often than not.”

  He started to tell a long, detailed tale of a fire caused by an incendiary bomb during the second World War. Sam raised his eyes to the ceiling. In mid-anecdote, his fellow patient was cut short by a nurse who bustled up, announcing, “Time for your injection, Mr. Snape.”

  “Just my luck to be next to a natterer,” murmured Sam, when Mr. Snape had been curtained off. “Pour me some water, would you, Imelda?”

  She did so, and held the feeding cup to his lips. “Wouldn’t you like something more interesting than water? You must let me do some shopping for you, Sam. I’ll organise some fruit and cheese and so forth. I daresay the food is fairly dull in here. It is in most institutions. High on stodge, low on protein.”

  “You mustn’t trouble about me. You’ll have your hands full sorting out the shop. How’s the old girl? Have you seen her?”

  “She’s terribly unset.”

  “So she should be, silly woman. She’s like Diane’s mother; afraid to be seen coming out of the fish shop with a parcel of cod and five of chips.”

  Imelda smiled. “I don’t think it’s that. She prefers home-cooked chips, or rather she did before this happened. I doubt if she’ll ever use a chip pan again.”

  Sam said, “What will you do? Have you decided yet? Will you pack up and go back to London?”

  “I haven’t begun to think about it. You and Mrs. Walsham are my first concern. Have they given you any idea how long you’ll be here?”

  “Only a few days. After that the district nurse will change the dressings for me. It’ll be a couple of weeks before my hands are healed, I reckon.”

  Imelda thought a couple of months would be a more accu
rate estimate. Aloud, she said, “Poor Sam, I’m sure they’re horribly painful, although you make light of it.” She spent half an hour with him, and then went out to buy the various things she felt he should have to make him more comfortable.

  It was noon when she and Charles returned to the Hall, and by then she was longing for a bath and a change of clothes. When she joined Charles in the library, he said, “Lunch won’t be ready for about half an hour, I’m afraid. I told Mrs. Betts we would take pot luck, but she hasn’t taken me at my word. There’s something special cooking. Sit down. You must be very tired.”

  “No, I don’t feel at all tired - yet. I expect I may later on.” Imelda seated herself by the open window and gazed at the garden so green after the arid landscape of the island. It was a fine summer’s day, but compared with the heat of Menorca it seemed cool in spite of the sunlight.

  Charles said, “This may seem a curious moment to embark on the story of my life, but if you can bear it I’d like to tell you one or two excerpts.”

  She turned faintly startled eyes towards him. But now he was contemplating the ivory cattle grazing in the parkland beyond the cedars.

  “When I finished my education I hadn’t decided what to do with my life,” he began slowly. “My brother Piers was expected to follow my grandfather here and was happy to do so. I had no pre-selected role in life and apparently no metier either.”

  “But you were very clever,” she said. “Your friend John told me that you had a brilliant career at school and at Cambridge.”

  “I had a facility for passing examinations,” he said, with a shrug. “But I wasn’t a born academic. I decided to put off the decision on what to do with myself, and knock about the world for a bit.”

  She sipped the sherry he had given her, and waited for him to continue. Now, sitting in this peaceful English room, listening to his quiet voice, it was hard to believe that the night before last she had fought her way out of his arms.

  “For several years I took whatever work offered. Rough work, mostly, but it paid my way to the East and the South Pacific. Then I had a look at the Americas. Eventually I came back to Europe, and there I found my vocation.” He glanced at her glass and saw it was empty. “More sherry?”