When he thought of the dreadful calamity—and he had done so many times—he always saw the misery and the bewilderment in the woman’s face. He heard her voice again: It isn’t fair to you . . . having this happen . . . it’s not fair . . . I’m sorry . . . He thought too of the last words she had spoken: I’ll come with you . . . But you’ve got to let me talk to you . . . You must listen to me . . . Most of all, though, he relived the moment—and it had taken only that—when she had run from him and leapt up and out over the edge.
Her body hitting the bottom of the pit had sounded so loud. How could such a small body make so much noise? But it was the echo, most of it was the echo, caused by the hollowness of the pit. Even so there had been a terrifying finality about the sound that for a second had held him, eyes screwed up, rooted to the spot on which he had halted.
When he had looked over the edge he had seen her body down below, looking like a discarded bundle of old clothes, dark against the chalk. Minutes later when he had found a way down to the bottom and stood immediately above her he had seen that her skirt had ridden up above her head, covering her face and exposing her thin legs. In an attempt to give her back a little of her dignity he had reached out, taken the hem of the brown skirt and pulled it down over her thighs. Her head was uncovered then. Her eyes, flat and lifeless, the lids half-lowered, had looked dully past his shoulder at the open sky. Her mouth was fixed in a silent, never-ending cry of despair. Her skull had cracked open like an egg and her blood and her brains had been mingled around her head like a halo . . .
And now that awful, grotesque ending had been passed off under a label of the most perfect serenity. She just died peacefully in her sleep. And, as far as Rowan was aware, that was the truth.
His own knowledge, though, left him with a new, small feeling of discomfort. Not at the horror of the woman’s death—though that was bad enough—but at the seeming ease with which that horror had been smoothed out. But there, after all, he had got his wish. Ro had been shielded from the reality—a reality he had feared would be too much for her. He had wanted it and he had got it.
And he was grateful to Paul Cassen, of course he was. And he would always be so. It was thanks to Paul that their arrival—as far as Ro was concerned—had been unmarred by the dreadful happening. But even so . . .
Then he thought again of Paul Cassen’s words to him: Miss Larkin is dead. We must live for the living. And surely, in the general scheme, that was what really counted. The living. That was Ro and himself. And that’s what they were here for—to live—to remake their lives.
With an effort he thrust from his mind the stark pictures of Miss Larkin’s broken body. She was dead. It was over. Her life had ended, but theirs—his and Ro’s—were just beginning again.
He got up, walked to the rear window and looked out onto the sunlit garden. Starlings pecked and squabbled on the lawn. A robin, breast flaming, flew down and perched for an instant on the garden seat, then took off again to alight on a branch of the laburnum tree above. ‘Welcome to Moorstone,’ Cassen had said. ‘Welcome home.’
And that’s where they were. They did things differently here. This wasn’t London. This was Moorstone. This, now, was home.
5
As Rowan stood at the kitchen table adding notes to the scrap of paper that was her shopping list Hal busied himself at the stove. Pausing in the act of measuring coffee into the paper filter, he asked over his shoulder whether she wanted a cup.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got time.’ She glanced past him to the window, beyond which the sky was looking increasingly grey and heavy. ‘It’s going to rain. I shall have to take an umbrella. Damned nuisance.’ Had this been London she would have used the threatening clouds as an excuse not to venture out. Not here, though. And not anymore. From now on she was determined to keep the past where it belonged.
They had been in the house over three weeks now, and with each day London seemed further and further away. She didn’t miss it in the least. Not that there had been much time anyway for thinking about places and events beyond Crispin’s House and the village; here life was full. At first it had seemed that the state of chaos and flux in the house would never come to an end. Now, though, most of the disorder had gone. Places had been found for most of the items that had hung around in the boxes and the tea-chests, and what hadn’t found a place had been consigned to the cellar. And the furniture was all settled as well, amongst it the pieces they had acquired along with the house, pieces which included a beautiful old grand piano and an equally beautiful old cabinet wind-up HMV gramophone. The former had had immediate attraction for Rowan—‘I shall learn to play properly now,’ she had said—and the other for Hal—as a complement for his large collection of old seventy-eights. Everything, now, seemed to Rowan to be gaining a stronger look of permanence and belonging—qualities that also applied to herself, she felt, more strongly, more surely every day. With the major demands of the moving in behind them her life was gradually falling into an easy, welcome routine, like the comfort of old jeans and slippers after returning home from a formal dinner. She was at home again. She had even rediscovered her own, old enthusiasm for writing and during the odd hours over the past week had managed to jot down ideas for two or three children’s stories. This Hal had further encouraged when, yesterday, he had fixed up the small room next to Mrs Prescot’s as a study for her.
She watched Hal now as he in turn idly watched the coffee filtering into the pot. She had settled in, but how, she wondered, was he taking to his new environment? And it really was new for him. Certainly he appeared to be doing all right—and he was making every effort. Apart from all the general work he had done around the house he had also, she’d been glad to see, devoted some time to more personal concerns—having shelves built for his record collection and carefully choosing the perfect sites for the hanging of his much treasured pictures—a Wyeth painting, a Hockney drawing and a Picasso etching. Living here must be less easy for him, though, she knew. Unlike her he had never before lived in the country. Still, in her own growing contentment the present sight of him in his familiar worn jeans and darned-at-the-elbows cardigan against the uneven white-painted walls of the old kitchen already seemed more real than recalled images from their London life.
She continued, unobserved, to study him. They had met just over five years ago during a visit he had made to the small Yorkshire village in which she had lived for most of her life. He had gone there to get local colour and information for the book he’d been working on, making the library his first stop. She’d been the librarian. She could remember so well the sight of him that day—a tall, good-looking young man who had smiled at her across her little polished desk, politely asking a string of questions from a list he had held in his hand. Throughout the rest of the time he had spent there she had helped him whenever she could. She’d been glad to. She was impressed.
He hadn’t headed back to London afterwards as he’d originally said he would, but instead had booked a room for himself at a small local hotel—and then returned to the library and asked her out for dinner. Later, over the meal, he had spoken of his writing—he was clearly obsessed with it—and she in turn had told him of the few children’s stories she’d had published. Afterwards he had driven her back to the small cottage where she had lived alone since the death of her parents, leaving her at the door with a squeeze of the hand, a brief peck on the cheek and the expressed hope of seeing her the next day.
The following afternoon, late, after spending more time with her, he had left to return to London. But then he had written, following up his letter with a further visit. This time, though, he had stayed at the cottage, sleeping with her in her huge old bed. She hadn’t cared what the neighbours, watching him arrive and leave, might think. She already knew that she loved him. Four months later they had married and she had sold the cottage and moved into his London flat.
Now as he turned to pick up his cup and saucer their eyes met. She smiled at him and he grinned back a
t her, brown eyes very bright, one hand lifting to brush fingers through his thick, dark, unruly hair. ‘How’ve you been getting on?’ she asked. Today had seen the first hours he’d spent back at his desk for several weeks.
‘It’s a bitch,’ he answered, ‘trying to pick up the threads again after so long—after all the disruption. And it’ll take me a little time before I can really get going on it again. Still . . .’
Briefly Rowan reflected, as she had done on several occasions, that it wouldn’t matter much, financially, if he didn’t write anything at all for the next year or two—not after the success of Spectre. But he had never been one just to sit back; ever since she had known him he had been totally committed to his writing. It was a major, essential part of his life, and she could never imagine him being without it. It was, too, she had sometimes felt observing him rapt in the demands of his obsession, a part of his life that at times excluded her. Oh, yes, he shared his work with her as well as he was able—reading sections aloud, asking her opinions—but the very passion of his dedication sometimes erected a wall which no amount of verbal sharing could dismantle. Still, by now it was something she had learned to live with and accept; it was a part of him. . . .
She watched as he poured his coffee, added milk, took up the cup and moved to the door. As he opened it he said, ‘Are you taking the car?’
‘I think we’ll have to. There’s all the weekend shopping to get.’ In London she had hardly driven at all. Now, though, since the move, she was getting back into practice; the streets of Moorstone held no fears for her.
‘Is Mrs Prescot going with you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He paused. ‘I shall miss her when she returns to London.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will. So shall I.’
Mrs Prescot had been a part of Hal’s life long before she, Rowan, had entered it. For some years, in London, the older woman had gone to his flat regularly three times a week, come rain or come shine, to do his cleaning, his laundry and the odd bits of shopping and cooking. Nor had his marriage done anything to disturb the pattern, for up to the advent of Adam Rowan had had her own job during the day, in one of the city’s libraries, and had also tried to continue with her own writing in any spare time. Furthermore, she and Mrs Prescot, for all their different backgrounds, had got on wonderfully well together. And so the long established arrangements had continued. Until the planned move to Moorstone, that is. That, it seemed, would see an end to it all. But then they had persuaded her to leave with them for the village and stay with them for the first month whilst they got settled into their new home. Now, following discussions, Mrs Prescot had agreed to stay on further, till the end of May.
‘I can’t imagine what it’ll be like without her,’ Hal said. ‘Still, now that she’s given us a reprieve we’ll have time to get things sorted out and find somebody else. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I had a word with Paul Cassen about it—just a couple of days ago—and he mentioned somebody who he thought might be suitable.’
‘Oh?’
‘Some woman from the village. Apparently she’s looking for a post as a housekeeper. He recommended her very highly. I’ve forgotten her name now.’
Rowan shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway—since Mrs Prescot’s staying on for a while. Still, we can keep the other woman in mind for later on—that is if we decide then that we still need someone. I’m not sure that we shall.’
When Hal had left to return to his study Rowan glanced back to the window. The sky was looking even darker. She got her raincoat. As she stood buttoning it Mrs Prescot appeared. All ready to leave, she too was dressed for rain.
As they emerged from the house and made for the garage the rain began to fall. Mrs Prescot put up her umbrella and then said with a little click of her tongue: ‘If it’s raining in London I hope my sister’s not out in it.’ She turned to Rowan with a wry smile. ‘I came away with Kath’s umbrella.’
With their full shopping bags loaded into the boot of the Renault the two women made their way back along the narrow pavement towards the High Street once more. There was little more for them to do now and with luck they would be finished before the rain came down again. After its half-hearted beginning it had held off. Now, though, the sky was looking increasingly threatening with every minute.
The only thing still remaining for Rowan was to change her books at the library. ‘That won’t take me long,’ she said as they reached the corner. ‘What about you?’
‘Just the chemist’s and the post office.’
‘Fine, well when you’ve finished, meet me in The Coffee Shop.’ Rowan indicated a small café some little way down the street. ‘We’ll relax for ten minutes before we go home.’
Mrs Prescot nodded and started away while Rowan moved off in the opposite direction.
The library was a solid grey stone building on the far side of the green. It was, Rowan had discovered on a previous visit, surprisingly well stocked for such a small village. Also, she had found to her pleasure that the catalogue listed all of Hal’s novels, including two copies of Spectre. Added to that, all his books were out on loan. Clearly, since arriving in the village he had become something of a celebrity.
After handing in the books she had read, she wasted no time in making a further selection and taking them to the counter. There was a young woman standing in front of her, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for her own books to be stamped and replying with curt monosyllables to the pleasantries of the librarian, a tall, good-looking, red-haired man who was taking his time. As Rowan watched, the girl held out her hand, palm flat, waiting for him to finish with her books and return them to her. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,’ the girl said, ‘but you’ve got another customer waiting.’ Unsmiling, she took the books he then held out to her, put them into her bag, turned, and without another word, went away.
When Rowan’s books had been stamped she thanked the man and headed for the exit. As the door swung shut behind her she saw the young woman standing within the shelter of the porch. The rain was coming down again, with such force that it was bouncing up off the paving stones.
Rowan began to raise her umbrella then closed it again and lowered it to her side. With a shake of her head she said:
‘Sometimes an umbrella’s just not enough, is it? I mean, it’s fine for your head, but what do you do about your feet?’
The girl turned to her. ‘You’re lucky you even thought far enough ahead to bring an umbrella. I’m afraid I just dashed out—and now I’m paying the penalty.’ She was close to Rowan’s own age, Rowan thought. Maybe a little younger; maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. She wore a tan trenchcoat. Her straight fair hair was worn in a long pageboy trim. Her eyes were blue. She was, Rowan thought, extremely pretty.
‘I think,’ said the girl after a moment, ‘that you must be Mrs Graham—Rowan Graham, right?’
‘Why, yes, I am, but—’
‘Oh, there’s no mystery as to how I know.’ The girl’s smile was warm and open. ‘It’s common knowledge here that the Grahams have recently moved in—and what they look like. So, as you fit the description and I’ve never met you before—well, I put two and two together.’ She paused, then added: ‘My name is Alison. Alison Lucas. Like you, I’m a newcomer to Moorstone.’
‘Oh, really? How long have you been here?’
‘A little over five weeks.’
‘Only a fortnight longer than we have.’
The girl waved a hand, indicating the south-western part of the village. ‘I’m staying on Moorstone Road—working for Edith Carroll.’
‘I’m sorry—’ Rowan shook her head, ‘—I don’t know her. But we haven’t met that many people and—’
‘Oh, I just thought you might have recognized the name—your husband being a writer. She’s a writer too.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Rowan nodded. ‘Doesn’t she write historical novels and that sort of thing?’
‘That’s right. And big, sprawling
family sagas. All with period settings. I suppose you’d call me her secretary. I do her typing for her—when there’s anything to type—and her filing and so on. Though, really, just as much, I’m here as a sort of companion. She doesn’t get through much in the way of actual writing. Well, she’s getting on—probably slowing down a bit.’
‘Do you enjoy the work?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain about it at all. It’s a very easy life. She makes it all very comfortable for me. Lots of free time when I want it. My only task for the whole morning has been to collect some books from here.’ She grinned wryly. ‘And wouldn’t you know I’d have to choose a time like this.’
The rain was falling even harder now. Everyone seemed to have been driven off the streets. Looking out at the pelting drops and the deepening and widening puddles, Rowan said: ‘It looks as if you’re going to be marooned here. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable waiting inside until it eases?’
The girl shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’d rather be uncomfortable than risk another meeting with Mr Collins.’
‘Who?’
‘Ralph Collins—the librarian. The character at the desk.’
‘Oh, dear. Is he giving you problems?’
‘He would if I let him. No, he’s just a pain in the neck. The trouble is he seems to have taken a shine to me—and he just won’t take no for an answer. The fact that I’ve told him, A, I’m married, and B, that I’m not at all interested in him, doesn’t seem to touch him in the slightest. I hate coming here to the library—simply because of him. Mind you, he visits Miss Carroll’s quite frequently, so I do have difficulty in avoiding him.’ She shook her head. ‘Ah, well, he’ll take the hint sometime, I suppose. I hope.’
Looking out onto the street again Rowan saw that the force of the rain was lessening. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting my housekeeper at The Coffee Shop,’ she said. Then she added: ‘Listen, if you’re not in that much of a hurry why don’t you come and have a coffee with us? We could dash round now—while it’s not too heavy . . .’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 4