In the early hours when discomfort in her wrist briefly took her from her sleep she opened her eyes and saw that the bedside light was on. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was after two. Next to her Hal was sitting up, propped against his pillows and smoking a cigarette. Seeing her awaken beside him he patted her shoulder and brushed his hand against her hair. ‘Hey, go on back to sleep.’ Drowsily she nodded and closed her eyes. As she nestled close to him again there came into her mind the realization that her period still hadn’t come on. For a few moments she held on to the thought; and then she was asleep again.
13
The next morning Rowan said she was feeling much better, and by the morning of the following day, Sunday, her wrist—so long as she didn’t try to use it—was giving her no pain. In addition, she told Hal, her feelings of nausea and lassitude had practically gone. He looked at her in surprise and realization. ‘Mine too,’ he said. He had forgotten all about his own illness. Paul Cassen’s medicine must be doing the trick. . . .
Hal was so glad they had the house to themselves. After breakfast they sat around reading the papers, drinking coffee, playing records and chatting. Later, when Alison phoned, they asked her round for dinner. They’d expect her, Rowan said, about six-thirty. Hal would be cooking a casserole.
When six o’clock came accompanied by heavy rain Hal phoned Alison and said he’d drive round and pick her up in the car. A few minutes later, after checking on the progress of the food, he took off Rowan’s apron and left the house.
His ring at the doorbell of The Laurels was answered by Miss Allardice, who showed him into the drawing room. ‘I’ll tell Alison you’re here,’ she said. ‘I think she’s almost ready.’
Left alone, he looked about him at the wide, spacious room. It spoke of elegance and grace and a great love of beauty. The walls were hung with many paintings, oils and watercolours—from all different periods, from the Renaissance to the present day. He found himself gazing in awe at an original Turner, a Murillo, a Gainsborough. It was like being in an art gallery.
Casting his eyes further along they came to rest on a small modern oil painting: a still-life depicting a loaf of bread with onions on a blue dish. He recognized the style at once. That bold application of colour, the incisive, sure brushwork. Next to it was a landscape, a view of the Stone. They were both by Mary Hughes, the artist whose work he’d seen in the shop window.
At the sound of an opening door he turned and saw an old woman coming towards him. Her old-fashioned skirts fell almost to her shoes, while about her shoulders hung a crocheted shawl embroidered with flowers of silk and little beads of jet. Her grey hair was dressed in a single plait that was wound in a thick coil about the crown of her head. She looked like someone from another time.
Smiling warmly at him she held out one small, beringed hand to be shaken. As Hal took it she said, her voice light and rather musical:
‘Mr Graham, Miss Allardice told me you were here. I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’m Edith Carroll . . .’
In reply Hal said that he’d been looking forward to meeting her, adding, however, his regret that he had not as yet had time to read any of her books.
She waved his apologies aside, telling him that the same went for herself. ‘I know only too well what it’s like when one’s involved in one’s own writing,’ she said. ‘Time becomes so precious; there’s little of it left over for anything else.’ She gestured for him to sit down on the sofa and then sat facing him from a small velvet-covered armchair. They talked for two or three minutes on individual methods of working, following which she turned and glanced at the wall near which he had been standing. ‘But I think that’s what I’d really like to have done, though,’ she said, ‘—be a painter. I do so admire such talent. Unfortunately, however, I’ve never had the slightest ability at all in that direction.’ She smiled at him. ‘Do you like my collection?’
‘Oh—so much. It’s rather—overwhelming.’
She gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘It is, isn’t it? I agree.’ She got up and moved across the room, coming to a halt in front of a small Pasmore nude. ‘I love them so much. I couldn’t be without them now.’
Rising from the sofa, Hal went to her side. She turned to him as he approached.
‘It’s taken me years to collect them all. Years.’ Her bright eyes swept the wall, touching the pictures one by one. Standing beside her, Hal shook his head in admiration, at a loss for the right words. ‘They’re just—magnificent,’ he said.
She turned her smile to him. ‘It makes me happy to see your appreciation. But there, Alison tells me that you have a collection of your own.’
‘Oh, hardly a collection. I’ve got three. An Andrew Wyeth, a Picasso etching and a drawing by Hockney.’ He added, ‘And I love them very much.’
He moved with her then as she stepped from one picture to another. On each one she spoke a few words, briefly and to the point. When they came to the still-life and the Moorstone landscape Hal said:
‘This painter—she’s one of the villagers, so I’m told.’
‘Mary Hughes, yes. She is now. Though I knew of her work before she came to live here. She was a student at the Royal College—one of their brighter lights. Oh, that was a thrill for me when I learned that she had come to work in Moorstone.’ She indicated the still-life and the landscape. ‘She did these soon after she arrived here. I consider myself very lucky to have got them.’ She turned towards a window. The rain had stopped now, and through the sunlit trees Hal could see the winding road and the thatched roof of a large, white-walled cottage. ‘She lives there,’ Miss Carroll said.
A sound from behind them brought Hal’s head around and he saw Alison enter the room. She hoped she hadn’t kept him waiting too long, she said, to which he replied, not at all; it had given him the chance to meet Miss Carroll.
Now the old lady gave him her hand once more and said that he must come back and see her and her pictures again sometime. ‘But wait three or four weeks,’ she told him, ‘—then my book should be finished and I shall have time to relax.’ She looked from him to Alison. ‘You two are young and have the knowledge that there’s plenty of time before you. When one gets old, though, it’s a different story. The time goes so fast and one is grateful for every year . . .’ Then she brushed away her words with a little movement of her hand. ‘But enough. It’s not a problem for you; it’s only a problem for me. And who is interested in such depressing thoughts—especially now that the sun is out again?’ She smiled warmly. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful evening, so you two go off and enjoy yourselves while you can.’
Outside, Hal and Alison got into the car. Hal fished for his cigarettes, gave one to Alison and then lit them. Alison said: ‘She’s quite something, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘She’s absolutely obsessed with her work, you know. And with getting this current book finished.’
‘I gathered that; the way she kept on about time. Still, I suppose it’s understandable, at her age. What’s the book like—the one she’s writing? Having been typing it you must have a pretty good idea . . .’
‘Oh, I like it, very much. But what I find particularly impressive is her knowledge of the past. Her feeling for it. All the detail and the colour—it’s all there.’
Hal started the car and they set off back along the road. Slowing for the turning at the crossroads he saw before him the thatched, white-walled cottage that Miss Carroll had pointed out. Quickly checking in the mirror to see that nothing was coming up behind he changed direction and instead of turning right continued straight on.
The house was a little way down on the left-hand side. He drove past it fairly slowly; curious. Glancing over into the garden he caught a brief glimpse of a bending female figure. Twenty yards further on he came to a stop and switched off the engine. ‘What’s the matter?’ Alison asked.
‘Just hang on here, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.’ He got out of the car, turned and walked back
along the road to the gate of the cottage. Looking over the gate he saw a young, slim woman standing on the path trying to unroll a piece of chicken wire. She wore old jeans and sweater and wellingtons. Her hair was long and dark, hanging loosely about her shoulders. He realized he’d seen her in the village on two or three occasions.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘are you Miss Hughes . . . ?’
‘Yes . . .’ Her smile was tentative as she turned to him.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘—My name’s Hal Graham. I’ve recently come to live in the village. . . .’
‘Ah.’ She nodded and her smile grew wider. Then she raised the roll of wire and gestured briefly towards a shrub that grew on the left of the path. ‘Some blackbirds have built their nest in this bush. I’m trying to put this wire up to stop the cats getting in. Only trouble is, I need four hands.’
‘—Let me lend you a couple more.’ Opening the gate he went through and between them they pulled open the roll of wire and circled the bush with it. He held it in place then while she secured the ends together with string. ‘I don’t know if it’ll work,’ she said, ‘but it’s worth a try.’
Standing above the bush he could see the nest as a darker mass deep in the midst of the foliage. When he looked up again she was smiling at him. She had a very open face. He didn’t think she could be more than twenty-four or twenty-five.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. She wiped her hands on her old jeans. ‘And now what can I do for you?’
He shrugged. ‘I was just driving by when I caught sight of you. And—I thought I’d stop and say hello . . .’ He thought how crass his words sounded.
‘Well—that’s very neighbourly of you,’ she grinned. ‘And at such an opportune moment. I’m really very grateful. The blackbirds would be too—if they knew. Can I offer you a cup of tea in payment for your help?’
‘Oh, no thank you. I can’t stop. I’ve got a friend waiting in the car . . .’
‘Well, perhaps some other time, then.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’ He paused, then: ‘I—I wanted to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been talking to Edith Carroll—your neighbour—and looking at her collection of pictures. And I saw your two paintings there.’
‘Oh.’ She nodded.
‘And—well, I just—wanted to tell you how I admire your work.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I saw one of your paintings in one of the village shops, too. The one of the trees by the chalkpit . . .’
This time she just nodded. Her smile was still there but now it seemed less open, somehow less real. Hal was aware of a slight feeling of awkwardness—yet he persevered.
‘I’d love to see some more of your work sometime,’ he said. ‘Would that be possible?’
‘Oh, no, I’m afraid not. I don’t have anything here. And you see, I don’t paint anymore, so . . .’ She shrugged. Her smile now seemed merely polite.
‘You’ve stopped painting?’
‘Yes. I haven’t done any for a while now.’
He wanted to ask how such a thing could be; how she could own such a talent and not use it. After a moment he said: ‘Well—maybe in the future—soon—you’ll get back to it again.’
‘Oh, no, it’s quite finished with.’ She dismissed the idea with a little shake of her head. Her smile came and went again, and then she sighed and said, ‘Ah, well . . .’—clearly telling him that she couldn’t stand around chatting.
‘I won’t keep you any longer,’ he said. He felt foolish and was wishing now that he hadn’t stopped. ‘I can see you’re busy, and besides, I’d better get back to my friend . . .’ He moved to the gate, opened it and went through. As he closed it behind him Mary Hughes’s eyes met his. Her smile was warm again now.
‘Once more, Mr Graham,’ she said, ‘thank you for your help.’
Back in the car Alison looked at him with wry curiosity. ‘Do you often do that?’ she said, ‘—just get out and go for a walk?’
‘Sorry about that. But I wanted to have a word with Mary Hughes. She lives there—I suppose you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When he made no attempt to start the car but just sat there looking ahead she asked him what he was so thoughtful about. He told her then of the meeting that had just taken place. Afterwards she said:
‘And her manner changed just like that?—when you brought up the subject of her painting?’
‘Yes. It was so obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what could have happened . . .’
‘—Happened?’
‘Well, something must have. She doesn’t paint at all now. Something must have happened to bring that about.’
Alison nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘—but she’s different in other ways. It’s not only with regard to her painting . . .’
‘You know her?’
‘I used to. When I first came here we met and became quite friendly. She was fairly new to the village as well then—so we had something in common. Of course she wasn’t on her own then. Miss Larkin was there too.’
‘Miss Larkin?’ He had a sudden flashing vision of the woman on the edge of the chalkpit. He saw her leaping up, going over the edge. ‘Mary Hughes was living with her?’
‘As a paying guest. She’d come here to paint—from London.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh—sometime after Christmas, I think. She—Mary—told me that she’d come with the intention of doing a series of Devonshire landscapes. Miss Larkin had a room to let—an extension like a studio at the back of the cottage. Mary took it. It suited her very well.’
‘And you got friendly with her . . .’
‘Yes, fairly. Mind you, she was pretty busy most of the time. She never seemed to think about much apart from her work. It was everything to her. When she wasn’t up in her studio she’d be outside, sketching or taking photographs. Didn’t matter what the weather was like—raining or snowing.’
‘That makes it even more odd—her rejection of it all now.’ He paused. ‘So—what happened after she came here . . . ?’
‘She stayed. Then, sometime in March old Miss Larkin went off her head.’
‘She what?’
‘Oh, yes. They shut her up in Primrose House. Though she got out one occasion. She came round to The Laurels, asking to see me.’
She’d got out on more than one occasion, Hal thought. She’d got out and gone to the chalkpit and thrown herself over . . . ‘Did you see her?’ he asked.
‘Only for a few moments. I’d answered the door to her. She was in a terrible state. She wanted to talk to me, she said. She really looked quite—desperate.’
Alison’s words thrust into his mind Miss Larkin’s words to him: But you’ve got to let me talk to you. You must listen to me. ‘What did she want to say?’ he asked.
‘I don’t really know. She didn’t have much of a chance to say anything. Miss Allardice was there within seconds—grabbing Miss Larkin and telling me to go and tell Miss Carroll. Miss Carroll got on the phone and the next thing, Miss Larkin was being taken away again.’
Hal waited. ‘And then what?’ he asked.
Alison shrugged. ‘That was about it. Mary stayed in the cottage—where she is now—and Miss Larkin died. I think Miss Larkin must have left the place to her. She was very fond of her, I know.’ Frowning, she added after a second: ‘Mary changed after that. Now if we meet we just say hello and exchange a few words. Nothing more. Mind you, she’s still very pleasant—but that’s the way people are in Moorstone.’
Hal had made no attempt to start the car. They lit fresh cigarettes and he watched the smoke drift out into the light breeze. ‘That whole thing,’ he said, ‘I find it rather—disturbing . . .’
‘Miss Larkin and Mary Hughes? Yes, I know what you mean.’ She paused then added quietly: ‘But there’s—something about this whole place that disturbs me. There’s something phoney about it. And it’s not only to do with Miss Larkin and Ma
ry Hughes; they’re just a part of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I only know that I’ll be bloody glad when Geoff gets back.’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘Ah, listen to me. Take no notice. It’s so—unfair of me to offer you my jaundiced feelings about the place. Enough, enough . . .’ She opened her handbag and took out a folded piece of newspaper. ‘Here,’ she said as she handed it over, I found this. I thought it might be of interest to you.’
The page, torn from one of the dailies of a few months before, was mostly devoted to gossip and scandal. Near the centre was a photograph to which Alison pointed, saying, ‘There he is—the previous owner of your house.’
So this was Lewis Childs. The picture showed a man of about forty-five, drunkenly smiling in the company of a flashy blonde with a vacuous smile who nestled close to his shoulder. Childs, a handsome man with square jaw and thick dark hair, was shown with one hand around a champagne glass and the other on the hand of his companion. Beneath the picture the caption read:
Playboy and man-about-town Lewis Childs had reason to celebrate la dolce vita on Rome’s Via Veneto the other night. Following his recent acquittal on charges of narcotics possession he is shown here relaxing with one of his newer interests. His smile was short-lived, however. Soon after the above photograph was taken he was involved in a fracas with other patrons for which he was consequently, and unceremoniously, ejected from the nightspot.
‘Mm . . . not the kind of person I’d care to be close to,’ Hal said as he handed the paper back to Alison. ‘Can they be serious when they say he planned to return to Moorstone? It’s hard to imagine. What could a person like that want to come back to a place like this for?’
‘Yes, odd, isn’t it? Particularly as he never came from the village in the first place.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, by what I’ve heard he was one of those people who came here from outside, and just—adopted the place as his home . . .’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 11