The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  A little while later the two women paid the bill and got up from the table. Rowan must get back, she said, while Alison said she’d take the opportunity to book the room for herself and Geoff. They said goodbye in the foyer, Rowan going out onto the street and Alison turning to the reception desk where she rang the bell. When the landlord, Ian McBride, appeared—a tall, good-looking elderly man with a moustache—she asked him whether he had a double room available for the coming Sunday night. With a wide smile he told her that she could just about take her pick; they had very few clients there at the moment.

  After reserving the room she turned towards the main door where an elderly couple was just coming in off the street. Alison held the door for them while they entered, then went out onto the pavement. There she stood wondering what to do. She didn’t particularly want to go back to The Laurels just yet—especially as Collins was likely to be still there . . .

  She was still debating her course of action when she became aware of the old couple emerging from the hotel and coming towards her. As they approached the old man gave her a diffident smile. He walked with a pronounced stoop; he had sparse grey hair and a plain, gentle face. At his side the old woman held on to his arm.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the man said, ‘—can you tell me whether there’s another hotel in the village?’ His accent sounded northern.

  ‘There’s the Old Forge on School Lane . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘We’ve already tried there. It’s full.’

  ‘Full?’ Alison turned and gestured to the doors of The Swan. ‘And don’t you fancy this place?’

  ‘Oh, that’s full up too.’ He sighed. ‘Well, we’ll just have to go on and try to find somewhere else. Shame . . .’ He briefly explained then that he and his wife were on a short motoring holiday—taking it very easy, he added—and had heard how attractive Moorstone was. ‘So we thought we’d like to stay here for a few nights. It’s such a nice, quiet little place.’ Resignedly he added, ‘Ah, well . . .’

  He thanked Alison then and wished her goodbye, and she watched as he and the woman moved to an old Ford standing at the kerb. She remained standing there as it drew away and eventually disappeared round the bed of the High Street.

  Why, she wondered, had Ian McBride turned them away? The hotel wasn’t full; he’d told her as much himself.

  Such a nice little place, Moorstone, the old man had said. Yes—that’s how it had seemed to her when she’d first come here. She’d been so lucky to get the job, she’d thought then; after all, Moorstone was small and space for outsiders was limited. Now, though, thinking of the old couple’s rejection, she found herself wondering at the nature of Moorstone’s exclusiveness.

  She turned and began to move away. David Lockyer in his little front garden was tending a rose tree. He glanced up as she passed by and gave her a neighbourly nod. She returned the nod and walked on, taking in the other neat houses and the modest-looking displays in the shop windows. She looked, too, at the familiar faces of the villagers. The vicar, Endleson, came past, murmuring a ‘good afternoon,’ his smile very bright against his unseasonal suntan. She saw Miss Banks, the tall, elegant headmistress of the village school; Woodson, the butcher, large and jolly; Marriatt, the vet with hair at his temples like white wings . . . The smiling, beautiful people of Moorstone . . . And they were beautiful, most of them. The young men were nearly all tall and handsome, the young women slim and pretty. And even the older folk, generally, still boasted evidence of handsomeness in their youth. She thought again, with sorrow, of the old couple. As regards their looks they’d never have been able to compete in Moorstone.

  When she came to the spot where School Lane branched off to the right she crossed over to the other side. In the window of a shop opposite she watched her reflection appear. The sight of her newly-trimmed hair took her by surprise—she had quite forgotten about it. It did look much better, she thought; she was glad she’d taken Miss Carroll’s advice.

  She moved on along School Lane, leaving the main part of the village behind her. Soon, she would be leaving it behind her for good. Forever. She was glad.

  A cold wind had sprung up and she buttoned the front of her light linen jacket. Looking over to the right she caught sight of the Stone. Briefly she shivered.

  16

  When Rowan had finished dressing after her bath Mrs Palfrey helped her do her hair. Rowan was pleased with the result. Having only one completely useful hand—and the wrong one at that—she’d found it a difficult job on her own.

  She was due to leave soon for a few hours’ shopping in Exeter with Alison. Miss Allardice was going to drive them in Miss Carroll’s old Daimler.

  Now Mrs Palfrey gave a final touch to Rowan’s hair and then stepped back, looking admiringly with her head on one side. ‘It looks very nice,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘What time is Mrs Lucas calling for you?’

  ‘At ten-thirty.’

  ‘Ah, well, you have a little time yet . . .’

  Mrs Palfrey started on Rowan’s fingernails then. After trimming them she began, carefully, to paint them with transparent lacquer. ‘You have beautiful hands, you know,’ she said.

  Rowan smiled. ‘Well—thank you.’ After a pause she added, ‘It’s really so kind of you to do all this for me, Mrs Palfrey.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Mrs Palfrey told her; ‘it was no trouble at all.’ Then: ‘Will you be back before Mr Graham returns?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s not coming back till tomorrow. He phoned last night. He’s got some more business there to attend to.’

  When Mrs Palfrey had finished she looked down at Rowan’s hands and nodded. ‘You do have beautiful hands. They’re lovely.’ Then, with a little shake of her head she added, frowning, ‘—Not like these old things of mine. They really let me down, you know.’

  ‘You mean—your music . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Releasing Rowan’s hands she held her own higher. ‘Arthritis is hereditary, you know. Well, so I’m told.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Not that you’ll have to worry about such a thing; at least I hope not, for your sake.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not.’

  ‘Did either your mother or your father suffer from it?’

  ‘No, I’m sure they didn’t.’

  ‘Then you should be all right. You shouldn’t have anything to worry about.’

  After she’d spoken Mrs Palfrey got up from the bed where she’d been sitting and crossed to the window. She stood there gazing out. Rowan watched her in silence for a few moments then said quietly:

  ‘Hal told me—about your career . . .’ She shook her head. ‘What—what rotten luck for you . . .’

  ‘Yes, it was—rotten luck. It was my whole life—my music. And it all just—stopped. I couldn’t go on with it. That’s when I came back here, to Moorstone.’

  ‘You must miss it a lot—your music—the performing . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She turned back to face Rowan. ‘I did. I still do. For a few years I was still able to play at times—for my own amusement—when my hands weren’t too bad. I had a—a special friend here in the village. A composer. Edwin Leclerc. He was my salvation. He even wrote music for me. Not that I could play it very well. In the end I couldn’t play it at all.’ She looked down at her hands and added bitterly: ‘And about the most delicate job they’re capable of now is trimming somebody’s fingernails.’

  Rowan was silent for a moment, then, attempting to move the conversation onto a less painful subject, she said: ‘So there are two composers in Moorstone . . .’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Well—with David Lockyer as well . . .’

  Mrs Palfrey gave a little smile and shook her head. ‘David Lockyer? No, he’s the only one now. Leclerc is dead.’ She paused. ‘David Lockyer and Edwin Leclerc—they were great friends, you know. Lockyer is a talented young man. Quite brilliant. But he wouldn’t be doing what he does today were it not for Leclerc. He owes ev
erything to him.’ She stood for a moment, obviously deep in thought. Then she shrugged. ‘Ah, well,’ she said, ‘I mustn’t stand here all day.’ She smiled at Rowan. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No, nothing, thank you. You’ve been a great help.’

  After Mrs Palfrey had gone Rowan sat for a moment idly looking at her reflection in the glass. Turning, glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost ten twenty-five. Alison would be here at any minute. She got up, put on her shoes, picked up her bag and went out onto the landing.

  Outside the next bedroom she came to a stop, hovered for a moment, then opened the door and went in.

  She stood and looked around her. The room had once been a nursery. The wallpaper was patterned with animals, birds and butterflies.

  And it could be a nursery again, she said to herself. It would be, sometime. And perhaps that time wasn’t too distant. There was still no sign of her period, and now it was a week overdue. Seven days. Each day she’d expected it to appear and each day had come and gone without it.

  Hal hadn’t noticed at all. But he seemed so preoccupied lately. The fact of her lateness had just passed him by. And she hadn’t mentioned it. She hadn’t dared to. She hadn’t dared acknowledge the growing hope within her.

  Now, though, she did. Now, standing there in the empty room, she was suddenly aware that her hope had grown into a certainty.

  17

  Arriving at Paddington on Monday afternoon Hal had gone straight to his club near Marble Arch. He spent that evening having dinner with an old friend, one who—like all his other friends—he had not seen since giving up the London flat. The move to Moorstone had cut him off from them all, completely.

  The following morning, Tuesday, he went to the British Library to do some research for his book. The information he sought could just as easily have been found in the Moorstone library, he was sure, but that particular place did nothing at all for him. How, he asked himself, could its atmosphere compare with the atmosphere of this place—this great round room with its long rows of tables arranged in a sun-ray pattern? It wasn’t only that, though. . . .

  When the time came—and it had passed so quickly—he closed his notepad and set off to meet Tim Farson, his agent. There in the office he sat for a couple of minutes while Farson completed a telephone call and then together the two men went out onto the street. Walking along High Holborn Hal limited his usually long stride to keep pace with the slower man. Farson had contracted polio as a child and had been left with a pronounced limp.

  The restaurant, in an alley off the main street, was attractive and pleasant. The food was excellent and over the ensuing talk Hal experienced again that old excitement that always came from discussing his craft and the general business of selling books. Most important, though, he learned that Albert Goldman, who was to produce the film of Spectre at the Feast, was due in London for a brief visit, arriving on Thursday morning. ‘He wants to know whether you’ll be available to discuss the screenplay,’ Farson said. ‘I told him I felt sure you would be.’ Hal nodded. Yes, of course; he’d phone Rowan and tell her he’d be staying on another night . . .

  When the two men parted outside the restaurant Hal made his way without haste to Trafalgar Square and spent a couple of hours in the National Gallery. Afterwards he phoned Rowan and then bought a ticket for the evening performance of a new play with Glenda Jackson. Tomorrow he might go to the Tate or look around some of the Bond Street galleries. He was back in the town he loved, but the way he was cramming in his experiences made him feel like a tourist.

  That night he lay in his bed in the club and thought of the day past. He thought, too, of Rowan in the peace and quiet of Crispin’s House. How different from here. From along the corridor echoed the sound of a clanging lift gate, while outside on the street the traffic never ceased its moving. In a few minutes he was asleep.

  On Thursday morning after breakfast Tim Farson phoned to say that Goldman was tied up in New York and wouldn’t be arriving in London as planned. ‘Though he does hope to make it sometime over the next few days,’ he added. ‘—I’ll keep you posted. Sorry to mess you around like this.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ Hal said. It was; he’d had an extra day in London; an extra day away from Moorstone.

  ‘So you’ll be going back home now, will you?’ Farson asked.

  ‘After lunch, I should think . . .’

  ‘And would you be able to get back up here again at fairly short notice?’

  There was no doubt about it. ‘Yes, of course,’ Hal said.

  Leaving the club he strolled among the shoppers on Oxford Street, visited a couple more private galleries, then bought a paper and found a little café where he sat at a window table and drank coffee. He felt very far away from Moorstone.

  And then, suddenly, on one of the inner pages of the newspaper his eye was caught by a familiar name. He read the words Lewis Childs Making Progress, and then beneath:

  Lewis Childs is said to be making good progress following his car accident of a month ago. A spokesman for the Milan hospital in which the wealthy playboy has been under intensive care said yesterday that Mr Childs’s health has much improved and that, hopefully, he would soon be discharged. The extent of Mr Childs’s injuries was not disclosed, though it was stated that he has undergone a series of major surgical operations.

  Hal closed the paper and laid it on the table. It was ironic; even here in the heart of London’s West End he couldn’t, it seemed, get away from reminders of Moorstone.

  After he’d ordered more coffee he lit a cigarette and watched the people going by on the sunlit pavement; the white, the black, the brown and the yellow, the prosperous and the down-and-outs, the healthy and the sick, the beautiful and the ugly, the ordinary and the bizarre—he had almost forgotten what an assortment London was made of. All of life was here, and he realized how much he had missed being a part of it all.

  The café had become crowded, and glancing around he noticed a young couple standing in the doorway looking hopelessly at the occupied tables. The young man had only one arm. Hal got up and moved out into the sun. He’d get back to the club, have an early lunch and go to the station. He’d catch the three twenty-five—which would get him to Exeter about six o’clock.

  Easing himself up against the pillows he switched on the bedside lamp. In its soft, mellow glow he turned and looked at Rowan beside him. Her head was turned away from him on the pillow. Leaning over slightly he saw that she was asleep.

  Propping his own top pillow against the head-board he lit a cigarette and leaned back. He could find no rest at all. He looked at the clock. Just after one-fifteen. His eyes felt prickly from his efforts to close them and relax, and he was further from sleep than ever.

  When his cigarette was finished he stubbed it out and then, very gently and slowly so as not to wake Rowan, got out of bed. After putting on his dressing gown he switched off the lamp and, by the faint light of the moon that came through the parted curtains, went quietly out of the room.

  In the kitchen he made tea, poured it into a mug and went back up to the bedroom. He sat there in the small soft chair by the window, smoking, drinking the tea and looking out into the night.

  It was so still. Everything seemed so serene, so untroubled. A faint breeze came, trembling the silvered leaves of the beech tree and moving the curtain at his side. Beyond the village he could see, rising up, the dark shape of the Stone. Between, in the hollow, the houses of the village were hardly discernible. They looked to be asleep; he could see no lights there.

  Why, he asked himself, could he not rest in this place? He recalled again how, sitting in the train bound for Exeter, he had found himself approaching his destination with dismay and a strange, inexplicable feeling of disquiet. What was it about this place that bred in him such negative emotions? For it was this place that did it. One thing he was sure of now—it wasn’t just life in a small country village that he couldn’t come to terms with; it was life
in Moorstone. It was simply that.

  He realized now that he never had settled; had never been close to it from the first moment. Strange, for all his anxiety in the beginning had been for Rowan; he had been so concerned for her happiness. It was for that reason that he had dreaded her learning of Miss Larkin’s suicide on the day of their arrival. And it had been kept from her—while he had lived with the unfading memory of the horrific happening.

  But it wasn’t only the death of Miss Larkin that stood in the way of his contentment here. There was more to it than that. But what? He thought of Alison saying of the villagers: ‘They’re perfect, all right. They’re too damn perfect,’ and a little later her startling news that there was a mental home in the village. Hitherto subconscious pictures came leaping to the fore, and he thought again of Tim Farson limping beside him along the London street. He recalled too the one-armed young man who had stood in the café doorway. . . .

  But why should he think of them? Why had the thought of their disabilities remained in his mind? He sighed. Everything in his mind was confusion. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  Turning in his chair he looked across at the bed. Rowan’s body was just a dim, shadowy shape. He recalled her mood when he’d returned to the house this evening—so bright, so happy and contented. He hadn’t seen her like that—so completely joyous—in a very long time. It seemed that even Alison’s impending departure—of which Rowan had told him—couldn’t dampen her spirits today.

  He had managed to do it, though.

  Witnessing her happiness he had found himself sinking deeper into his own despondency—and he’d become totally uncommunicative. Cruelly he’d refused to respond positively to the lightness of her mood, and in the end the two of them had lapsed into a polite quietness. He’d watched it happen, yet there had been nothing he could do about it; nothing he would do about it . . .

  Finally, around nine o’clock, Rowan had murmured something about being tired and had gone to bed. Coming into the bedroom himself some two or three hours later he had found her sleeping soundly. Standing above her, looking down at her shadowed face, he’d realized the cause of his present mood. He resented her happiness at being in this place. And he resented, too, the fact that she had brought him here.