by Gloria Cook
She had seldom given any thought to men in respect of romance or gaining a husband. While her father was alive she had felt protected and settled. Now if there was an occasion in which she found herself alone with a man, she didn’t know how to behave. And as Jim Killigrew was a single young man, just a few years her junior, a strong-bodied, attractive man, and supposedly a sort of Rudolph Valentino – irresistible to women, apparently – she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. Some men in the village had no time for him, but most of the single girls were happy to encourage him and some mothers considered him a prospective son-in-law. It hadn’t occurred to Elena that if Jim was an ardent womanizer he was keeping his activities outside the village, for he had dated no one locally nor, as of yet, had taken a girl home to Druzel Farm; the gossips would have known. She had also forgotten that the only female inhabitant of Hennaford he had ever publicly shown an interest in was she herself, years ago, when her father had stamped it out.
If only she could take Jim’s tea outside to him, thank him again, and he would leave. She felt guilty then, feeling her wish to be uncharitable. She guessed he would prefer his tea in a mug and she put one on the big, round kitchen table, and a tea plate and a plate of cakes. She thought to call the children inside, at least then she wouldn’t be alone with him, but usually they were fretful and clingy and now, for once, they were playing happily with the toys she had bought for them from their fund, so she left them to it.
She was correct in assuming that her unanticipated handyman wouldn’t take long in finding the materials he needed and in completing the makeshift repair and the clearing up, so she made the tea and left it to brew. Elena’s heart beat a fast march while she listened to him washing his hands at the back kitchen sink. It nearly leapt out of her chest when he knocked, two loud raps, on the connecting door.
She was forced to clear her throat. ‘C-come in.’
Jim entered. He had taken off his boots. ‘All done.’ He put a handful of hairpins on the pretty pink and yellow floral oilcloth over the table, then bent down to retrieve two more from the tiled floor. ‘Here. If ever you get lost the search party’d only have to follow a trail of these.’
She turned red and smiled faintly, gulping in embarrassment. She could cope better with this if he wasn’t so… she didn’t know what the right expression was but supposed it had something to do with the Great Unmentionable. ‘Thank you… um, do sit down.’
He pulled out a Windsor chair and sat with his legs stretched out to the side of the table. His cigarettes and matches were uncomfortable in his trouser pocket and he pulled them out and laid them on the table.
‘I’ll get an ashtray…’ She dithered. ‘I have one somewhere.’
Jim raised a hand. Elena found her eyes rooted on it. It was a large, tough hand, clean after the scrub he’d given it, but calloused and dark. ‘My sister won’t allow me to smoke indoors. I wouldn’t expect to in someone else’s house.’ He paused. ‘Not yours anyway. It’s a grand house. The third grandest house in Hennaford. You keep it nice.’
‘Do I?’ She gazed at him, somehow mesmerized, coming to with a sickening jolt for he was smiling at her. A deep smile. ‘Tea!’
She poured from the biggest pot she had, which was covered with a knitted cosy bought at one of the numerous bazaars she had organized, her lips pulled in, concentrating, trying to stop her hand from trembling and trying not to pour tea on the table.
‘A dash of milk. I’ll help myself to sugar, three lumps,’ Jim said, taking her discomfort as eagerness to be hospitable.
‘What? I mean, I beg your pardon?’ Elena said miserably. She poured tea for herself, it was only polite to join him. She sat down at an angle where she hoped her burning face was not on display.
Jim helped himself from the glass sugar bowl and the little blue and white china jug. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘The children are quiet. Are they all right?’
From where she was sitting, Elena could see them through the window. ‘Th-they’re building a camp.’ Oh, why couldn’t she speak normally? And must her face keep burning? She was sure she must be a terrible shade of scarlet. A few more moments of this agony and she’d spontaneously combust.
‘All kids do that. I’ve made a tree house for my sister’s kids. They have a lot of fun in it.’ It struck Jim then that children liked him. He had a way with them. He used to play wild laughing games with his nieces and nephew before Sara put a stop to it. She always liked them to be tidy in case someone called at the farm. Overcompensating for her poor origins. Jim could understand that, but kids needed to run riot every now and then. It was natural. He could weep sometimes over the things he had missed out on as a child. All he could remember was regimental training and harsh rules and forever being told he should be grateful for what he got.
Alan and Martha could be heard laughing now. Elena smiled nervously over her teacup.
‘They feel safe here,’ Jim said. ‘You’ve done ’em well.’
‘I hope so, Mr Killigrew.’ Elena forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Do have a fairy cake. Or – or perhaps you’d care for something more substantial. I’ve got a very nice slab of cherry and walnut in the pantry. Would you—?’
‘What are you going to do about them?’ Suddenly Jim was burning to know the fate of the Annear children.
‘Pardon? Who?’
‘Alan and Martha. You’re not thinking of giving them up to an institution, I hope. No kid deserves that.’
Elena’s eyes widened. Jim Killigrew was leaning forward over the table. One quick reach of his long arms and he could grab her if he wished. There was something different about him now. The overt masculinity, and the suspicion and edginess that was a part of him and made some people a little wary of him was still there, but added to it was a sense of something superior and judgemental. She felt it was vital she give the right answer. ‘The question of the children’s future is on my mind day and night, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll do my very best for them.’ Her words came out fast. ‘I’ll do whatever’s right for them. I swear.’
‘Good.’ He picked up his mug. His expression softened. It softened a lot and Elena scolded herself for thinking him a little frightening. ‘I knew you’d say that. You’re one of the few people in the world folk can depend on. If you need any help, you only have to ask me. I’ll build Alan and Martha a tree house or anything else you’d like for ’em. Yes, a piece of that cake sounds good. Please.’
He was smiling at her. Smiling warmly. Elena got up on feet that felt they were about to disintegrate for she had to walk past him. In the walk-in pantry it took her a few moments to reason what she wanted there. It was good that Jim felt so concerned about Alan and Martha, but what would he say when he learned that she had never planned to keep them, and even if she wanted to – and during these last few weeks she had grown enormously fond of them – she couldn’t afford to support herself and two children?
When she brought the cake tin to the table, Jim was quietly gazing down at the floor. He was a planner, always looking ahead, sifting through possibilities. ‘I’ve got Saturday afternoon off. I’ll come then and fix your wall. Don’t feel shy at asking if you want anything else done as well.’
Trying not to show how unsettling she found his presence, she cut him a large slice of cake. She was thinking about her limited means. She was going to have to pay the glazier, and Alan had wet his bed so often it needed a new mattress. ‘Thank you. I was wondering, how much will it cost to have the wall repaired?’
Jim watched a tiny nerve twitch on her forehead. Her skin was bright red. She was round the other side of the table but he fancied he could feel the heat emanating off her. How different she was to Selina Bosweld, his seductress, who had wielded such cruel power over him. Elena was childlike, an innocent. She was a pretty little thing, despite her boring hairstyle and frumpy clothes. ‘I’m making you feel uncomfortable. I’ll eat and drink outside. I need a smoke anyway.’
‘I know. You don’t have to keep saying thank you. There’ll be no charge for the wall. I can pick up enough new stone on the moor. It’ll be my way of helping you out for what you’re doing for the kids. Call me Jim. See you soon, Miss Rawley.’
Chapter Nine
Emilia had also been to the village shop that morning, to choose a birthday card for Perry Bosweld’s daughter. She had decided on one with few words, To wish you a Happy Birthday. She would simply write in it, To Libby, Best Wishes from the Harvey Family. The front of the card had white and red, gold-edged roses and would send a message to Perry too. A clear message that she still loved him. She would add a note, stating that Alec was still at Roskerne. She wanted the comfort of hinting to Perry that she was lonely, and missing him so much.
Their parting had been inevitable. Leaving aside Perry’s sister Selina’s spiteful, promiscuous behaviour which had caused them to be hounded out of the village, Emilia could never leave Alec, her children or her life at the farm. She had tried, all those years ago, not to fall in love with Perry. She had tried to stop loving him since they’d been apart, but her feelings were too strong and the part of her heart and soul that was Perry’s was raw and empty. All she could do was to go on with her life with Alec, loving him with a lesser love, and keep some sort of vague hope.
She had only to close her eyes and she could see Perry as if he was actually with her. She did this now, as she sat on the wooden bench near the Wesleyan chapel, across the road from the Ploughshare, with its deep cobbled court, made pretty by half-barrels of daffodils, hyacinths and polyanthus in full bloom. Perry was unbelievably handsome, his hair dark, his eyes of the deepest blue, but it wasn’t his looks she had fallen for. Perry was good and sensitive, open and gregarious. He understood people and would never knowingly hurt anyone’s feelings. Libby was in fact Selina’s child, her father unknown even by her mother, but to protect his sister and her baby Perry had adopted Libby and loved her as her real father. He had patiently borne Selina’s selfish ways. It was easy to like Perry, who never complained about his disablement, his lost right leg and the unsteadiness of his hand that had denied him his surgeon’s career. Emilia had formed a bond with him over her dying baby, and while Alec had sought solace after Jenna’s death by constant visits to young Louisa Hetherton-Andrews, the daughter of Tristan’s tragic first wife (the child’s origins unknown to Louisa herself, and Jonny, her half-brother), Emilia had turned to Libby Bosweld, and Perry. Libby had been devastated by the way the villagers had, to her young mind, for no apparent reason unfairly disparaged her aunt, and she never acknowledged the cards sent to her. Perry did, and it was wonderful to see his familiar writing on an envelope two or three times a year. Emilia took a moment more on the bench to remember his beautiful smile and tender touch.
‘When’s the squire coming home then, maid?’
Emilia opened her eyes to see old Mr Quick shuffling to sit next to her. Most of the older villagers still referred to her in the same terms as when she was a seventeen-year-old dairymaid living among them, and it was how she preferred it. She would have guided old Mr Quick down but she was sensitive to his pride. He leaned his knobbly walking stick against the low garden hedge behind them.
‘I’m not sure, Mr Quick.’ She raised her voice close to his ear, angling her face under his cloth cap. Old Mr Quick was flushed and seemed feverish and she would have enquired about his health, but he wouldn’t appreciate a fuss. ‘When he feels he’s recuperated enough, I suppose.’ She did not want to talk about Alec. He was refusing to forgive her over her accusation about his manner with Lottie and was merely cool when she telephoned him each evening. She had not bothered to telephone him last evening and there had been no call from him. He could wallow in self-pity or indignation or whatever else he liked. His memory was getting so poor, or deliberately untrained, perhaps he had forgotten he had a family and responsibilities. He’d certainly forgotten that Lottie was a little girl with bruised feelings. No matter. Neither Lottie nor she herself was missing him at the moment.
Later today she and her father and the cowman were to put a ring through the nose of the new bull, and they were perfectly capable of doing so without Alec’s help. Alec should be treated to a running noose, a pair of forceps and a nose ring and dragged back home! No, he shouldn’t. Alec didn’t have a stubborn neck or a pair of horns – he was no way a devil – and he didn’t need to be led anywhere. She knew her husband. Alec wasn’t well. It was Tris’s opinion too. It was best to leave him to come round quietly. As soon as she got home she’d ring him, make some cheerful excuse for yesterday’s lapse and tell him she and Lottie were missing him.
‘Must have been a bad fall he had,’ Mr Quick said. He was gazing across the road, licking his thin, raddled lips, relishing his first half-pint of the day. ‘Young Jim Killigrew called on me again just now. He’s a good boy. Not appreciated by they Eathornes, if you ask me. I think he regrets moving out of the squire’s. Never thought that sister of his would turn against him, she makes him feel he’s in the way. Still, I suppose we all got to make our own way in the world. It’s what Jim needs to do. He don’t say nothing much to me, mind. It’s just that I get the gist of him being unhappy.’
‘I think you’re right, Mr Quick,’ Emilia replied loudly. She felt sorry for Jim, but it had been obvious that while he had ruthlessly kept all other suitors away from Sara, he had pushed her in Wally Eathorne’s direction while planning to take over Druzel Farm. Jim was a complicated young man. He had suffered a lot of hard knocks and harboured a certain amount of bitterness and jealousy. At least old Mr Quick was a steadying influence on him. And when Jim respected someone he gave them his total loyalty.
Old Mr Quick suddenly gave a queer sigh. His head fell forward. Emilia swung her head round to look up in under his cap. ‘Are you all right, Mr Quick? Mr Quick!’
His eyes were shut. He blinked and formed a small smile. ‘I don’t half feel strange, maid.’
Without another word, old Mr Quick died.
* * *
Alec was in the summer house at Roskerne. The tumbling Atlantic Ocean was stretched out before him, fifty feet below the cliff, which was fenced off at the end of the garden. His dark-grey, brooding eyes were aimed at the black and white tiled floor. It was down there where he had first made love to Emilia. Wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he remember something so vital and such a wonderful occasion? He had wanted Emilia so much back then. He’d needed her. Her and her strong, direct, sensible ways, and the peace and calmness she’d had to go with her independent spirit. He had called her his angel. She had been his angel. And so had Jenna, his tiny, beautiful little angel with a fairy-like face. She would have been eight years old now.
A movement on the long, sweeping lawn caught his eye. There was a little girl. It wasn’t Adele. She was dancing on the grass in a white floating dress, her delicate feet bare. She didn’t have wings but she was like an angel or a fairy. Her hair streamed down her back in exquisite crinkly waves and was the colour of Emilia’s. She was beautiful, ethereal, unworldly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stopped dancing and turned and faced him. Her eyes gazed straight into his, eyes as grey as his own.
Jenna?
She disappeared. She had been there and suddenly she was gone.
‘Don’t go!’
He couldn’t get up quickly with the plaster on his leg and he flung out his arms to where she had been. His camera was on the wrought-iron bench beside him and he sent it crashing down. Someone seized and saved it or it would surely have been broken, but he had no notion of it.
‘Alec? Are you all right? Who were you talking to?’
He turned his head slowly. Shook it as if waking up from a long, deep sleep. ‘Oh… Brooke.’
‘It was a good thing I turned up. You were miles away, Alec, in another world.’
‘No. Another world came to me.’
‘Alec, have you bee
n out in the sun too long?’ Brooke crouched and took his hands. They were warm and strong, although she had expected them to be cold and weak. ‘You look so strange.’
‘Sorry. I suppose I’m spending too much time on my own.’ He looked over Brooke’s head to where he was sure he had seen his daughter, not as a tiny baby but how she would be now.
‘Have you been taking snaps?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Let me take one of you,’ she said to distract him, to bring him to a more conscious level. She was sure he’d refuse her request, afraid she might break or ruin his precious gadget. ‘You’re always behind a camera, rarely in front of it.’
‘Do you know how it works?’ He nodded at the camera, safe again on the bench.
‘I do.’ There were cameras in plenty at Tremore House. Ben had to have everything Alec had, and the latest model. He didn’t like her touching his things, but she did when he wasn’t around. Alec used a Kodak single-lens reflex camera with a ground-glass focusing screen, and she was familiar with the model. She moved to an angle on the summer house steps where she could get a clear upper body shot of him. Alec had his own darkroom. She’d have to wait until he went home to see her handiwork.
‘It’s good to see you, Brooke,’ he said as she took the photograph. Because he wasn’t posing, Brooke was sure it would be an excellent natural likeness of him, revealing him relaxed, his mind drifting, his eyes fixed on the lawn. ‘Have you brought Faye? How’s Ben?’
‘Faye’s at school. Ben’s in Paris.’ The flash seemed to hurt Alec’s eyes. Brooke put the camera carefully down on the round table, where a tall glass of barley water was left untouched.
‘You’ve not gone with Ben this time?’ At last Alec took his gaze from the spot where he’d seen the vision of Jenna and looked at Brooke.