by Betty Neels
There only remained the letter she must write. She would have liked to have walked out of the house—and out of Hugo’s life—without a word, but that would be hardly fair. It took her a little while, and a great many sheets of paper, before she was satisfied with her efforts. She wrote at last:
Dear Hugo,
I’m going away so that you can get a divorce and marry Janet. I tried to talk to you about it, but you wouldn’t let me, and when I saw you both in Fortnum’s today I knew we couldn’t go on any longer. Make any arrangements you want; I’ll agree to anything so long as you can be happy again. I’m taking the car—I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve left the jewellery you gave me in the tallboy drawer in your room. I’ve plenty of money and I shall be quite all right because I can get a job very easily. I’ll let Mr Simms know where I am, later.
She signed it ‘Sarah’ and read it through. It was a bit businesslike and bald, but that was a good thing, although the whole of her cried out to let him know how much she loved him. And a lot of good that would do, she told herself fiercely.
She could hear Alice in the kitchen; she picked up her case and went quietly downstairs, propped the letter on Hugo’s desk in the study, and let herself out of the house, taking care not to look back.
There was plenty of petrol in the tank. Sarah flung her case on to the back seat and drove the Rover carefully out of the garage at the end of the private road. The AA map was open on the seat beside her; she had studied it with a hasty intelligent eye in her bedroom. Once she got to Smethwick she would be all right, because there she would join the road they had travelled on to Scotland. Once on it, she would remember it well enough. She reckoned she would have to spend two nights on the way, perhaps three. At any other time she would have been terrified at the idea of the motorways, but now she didn’t care. She turned the car towards Watford, where she would join the MI. It was barely two o’clock; she should be able to reach Manchester in the early evening and find somewhere to sleep in a nearby village. Not that the details of the journey bothered her; her one longing was to reach the cottage in Wester Ross and hide herself until the sharp edge of her grief had blunted itself a little.
Hugo, home later than he had intended, was met in the hall by an anxious Alice, who said without preamble:
‘I’m worried about Mrs van Elven, Doctor. She came home about half past twelve, looking quite ill. She told me she would be going out and I wasn’t to worry if she wasn’t in to tea, but it’s eight o’clock, sir, and no sign of her, and it’s not like her not to ring up—she’s always so considerate.’
Hugo had gone a little white, though he spoke calmly enough. ‘Don’t worry, Alice, I expect she’s been held up. Did she take the car?’
‘I don’t know—she didn’t say she was going to.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘Her mink coat and that pretty little blue velvet hat.’
‘Then she must be visiting. I’ll telephone round and see if I can locate her—the car may have broken down, if she took it.’
He flung his coat on to a chair and went into his study and immediately saw the envelope on the desk. He stood looking at it for a long moment, his face expressionless, then opened it slowly and read Sarah’s letter just as slowly and read it again before folding it neatly and putting it into a pocket, before going upstairs, two at a time, to her room. He saw the mink coat at once. He looked at it with a kind of quiet despair and went to search the closet—but Sarah had a great many clothes; it was difficult to see what she had taken with her, but he was reasonably sure that most of her things were still hanging there. Which meant that she had taken only sufficient for a few days. She was quite possibly at her home.
On his way downstairs again, he was already making a mental list of people she might be with. He telephoned them all in turn and was still at his desk when Alice came in to enquire for news. ‘And your dinner’s ready, Doctor,’ she ended. But Hugo took no notice of this remark. He looked at his watch, and said, ‘I’ll try the hospitals …’
She came back presently with a tray. ‘You can eat while you telephone, I’ll take the dogs out, then you’ll be here when Mrs van Elven comes.’
But Mrs van Elven didn’t come.
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIRST SNOWFLAKES were falling as Sarah took the unwieldy key from its hiding place and fitted it into the lock of the cottage’s stout front door. It was very cold inside, but not in the least damp. She lighted a lamp and put a match to the Aga which the worthy Mrs MacFee had faithfully left ready, then wearily fetched her case from the car before putting it away in the garage. When she at length got indoors, she was shaking with cold and tiredness and the aftermath of driving hundreds of miles, spurred on only by the knowledge that Hugo would never love her now that Janet had come back into his life.
The journey had been a nightmare experience of icy roads, fog, wrong turnings and the dreadful monotony of the motorway, coupled with the dread of losing her nerve as the fast traffic tore past her for mile after mile. She had spent the night at Kendal and started off again in the dark, grey morning, which never really became any lighter. She had stopped for coffee and sandwiches, although she couldn’t remember where or when; she only knew that she wasn’t hungry. She made tea and unpacked, and presently went to bed without bothering about supper.
She slept the deep sleep of exhaustion and wakened in the late morning to find that it was still snowing. The countryside was blanketed, blotting out roads and hedges and walls. She dressed quickly in slacks and thick sweater, and went, rather anxiously, to inspect the store cupboard. But here again Mrs MacFee had kept her word. Sarah sighed with relief at the plenitude of its contents. She stoked up the Aga, made breakfast, and then, in gumboots and an old anorak, went to clear the short, steep run-in from the lane to the garage.
It took her longer than she had expected, and there was still the path to the top of the back garden where there was the potato clamp. She shovelled doggedly, uncaring of the snow falling steadily to obliterate her hard work—that didn’t matter, she told herself with false cheerfulness, she could do it all again the following day, and the day after if necessary; it would give her something to do. When she finally finished, the early dusk was already darkening an already dark sky and it was almost three o’clock. She dug some potatoes, not very easily, from the clamp, put away her spade and went indoors. The little sitting room, once she had got the fire going and the lamps lighted, was warm and cheerful. She had a bath and changed into the warm dressing gown, to sit cosily by the fire, eating a meal, half lunch, half tea, and listening to the wind’s whispered howling outside. It looked as though the weather was worsening … a surmise confirmed by the weather forecast which predicted heavy snow, gale force winds, and drifts to be avoided.
Sarah switched the radio off because she wasn’t sure if there were any spare batteries, then presently, in search of something to do, she searched through the cupboards and found some gros-point she had started when they had been there in the spring. She sat with it in her lap, remembering how happy they had been. She picked it up and began to stitch carefully, but in a little while put it down again, unable to see what she was doing for the tears which filled her eyes.
The snow continued. Each day she cleared the paths, glad of the work, then went back indoors to the warmth to cook a simple meal and work or read by the light of the one lamp she allowed herself. There was plenty of oil and coal, but it was impossible to get down to the village, and there was no way of knowing how long the bad weather would last. Sarah had attempted to make her way down the hill one morning and had plunged into a drift which it had taken her so long to get out of, she hadn’t dared to try again. The telephone line was down, had been since the day after her arrival, and she didn’t think that anyone knew that she was in the cottage. Not that it mattered; she had enough of everything for a long time yet and she was comfortable, and the longer she could keep away, the more quickly Hugo would realise that she had meant wh
at she had written in her letter.
She had been there more than a week now, and the snow, which had stopped for several hours, had started again. She had seen the snow-plough on the road running beside Loch Duich; it had looked very small in the surrounding whiteness of the empty countryside, with the Kintails looming in the icy distance. It had cleared the road and disappeared again, but before any traffic which might have followed it could do so, the wind became a howling gale and obliterated its painstaking work. That same wind drove her indoors too, for it whipped up the snow into a blizzard which had made her painstaking shovelling a mockery.
She had her lunch early and spent the short afternoon turning out cupboards which were already as neat as Mrs MacFee’s hands could make them, but it was something to do. She had thought that once she was alone in the peace and quiet of the cottage, she would be able to think calmly about the future; but that led to thoughts of Hugo, and she couldn’t bear to think sensibly of him—not yet.
The wind died down towards morning and because she hadn’t slept overmuch she got up early, before it was light, and had breakfast in the snug kitchen and did the chores, and because she didn’t hurry over them it was after ten before she got outside. The snow had stopped, leaving great drifts against the garage door and blotting out the garden. She tackled the run-in first—not that she could have moved the car in or out, but at least she could get to it. The garden path was a more difficult job; she worked steadily at it until she reached the hedge which bounded its end and then stopped, leaning on her shovel, staring down the hill towards the hamlet below.
She didn’t know what made her turn round, some slight sound perhaps. When she did, Hugo was standing quite close. He put up a slow hand and took off the dark glasses he wore when he drove long distances, and she could see how tired he was—there were lines she had never noticed before, etched deep between nose and mouth. She let out a sighing breath, unconscious that she had been holding it, put her spade down carefully, and went down the path towards him. She was bewildered and surprised and at a loss for words, and so, it seemed, was he. She said the first thing she thought of.
‘How lucky I cleared the snow from the front of the garage. However did you get the car up here?’
His tired mouth cracked in a grin. ‘I didn’t. I left it at Glenmoriston and got a lift on a snow-plough as far as Shiel Bridge.’
She said in amazement, ‘You walked? It must be six miles at least … the drifts are shockingly deep too. How long did it take you?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Four hours. The snow’s pretty firm, you know, and there are plenty of landmarks.’
They stood and stared at each other until she said, ‘You must be tired,’ and went past him, down the path to the cottage. ‘I’ll get you a meal and then you can have a bath and sleep.’
She knew she sounded like a bossy schoolmarm, but at least it was better than just standing there … and it would be something for her to keep her mind on until she could collect her wits. She kicked off her boots at the back door and went to poke up the Aga while he pulled off his own gumboots and shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket. There was a covered milk can on the table. He saw her glance at it and said:
‘I thought you might be getting a bit low with the tinned stuff.’
She was busy with the frying pan and the coffee pot and didn’t look up. ‘That was thoughtful of you—it must have been a nuisance to carry.’
He said politely, ‘Not at all. I’ve some spare batteries for the radio too.’ He had come to sit in the Windsor chair pulled up to the table. Sarah broke two eggs into the pan and then a third—he was a large man and would be hungry. She said at last, her thoughts once more under control:
‘Why did you come, Hugo? I know there are papers to sign and—and things, but you could have gone ahead with whatever you needed to do. I told you I would agree. You didn’t have to come all this way.’ She drew a quick breath. ‘How did you know I was here?’ It was funny that she had only just thought of that. He didn’t answer her question.
‘I had to see you, Sarah.’
She dished up the bacon and eggs and put the plate down before him, and spoke her thoughts out loud without knowing it. ‘No one knew I was coming here.’ She picked up the coffee pot. ‘It’s something legal, I suppose,’ she went on in a determinedly cheerful voice, ‘and you’re hung up until I sign something.’
‘There’s something I have to say to you, Sarah.’
She poured his coffee, studying his face. He was asleep on his feet.
‘Yes, I know, Hugo.’ She spoke soothingly and with authority, just as she would have spoken to a patient panicking in OPD. ‘But you’re going to eat now and then have a nap, and you can tell me after that and not before.’ She cast around in her mind for a suitable topic. ‘The telephone’s out of order, I’m afraid—all this snow,’ and before she could help herself, ‘Did Janet know you were coming?’ she interrupted herself and answered her own question, embarked on a spate of talk she couldn’t stop.
‘I hope you managed to telephone her from Inverness—at least she’ll know you got there safely. If the snow stops they’ll send out the plough and you’ll be able to get a lift back to the car. I expect you can’t wait to get back.’ She stopped because of the look on his face; if he hadn’t been so desperately tired she could have sworn that he was laughing silently. ‘Was the journey very bad coming up?’ she enquired. ‘Where did you spend the night?’
‘I came straight through.’ his voice sounded harsh, perhaps because he was so exhausted.
‘Straight through?’ she echoed, her voice a horrified squeak. ‘In this awful weather—it’s hundreds of miles!’ She turned away and poured herself some coffee, swallowing back a great surge of tears. He must have thought it worth while. She took a scalding gulp and said with all the politeness of a good hostess, ‘Do try some of this bread—I made it. I’ve got quite good at baking.’
Hugo took no notice of this remark. He said again, very quietly: ‘I have to talk to you, Sarah.’
She put her cup down so sharply that some of the coffee spilt, but her voice was gentle. ‘Yes, I know. But not now.’ How could she explain to him that she was holding out for a few more hours before she had to listen to him telling her? ‘You’re too tired now and I must make up your bed. The water’s hot—you’ll find all you need in the bathroom.’
She was already halfway up the little staircase as she spoke, holding her thoughts fiercely in check. She had almost finished making his bed when he came upstairs, and without speaking to her went into the bathroom and turned on the taps.
Downstairs, she cleared the table and washed up, then went to the cupboard to collect the makings of a stew—Hugo would want a meal when he woke; it would have to be something that wouldn’t spoil however long he slept. She made some dumplings, then got out her boots and anorak again and made her way to the shed halfway up the garden where the apples were stored. Baked apples would go very well after the stew and they could go on top of the Aga.
She managed to keep herself occupied with these homely tasks for quite some time, and then, forgetful of lunch, went into the sitting room and got out her gros-point. It was calming work, and she would need to be calm when he came downstairs. She stitched steadily, waiting for her mind to clear itself, so that she could plan what to say … but it did no such thing; indeed, her thoughts piled one upon another, each one more incoherent than the last. The only one that made sense and remained permanently clear was that she loved Hugo. The one fact, she told herself with hopeless, wry good sense, which was of no use to her.
The day wore on; when daylight began to fail she stopped her sewing and lighted a lamp, then went to look at her stew and then to find her handbag and make up her face with meticulous care and do her hair. She peered into the little mirror on the kitchen wall and decided that she didn’t look too bad. She had got a bit thin and her face had little colour, but provided she remembered to smile … She tried out one or two smile
s and was heartened to see how normal she looked. Hugo’s pity was the last thing she wanted.
It was quite dark by now, and still no sound from upstairs. Sarah made tea and set a tray with a plate of scones and some jam Mrs MacFee had made and left in the cupboard, carried it into the sitting room and set it upon the little round table by her chair. She sat down then, to pour herself a cup of tea, only to leave it to get cold while she thought about Janet. It was absurd how much she liked her; she supposed she should really hate her for returning to England and ruining her life.
Which train of thought led, inevitably, to the future. She would have to decide what to do now. She would find a job, here in Scotland, and start again. She contemplated a bleak vista of years with something like loathing, and became so deeply immersed in her broodings that she failed to hear Hugo until he was at the foot of the staircase. He had put on the Aran sweater she had knitted rather laboriously while he fished, and some old corduroys, and he had found the red leather slippers they had bought together in Inverness. Her throat ached suddenly at the sight of them, but all the same, she remembered to smile.
‘I’ve just made the tea,’ she remarked simply. ‘I hope you slept.’ He looked as though he had—the lines had almost gone; he had shaved and he bore the well-scrubbed alert look of a well-rested man ready for anything. Well, so was she, she told herself.
He sat down opposite her and she poured his tea and handed it to him, and he in turn put the cup and saucer down again, staring at her in a silence so profound that she felt sure that he could hear her heart pounding. To forestall this possibility she made haste to ask him if he had slept well, quite forgetting that she had already done that, and when he replied that yes, he had, she added the interesting information that the beds in the cottage were very comfortable. This remark called forth no response, so Sarah took a sip of her cold tea, and picked up her embroidery frame and began unhurriedly to stitch, willing her hands to be steady, her lovely face bent to the glow of the little lamp; waiting patiently for him to tell her whatever it was that had necessitated his travelling almost six hundred miles in mid-winter. That he would tell her as kindly as possible she had no doubt. They had been—and still were—good friends. She thanked heaven silently that she had never allowed him to see that she loved him. All the same, when he spoke, she pricked her finger.