Bet, intoxicated, this time with excitement, had already forgotten his existence. She knew with complete certainty that she would find Tib in the old cottage. Whether he would be alive or dead was another matter, but he’d be there. She dashed upstairs, threw on an old pair of trousers, a thick sweater and her red anorak, rushed downstairs, scribbled a note for the children, found, after some rummaging, a torch that worked, and put on her wellingtons. Then she rushed upstairs again to fetch Tib’s blanket from his basket; he might just be still alive and she would need something to wrap him in .
Her preparations complete at last, she locked the back door, put the key under the geranium tub and set out for the woods.
*
‘Simon, there is something in my sandal ... There is blood. Let us go back, I do not like this place.’
‘Oh don’t whinge! Come on, only another few minutes, we must be nearly there. I thought you said you wanted some excitement.’
‘You said to find old the cottage in the woods and have a picnic — this would be romantic. It is not romantic, Simon, it is stupid. You did not say there would be thorns and nettles, you said ... ’
Simon gave up listening. They’d reached the bottom of the steps cut into the quarry face, and ahead of them the path into the old lime pit was barely discernible under the mat of brambles, thorn bushes and outsize stinging-nettles. Surely it never used to be as bad as this, not in the old days? Perhaps Liza was right, perhaps they shouldn’t have come. Then, just as he was about to call a halt, the path twisted suddenly to avoid the remains of a battered holly bush, and there in front of them was the cottage.
‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve been here since I was eleven years old.’ Liza shrugged and went on examining her cuts. ‘Nothing like a spot of enthusiasm, I always say. What’s happened to all that Gallic charm?’ Simon peered through the windows, then gave the front door a kick; it creaked slowly open. Somewhere in the ivy above it, something rustled.
Inside smelt of damp and rotting vegetation. Mildewed wallpaper hung in brown strips from the bulging walls of the dark little room, and remnants of lace curtain smothered in cobwebs and defunct flies adhered to one of the tiny windows. A door let out of the back, and a rickety stair-case led to the two bedrooms upstairs. It was very cold.
‘Come on then, let’s open that wine and try to make things a bit more comfortable.’ Simon slung the haversack of wine on the floor and rubbed his hands with an enthusiasm he didn’t really feel. ‘You know, we used to have the most marvellous feasts here in the old days, a whole gang of us from the village. It was in Cyn’s commando phase; we turned the lime pit into an assault course, and she timed us with Grandpa’s stopwatch ... ’
‘Simon, this corkscrew, it does not work — see how it grinds the cork in little pieces.’
But Simon wasn’t listening, he was looking round the poky little room, trying in vain to recapture the sense of wonder and excitement he’d felt there as a boy so long ago. He remembered Cyn, a stocky figure in baggy flannel shorts, a red Alice-band holding back her golden hair, putting away the stopwatch and taking off her Aertex shirt to reveal her beautiful twelve-year-old’s breasts. A glimpse of these — you could only touch them if you won three times — was the ultimate prize in the game — the fastest man round the course allowed to view them for one minute only. He’d cheated once and quickly been demoted. ‘Si, that’s not fair, you must always play the game properly or not at all,’ Cyn had said when she found out, and he’d been near to tears. What was he doing here now, what in hell’s name was he doing? He looked at Liza and suddenly realised he didn’t even like her. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he found her a crashing bore.
Yet here he was, performing the same old routine just one more time. Tomorrow he’d go away again; back to hotel rooms, bars, other people’s flats. He’d never write his book, he’d always be the clown who wanted to play Hamlet but somehow couldn’t bring himself even to try; the little wop, the organ grinder’s monkey ...
‘Come on then, you lazy bitch, hurry up with that wine.’ Behind him Liza put her arms round his neck. ‘Love me, Simon, love me now ... ’
Simon closed his eyes. ‘Oh, all right then ... If we must. And then we’ll have the wine ... ’
*
Bet, mud on her boots from the tramp across the field, reached the wood in record time. Despite a hangover of fairly horrific proportions, and an empty stomach, she felt exhilarated. Because she was doing something positive at last, she supposed. Had she ever done anything positive before? Cleaning the mud off her boots on a handy tussock, she racked her brains. What about joining the CND? That time she’d gone on the Aldermaston March. Miles hadn’t wanted her to go; civil servants, he’d said, shouldn’t get involved in politics. She wasn’t a civil servant, she’d said, she was a civil servant’s wife, and CND wasn’t politics, it was the future of mankind; and she’d gone. Miles hadn’t spoken to her for a week, and she’d sprained her ankle somewhere just outside Reading and had to be brought back home in an ambulance.
She dived into the wood.
What seemed hours later, with her heart hammering and blood on her cheek from a passing bramble, limping slightly and sticky with sweat, she finally caught up with the old lime pit. It was dusk now, and behind her the wood breathed a life of its own; wind scratched at the ash poles, leaves rustled, twigs snapped. There were other noises, too; slightly more nerve-racking noises whose origins one couldn’t begin to guess at — even if one wanted to, and one didn’t.
In front of her was the lime pit. Enclosed by a barbed wire fence, it was much bigger than she’d envisaged. Quite tall trees grew up from the bottom, and the sides, although in places not particularly steep, were so smothered in rampaging undergrowth, mostly of the prickly variety, as to appear at first sight impassable. Although less overgrown, the far side, bordering on the Manor fields, was a more or less vertical quarry face, and out of the question unless one happened to be an experienced climber. How could Tib possibly have got into such a place? And — supposing he had — how could she follow him?
Come on, Brandon, you can’t give up now; if someone managed to build a cottage down there, there must be a way in. OK, that was years ago, but what about the boys who broke in and found that other dog? Oh God — that other dog ...
Spurred on by the thought of Tib’s sad predecessor, Bet hurried along the perimeter of the pit, searching for a way in. The trouble was that in the dark things tended to merge into each other, and if she didn’t find a place more or less at once, she would have to wait until morning. Then, quite suddenly, there were these two trees, and between them, incredibly, invitingly, a path. One had to admit one couldn’t quite see where the path went, but where else could it go but down? This must be the way Tib came — it simply had to be.
With Tib’s blanket round her waist, Bet, triumphant, squeezed under the wire. There, all it needed was a little effort; plain sailing now. The path even looked as though it was used quite frequently. It got steep, of course, very steep actually, but it would, wouldn’t it. Then, about twenty yards down, without warning, without so much as a by-your-leave, the damn thing fizzled out. One minute it was there, the next it had vanished under a ten-foot wall of blackberry bushes. Like so much else in Bet’s present existence, it had turned out to be a red herring after all.
So this was it then, she was beaten. She sat back on her heels and started to cry, and once started, couldn’t stop. Nothing more she could do now but go home with her tail between her legs — if indeed she could find her way home, which was doubtful. She should have waited for the children, rung Don, used her common sense. Instead of which, she’d behaved like the irresponsible idiot she was; proving once and for all something she’d been aware of for some time now, namely, that Bet Brandon, independent, intelligent, caring housewife and mother, was nothing but a fraud. Take away her props, first Dad, then Miles, and where was she? Where indeed? She was like a canary let out of its cage, not knowing what
to do but blunder about and bump into the furniture. Look at me, I can fly — or at least, I’ll be able to just as soon as someone tells me how, and someone else holds my hand while I’m doing it ...
Now she was Bet the loser; eyes shut, cheeks wet, crouching by her wall of blackberries; the lowest of the very low, down for a count of ten, waiting for the bell to ring and tell her it was all over, she didn’t have to bother any more ...
She went on crouching.
Was it the cold, or cramp in her foot that, aeons later, made her open her eyes; or was it the newly risen moon shining on her face? Whatever it was, she opened them, and suddenly, without warning, like a trout leaping high out of the river in its search for evening flies, or a rocket whooshing into the sky trailing behind it a sheaf of coloured stars, a thought popped up from the muddy depths- of Bet’s soul. She was alive! She wanted to be alive, and what was more, she was damned well going to stay alive.
Bet grinned to herself in the darkness. Then, rubbing her poor cramped foot, she decided on one last look for a gap in the wall of bushes in front of her. If there wasn’t one, so be it, she’d call it a day. In any case, the kids would surely have seen her note by now — might have started out to look for her.
But of course there was a gap; there had to be, didn’t there? And there it was, only a few feet from where she’d been crouching. A tiny, prickly gap, just negotiable for a smallish person crawling on her stomach and keeping her eyes shut. The far side of the gap, bright in the moonlight, turned out to be a sloping ledge covered in tussocky grass, trails of old man’s beard and rabbit droppings. Scratched and torn from grasping brambles, Bet, triumphant once again, struggled to her feet and, not forty feet below her, saw the ivy-covered chimney of a cottage.
Then it happened. She stepped forward, caught her foot in a rabbit hole, and started to slide. She reached out for something to catch on to, but there was nothing; only falling stones and the wind in her ears. This was it then, was it? Nothing she could do about it, but what a shame it had to happen just as she had come to her senses.
She went on falling.
*
‘I am cold, Simon, my back aches.’
‘Do you ever stop moaning?’
‘You are cruel and stupid. Alfonso, he is not like this.’
‘Bugger Alfonso!’ Simon and Liza, chilled to the marrow, were lying on a rug on the cold cottage floor, an empty bottle of wine between them. ‘Come on, we’d better make tracks, we must have slept for hours.’
Simon got up stiffly and peered through the filthy windowpane. He longed to be home, seated comfortably by the morning-room fire, a soothing drink in his hand. He must be clean off his trolley, he really must. His body ached all over and it would be worse tomorrow. He’d had these aches and pains lately, he wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t rheumatism — if it wasn’t something worse.
‘Simon, there is something moving in the room through there.’ Liza stood behind him, pointing, her leopard eyes wide with fear.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I do not like this place, I do not want to go back through all those prickles, I —’
‘Shut up a minute.’
Simon could hear it now, a faint whimper and a sort of scrabbling noise — there must be something there after all. Where on earth was the bloody torch? He found it at last at the bottom of the haversack.
‘Do not go in there, Simon, someone may be hiding ... ‘
The door to the back kitchen refused to move, damp had swollen the timbers and the bolt was rusted in. Simon took a run at it and it gave way suddenly, precipitating him down a couple of broken stone steps on to the earth floor below. He got up painfully, rubbing his knee, and shone the torch round the room. In the corner by the old sink, something that looked like a piece of dirty rag moved slightly and whimpered.
‘My God, it’s Tib! It’s poor little old Tib! Quick, hold the torch while I have a look.’ And it was Tib, but only just; a Tib with no more than a thread of life left in him and an ugly gash on his right hind leg. ‘Poor, poor old man, poor little old man.’ Making soothing noises, Simon very gently picked the little dog up and carried him back into the other room, where he laid him down on the rug. ‘I reckon he must have injured that leg in a rock fall and somehow managed to drag himself into the cottage under the back door, then collapsed.’ He touched the ugly, gaping wound with his finger and Tib flinched. ‘We’ll have to try and do some rudimentary repairs to this before we start back. Look, take the torch and a mug, and see if the old rainwater tank is still out at the back.’
But I cannot go alone, Simon, there will be things out there in the dark.’
For heaven’s sake! What a bloody useless woman you are, to be sure! I’ll go, then, and you keep an eye on Tib. There’s a candle somewhere in the haversack, we’ll need all the light we can get.’
Alone, Liza looked down at Tib with distaste. What a fuss about a smelly little dog! The English, they were so absurd. Now the Spanish ...
There was a small area of ragged grass a few feet square at the rear of the cottage, beyond it the almost vertical quarry face. As Simon emerged from the back door, torch in hand, the moon came out from under a cloud, lighting up the whole area with brilliant clarity. The body of a woman lay spread-eagled on the ground at the foot of the cliff; she wore a red anorak and her hair was powdered with lime dust.
It was Bet.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Old Monty Cornwall choked over his toast. ‘Now what’s the matter?’ Kitty, deep in her Daily Mail, disliked talking at breakfast.
‘Cyn Westover’s engaged.’
‘She can’t be.’
‘She is — what’s more, you’ll never guess who to ... ’ But Kitty was already up and reading over his shoulder.
A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Cynthia Penelope Westover, only daughter of the late Colonel and Mrs Bertram Westover of Hopton Manor, Stotleigh, Suffolk, and Simon Angelo Bertram Morris, only son of Mrs Ann Morris (née Westover) of The Riding School, Shrimpton, Surrey.
‘Now there’s a turn up for the books.’ Kitty sat down rather suddenly and reached for the coffee pot. ‘Do you think we’ll be invited to the wedding?’
*
‘Put me through to my husband, will you.’ His secretary buzzed Pete. ‘Fiona, I thought I told you I wasn’t taking any calls.’ ‘It’s your wife, Pete, she says it’s urgent.’
‘Oh, very well then. Hullo, ducky, anything wrong?’
‘Have you seen the Telegraph?’
‘No, I’ve been absolutely flat out since I got in, in fact I can only talk for a minute — ’
‘Cyn Westover’s engaged.’
‘Is she now. Well, I suppose it comes to all of us. She must be fifty if she’s a day.’
‘She’s engaged to Simon Morris.’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘She is — it’s here in front of me.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got it right, ducky? I mean — ’
‘Of course I’ve got it right. How many Simon Angelo Bertram Morrises d’you think there are?’
‘Good Lord, is that the chap’s name?’
‘What does it matter what his name is, it’s Bet I’m worried about. I’m afraid this is going to be a terrible shock; just as she’s getting so much better, too. I had a card this morning from the convalescent home, she says it’s lovely, and one of the doctors is an absolute dream.’
Pete knew, he’d sent Bet a bunch of roses to await her arrival and she’d rung him at the office to thank him. He hadn’t, however, told Pol; she seemed a bit touchy lately, and he’d thought it better not to. ‘I don’t think we need worry too much on that score, ducky, I fancy Bet went right off the chap in the end. I know he saved her life and all that, but it’s quite on the cards she would never have fallen down that damn pit in the first place if she hadn’t met him.’ He paused for thought. ‘I suppose she might have, though.
It was the French piece who drove the dog away.’
‘Stop waffling, Pete, I thought you said you were busy. What I want to know is, who’s going to tell. Bet ... ’
*
‘But Aunt Pol, are you are sure? I mean, it seems so odd. If they were going to get married, why on earth not years ago. Why wait until they’re old ... ?’
*
On the terrace of Napton Park Convalescent Home, Bet lay back in her chair — strategically placed to catch the dying sun — and stretched luxuriously. Before her was a silvan landscape of park and lake laid out exactly as Capability Brown intended. Soon it would be supper, and then bed. She watched the gaunt, grey shape of a heron rise slowly from his post by the reeds at the edge of the lake and flap away towards the distant woods. How beautiful it all was. She sipped her sherry — dry amontillado — and reached for Don Stewart’s letter on the table beside her.
Keatings Cottage
Dockleigh
Monday
My dear Bet
Just a line to tell you Tib’s progressing like a house on fire. The vet says he’ll have to keep the pin in his leg for life, but in a few months time he shouldn’t even be lame, and neither he nor anyone else will know it’s there. Meanwhile he’s managing splendidly on three legs, and much to my surprise, as he’s a cantankerous old devil, appears to dote on my terrier, Rex.
I hear from Nell that you too are going on splendidly, which is marvellous news. I shan’t forget the night of your accident in a hurry. I don’t know if anyone has told you, but I was the person Liza flagged down in the road on her way to get help. I was driving back from Stotleigh after delivering some stuff for typing to Jenny — my more than competent typist — that should have been done the previous week; my masters were beginning to get restive, and Jenny very kindly said she’d make an all-out effort to finish it on the Sunday and then it could go off by first post Monday morning. Of course I stayed longer than I’d meant to — Jenny and Brian are old friends and they offered coffee. Thank God I did! Liza was in a wretched state when I came upon her, wandering along the middle of the road, shoeless, weeping like a water-spout. My French is by no means as fluent as it should be, and she was well past conversing in English, but at least I managed to get the gist of what had happened, and she did have a scrawled note from Simon. Apparently he’d told her to take the footpath out of the wood that leads directly to the Manor and get help pronto, but she’d missed the path in the dark, lost her sandals, been chased by a cow, and eventually landed up on the main road where I found her.
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