The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  ‘Katie!’ This time the voice was real. Philip was coming, on foot along the beach. Weak with relief, I ran to meet him, throwing myself into his arms to kiss him, until he held me away, protesting, ‘Slow down, sweetheart. Let me get my breath.’

  ‘I’m so glad to see you!’ I gasped. ‘I’ve missed you. It seems like two years, not just two weeks. How was the camp?’

  ‘Oh – fine.’ He sounded as if he didn’t want to discuss it.

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Of course I did!’ he said at once, hugging me closer. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve been helping Dad clear the barn.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re here now.’ Laughing a little, breathless with joy, I drew back and smiled up at him. ‘Where’s Bess tonight?’ I missed the dog’s friendly fussing.

  ‘I left her at home. We think she’s breeding.’

  ‘I wish I could have one of her puppies.’

  I hoped he might say he would keep one for me, but his only reply was a tight, abstracted smile.

  We strolled on the edge of the sea, hand tightly in hand, close together but not saying much. My mind was half on the ripple of moonlit water where John had appeared. The sea, the beach… something of significance lurked in the shadows, refusing to come forward and be recognized.

  As the incoming tide covered the sand, we moved up to the dunes. Philip spread his jacket for me to sit on, settling himself a little apart and sifting sand through his fist. Only then did I fully realize how quiet he had been since we met.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘You work too hard.’

  He sent me a tight-lipped glance, saying roughly, ‘Every farmer works hard at this time of year. I can’t stay out until all hours the way you do. I’m a working man, Kate. I’m sorry if that’s a bore.’

  Scrambling closer, on my knees, I laid my hand on his arm, trying to read his expression through deceptive moonlight. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ He turned his head to look at me, his face all moon-silvered planes and black shadows, gaunt under the crop of ruffled curls.

  My heart lurched and twisted with dismay. Why was he angry with me? I smoothed my hand up his shirtsleeve to his shoulder, laying my other palm along his cheek. ‘If you want to go home, you’ve only to say so.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t want to. I know I ought to, but—’ And he reached for me, pushing me back to the sand as he bent over me. ‘Katie!’ the breath came against my lips. ‘Oh, Katie, darling!’

  When his mouth claimed mine, something fierce and wild jolted me to the soul. Oh, I loved him. The feel of him, the smell of him, the way his eyes lit when he saw me, the texture of his hair and his skin, his hands on me, his body close to mine. I tried to show him how much I cared, kissing his face all over, his throat, and inside the collar of a shirt whose buttons pulled undone at a touch. I had forgotten how white his skin was, soft and warm under my lips and hands, vibrant with the pulse of young blood.

  He answered me kiss for kiss, caress for caress, until we reached the moment when he always drew back, when we found something else to talk about, or dissipated our feelings in brisk walking. But that evening something was different. That evening, his lips traced a singing pathway down my throat, while his fingers deftly dealt with the buttons on my blouse and I felt his mouth hot against the swell of my naked breast. My body felt strange, alive with inchoate longings, my breasts on fire, my stomach taut, my loins running molten. My head seemed to swoop as he lifted himself to lie on me and I felt the heat and hunger in him, the strong hard shape of him through our clothes as his tongue plundered my mouth. He wasn’t going to stop. Not tonight.

  Terrified by my own feelings, I turned my head aside, jack-knifed my legs and thrust him off. ‘Philip, no! No!’ Panic drove me to my feet, stumbling backwards to sit with a thump on the sandy slope and stare at the sudden stranger who knelt in the hollow, bent double in some extremity I didn’t comprehend. My lungs fought for air. My heart thumped erratically in my throat. My body was still on fire with awful need, though it was cooling fast as shame took over. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘My fault,’ he got out between his teeth. ‘Hellfire, Kate! You could geld a man, doing that!’

  The words came like a blow. Philip never used bad language. Never! Realizing my blouse was gaping indecently, I pulled the edges together and leapt up, struggling up the slipping sand to the top of the dune. I stood there fumbling to fasten my buttons, staring at the sea. Was this what John had tried to warn me about – my own wanton nature?

  Then Philip was beside me, saying anxiously, ‘Forgive me, sweetheart. I’ve missed you so much I’m all in knots. I should never have—’

  ‘It was my fault. My fault! Maybe Carl-Heinz was right. Maybe I am wicked and immoral, and—’

  ‘You’re not. You’re a natural human girl and I love you for it.’

  Grateful for that reassurance, I turned to burrow against him, choking, ‘Hold me, Philip. I’m so afraid…’

  ‘Afraid of what?’ he asked, wrapping his arms about me, breathing in the scent of my hair.

  ‘I don’t know. I just feel… I don’t know.’

  ‘It scares me, too,’ he murmured against my ear. ‘Sometimes I think I may go crazy. I lose sleep through seeing you. But, if I don’t see you, I can’t sleep for thinking about you. The joke of it is…’ He hesitated, then hoarsely added, ‘If we were married, it would be all right. It would be expected. You could be there in my bed with me.’

  Unable to look into his eyes, I stared at the firm shape of his mouth bare inches away, breathing, ‘Yes.’

  ‘But until that day comes… perhaps we should be more careful.’

  Did he blame me for leading him on? ‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ I sighed, and, after a moment when cold reality sobered me, I eased away, depressed. ‘Perhaps we should go.’

  ‘Is that my answer?’

  Mystified, I looked round at him. ‘To what?’

  He studied my upturned face for a silent moment, his own expression indiscernible; then, ‘Nothing,’ he said shortly. ‘Forget it,’ and he swung round on his heel, striding off towards the causeway path.

  ‘Philip, please!’ I cried after him. ‘What did I say? I honestly don’t know what you mean. Please…’

  But his legs were longer than mine and he wasn’t hampered by long skirts and dainty shoes. ‘It’s not important,’ he threw back. ‘I was a fool to think…’ Just before he increased his pace, I heard him mutter, ‘I should have listened to Dad.’

  Until that day comes… Had it been a tentative proposal of marriage? I struggled behind, wishing I had been more sensitive. Or had I chosen not to understand, because I wasn’t ready to face the obstacles?

  He stayed ahead of me, slowing only as we crossed the railway and climbed the steep path into the Denes Hill woods, when he took out his torch to guide his way. Realizing my difficulties in the darkness, he lent his hand to help me, chivalrous as ever.

  ‘What has your father been saying?’ I panted as we gained more level ground.

  His hand tightened on mine, until I thought he would break my bones; then just as I was about to protest, the pressure eased. He said, ‘He’s been under the impression I was walking out with Lou Roughton. Today, he found out he was wrong.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t. If you knew how—’ He stopped himself, taking a breath and letting it out in impatience: ‘I told him I intended to go on seeing you. He called me a blasted young fool. He said you might condescend to use me as an amusement for a while, but when it came to marriage you’d want one of your own kind. Like your mother did.’ He turned to face me, saying savagely, ‘And he was right, wasn’t he? Michael wasn’t good enough for her and I’m not good enough for you. You’ll lead me on, get me tied in knots with wanting you, but when it comes right down to it—’

  Was it the wind,
or the cry of an owl somewhere close by, that sent a shudder to wake every nerve in my body? Or was it John, whispering in my ear? I felt sick and cold. How could Philip say such hurtful things? In a small, empty voice, I said, ‘I thought you cared about me. You said we should wait until—’

  ‘That’s not what I mean!’ Though I could hardly see him I sensed that he was clenching his teeth in that way he had, taking time to calm his temper before saying bitterly, ‘I thought you cared about me.’

  I do, I thought, but I was in no mood to say so. Him and his stiff-necked pride! ‘Then maybe we were both wrong.’

  Our hands parted by mutual consent. Sudden chasms yawned between us.

  In the silence, startling us both, a shotgun spoke.

  As I looked towards the sound, another blast rang out, with an orange flash of fire visible among the trees. Pheasants went calling in fright. Then came a hoarse shout, incoherent with rage and anguish, and the distant crashing of undergrowth.

  ‘Don’t!’ I reached out to detain Philip, but he was already racing away towards the disturbance. I followed, fighting off clawing thorns.

  Just ahead of me, Philip’s torch wove a silver trail, touching on trees and bushes thick with leaf. Belatedly remembering my own torch, I took it out and went on, trying to keep my eyes on his dark shape in the night. Life stirred around us, creatures disturbed into flight or hiding, my unseen friends hovering anxiously. Something cold touched my soul with dread as I recognized the sounds of a struggle not far away.

  Philip had caught his sleeve on a brier. As I came up to him I heard him curse and tear free of the last prickle. His torchlight swung, and transfixed his father in the act of jabbing the butt of his gun down at the ground, where another man lay unmoving.

  ‘Dad!’ The shout, and the light, held Mad Jack in thrall, livid face turned towards us, teeth bared in a rictus of hate. He had lost his hat. His hair stood up in grizzled spikes. Blood trickled down his face…

  ‘Aaargh!’ With a wordless cry, he hurled his shotgun at Philip. Philip threw up his arm to ward off the missile. I heard him catch his breath as it struck him, though the sound was lost in the crash and crackle of growth as Mad Jack made off among the trees.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Philip breathed, and then I saw that his light had revealed the identity of the figure who lay crumpled among flattened bracken. A young man, slight of form, with tousled fair hair…

  ‘Tom!’ I threw myself down beside him, staring at his pallid face and closed eyes. Oh, no. No!

  ‘Is he dead?’ Philip’s tense voice came from above me.

  Beneath my hand I could feel Tom’s heart beating, if faintly. ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  Furious, I looked up at his dark figure, looming featureless behind the light of his torch. Mad Jack had done this. Shot Tom, then hit him with the gun… ‘It’s certainly no thanks to your father! Oh, I knew this would happen. If Tom dies—’

  ‘He won’t.’ Grasping my shoulders, he heaved me aside as he knelt beside Tom, skilful hands examining him, reminding me of the time he had knelt in the same solicitous way over Saffron. Then, he had been only a disturbing stranger: now… now, love and mistrust warred inside me. ‘I can’t find any wounds,’ he said. ‘I think he’s concussed. You’d better go and warn them.’

  ‘And what will you do?’ I cried. ‘You can’t cover this up. This was more than threatening behaviour. Your father tried to murder Tom!’

  His face was unreadable, lit from beneath by faint torchlight, but his silence said much. When at last he spoke, deep bitterness laced his voice. ‘And do you imagine I’m about to complete the job?’

  I didn’t know what I thought. Philip was again a stranger. He still looked like the man I loved, but—

  ‘Just go,’ he added in disgust, and bent over Tom to lift him.

  * * *

  Letting myself in by the side door, I raced through the quiet house and up to the tower, where Uncle Frank’s lamp still burned, a yellow glow under his door. He had fallen asleep while reading in bed, but roused himself when I told him there had been an accident: ‘Tom’s been hurt. In the woods. Someone’s bringing him home.’ I didn’t specify who the ‘someone’ was, nor did Frank enquire.

  Our voices disturbed Vicky, who came to see what was happening and, before we could stop her, rushed off to wake her mother. Frank made for the back stairs, while I went to Tom’s room, where I drew back the covers and lit a lamp.

  When I heard them coming I held the lamp to light their way, remaining by the foot of the bed as Philip brought Tom in and laid him down. Tom was still unconscious, but seemed to be breathing steadily as Frank, on the other side of the bed, covered him up and bent anxiously over him. Then Vicky reappeared, twittering worriedly, her hair in a long plait over the shoulder of her wrap. Behind her a velvet-draped Grandmother leaned on a stick, with Anderson at her heels in a mannish dressing gown.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Grandmother rapped.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ I said. ‘We didn’t really see—’

  ‘There was some kind of accident,’ Frank cut me off. ‘I’ve sent Garret for the doctor. Tom’s bumped his head. But I don’t think he’s badly hurt.’

  Her mind seemed to work slowly. She looked from me to Frank, then to where Philip was standing with his back defiantly stiff and his eyes dark in the lamplight. I saw the muscle in his cheek knot with tension as a bony finger jabbed the air accusingly at him. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Someone we should be grateful to,’ Frank said shortly. ‘He found Tom and brought him home.’

  Vicky muttered something, to which Grandmother snapped, ‘What? Speak up, Vicky! Who?’

  ‘Farmer Farcroft’s son,’ came the agitated answer. ‘You must remember, Mother. Philip Farcroft. We’ve seen him in church.’

  If she had announced him as Beelzebub she couldn’t have caused more consternation. ‘What? Why—’

  With that, a distraught Emmet erupted into the room, pushing between Grandmother and Vicky as he went to throw himself down beside his twin, crying, ‘Tom!’

  ‘Be careful, he’s hurt his head!’ Frank snapped. ‘Better not touch him. The doctor’s on his way.’

  ‘I know!’ Emmet raged. ‘We met Garret on the road and he told us. The Laceys and I were on our way back from the village. What happened? Was he shot? Was it that old devil Farcroft? He was in the Black Horse earlier, blind drunk. Damn it, damn it! I always knew we ought to do something about him. I knew something like this would happen.’

  ‘My father never shot anybody!’ Philip said, his voice quiet but forceful, making Emmet twist to stare up at him in disbelief.

  ‘You! What the devil—’

  ‘Your brother’s not badly hurt,’ Philip said. ‘It was my father who was bleeding. Your brother shot him!’

  ‘Liar!’ Letting out a howl, Emmet leapt up. His fist jabbed out and struck Philip, who fell back against a chest of drawers, sending books and a candlestick flying. Then Emmet was on him, beating at him. Philip threw up his arms, trying to protect his face. He was much the larger but didn’t attempt to retaliate, only defended himself. Then Emmet threw all his weight into a punch under the ribs that doubled Philip over. I cried out in horror, but I was hampered by the lamp I was carrying. Frank thrust me aside and threw his arms round Emmet, pinioning him despite his struggles, while Philip leaned on the chest of drawers, choking with pain as he clutched his middle. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering the front of his shirt and the white runner that lay crooked across the polished oak of the chest. Scaldingly, I remembered how he had writhed with pain in the sand dunes after my knee had found a vulnerable spot. It hardly seemed possible that we had lain close in each other’s arms, not an hour ago.

  ‘Farcroft,’ Frank gasped, still struggling to contain Emmet’s fury. ‘You’d better go. Be at the farm. And make sure your father’s there, too. The police will want some answers.’

  Philip took out a handkerchief, pressing it to his
nose as he eased himself upright, wincing from the pain at his midriff.

  ‘Bastard!’ Emmet cried. ‘If he dies, I’ll see your father hanged!’

  ‘I’ll meet you in hell first,’ Philip returned with a look of loathing that encompassed us all.

  As he turned for the door Vicky, Grandmother and Anderson drew back as if he might contaminate them with the draught of his passing. He noted it, derided it, then just for an instant turned his scorching, inimical green gaze on me. ‘We were wrong,’ he said. ‘We are on opposite sides, whether we like it or not. Goodbye, Kate.’ And he was gone.

  And I? I only remember standing there, the lamp-flame trembling and fluttering so wildly it nearly snuffed itself out.

  Sixteen

  I told my story without adornment, while Uncle Frank fielded questions about my, and Philip’s, reasons for being in the woods at that hour. Fortunately, in the shock and confusion, Grandmother’s main concern was for Tom: she would eventually demand full explanations, I knew, but the doctor’s timely arrival drove all else from her mind.

  By then Tom was coming back to consciousness, confused and concussed but, incredibly, uninjured apart from a blow to the back of his head. Even that appeared to be a result of misadventure rather than malice: ‘Looks as if he fell and hit it on a tree,’ the doctor commented. ‘Keep him in bed for a day or two, but I don’t believe he’s taken permanent harm.’ Despite these assurances, Emmet insisted on spending the night beside his twin.

  The rest of us began to disperse. As Grandmother was stumping wearily away, she stopped and looked round at Frank, saying, ‘No police.’

  ‘But Mother—’

  She looked very old and very tired, but her eyes glowed sapphire-hard. ‘No police, Frank. Not until we know more about it.’

  In my room, unable to sleep, I stood in my nightgown staring unseeingly at the starlit night. I had been so happy, looking forward to seeing Philip again. Now, I felt as though I had been struck senseless, like poor Tom, left in a limbo of hurt and disbelief.