Kingfisher Morning

by Charlotte Lamb

  It was touching to see the warmth in the look he exchanged with Chloe as he refused a cup of coffee. 'I must dash. Mrs Fry wants me to call and look at her poodle. She thinks it has pneumonia.' He winked. 'I diagnose a slight sniffle. That animal is totally spoiled. What a pity she never had children.'

  'For whom?' Ross asked wryly. 'Just think what terrible lives the poor things would have led, wrapped in cotton wool! The woman's a fool.'

  'She's probably lonely and longing for affection,' Emma said hotly. 'Women need something to love.'

  His grey eyes mocked her. 'Do they?'

  Edward kissed his wife and left. Ross sighed. 'I must go, too. I've some house calls.'

  'You're eating lunch here,' Chloe informed him. 'It's all settled.'

  'I see,' said Ross. 'The freemasonry of women again, eh? Thanks, Chloe. I'm grateful.' He smiled at her. 'Edward's given me the afternoon off. I've promised to take Emma to see Maiden Castle.'

  'I'll keep the three kids here while you do,' Chloe promised. 'No need to rush back. Drive Emma around to get a good look at the countryside.' She smiled at Emma. 'We're very proud of our landscape, you know. Finest countryside in England.'

  'Why not?' Ross shrugged. He left by the kitchen door, while Chloe and Emma went into the surgery to see the animals being kept in overnight. Some were asleep, awaiting surgery or recovering. Some were eager for attention, particularly a small black Labrador puppy, his paws imploringly raised at the cage door. Emma cooed over him, enchanted by his soft paws and sleek coat. 'I wonder what's wrong with him? He looks fine.'

  A cat lay supine on an old cushion, breathing lightly. Chloe glanced at her. 'She's just had an operation—see the stitching. It's amazing how animals recover. Tomorrow she'll be moving about, a bit stiffly, but almost back to normal. Humans are far more hard to look after.'

  'Yet animals make me feel so much more moved,' said Emma. 'They're so helpless, so bewildered. They just don't understand pain, or why it's happening to them—and you can't talk to them, reassure them, as you can with people. If only animals could talk!'

  'You wouldn't say that if you'd ever had a parrot,' said Chloe grimly. She opened a door and at once a raucous voice assailed them. 'Hallo, sweetheart! Crack a nut, crack a nut…'

  Emma giggled. A vivid scarlet, green and white parrot was scuffling up and down, head bent, round eyes slyly regarding them, from his perch in the corner of the room. 'Is he yours?' she asked.

  'He belonged to my uncle,' Chloe said with a grimace. 'When Uncle Bill died he left Crackers to me in his will. I felt I had to take the old scoundrel, but he's a perfect nuisance! His language is appalling at times. Of course, the boys adore him. They would! And I'm always afraid they'll come out with similar expressions in front of clients and shock people for miles around!'

  She offered the parrot a nut. He sidled up, snatched it with one claw and bent to inspect it, saying, 'Cor… lovely! Crack a nut, crack a nut…'

  The children arrived in time to see him eat his nut, and crowded round him, admiring, enthusiastic, while Crackers went through some of his repertoire. Emma quite saw what Chloe meant. As the language became rather more colourful, she whisked the children away and gave them orders to play quietly in the yard with Tommy and Tod while she went shopping. Tracy at once begged to come, too.

  'If you like,' Emma agreed. While Donna and Robin settled down to play hide and seek she set off around the little market town to seek various items. She found it fascinating to see how much of the old town was left. Anyone who had read Hardy's novels must recognise certain streets, buildings, names. With delight she walked up Corn Hill and stared at the bow windows of the Antelope, an old coaching inn which figured in several of the books under another name; then wandered up to St Peter's Church, another famous landmark in the town.

  Tracy was far more interested in the shops. She had some money to spend, and it was burning a hole in her pocket.

  'I think I'll buy a book,' she announced.

  They went into a bookshop and Tracy carefully selected a volume of children's stories. Emma added a Beatrix Potter for Robin and a little picture book for Donna.

  'Robin likes books about cars,' Tracy said scornfully.

  'I expect he'll like the Tale of the Fierce Bad Rabbit,' Emma said quietly.

  On their way back, they stopped to take a brief look inside the Museum, admiring the reproduction of Hardy's study, the various pieces of nineteenth-century furniture, the agricultural implements and the fine display of Roman remains which had all been dug up around the town. Tracy grew tired after ten minutes, fidgeting to and fro, her attention wandering. Emma smiled at her.

  'Shall we go?'

  Tracy eagerly agreed. They found that Ross and Edward Bennett had both returned from their visiting, and were awaiting lunch eagerly. The fragrant odour of the oxtail casserole wafted out to them. Chloe grinned. 'Wash your hands and I'll serve lunch! I think everyone's worked up an appetite.'

  The meat was tender, falling off the bone in velvety flakes, and the rich gravy had a delicious flavour. Chloe's dumplings were so light that Emma wondered what she had used to make them…they melted in the mouth, and were rapidly polished off by the hungry horde around the table. Despite mounds of mashed potato creamed with butter, new carrots caramelised and decorated with parsley, and nutty brussels sprouts, the meal only just managed to stretch adequately. Everyone was ready for the apple pasties. They were made with flaky pastry, the apples golden with brown sugar and dotted with currants.

  'Mm…' said Robin ecstatically. 'I do like you, Auntie Chloe.' His reverent tone made everyone laugh. Chloe grinned at him.

  'Thank you, Robin,' she said, in a man-to-man tone. 'I like you, too. I like boys who eat heartily.'

  'Does that include me?' asked Ross, tongue in cheek.

  Chloe gave him a stern glance. 'Oh, you're a pig,' she told him, watching as he scraped his plate clean. 'And you can make the coffee, which will teach you not to make such a pig of yourself!'

  'I shan't want to move after that meal,' he moaned. 'I don't know how I'm to summon the energy to climb up Maiden Castle this afternoon.'

  'Maiden Castle?' Edward looked up from his silent contemplation of his empty plate. 'Are you going that way? Could you just drop in at Hook End Farm and see Joe Wing's horse? It's gone lame again.'

  Ross groaned. 'I thought it was too good to be true. OK.'

  They had coffee, at leisure, while the children vanished again and then Ross drove Emma out along the Weymouth Road, past the dark and gloomy shape of Maumbury Ring.

  'What's that?' asked Emma, viewing it with alarm.

  'I'm not sure what it was meant to be, but it's said to be a Stone Age circle—heaven knows what function it was meant to fulfil. The Romans used it later as a theatre, they lined it with seats. The banks are made of chalk under all that grass.'

  They travelled on across open countryside, and even from that distance could see Maiden Castle clearly, the great green ramparts some sixty foot high in places, running for miles.

  'Just think,' said Emma, 'when it was first built it must have been even higher. After two thousand years the weather must have eroded it enormously!'

  'That's true,' said Ross in surprise, looking at her with a curiously arrested look. 'I hadn't thought of that.'

  They drove along a bumpy, chalky track between farm fences and found a rough car park at the end of it. A stile marked the beginning of the track up to the Castle. There were already several hardy visitors making their way along the ramparts above.

  It was a steep climb upwards, but the wind rushed over the grassy rings with a freshness which was invigorating, and it was pleasant to stride out, filling the lungs and exercising the body. Overhead hung larks, small black marks against the sky. The sheep grazed quietly around them, tearing at the grass with concentrated intensity.

  When they had penetrated the inner rings they walked along the ramparts, gazing down over the countryside with interest. It lay open to their gaze
towards Dorchester, the outline of the small town discernible as it was not when one was within it.

  'What a superb view,' said Emma. 'It puts one into touch with the past, walking up here.'

  Ross nodded. 'Yes, a haunted place, despite its beauty.'

  'I wouldn't like to spend a night here,' said Emma, shuddering. 'I can imagine the ghostly voices crying over these ramparts.'

  Ross laughed, giving her an indulgent look. 'The wind, my dear girl. I wasn't speaking literally when I said it was haunted. I just meant that it reminded one of things best forgotten… old tragedies, old griefs.'

  Obstinately, Emma said, 'All the same, you wouldn't get me to come up here at night. Although there are no buildings, it has a far more ghostly atmosphere than the Tower of London or Dover Castle.'

  'How you women love mystery,' Ross teased. He glanced at his watch. 'Sorry to rush you, but I'm afraid we must go if I'm to take a look at Joe Wing's horse.'

  They climbed down and drove on until they reached a farm track. At the end of it stood a square, no-nonsense house with barley sugar chimneys and a gabled roof. 'An odd mixture,' Ross told her as they got out of the car. 'Joe rebuilt the house after the war, but he used a lot of the old house, so the fabric of the building is partly very old, partly very new. The chimneys are Elizabethan, so are the tiles. Some of the bricks are old, some are new.'

  They went round to the outbuildings at the side of the house, backing on to a cobbled yard, and found a gnarled old man forking hay and clover into the feeding troughs in the stables. He looked round, saluted them silently.

  'Let's take a look at this horse,' said Ross.

  'Aye,' said Joe Wing. He jerked a thumb at the end loosebox. A tall raw-boned bay was standing there gazing at them with a melancholy look.

  Ross went in to examine him, and the bay leant idly against him as Ross lifted his foreleg. 'Get off me, you great oaf,' Ross said easily.

  Joe Wing chuckled. 'Aye, he's the lazy one, big lummox!'

  Ross probed gently. 'I'm afraid he's got a mild strain again. He's always had that tendency, hasn't he?'

  'Always been lazy,' said Joe, spitting to one side in contempt.

  Ross laughed. 'Oh, I don't think he does it deliberately.'

  'Oh, aye, for spite, pure spite,' Joe Wing nodded.

  Emma wandered off to look idly around the yard, and saw a cat writhing about in a dark corner of an old barn, her head assaulted by her paws from time to time, her whole motion that of great pain.

  She called Ross, urgently, and pointed out the cat. Ross quietly crept up and lifted it, spitting and writhing.

  'Wild as a crocodile, that one,' said Joe. 'Farm cats! They never come indoors, winter or summer.'

  Ross deftly examined the small creature. It was fine-boned, rough-coated, a thin little creature. With difficulty he opened its jaw and Emma exclaimed in horror as she saw the fish hook caught in its gums.

  'I thought so,' said Ross. 'She's been fishing, but it was she who got hooked.'

  'She gets down to the stream where the anglers sit,' Joe nodded. 'It isn't the first time one of my cats has come home with a hook in its mouth…they think they're so clever, nipping off with a hooked fish.'

  Ross deftly extracted the hook. The cat spagged him viciously, her lips drawn back in pain and rage, then with an eel-like movement escaped and vanished into the darkness of the barn once more.

  'She'll heal in God's own good time,' Ross shrugged. He returned to the horse and Emma wandered back to the car. Ross joined her later and drove her back to Dorchester to pick up the children.

  'Stay to tea,' invited Chloe hospitably.

  'Thank you, but Edie will be waiting for us,' Emma smiled. 'You've been so kind already. Thank you for everything you've done. I've thoroughly enjoyed my day.'

  'Come again soon,' Chloe pressed as they drove away.

  'Oh, do let's,' Tracy said eagerly, and the others nodded.

  As they neared the village they passed a high-walled park which attracted Emma's attention. Through the open iron gates she saw rolling lawns, oak trees, an avenue of beech trees. She was about to ask Ross about it when she saw the house through the trees, and recognised Queen's Daumaury, unmistakably lovely in the late afternoon light, even in such a flashing glimpse.

  Negotiating the narrow bend beyond it, over a low hump-backed bridge, they had to draw into the edge of the road in order to let another car pass over the bridge and then pass them going towards Queen's Daumaury. The car was long, sleek, shining, a powerful, expensive toy. A chauffeur was at the wheel. In the back sat an old man, and beside him sat a familiar blonde head.

  Amanda leaned forward to wave to Ross. He gave her a curt nod. The old man glanced at them, then away, without a sign of interest. That, thought Emma, must be the mysterious Leon Daumaury. For such a very rich, powerful man he was disappointingly shrunken, his head averted indifferently.

  'Who's that?' Robin asked curiously, in his shrill treble.

  Tracy answered flatly without waiting for Ross to speak. 'It's Grandfather, silly.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Astonished, Emma looked at Ross with eyes full of incredulous inquiry, but he was staring straight ahead at the road, and did not appear to have heard.

  Their car moved forward smoothly at that moment, and she had no time to ask what Tracy had meant. Robin had said something which Emma could not quite catch, then his voice broke off as Donna, full of wonder, cried, 'Look!'

  Her small finger pointed skywards. They all gazed up and a satisfied silence filled the car as they saw a creamy barn owl swoop out of the gabled end of an old barn. Twilight was hastening on; the sky was a dusky grey, threaded with palest pink, and the birds were making their sleepy farewells.

  'Hoot, hoot…' crooned Donna.

  'Owls eat mice but not their feet or their tails,' Robin declared calmly.

  'No,' Ross agreed. 'The owl wraps up all the bits he doesn't want and deposits them as a pellet.'

  'Good idea,' Robin nodded. 'I wish I could do that.' He gazed sideways at Tracy. 'When I had sticky porridge to eat…'

  She went red and glared at him. 'Don't start that again!'

  'We're almost home,' Emma said hastily. 'I wonder what Edie has got for our supper? She said something about baked potatoes in their jackets.'

  'Mmmm…' Robin swayed, ecstatic, his eyes half shut.

  'And tomato soup,' Tracy added importantly.

  'Thoup…' Donna nodded. 'For me.'

  'For all of us, silly,' Tracy told her squashingly.

  'Ethpecially for me,' Donna insisted.

  The car turned in at the track leading to Rook Cottage. The children abandoned their squabble and craned forward until Robin's sharp eyes caught the yellow gleam of light from the windows.

  'We're home, we're home!' shouted Tracy, dancing up the path with the other two struggling to keep up in the rear.

  Edie appeared in the doorway, beaming. 'So you are, m'dears. Come you in and have your supper.'

  Emma took them up to wash and brush their hair, and when they returned to the kitchen they found Edie contentedly serving hot tomato soup, a swirl of cream emphasising the colour.

  'There's a grand fire,' said Edie. 'Why don't you have your supper beside it? I've wheeled the table over in that corner.'

  They took their seats round the table, the firelight cosy and reassuring. Rain splattered against the window panes. The wind tore at the trees and rattled the brass knocker on the door. Outside the world appeared to be in turmoil. Here, within, they were safe, sheltered, warm.

  Ross came down five minutes later, in a mushroom-coloured sweater and cream slacks, his face glowing, his hair freshly brushed, to find them all in a blissful state of content. He stood in the doorway, watching them. The children were drinking their soup, their big eyes alternately fixed upon the bacon and egg flan in the centre of the table and the flickering firelight. Emma had washed her face, too, and had not bothered to put on make-up. Her skin, innocent of covering,
glowed like one of those childish faces. Her brown eyes were dreamy.

  She glanced round as Ross moved forward. A smile involuntarily lit her face, but it received no return from him. His face was oddly stern, and at her smile it hardened, the brows jerking together.

  What was wrong? she asked herself. Why did he look so angry? Had something happened?

  Quietly, she said, 'Come and drink your soup before it gets cold.'

  He took his seat and lifted his spoon to his lips. Tracy handed him the bread basket and he smiled, taking a piece of bread.

  'Edie made it,' Tracy informed him.

  He tasted it, exclaimed upon its superior texture and taste, and the children all looked satisfied. Edie was already one of their favourite people.

  When they had all feasted upon baked potatoes in their jackets, sliced open and festooned with melting butter; bacon and egg flan and cheese straws, banana fritters and little crisp pinwheel biscuits, Emma took the three children off to bed. Edie begged the favour of actually overseeing their bath and bedtime story. Emma smiled at her, nodded. 'Not a frighty one,' Donna whispered. Edie shook her head, as solemn as the child.

  Emma went back downstairs to find Ross just clearing the table. Silently, she helped. They washed up together. Then Edie came down, shyly put the china and cutlery away, ducking her head away whenever Ross looked at her.

  They settled down around the fire. Emma was carefully darning one of Robin's sweaters. Ross was filling in a sheaf of official forms, his brow wreathed in frowns.

  Edie slipped into the room, whispered that she was 'off to bed' and vanished again before they could do more than say goodnight.

  'I wonder if she'll ever get used to me,' said Ross, his forehead clearing briefly, and a spark of amusement showing in his eyes.

  The telephone rang. Emma, on her way to the kitchen to find a pair of Donna's slacks to mend, answered it instinctively, Ross actually already rising from his chair.

  She recognised the voice at once, her hackles rising at the drawling insolence. 'I want Ross.'

  Wordlessly, Emma held out the receiver. Ross took it, his narrowed glance on her face. Emma left the room. She found Donna's slacks, examined the hole over the knee, looked at the scanty turn-up, and realised that she would have to use a contrasting patch. Fortunately she had an old pair of denims in her own case. She managed to cut two circular pieces from the flared bottoms of her own jeans, and sat in the kitchen to patch Donna's slacks so that each knee showed an identical little patch. Donna's slacks were pink, Emma's jeans had been blue, but the colour contrast was not unpleasant.