Inherit the Skies

by Janet Tanner

  Hugh had done his best to engage her attention without success. She remained warm towards him but in an even more sisterly way than Alicia and he cursed the fact that he had been the one to establish the friendly relationship in the first place. He had done it because he felt sorry for her, of course, so little and lost and with everyone hating and resenting her. Now he wished he had been more distant – cruel even. That way she might have admired, rather than liking, him, and he would have had a base from which to work when even the slightest courtesy or kindness would have been noticed and remarked upon. As it was he was ‘good old Hugh’ – and that was not an enviable position nor the way to raise interest for an amorous encounter. When he smiled at her she smiled back just as she always had, apparently quite unaware of the way she was making his heart pound, when he drew her into conversations she responded with her customary unaffected eagerness. Even when he touched her she seemed unmoved and totally oblivious of the havoc she was wreaking in him. Only when he had once been bold enough to brush his hand against her breast had there been any response; the colour had rushed to her face like an echo of the blood that was congesting his body and for a heady moment he had thought she was excited as he was by the contact. That delightful notion had been quickly dispelled. Her eyes had flipped up to meet his briefly but they expressed horror, not coquetry, and she had turned away in something like panic.

  Far from discouraging Hugh this reaction had stirred new depths of excitement. Nobody had ever touched her breasts before, he was certain of it. He had been the first. The dark excitement ran through his veins like a current of electricity from the transformer in the outbuildings, making his skin prick and his bones turn to water. He began to wonder how those breasts would feel without several layers of material to mask the contact and what they would look like. Hugh had never seen a woman unclothed – except of course Alicia, and she was as flat chested as a boy. He and some of his friends at school had pored over a collection of photographs one of the chaps had smuggled in – half-naked girls in strange poses which the photographer had clearly thought erotic but which to the boys had seemed faintly ridiculous for all their avid and vociferous appreciation of the female form. But the girls in the photographs had all been plump with voluptuous bottoms and big solid thighs and their uncorseted breasts had been heavy as over-ripe melons. Sarah, he had decided, fell somewhere between these two extremes, and he began to be obsessed with the desire to explore her.

  When he had suggested the trip out in the Rolls he had held his breath, terrified she might refuse. But she had accepted eagerly with only the one small hesitation: ‘Are you sure your father won’t mind?’

  Anticipation coursing through him had made him bold.

  ‘Why should he? I’m allowed to drive the Rolls.’

  She knew this was true. What she did not know was that he had never before driven it unsupervised and was hoping that Gilbert would not learn he was going to do so now.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she had said, smiling so that the dimples played in her cheeks and he felt the familiar heat prickling at the most sensitive parts of his body.

  Now as he turned into the Home Farm track he saw her waiting for him outside the house. She was wearing a gingham dress and a wide straw hat tied under the chin with a chiffon scarf. She waved and he accelerated in a cloud of dust, unable to resist showing off his prowess, then slowed to a juddering halt beside her.

  ‘Hello there! You’re all ready then.’

  ‘I’ve been ready for an hour,’ she said ingenuously. ‘You don’t know how nice it is to get away from Mrs Misery for an afternoon. I was terrified she’d find some job for me to do that would make me late so I’ve kept well out of her way.’

  ‘Mrs Misery’ was Sarah’s name for Bertha; she had names for everyone and it amused him. Lawrence was ‘Sobersides’, Leo was ‘Creepy Crawlie’. Privately she also called Alicia ‘Miss Wasp’ but she had not dared tell Hugh of this label for she was afraid he would not take kindly to it. He and Alicia were very close.

  Mrs Pugh however was fair game for a shared joke. He laughed as he climbed down from the motor with fluid athletic grace.

  ‘If she had I’d have dealt with her personally,’ he said airily. ‘Now, you had better put on this dustcoat, Sarah. I brought a spare one especially for you.’

  He held it for her while she slipped her arms into the voluminous white sleeves. The dust coat reached almost to the ground and laughing she did a little dance for him. He laughed with her, a little regretfully, for the dustcoat completely hid her lovely figure but it was essential to wear it if she was not to get her dress filthy especially on a dry day like today when the wheels sent up a fine haze of dust at even the slowest of speeds.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as he helped her up into the Rolls.

  ‘Do you know Bury Woods?’

  She shook her head. She knew every inch of the countryside within walking distance but with a motor it was possible to go much further afield. Hugh had planned and scouted; Bury Woods was, he thought, the perfect place.

  As he drove Sarah watched intently.

  ‘I wish I could have a turn,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps you can later.’

  They were on a straight stretch of road now and he built the speed up steadily until they were travelling at almost forty miles an hour. He stole a glance at her; the wind was whipping up the colour in her cheeks, her eyes were shining and the chiffon scarf framed her face, accentuating the heart-shaped bone structure. He looked away quickly. At that moment driving the motor required all his concentration. There would be plenty of time later for drinking in Sarah.

  ‘Fancy your father going to France!’ she shouted over the noise of the engine. ‘ Do you really think this Mr Santos What-ever-his-name-is will be able to build a machine that will fly?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he shouted back. ‘ The Wright brothers are doing it in America.’

  ‘Really flying? Like a bird?’

  ‘They are only doing short hops at the moment. I think they thought they had cracked it a couple of years ago when they invited all the newspapers to watch them but that was a bit of a flop and no-one seems to take them seriously any more. But yes, I’m sure it will come. It’s only a matter of time now, a few refinements and lots of trial and error. One of these days we shall see men up there with the birds – and not too far in the future if you ask me.’

  ‘And this Santos man is doing it too?’

  ‘Yes. Father was really excited at the chance to see the progress he is making.’ He broke off to slow down to execute a bend. The Rolls was really living up to his expectations and he was enjoying himself immensely.

  ‘You know what I think?’ he said when they were safely around the bend and onto another straight stretch. ‘I think Father would like to build engines for flying machines.’

  ‘Your father? At Morse Motors?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘Why not? Someone has to. Father has always been one to look to the future. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he doesn’t have so much to do with the works these days and I can’t see Lawrence being very keen to take that sort of risk. You know what a stick-in-the-mud he is.’

  ‘Old Sobersides?’ Sarah said, laughing. ‘ He would do what your father told him to though, surely?’

  ‘On yes, he’d do that all right. Lawrence always does what Father tells him.’ There was faint sarcasm in his voice.

  Her brows came together.

  ‘We shouldn’t make fun of Lawrence, Hugh. He’s really nice. And he can’t help it if he’s a bit …’

  ‘A bit of a sobersides?’ Hugh suggested.

  She laughed again. ‘ Well – yes!’

  The hedges, thick with tall white cowparsley, sped by; in some of the banks there were flashes of purple willow herb and mallow and pale clusters of dog roses. From the elevated seat of the Rolls they could see over the hedges to the meadows where herds of cows grazed, black and white Friesians like the cows at Home Farm a
nd some reddish brown Jersey cattle, sleek and handsome. There were cornfields too, brilliant gold in the sunshine and dotted with vermillion silk poppies, and beyond them the hills were varying patches of green and gold that reached up to touch the periwinkle blue of the sky. The road was almost deserted; once they passed a wagon lumbering along and once a smart brougham, otherwise they might have been the only two people in the world.

  Another bend, another dip, and the hedges on one side of the road became trees, thickening gradually into an area of natural woodland. The sun filtered through them in dizzying patterns and Sarah raised her hand to shade her eyes as the kaleidoscope of light and shade assailed them. Half a mile or so further on Hugh slowed the car and turned in between a space in the trees, steering carefully along the natural path between the bushes and gnarled old trunks, then coming to a stop in a clearing.

  ‘This is as far as we can go. It gets thicker in a minute.’

  Sarah rose from the seat and leaped down before he could come around to help her. She had enjoyed her ride, now she was eager to stretch her legs and explore. She ran a few yards, her boots scuffing the covering of last year’s dead leaves, stretched out her arms and spun in a circle.

  ‘What a lovely place! It’s so quiet – and so cool!’

  ‘Aren’t you going to take off your dustcoat?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ She skipped back to the motor, slipped off the voluminous dustcoat and laid it on the seat. ‘See, I’m already such a seasoned motorist I quite forgot I was wearing it!’

  I didn’t, Hugh thought, relieved to be treated once more to a view of those delectable curves as she pirouetted beneath the trees.

  ‘Wait for me!’ he called, his voice not quite steady. ‘I have to get the picnic basket. Besides, you don’t know the way.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ she called gaily.

  He unloaded the picnic basket and they started down one of the leafy paths walking Indian fashion. As he watched the sway of her trim hips his heart began to thud again. The wood grew thicker, the sun only a glimmer now through the branches of the tall trees, and the ground began to slope downwards. At one point it became a steep bank; she scrambled nimbly down and he followed more slowly, balancing himself by holding onto branches as he manoeuvred the heavy picnic basket. Then all at once the wood ended and they were back in a sunlit meadow, encompassed by the curve of the wood and sloping gently towards a lazy ribbon of river.

  ‘This will do, won’t it?’ he said.

  ‘I want to explore!’

  ‘Let’s eat first. I don’t want to have to lug this basket around all afternoon.’

  ‘All right then!’ The fresh air had made her hungry. She threw herself down on a tussock of grass, spreading her skirts and lifting them high enough to expose a pair of neat calves. The blood pounded at his temples. He turned away setting down the picnic basket.

  ‘Let’s see what Cook has packed for us,’ he suggested.

  ‘You open it.’ She was untying the chiffon scarf, tossing her hat down onto the grass beside her, shaking out her lovely nut-brown hair. He could not look at her, so hard was his heart beating.

  On top of the food was a checked tablecloth and a tartan carriage rug.

  ‘No wonder the basket was so heavy!’ he remarked. ‘I suppose Cook thought I might get a chill sitting on the damp grass.’

  ‘It’s not damp,’ she objected.

  ‘No, but you know how cautious Cook is. Ne’er cast a clout till May be out,’ he quoted.

  ‘May’s been out a long time. It’s July now.’

  ‘That wouldn’t make a bit of difference to Cook!’ They both laughed. ‘Do you want to sit on the rug?’

  ‘No. I’d rather feel the grass tickling my knees.’

  ‘It’s all right for you. I’ll probably get grass stains on my trousers. Come on, we may as well since she has put it in for us.’ He did not add that sharing a rug was a good excuse for getting closer to her. He spread the rug and the tablecloth and began setting out the goodies – sandwiches and slab cake, cut into thick slices, some hand-raised pork pie and a flagon of dandelion wine.

  ‘What a spread!’ Sarah commented enthusiastically.

  Hugh uncorked the flagon and poured some wine into the two mugs which had been carefully packed into linen serviettes.

  ‘Have some, Sarah.’

  ‘Thank you. I must say I’m quite thirsty.’ She drank, then giggled. ‘Shan’t we get tipsy, though, on this stuff?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Cook would never have given it to us if she thought it was that strong,’ he said but it was a pleasant thought all the same – if Sarah was slightly tipsy she might be less likely to object to what he had in mind.

  They began tucking into the food though for once Hugh found he was unable to eat as heartily as usual and he marvelled at the enthusiastic way Sarah was disposing of a slice of pie. Alicia ate so sparingly, forever thinking of her waistline, but Sarah had no such inhibitions. When at last they had finished he threw himself back full length on the rug, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on his face, but Sarah leaped to her feet.

  ‘Come on, lazybones, I thought we were going to explore!’

  ‘Not for a minute.’

  ‘Yes! Come on!’ She grabbed his hand, tugging. For a moment he resisted thinking how easy it would be to pull her down beside him. Then before he could act on the idea she let go his hand, dancing away. ‘ Well I’m going to if you’re not!’ she called over her shoulder as she made for the river. He watched her flying hair and petticoats then got to his feet and ran after her, catching her easily with his long athletic strides.

  By the river it was cool again. Sarah took off her boots and waded in, squealing as the pebbles tickled her toes and bunching up her skirts. A moorhen scuttled from the opposite bank; in the shallows minnows darted beneath her bare feet. He rolled up his trousers and followed suit, still wondering if the opportunity to touch those lovely rounded breasts would ever come. She kicked up a little water at him, laughing, teasing, but not in a flirting manner, and he began to despair. A whole afternoon alone with Sarah and still she was behaving like a child let out of school … though he laughed with her, frustration was beginning to smoulder within him.

  ‘You’re making me wet,’ he objected.

  ‘It’ll soon dry in the sun,’ she scoffed. ‘You sound more like old Sobersides. Don’t say you’re going to grow up like him – to be no fun at all!’

  He made a grab for her then but she eluded him, wading back to the bank, standing there tantalisingly while he followed more slowly to avoid soaking his rolled-up trousers.

  Surely she knew what she was doing to him! he thought with mounting irritation. Not even Sarah could be that naive.

  She led the dash back up the field, reached the rug and threw herself down on it wringing the water out of the hem of her dress.

  ‘And you were worried about getting wet!’ she teased. ‘ Just look at me!’

  ‘I am looking,’ he said.

  She jerked her head up, startled, and he saw the guarded look that was suddenly there in her eyes. She dropped the hem of her skirt abruptly.

  ‘We had better pack up the picnic things.’

  Again he cursed. He knelt beside her, more aware than ever of her nearness, yet still apprehensive about her reaction if he should make a move. The easiness between them was momentarily lost. He banged the plates into a corner of the picnic basket and heard her squeal. Swivelling his head he saw that she had lifted the remains of the fruitcake and disturbed a wasp; it was now buzzing angrily around her. He grabbed a serviette and flapped at it.

  ‘Don’t!’ she ordered, her voice a little panicky. ‘You’ll make it angry and it will sting!’

  ‘I’ll kill it.’

  ‘No you won’t – you’ll just make it angry. Cook says …’

  The wasp flew out of range of Hugh’s flailing serviette and suddenly he knew what he was going to do.

  They continued packing up the picnic basket,
Sarah bending over it to arrange things neatly. Her hair was swinging over her shoulders; where it had parted he could see the nape of her neck, smooth, pale and enticing.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, his voice uneven.

  She froze. ‘What …?’

  ‘That wasp. It’s in your hair. No!’ as she made a quick panicky movement, ‘ stay quite still or it will sting you. I’ll get it.’

  She froze again, shoulders tense, neck rigid. He reached out and touched her hair. It felt silky soft. His throat was so tight he could scarcely breathe. He spread his fingers and felt a tremor run through her.

  ‘Hugh …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘ It’s gone.’

  She began to turn her head but he left his hand where it was, feeling her hair slip through his fingers. She was trembling but in his excitement he scarcely noticed. He caught her shoulder, turning her into his arms and she buried her face in him, half-sobbing. Slowly he moved his hand around her neck, astonished at the softness of it beneath his fingers, stroking, gentling. For a moment they remained there, kneeling together and he let his other hand slip down a little from her shoulder towards her breast. The desire was pounding in him now. As his fingers touched her breast she stiffened, drawing back a little, as though startled yet unwilling to believe the contact was deliberate and he could restrain himself no longer. He grabbed her breast, cupping it and squeezing, and felt the shock wave reverberate through her body.

  ‘Hugh!’

  He held her firm. ‘Don’t move! Oh Sarah …’

  ‘No!’ she breathed, wriggling away.

  The movement of her breast beneath his hand only increased his fever. It felt even better than he had anticipated in his wildest dreams, firm yet soft, like a ripe peach, filling the palm of his hand.