Claire widened her eyes. She didn’t mean to, because she was actually trying to look casual and just carry on mixing the salad, feeling just a little guilty that she was listening to gossip about Crawford, but quite unable to stop being interested.
‘The accident. They were out in a boat, and what with those demon rocks out there they met with one of those sudden storms that happen, you know? Somehow he came back, but she was never found, not for weeks, and when she was her parents came for her body. They blamed Master Crawford, and took her back to France and buried her as one of them, and Master Crawford never came back to Bryndor. So you can imagine? It would have been a terrible thing, as things are for him just now, if he had never come back here. And for Miss Maisie and Master John, too, for they always loved him, you know. Always kept in touch, while understanding his not coming back, of course. They perfectly understood that the memories would not go away, as why would they? But now I think all is healed, for which God be praised indeed, all things considered, for he needs to find peace, poor fellow. Well, we all do.’
She sighed, and nodded, finishing with another ‘Indeed’ and turning back to her magnificent old black cooking range.
Up until that evening their meals taken together on the terrace had been jolly affairs, conversation flowing, both at ease with each other. But that evening, without realizing it, Claire must have been quieter than usual, because quite suddenly Crawford downed his fruit knife and jumping up announced that they should go for a bike ride because the moon was more than usually bright, and it was not to be missed.
One of the many entrancing aspects of Bryndor was cycling round the island after dinner, for as the moon came out the dark sea seemed actually to slow under the weight of the night sky above it, forcing the sea to a steadier pace, and as the small cottages at the side of the shore put out their lights and their owners went to sleep, Crawford and Claire would cycle slowly down dark paths illuminated only by the great orb above them, making their way back to their guest cottages the long way, reluctant, as always, to say goodnight to this entrancing place to which Crawford had at last returned to make his peace.
Tonight, as she cycled behind Crawford, Claire could not stop herself from thinking about the tragedy at the centre of Crawford’s life and imagining the awful scenes out there in the dark water somewhere, imagining a young carefree Crawford blaming himself for the rest of his life for what had happened. Perhaps waiting on the shore for days and weeks, always longing for the impossible to happen, for his wife to come back, and then finally unable to come back himself.
‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’ He smiled down at her as they propped their bicycles against the walls of the cottages. ‘I should take ruthless advantage of my generosity if I were you, because your days here are numbered. Only two more nights before you must go back to London, I’m afraid. Marjorie rang this morning, and she is yelling, not calling, for help.’
Claire was there in one as soon as he said it, understanding at once what he was telling her. She was silent for a few seconds. She was going back to London. He was not going back to London.
It was like an exercise in French, or Italian. We are going back to London, they are going back to London, the whole world is going back to London, but not Crawford. Crawford is staying on Bryndor.
‘Come in for a nightcap?’ He repeated his invitation.
‘That would be fun,’ she said, careful to keep her voice even, not to sound surprised or disappointed, and for no reason she thought of all the birds they had seen during their stay, seagulls wheeling, ducks waddling across the sands, wild geese flying in formations as precise as military guards.
Lucky things. They have dangers, yes, but no worries. No such things as fears for the future. No. Why have I got this pain, am I going to be out of a job tomorrow? No pills in bottles, no medicines ending in dyl, no haunting tragedies, just eat and live and feel. And then die.
Claire sat down in a chintz-covered chair in Crawford’s cottage and found herself staring ahead of her, much as Crawford had done after lunch. Only now that she was leaving him did she realize just how much she loved him. It was startling and strange, and yet at the same time it made sense. She loved him for his kindness and sensitivity, for his elegance – even more perhaps for his melancholy, a sadness which she realized somehow matched her own underlying sorrow over her mother. Perhaps it was that more than anything that had drawn them together in the first place, not just the painting, the auction and all that, but those other things about which neither of them could speak, and of which they probably would not speak again, because there was no point.
Some things are better not said. Hope had said that quite often. Just better not said.
There were no goodbyes, just looks.
Crawford looked at Claire and she stared back at him, willing him to know how much she had grown to love him, and he smiled suddenly, a dazzling smile of great certainty, as if he knew. A second later the pilot made a circular motion with one finger in the air to indicate to Crawford that he was intending to lift off, running his last checks on the helicopter, while Claire pressed her face to the window, watching him walking away out of the danger zone, his hands in his pockets.
The moment the pilot began to increase the engine revs he turned back to watch the craft take off, and Claire raised her hand, putting it back to her lips and blowing him a kiss. The man on the ground returned the kiss and waved, and kept waving until the little red helicopter had lifted itself higher and higher into the sky so that the man on the ground became smaller and smaller, and then a dot, and then nothing at all.
He walked back to the house, leaving the tractor behind to pick up John and Maisie who were due in an hour later, and as he followed the earth path he turned once to see if he could catch sight of the helicopter, but it had disappeared completely from his sight into the beyond, leaving the island silent once more, hushed except for the morning birdsong and the sounds of the sea and the trees.
Two hundred yards further on he stopped by one of the lakes and skimmed a pebble across the mirror calm of the waters, watching it duck and drake until it finally lost its impetus and sank swiftly out of sight. He watched a moment longer as the ripples closed and died over the lost stone, then he turned and walked on.
Chapter Nineteen
Her worst nightmare was realized the moment Melinda saw who was down to judge her dressage test, and her second worst was when she saw out of the corner of her eye who had arrived at the last minute not just to watch that same dressage test, but to film it. The first and worst bad dream was Mary Dandridge, a woman with a face like a Sherman tank and a body to match who had a stack of prejudices as far as marking dressage was concerned that would have built a cross country fence.
The second bad omen was Josh Tomm, whom she had assiduously and successfully avoided ever since his return from India. But since there was nothing that Melinda could do about either of them, she turned her attentions to who mattered most at that moment, namely Goosey, and began her warm-up before entering the dressage area, before she had time to think too much. And of course, as always, the moment the Grey Goose started her dressage she became a star. It was as if she was saying, Listen, I may have been a squib on the racecourse, but this I can do, just watch!
And she was good. Melinda knew it, and her groom-for-the-day Barley knew it, and it seemed to Melinda that Goosey knew it. They had been good. No, they had been better than good, they had been almost brilliant. Not Olympic standard, but what Jack would call ‘coming very close, Mellie’.
‘Want to see it? I’ve – I’ve – I’ve got Dad’s video in the back of my – of my – of my van?’
Melinda had forgotten about Josh’s hesitation, and looking down at where he was standing to the side of her and Goosey, she found that she had forgotten a great many other things about him too. She had forgotten how like a young Jack he looked, and how sweet his expression was – always so anxious. Most of all she had forgotten, in all the hurly-bu
rly of the past, just how kind he was. People did forget things, but then they suddenly came back again, the whole niceness of someone, it came back, and this was what had happened to her, she had forgotten that whole rounded niceness of Josh.
‘Sure, I’d love to see the video.’
Melinda would have loved to pretend that she didn’t want to see it, of course she would, because she had pride, and she had been hurt by Josh’s not coming round to see them when Letty and James were at Keeper’s, or writing to her about Hope, all those things that can make someone feel unreasonably hurt when they are being hurt by everything so much. But now that Josh was walking beside her and they were going back to join Barley at the box, and then to walk together to view the video, all the hurt seemed to have gone away, and she found that there was nothing to say any more, about anything, and what she might once have said was unnecessary anyway.
Some things are best unsaid, some things are better just left.
She frowned. Someone she knew had often said that to her. Aunt Rosabel, was it? No, of course – Mums. She often said that, and it seemed, now that Melinda thought about it, that it was true. Some things were better left unsaid, perhaps for ever.
‘All right, let’s do some unbiased judging, shall we?’ Melinda turned to Barley and shrugged her shoulders. ‘What mark would you give us?’
The tall, good-looking blonde also shrugged her shoulders, hesitating, and then said, ‘Well – I’d say nineteen and that’s being tough, really. Being normal I’d give you both a seventeen, I think.’
Melinda was quiet for a second. Barley was a good judge. She was pleased. Goosey had been brilliant. ‘Josh?’
Josh gave his sudden smile. ‘Whatever you say, boss! I know – nothing.’
Melinda smiled, while at the same time raising her eyes to heaven. ‘You wait for Frau Kleb and her method of marking. I expect it’ll be forty.’
Josh followed them both, all the while humping his camera with him. ‘Uh huh, I always forget that the low marks are brilliant and the high marks are crap in dressage,’ he muttered.
Electing to walk the show jumping course with them he listened as the two girls sighed over the twists and turns and changes of rein and direction that would be needed. As with most event tracks horse and rider were being asked everything, and that was all before the cross country.
To make matters worse, as Melinda was warming Goosey up in the practice ring the skies which had been clear until then slowly began to darken and in the distance thunder rumbled over the hills.
‘This is all we need, Goosey,’ Melinda muttered, with an eye to the heavens as they trotted round. ‘A rainstorm and slippery ground. Thanks a lot, God!’
Sure enough the moment the bell rang for them to start their round, the heavens opened. But this was no ordinary shower, this was a storm of monsoon proportions, the heavy rain falling in sheets, whipped up by a sudden wind so that on certain sections of the track Melinda could hardly see the jumps. Yet somehow the miracle happened and the mare jumped clear, never even touching timber nor once losing her footing in the atrocious conditions. And as the announcer proclaimed their clear round the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sun shone on the rest of the competitors in Melinda’s section.
‘And many thanks again, God!’
Despite the harsh dressage marks the partnership had been in sixth place, which with exactly three hundred and fifty horses competing was better than any of them predicted. Now with the show jumping phase over and the scores posted on Friday evening, Melinda found that she had moved up a place and was now lying fifth overnight. Both the leaders had also jumped clear to stay on their dressage scores of seventeen and nineteen respectively. At this point Josh went back to the Mill House to report back to Jack and try to sleep, while Melinda and Barley stayed the night, having borrowed a friend’s box, a luxurious affair, complete with cooking and showering arrangements.
Melinda and Josh walked the cross country course early the following morning. It was Melinda’s second time, and as they walked silently round she kept chewing her finger nails and silently counting between the jumps while staring at the ground. The fact was, the course was so difficult, it might as well have been Intermediate, not novice.
Halfway round Josh removed her nails from her mouth, quietly but insistently. ‘You won’t have any fingers left to ride.’
‘Not biting, just eating, really.’
‘Chewing.’
‘If I get round, if we get round, I will give up chewing for ever,’ she promised.
‘D – deal.’
‘Deal.’
By now they were standing at a combination with two arrowheads.
‘There’s no way anyone is going to make the time going the safe route,’ Melinda went on. ‘It’s got to be the sorry route.’ She tapped the arrowhead. ‘And let’s just hope we won’t be. Sorry, I mean.’
Two hours later, having been despatched by the starter on the Roads and Tracks and Steeplechase section, Melinda was glad to be off at last. In fact the word ‘Go!’ and the sight of the starter dropping his flag was the greatest. No more chewing anything, nails, fingers, the cud – she was off and so was Goosey, but only a second after Melinda had set her stopwatch.
Since she was an ex-racehorse the main problem with the mare was control. She had to go fast not to get any penalty points, but if she got her head and took over when Melinda shook her up, there could well be chaos on what was meant to be their sedate walk and trot back home.
The first steeplechase fence was one of the worst and had already claimed several victims, being built on a rise with a sudden and very real drop on the landing side. Since the run to it was uphill, to the novice horse it would seem it was being asked to jump into space, so it took skill and courage on both the rider’s and the animal’s part to jump it quickly and accurately. For one moment, one heart-stopping palpitating moment, Melinda felt Goosey check and thought she was going to refuse, so she gathered the mare up just slightly, taking her back in her hands, squeezing firmly with her legs so Goosey just kept up her momentum. In answer the grey mare flew the fence, landing well clear of the drop.
The next two fences she flew. And after that, the fourth, where other horses had skidded and had to be checked in order to find the line, thus losing precious seconds, Goosey went round the corner on wheels and flicked over the fence.
Hooking left again after the fourth, to line up for the long straight run to three more fences and the finish, Melinda knew the point had come to press the button, so sitting and squeezing she allowed Goosey to run; and run she did, true as an arrow, picking off the last three fences at full racing clip before galloping flat out for the finish, which was not that easy, seeing that they were meant to slow down and pull up just the other side of a narrow farm gateway. Yet when she sat back and asked the mare to come back, miracle of miracles, Goosey did, albeit giving an enormous buck of celebration as she did so.
‘Behave yourself, you great grey goose,’ Melinda muttered, reaching forward and pulling at the mare’s ears. ‘You are now going to have to start to walk like an old lady with a shopping basket.’
Of that nonsense Goosey was not having any, and she promptly proceeded to walk out on the homeward section of roads and tracks as if she had just come out of her box first thing of a morning, overtaking other competing horses, and coming onto the racecourse and into the park proper with her tank still brim full, and as far as her support team could make out – as they hurried to welcome her into the ten minute box – no penalties.
Ten minutes. That was all they had to cool the horse down, rub her off, grease her legs and prepare her for the stiffest part of the trial yet, namely nineteen cross country fences.
The night before, Jack had shaken his head at Josh’s description of just the preliminaries. ‘Only the good old British cavalry could invent something like eventing to train their horses for battle. No wonder they were the best in the world!’
As they fussed around
the Grey Goose it was Barley who spotted it first, only a moment before Melinda was to be legged up.
‘She’s lost a shoe!’
Somewhere on the roads and tracks section she had lost a shoe, and there were only three minutes left.
‘Quickly! Josh! Find a farrier!’
Barley and Josh ended up flying in opposite directions, Josh to collar the large and amiable farrier who had just finished reshoeing another competitor’s horse, and Barley to intercept one of the officials who was on his way to the start box. Explaining what had happened, Josh, his hesitation at its worst in the excitement of the moment, persuaded the man to drop the mare down a place, which was well within the rules but quite without his ideas of what should happen.
‘I think I ber – ber – bored him into doing it!’ he told Melinda later.
Back to the mare and Melinda, and now Josh plunged his hand inside his Barbour and brought out a twenty pound note.
‘Can you sher – sher – sher – shoe …’
‘In five minutes?’ Melinda put in as Barley flew back across the grass with the spare set of shoes they never travelled without.
‘For twenty quid?’ The farrier stuck the note between his teeth and carried on talking and shoeing at the same time. ‘For twenty quid I can shoe her in four!’
Goosey stood as still as she had ever stood as the farrier pulled off one shoe and started to fit the next, but even he was beginning to sweat as Melinda called out the seconds and minutes, until finally, it was done, and everyone seemed to be legging Melinda up at the same time, and the start box appeared fifty miles away not fifty yards, and Barley was shouting up to her, ‘Don’t forget your watch! Remember what happened at Longleat!’
‘I know, it was me riding, remember!’
‘Kick on coming up the hill.’
‘Horse number 213!’ an official called from the start box, and they were all patting Goosey’s rump and shouting various forms of ‘Good luck.’
Love Song Page 38
