She watched as he knocked on the study door opposite. A low voice came from within the room.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. James.”
“Come in.”
He pressed down the black wrought-iron latch, and opened the door. Juliet saw Craig, seated alone before the computer screen. He turned his face in James’s direction as his mentor entered. Juliet registered Craig’s dejected expression.
James hadn’t closed the door behind him, and Juliet could see and hear the two.
Craig spoke first. “I need a break from the notes on the accounts.”
“Page-turning stuff?” James moved out of Juliet’s line of vision, and she heard him taking another chair.
Craig sucked his breath in between his teeth. “We’re in a mess.”
“So I guessed.”
Craig nodded. “Expenditure’s way above forecast, and income’s static. My father reckons he’s thrown money at this place, and we’ve nothing to show for it.”
James gave an impatient exclamation. “Nothing that he values. But everything you and I value is here in plenty.”
“True. But I’ve been wondering. Am I too extravagant?”
James scoffed. “Of course not.”
“Hmm. The antiques, the first editions, the wines… Talking of the wines, we seem to be getting through those at a rate of knots.”
“Can’t cut back. Ruin the spirit of the place,” said James.
“Perhaps. But I’m a bit stumped by the champagne.”
“The champagne? Why?”
“There’s hardly any left.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that,” said Craig. “Had a word with Patrick after breakfast. He says a case of Dom Perignon is missing. A dozen bottles.”
James tutted several times. “You think we have a secret indulger?”
“Looks like it,” said Craig. “Particularly worrying, now my father’s checking us over and finding fault where he can.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Tomorrow we’ll be up on the eastern ridge at daybreak for the summer solstice. We’ve enough champagne for that, haven’t we?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. I’ll find out what’s happened. Sure there’ll be a simple explanation.”
“Thanks, that would be a great help. But, another thing, James…” Craig indicated the computer screen. “Take a look.”
Silence fell for several moments. Juliet waited. Then James spoke once more. “Perhaps I’m biased, because I came up with the idea for this project in the first place.”
Craig nodded.
“It’s vital we make this thing succeed,” continued James. “Defeat isn’t an option. Don’t give in to him. We’ll sort it.”
“How?”
“Through increasing our income, of course.” James swept out his arms in a vigorous, authoritative manner within Juliet’s line of vision. “New recruits. That’s what we need. And I know where to get them.”
“Where?”
“I have contacts.” And with this, James jumped up and strode from the room. The door swung closed behind him. Juliet flattened herself against the panelling as he swept past, a new energy in his step, and hurried importantly down the main staircase.
So James was going to fix it, was he? She acknowledged to herself it was no bad thing to discover hidden depths in people. But she wouldn’t have thought James had it in him. After all, this rather pretentious academic with the curious taste for brief appearances as a tramp, would on first acquaintance not have struck her as the mover and shaker behind this operation.
Her thoughts turned to Craig. At that moment the study door opened again without warning and Craig came out. She held her breath. But he failed to notice her, and instead rushed past, in the same direction James had taken.
For one moment she paused. Craig had disappeared. She moved forward to the open doorway. Looking in, she saw a buff folder with a mess of papers on the desk, and a tracksuit top thrown carelessly over the chair.
She went quickly in, and quietly looked through the papers. Accounts sheets, printouts of online bank statements, receipts, credit card statements, final demands. Pages of handwritten sums and angry crossings-out and curt notes.
Her eyes fell upon the tracksuit top. It was Craig’s jade-green one. She could just see a silver panther key-ring hanging out of the pocket. She moved quickly, grabbed the bunch of keys, and went back round to the front of the desk. The first key she tried fitted the top drawer. She opened it.
A jumble of items met her eye. Biscuit wrappers, sellotape, loose rubber bands, open tube of glue. It seemed out of character for him to be so disorganised. The headscarf was still there, under the other things: and the piece of charred timber. She lifted it out and turned it in her hand to inspect it. She didn’t know what to make of it. Fire-blackened. Was it from this house? Or from somewhere else? What did it mean? And why did he keep it in his desk drawer?
Then her fingers made contact with a folded wad of notepaper. She took it out, opened it up, and realised it was a handwritten letter. Not very legible. Blobs of inks on several lines indicated a cheap ballpoint pen had been used. No address at the top. But there was a date, quite a recent one, only a couple of weeks ago. And below that, simply a salutation.
My darling Craig…
She shouldn’t be reading this. But she wasn’t going to stop now.
I think of you so much. There followed several sentences she could not decipher, only a word or phrase here and there: when you first came... guilt... now… you’ve forgiven me...
Her interest quickening, she turned the sheet over and scanned the next page: pain...mess…remain here...don’t run away...desperate to see you again...come as soon as you can.
She heard the floorboards creaking outside in the corridor. Quickly she folded the letter and put it with the other notepaper back where she’d found it. She locked the drawer and snatched out the key. Then she slipped round and stuffed the bunch on the key-ring into the tracksuit pocket. The footsteps were nearly at the door now.
Diving round in front of the desk again she squatted down low, out of view. Someone came into the room and stopped. They appeared to be waiting for something.
Her heart was pounding, but she remained silent. Whoever it was walked across to the chair, and then back to the door again and out of the room.
When all was quiet again she stealthily rose. The tracksuit top, together with the contents of its pocket, had gone. Her thoughts and her feelings were a chaotic mix.
Who was that letter from? Whoever it was loved Craig. And he looked at the letter often she guessed, certainly whenever he was in his study. It was highly emotionally charged. Certainly enough for him to keep it safely locked away from prying eyes. The writer seemed to be pleading with him to come. But come where? And the writer also mentioned guilt. Though Craig had apparently forgiven this person, whoever they might be.
She burned with curiosity. Was this a girl he loved? And if so, where did that leave Zoe? Without a doubt, Juliet could not tell anyone about it, not Don, not Zoe, no one. And if Craig knew she’d sneaked in and read it, he’d throw her out at once.
But she must find out who it was. How, she had no idea. What could she do now to try and reassemble some rational thoughts? Brisk exercise. That would do it. She slipped back up to her room, changed into jogging trousers, sweatshirt and trainers, then set off again.
She knew the route well now: across the car park, over the stile and through the woodland, where she hoped to find a cooler temperature. But steady heat and a still atmosphere meant that she soon felt rather overdressed. She’d have been better off in shorts and strappy top. Zoe would have chosen to dress like that without thinking twice. She headed up to the ridge via the pasture.
“I see you’ve had the same idea as me,” said a voice behind her.
“Ah! Llewellyn!”
He looked jaunty as ever, fresh and eager, with his thick wing
of hair flopping over his forehead. She could never imagine him sharing Oleg’s depressed states. She wondered if he had any mysterious ongoing relationships outside the community. Or any highly charged letters hidden in his room. Still, she undoubtedly had more to learn yet about this Welshman.
They walked side by side, exchanging occasional remarks, until they reached the top of the ridge. All the time, by an effort of will, she forced herself not to think about Craig, and his letter. Not for more than a few seconds at a time, anyway.
For several moments then, they stood in silence, gazing at the Severn Vale spread out before them.
“Almost as good as the view from Beaumaris,” he observed wistfully.
“Looking across the Menai Strait to Snowdonia, you mean?” she said. “Beautiful.”
He regarded her warmly, clearly touched by her empathy.
“I might be a Londoner,” she said, “but I do appreciate the countryside. And I love North Wales.”
“I’m so happy to hear that,” said Llewellyn.
A companionable silence fell between them, as they turned their attention back to the landscape. It was broken by the Welshman. “I wish there was more contentment among the others down there in the valley.”
“Yes, peace seems in short supply, doesn’t it?”
“It’s inevitable you’ve noticed, Juliet. I dread to think what you’ll have uncovered by the time you leave.”
She chuckled but made no reply. Her stomach still felt twisted. Craig… Craig… she thought.
“You probably wonder why I defended the group when we first met,” he said, “and I persuaded Don and you to come to Dynamic Meditation. It’s because I believe in the principles behind it all.”
“Maybe. But do those principles work out in practice? I certainly didn’t expect to find this level of frustration, anxiety and anger. I’ve found it in Oleg, Zoe, Sam…” She would certainly not mention Craig’s name.
“I don’t deny that,” Llewellyn said. “But, for my part, I’m convinced I’m in the right place. OK, we’ve all brought our hang-ups with us. And that prevents it from being paradise. But would paradise inspire me as much?”
“Surely it would.” She liked his grin. “It was good enough for Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson, wasn’t it?”
“No. Poets need this imperfect world. What sort of effect d’you think La Belle Dame Sans Merci had on Keats? Hardly the ideal relationship, was it?”
“No,” she admitted. “I’ll take your word for it, Llewellyn.”
But what she really wanted to know was who wrote that letter to Craig.
Llewellyn didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then he said, “Let’s talk instead about your part in this, Juliet.”
“Mine?” She was immediately on guard.
“Yes, you, of course, Juliet,” he said impatiently. “You’ve changed everything.”
She threw a glance at him, and stumbled over a tree root, which nearly winded her. “How so?” she said, regaining her balance. “I’m only here as a journalist, Llewellyn.”
“No, you’re not,” he said unexpectedly.
“Oh?”
“Last night,” he added, “was a step in the right direction.”
“A step in what direction?” she asked.
“In the direction of getting to know you better.”
“I hope you haven’t misunderstood me,” she said. “I enjoyed reading and talking about your poems, but…”
“Come on, I want to know what you really feel; not just about the poetry but about many things.”
She shook her head. “That’s not in my plan, Llewellyn.”
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans,” he quoted in a flippant manner. Then he laughed. “Let’s see how long you can keep me going before I run you to ground.”
Whether his flushed appearance resulted from the emotions stirred up by his last remark, it was difficult to tell. She chose not to pursue the subject any further; it seemed wisest that way. She felt she needed to tread warily with the Welshman. He smiled again, and they walked back to the farmhouse.
Their chat remained casual during that time. All the while, though, her emotions were agitated. It was bad enough Zoe making pointed remarks about Craig’s supposed feelings for her… and then finding that highly personal letter from somebody else he was clearly very close to. So many deep feelings were involved. Love… guilt… forgiveness. What was going on?
She chided herself. Stop thinking about it. Llewellyn will start to suspect something.
As they approached the house, he turned and said, “Juliet?”
“Yes?”
“Do you trust Craig?”
She felt herself flush. He looked at her with a slight frown.
“I’m interested in what led him to set this place up,” she said quickly. “Wonder where he got his inspiration from. James has quite an influence, doesn’t he?”
“Sort of, I suppose,” he said. “But you don’t want to worry too much about that.”
“Worth taking note of, though, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. A few moments passed. Then he said, “Will you share all your concerns with Don?”
She was puzzled by his tone. “Why do you ask?”
His face seemed to have shut down. “Excuse me.” He stepped past her and disappeared.
What was that all about?
That night at dinner, Juliet noticed Don’s mood had definitely plummeted since they’d last met. She suspected he’d been looking at his notes on the accounts again, and found them even more depressing than he’d previously supposed. Certainly she’d been on the receiving end of a few sharp words. His demeanour was echoed by that of Beth, who’d been persuaded to swap places with Llewellyn.
This arrangement clearly met with Oleg’s approval. He looked bright for the first time Juliet could remember, because Beth was next to him. But Juliet wished Beth would reciprocate, and loosen up and show some warmth to Oleg. His hopes at this moment were touchingly transparent.
Meanwhile, Juliet knew the poet had manoeuvred the situation to suit not so much Oleg but himself, so he might be close to Juliet. This evening, having first taken Beth’s place, he’d then moved up two and claimed Don’s seat before he got there, to win the role of Juliet’s neighbour. Well, that was all right, if he merely wanted to be her next interviewee. Though she suspected that wasn’t his prime motive.
Don looked none too pleased at the situation when he arrived. Meanwhile, the well satisfied poet absorbed Juliet’s attention with his chatter. Beth for her part kept darting yearning looks down the table at Craig. Soon Oleg’s euphoria vanished, owing no doubt to Beth’s coldness. Juliet felt sorry for Oleg. All Beth needed to do was back off from Craig a bit and give the poor guy a bit of encouragement.
Juliet studied the candles. Tonight they were all black. This surprised her; it even gave a rather macabre impression. Perhaps it had something to do with Craig’s ritual for midsummer. Then she realised the Buddha was missing from the seat next to Al, and remembered that tonight they were expecting a new guest: Theo, the unorthodox clergyman. She wondered what difference he might make to the group, and whether he’d be willing to join them at dawn to greet the summer solstice.
Meanwhile Craig was moving up the table behind the chairs with a long taper, lighting the candles. He looked very much in command – of the occasion, of himself, of his role here. Who would have thought that raw, vulnerable letter lay in his desk drawer?
“Tonight is the eve of the summer solstice. With these candles we welcome the dark,” he declaimed.
Llewellyn and Rory were both leaning forward talking to each other; and behind their backs Don and Juliet exchanged a questioning look. They appeared to be the only ones slightly puzzled by the ritual. Was this emphasis on the dark appropriate or wise, for the uneasy emotional state the group was in?
Craig returned to seat himself once more at the head of the table. “All concentrate on the candles for thi
rty seconds, then come together.”
James, impeccably attired in a burgundy velvet jacket with a white carnation in the buttonhole, appeared calm and composed. But the glitter Juliet noticed in his eye seemed to belie this. He gave Don a brief nod, not quite friendly, but civil. Juliet checked her Nagra, which sat on a small chair just behind hers. She had permission to make recordings during dinner so long as she was reasonably unobtrusive about it, and she meant to use her opportunity to the full. The levels seemed OK and she could just see her mike behind the nearest bowl of roses in the middle of the table, positioned so as to pick up the voices of those opposite. She wore a clip-mike on her jacket to record the words of her neighbours.
“Let me know if I’m monopolising you,” said Llewellyn, close to her ear.
“I will,” she replied evenly. “Right now I’m glad to see you so eager to be interviewed.”
At the other end of their side of the table, next to Laura, Edgar shuffled notes on his clipboard. It appeared that he insisted on bringing these to the dinner table with him. Was he afraid someone would steal them if he left them unattended for a moment? Al came in from the kitchen wearing a large canvas apron over a flamboyant checked shirt, and placed the dish of the day on the table.
“Which transatlantic recipe’s on the menu tonight?” asked Patrick.
“Steak and fries?” enquired James. He looked like a senior member of the Washington Administration who’d just received news that the CIA had caught America’s Public Enemy Number One. Juliet wondered what he’d been up to since she last saw him. She studied the faces of the diners opposite. Zoe’s glance was rarely anywhere but upon Craig’s face, unless James engaged her in conversation. On James’s other side Sam resembled as ever a moody sheep. He always made her feel uncomfortable.
“Th-th-thank you f-f-for helping me th-th-this afternoon, Don,” he blurted out unexpectedly.
“It was nothing.”
“Don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
James looked suspicious. “Why? What did you do, Don?”
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