Jinty smiled gratefully and walked forward, pulling at the belt of the white towelling robe and trying to ease it from her shoulder. Kit stepped forward and lifted it off. She was naked beneath the soft white fabric, her once pale skin now brindled with black and yellow bruising. “Oh, my love . . .” he murmured, when he saw the extent of her injuries.
Jinty grimaced. “Not a pretty sight, am I?”
He put his arm around her gently and walked her to the bath. She stepped gingerly over the rim, and lowered herself into the water. “Wash my back?”
He reached for the large sponge on the shelf, dunked it in the water and began to smooth it over her battered neck and shoulders. Then she lay back and he continued over her good arm, her breasts and her stomach, her legs and her feet.
Then he washed her hair, working up the shampoo into a lather, and rinsing off her patchy scalp with a gush of clear water from the shower nozzle.
She closed her eyes as he worked, finally opening them when he dropped the sponge into the water with a soft plop.
She stood up, looking like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, he thought, and he draped a white bath sheet around her as she stepped out, and cradled her in his arms, patting her dry.
“That’s nice.” Her eyes were closed.
“Careful. It might be habit-forming.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
He ruffled her hair. “What about this?”
“It’ll dry on its own. Just pass me the brush.”
She made four deft strokes with her good arm. Her hair sleeked back, looked different; streamlined.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“So are you. Thank you for helping me.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He kissed her gently and she responded, manoeuvring her injured arm out of the way. Gently he slipped his hand inside the robe and stroked her still damp breast. She caught her breath and drew away from him slightly, sighing with pleasure. For several minutes they held each other quietly until Kit broke the silence.
“I’ll have to go. I need to get things moving with Dad’s solicitor. Need to find out where I am at the moment.”
Jinty nodded. She would have given anything to know where he was at the moment. She knew where his body was, but she could not be certain about his mind. Perhaps she could discover that, too, in time.
Chapter 18: String of Sovereigns
(Lysimachia nummularia)
Kit wondered how the solicitor managed to find anything in the overcrowded cell that was his office. Thick buff files were piled upon thick pink files, bundles of pink-ribboned documents slithered in disorderly cascades between them, and fat, gilt-titled books teetered in precarious towers against the grimy cream-painted wall. The solicitor sat, like a grey Buddha, in the centre of the paper jungle, a ginger nut and a mug of coffee at his elbow, his glasses on the tip of his nose. He gazed at Kit over the rims as he did his best to answer the question.
“As far as goods and chattels are concerned, Mr Lavery, I think you can now dispose of whatever you wish without any problem.”
“And the house . . . the reserve?”
“Well, I’ve had no problems, and probate should be through within a few weeks now, so you could certainly begin negotiations. Start things moving. It’s only the final sale that will have to wait until everything is tied up.”
“So I could see the estate agent and get things going?”
“I should think so, yes.”
“And you’ll let me know the moment you hear anything?”
The little man nodded. “Of course. Ah. There is one thing.” He rummaged through the heap of papers on his desk. “This arrived for you a couple of days ago.” He handed Kit a large transparent packet upon which the name of a London auction house was stamped in black letters in the top left hand corner.
“For me?”
“Yes. It looks like a catalogue.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t meant for my father?”
“The label is addressed to Mr Christopher Lavery, not to Mr Rupert Lavery. It’s also been directed here rather than to the farmhouse.”
“Odd.” Kit pulled at the polythene and removed the fat booklet. “It’s a sale of natural-history books. Next month. Can’t be for me. It must have been intended for Dad.” He thumbed through the pages. “Mind you, I can’t see Dad paying this sort of money for books. Perhaps they got the name wrong.”
The solicitor shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Kit tucked the catalogue under his arm and left the solicitor to his coffee and gingernut.
A million thoughts ran through his head on the drive back to West Yarmouth, including the fact that he was still at the wheel of the yellow Fiat Punto. Funny that Jinty was so scathing about it; he’d become quite used to it. Changing it for a more expensive BMW or Mercedes seemed an unnecessary expense. He turned down the lane to the reserve and had to pull in sharply to allow a Volvo estate that he didn’t recognise to pass. At the front of the house he discovered Elizabeth looking about her nervously, like a child who had been caught stealing sweets.
Kit parked by the barn, got out of the car and walked towards her. “Who was that?”
“Oh . . . callers.” She was agitated, not herself at all.
“What sort of callers? Do they think we’re open?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“They were invited.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
Kit regarded her with curiosity. He had never seen her looking so apprehensive, so guilty.
“I think we’d better go inside,” she suggested. He followed her silently, and once in the kitchen she turned round, leaned against the old pine table and said, “I’ve been worried.” She waited for a reaction. It did not come. Kit stood perfectly still, waiting for her to continue. “Worried that the work we’ve all put in – your father particularly – would be wasted if the place was sold.”
“But I’ve explained that I want to see the reserve carry on, even if I’m not a part of it.”
“Yes. I know. And I wanted to be sure that would happen.”
Kit was hurt, as though she felt him untrustworthy. He said, “And?”
“I knew that, because of what we’d already accomplished here, the place was very special – the red squirrels, the large blue butterfly.”
“Yes?”
“Your father was always quiet about what he’d achieved. We had visitors, and they enjoyed walking round and looking at the views, but he always kept a lot of his successes to himself. Never boasted about the red squirrels, for instance. Said that what was important was that they were established. People did not necessarily need to know they were here – that if it were known they might become threatened. What mattered was that the squirrel thrived, nothing else. But now that everything is up in the air, I didn’t feel we could risk losing everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I know you’re doing your best to sort it all out, and I do understand why you want to do your own thing, but I’m afraid we can’t endanger the reserve.”
“We?”
“Jess and myself. We have to make sure that the work goes on and that what’s already been done is protected.”
Kit was thrown off-balance. “But that’s my job. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“But there are safeguards that can be made, and we thought it best to make sure that they were put in place.”
“What sort of safeguards?”
“Declaring the reserve a Site of Special Scientific Interest.”
Kit looked at her blankly. “What?”
“The man in the car was from English Nature. They have the power to declare a piece of countryside an SSSI. They can prevent it from being built on or its use from changing. It makes sure that your father’s work continues here as it did before he died.”
Kit was angry now. “And you did this without consulting me?”
Elizabeth looked him straight in the eye. �
��I didn’t feel we had any option. You seem so unsure of what is going to happen to the estate . . .”
He made to speak but Elizabeth raised her hand to stop him and carried on. “We could have just sat around and waited, but we felt that this was something positive we could do. It doesn’t interfere with your future plans. You can still dispose of the estate in the best way you think fit. But it does mean that the reserve is protected and that’s the most important thing.”
He exploded, “What do you mean it doesn’t interfere with my future plans? You’ve no idea about my future plans!”
“But you said that you would be selling it as a reserve.”
“Yes, I did. But you obviously don’t believe that, so, without taking the trouble to ask me, you go straight to English Nature and tell them – as though I were some sort of villain intending to do the dirty on you.”
“I didn’t think you would be so upset.”
“You didn’t care, more like. Ever since I’ve come back here you’ve done your best to make me feel like an interloper. I understand how hard you’ve both worked on the estate, and what it means to you, but you’ve single-mindedly shut me out and carried on as though the place were yours and I were some kind of tyrannical landlord.”
Elizabeth stared at him, shocked by his outburst.
“How can I sort all this out? Have you paused to think about that? I’ve levelled with you about my own future. I’ve explained my feelings and made myself quite clear. But you don’t care, do you? As long as the reserve goes on and you can live your own narrow little life you just don’t mind what happens to anybody else. I’ve recently spent three days sitting by a hospital bed waiting to see if someone was going to live, and while I was there you were making plans behind my back.”
Elizabeth blurted out, “But you’ve only –”
“Yes, I’ve only known her for a few weeks. The same length of time I’ve known you. And she hunts foxes. But she’s shown me what life’s really about. It’s not about money, or possessions, or hatred or fear, it’s about people, and that’s where you’ve got me all wrong. The only thing you care about is the reserve. Nothing else is of any importance to you.”
Elizabeth tried to butt in, but Kit brushed her interruption aside. “People are just as important as animals and birds. By having people on your side you can achieve far more for your wildlife than if you put their backs up.”
Almost without his knowing it, Kit’s thoughts had clarified. “This place has been part of my life since I was born. I tried to escape it, and to escape my father, because I didn’t want to believe that where I was was necessarily where I had to stay. Everything told me to leave. I’d grown up with a man of nature – a man who believed in the survival of the fittest, in striking out on your own, in fleeing the nest. He pushed me out into the big wide world and made me get on with my own life. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it. It was instinctive. I went, and then another part of him felt I’d let him down – the human part, if you like, the overlay of human society that expects its children to stay and follow in its footsteps. We’re the only members of the animal kingdom who react like that.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
“But when I came back the place started pulling at me again. Then you pulled at me. The life I’d left behind in Australia pulled at me. I was tugged in so many directions I couldn’t see clearly where I was going. This place means a lot to me. Over the last few days I’ve started to feel at home here – remembered feelings I used to have about West Yarmouth. It may be the place, it may be the people – I’m not sure. But I already have a life somewhere else, and the way things have turned out I can’t afford to live here so I’ll have to sell. The most I can do is make sure it goes to the right person who’ll carry on my father’s work. I have no intention of making a fast buck then hightailing it out of here.”
An oppressive, echoing silence hung over the kitchen. Elizabeth spoke quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“Oh, please . . . just try to understand . . .” Kit’s voice was soft. Placatory. He had had his say, given voice to feelings of which he had, until now, been unsure. Maybe soon the way to his destination would become clearer, wherever that destination might be.
Elizabeth left the room quietly. Even she did not notice Jess standing in the shadows of the hallway, having listened in silence to the raised voices on the other side of the door. She stayed there for some moments, before slipping out of the front door and down to the sea.
Chapter 19: Clouded Yellow
(Colias croceus)
“I know I shouldn’t have done it. It just all came out – like a dam bursting.” Wilson was her usual laconic self, intent only on filling her capacious belly with tender rooty morsels. Kit leaned on a post at one corner of the patch of ground that would soon be clean enough for Jess to dig over and fill with vegetables, thanks to the pig’s foraging.
“I’m not going back, am I? Suppose you’ve always suspected as much. Listen to me! What do I mean I’m not going back?” He shook his head. “Do you think anger helps, Wilson? No, I suppose not. Your experiences of it are probably few and far between.” The pig approached, hopeful of a tasty titbit. Kit picked up a stick and scratched her back.
“Trouble is, there are other things to sort out now.” His thoughts turned to Heather. Life had seemed so settled until his father’s death. He’d been content to live on the other side of the world in the company of horses and with a girl he liked – no, loved, and then, bombshell had followed bombshell.
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Well, not exactly first sight but quickly. I never did. Not sure that I do now.” The pig looked up. “That’s Jinty and me. Don’t get excited.” The pig looked anything but.
“Am I boring you?”
No response.
“I thought so. But, oh, God, how do I tell Heather?” He felt wretched at the prospect of letting down the girl he had left behind. He could see her now, tanned and smiling, a real Aussie girl, open and pleasant, sparky and quick-spirited. Always ready for a laugh . . . with Marcus Johnson. He lobbed the stick into the bushes.
Was he kidding himself about Jinty? Was this a classic mad, passionate fling? The grass being greener on the other side of the world? Novelty winning out over familiarity? He hoped not. And yet he and Jinty hardly knew each other, so how could he be so certain of his feelings?
The question remained unanswered. He could only hope that the mist, which seemed slowly to be lifting from him and allowing him a clearer view of his future, would continue to rise and that the prospect before him would materialise. Eventually.
He sat at his father’s desk, looking at the telephone. He put out his hand towards it, then withdrew it again. He checked the clock. Four p.m. No point in ringing her now. It would be three o’clock in the morning. Damn. He had been psyching himself up for hours. The time difference was an obvious thing to consider, yet he had forgotten it.
When should he ring? Morning or evening? When was the best time to break such news? There was no best time. An unseen hand tightened on his stomach and beads of sweat leaped to his brow.
The auction catalogue sat in front of him. Idly he flipped through the pages, then saw the phone number of the auction house. He would ring them and explain the mistake. Kensington time was the same as West Yarmouth time – no problem there.
“Hello? Can I speak to someone about an auction catalogue, please?”
“Just a moment.” The voice was cut-glass. A pause, and then a terse reply from a more matter-of-fact voice.
“Catalogues.”
“Hello, I’m ringing about a catalogue I’ve been sent.” Kit explained the situation and suggested that the envelope had been wrongly addressed and that as his father was dead the sending of further catalogues would be unnecessary.
He could hear the buttons on a computer keyboard clicking. “No mistake, sir. The subscription was certainly taken out by a Mr Rupert Lavery, but the
instruction was that the catalogues should be addressed to Mr Christopher Lavery care of his solicitor’s office. You should receive two more catalogues on that subscription, one for our May sale and one for the sale in September.”
Kit was baffled. “I see. Can you tell me when the subscription was taken out?”
“Just give me a moment, sir. Yes, here we are. November.”
“I see. Right. Thank you very much.” He put down the telephone and looked again at the catalogue and the intricate watercolour of butterflies that decorated the cover. They looked as though they had been caught in flight – lifelike and living, rather than flat as the paper they were printed on.
On the shelf by the desk was a single butterfly in a small glass case, its thorax pinned to a square of cork, and underneath it a label printed with the Latin name Colias crocea. Its wings were pale orange, tipped with charcoal grey, a single smudge of grey on the upper part. He looked at it closely and then at the cover of the auction catalogue. The butterflies on the printed page seemed to have more life in them than this poor soul impaled behind the glass. And yet, when the light from the desk lamp caught its wing scales, the butterfly seemed to sparkle.
He took a hand lens from the desk drawer and looked more closely at it, the dark hairiness of its body and the intricacy of its fragile antennae. He remembered his father showing him drawers full of butterflies when he was young, and of learning the names of small tortoiseshells and commas, holly blues and chequered fritillaries.
Now the collection was long gone. Little of great beauty remained in the study, except for the jay’s feather in the desk pigeon hole, and the pale blue eggshell, yet in these his father had been able to find enough beauty to sustain him.
He would begin, soon, to clear out the house. He would keep some things, just a few, as reminders of his childhood, but the rest would go to jumble sales and charity shops in the main – there was little here of real value. The furniture would go to the local saleroom where, hopefully, it would raise a few pounds.
And then? It was time to make a decision. He had dithered long enough. What was it he really wanted? Answer: To be with Jinty. Here or in Australia? Answer: Here, or somewhere close. It all sounded so grown-up, but it was time he grew up. He wished now that he had been more assiduous in saving, but there was no way he could ever have saved enough to cover the inheritance tax. He was not the first person to find himself in this situation, and he could not complain: there would be enough left over from the sale to buy some land not too far away and a smaller house. Then he could start his stud farm. Was he dreaming? Not any more. It was time to turn the dream into reality. He felt nervous. Was he rushing things, taking too much for granted? Jinty, for instance. This would all come as news to her.
Animal Instincts Page 13
