“Not like you.” She slipped the horse’s reins over his head and made to lead him off, then stopped. “I didn’t know it was so serious.”
Jinty winced. “Neither did Jamie.” Then she turned and walked back to the house, leaving Sally and Seltzer alone in the sandy arena.
The surgery waiting room was small and almost empty. A woman with a small boy whose fascination for the contents of his left nostril bordered on the unhealthy were finally called in and Dr Hastings’s elderly receptionist stuck her head through the hatchway from the adjacent office. “Doctor won’t be long now, Mr Lavery.”
“Thank you.” Kit riffled though the regulation copies of Country Life and House Beautiful, Woman’s Weekly and OK, all at least a year out of date, then scoured the walls of the small room for anything that might take his mind off his current situation.
Nothing did. He had replayed in his mind again and again the events of the fateful evening, but still could not work out how better he could have handled it. His circular thought processes were interrupted by the departure of the woman and the boy, who now seemed to be scratching at his bottom with unwise vigour.
The head appeared at the hatch once more. “Doctor will see you now, Mr Lavery.”
Kit got up, walked along the short corridor and tapped on the cream-painted door at the end. “Come in.” The voice was friendly and positive. Dr Hastings was drying his hands on a length of paper towel. Kit wonder which of the young boy’s orifices the doctor had been called upon to explore, gratefully noting the assiduousness of his personal hygiene before turning his thoughts to his own state of health and the stitches above his right eye.
“Right. Let’s have a look at you.” The doctor examined the eyebrow, then lifted the eyelid and shone a magnifying torch into the pupil. “Mmm. Well, that seems to be fine. Coming along nicely. I think we might have these chaps out now.” With his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose, he snipped away at the stitches, carefully drawing them out until Kit’s eye was clear of needlework. The he leaned back in his chair and dropped the implements into a steel dish. “There we are. Almost as good as new. Shouldn’t take long to heal and the swelling has gone down, as I’d expect.”
“Thanks.” Kit ran his fingers lightly over the wound.
Dr Hastings was scribbling notes on a small file and Kit saw that it was his own childhood medical notes. “I didn’t think you’d still have those.”
“Oh, yes. Amazing filing system here.” Frank Hastings raised an eyebrow and smiled. “No one escapes until . . . well . . . the final escape.” He realised the indelicacy of his remark and cleared his throat before continuing with his spidery writing.
Dr Hastings had arrived in West Yarmouth shortly after Kit’s departure for Australia, but had slipped into the mantle of his predecessor, Dr Strange, quite comfortably. A small West Country practice suited him, and his calmness and probity suited his patients.
Kit waited until the doctor came to the end of his writing and looked up. “Well, that’s it. You can go now. Just try not to get it bashed again too soon.”
“Yes. Right. Thanks. Er . . . could I ask a question?”
The doctor looked at Kit over his half-moons. “Of course.”
“My father.”
“Yes?”
“Was he a happy?”
Chapter 26: Knotweed
(Centaurea cyanus)
The doctor looked hard at Kit. “What makes you ask?”
“I’ve been talking to Elizabeth Punch.”
“Does she think he was happy?”
“I don’t know. Did he confide in you about anything?”
“This and that.”
“Were you close friends?”
“Reasonably close. I used to take your father fishing in my boat.”
“But I thought he didn’t like killing things?”
“No, but he liked eating fish.”
Kit looked confused. Frank Hastings read his expression. “I mend people, but I kill fish. The Duke of Edinburgh is patron of the World Wide Fund for Nature but he shoots grouse. Your father encouraged wildlife and saved species from extinction, but he loved fresh mackerel. We’re all a mixed bag of convictions and contradictions, you know. We all battle our way through life trying to listen to our consciences and avoid following our instincts, but sometimes they’re just too powerful to resist. I’ve sat with your father and drunk a bottle of Pouilly Fumé and eaten smoked mackerel and the expression on his face has been one of pure pleasure. Is that a bad thing? No.”
“Did you see a lot of him?”
“Now and then. We’d go for months without seeing each other then one or other of us would call and we’d meet up for a meal or go fishing. We got along pretty well.”
“Did he ever talk about personal things?”
“He talked about you. How proud he was of you. How he felt bad that you had had to go away to have enough room to grow. I think he missed your company, if you want to know the truth.”
Kit sat perfectly still, gazing into the middle distance.
“He didn’t hold it against you. Quite the reverse. Said he’d have probably done the same under the circumstances.” He watched Kit’s expression change from sorrow to bewilderment. “Don’t expect to be able to cope with too much too soon. Speaking as a doctor, you’ve a lot on your plate at the moment – emotionally. And speaking as a friend of your father’s, he understood what you were going through.” He paused. “He missed your mother a lot, too.”
Kit looked at him. “Did he talk about her?”
Hastings nodded his head slowly. “Occasionally. He loved her very much.” He looked thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did your mother die?”
Kit lowered his head then raised it. He spoke quite calmly. “She was killed in a riding accident when I was very small. In Sussex. Foxhunting. It’s the one thing on which they disagreed.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Yes. Funny how life works out, isn’t it? How history can repeat itself. No one around here knows. At least, I don’t think they do. Dad never spoke of it, not even to me, and I could see it was too painful for him so I never brought it up. I think they were quite different from one another. Mum’s family were quite well-to-do, cut her off when she married Dad, a farmer’s son, even though they had enough money to send Dad to a good school. I can’t remember much about her – except her dresses, and her laugh, and her red lipstick. I know she loved life. She was a bit what I suppose they’d have called flighty in those days. But I know Dad was besotted by her.” Kit looked thoughtful. “Was there ever anyone else?”
“No. Not in the same way. He had one or two ladies he’d take out to supper. I didn’t know them. None of my business. But as far as he gave me to understand, there was nothing . . . physical in his relationships. He never mentioned any of them by name. Too wrapped up in his work, really.”
“What about Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth is a bit of a mystery. I think your father had a bit of a soft spot for her. They might have had a brief fling. That’s all. And it’s not the sort of thing I should be telling you – except as a friend of your pa’s.”
“And Jess?”
“Ah, yes. Jess.” Hastings smiled. “There’s a story.”
“What sort of story?”
“A human-interest story I suppose the papers would call it. A latter-day Pygmalion.”
“That sounds a bit sinister.”
“No. Not sinister, heartening. She was a lost soul, a raging voice in a confused world, and your father gave her a sense of purpose. Diverted her energies from spraying aerosols at hounds to caring for nature in a hands-on way.”
The anxiety in Kit’s voice was noticeable. “Did she really spray aerosols?”
“I don’t know. Just a figure of speech. But she turned from an angry young woman into a girl with a great sense of practical purpose.”
“He must have been very fond of h
er.”
“If you really want me to be honest, and I’ve no idea why I’m telling you all this, I think she may have been a bit of a replacement for you – in your father’s eyes. As far as she was concerned, the sun shone out of him. It was plain for anyone to see. She changed over the months from an introspective, troubled girl to someone at ease with herself. She changed physically, too.”
“In what way?”
“When she arrived she had red spiky hair and a face full of metal. By the time your father died she had banished the studs and her hair was soft and fair.”
“But when I arrived she had spiky red hair and studs in her face.”
“The armour went back on after your father died.”
“But she’s fair again now and the studs have gone.”
“Is that so?” the doctor said softly. “In which case one would be forced to conclude that she must feel secure again. Either that . . . or she’s in love.”
The questions that Kit had hoped would be answered by Dr Hastings had given rise to even more questions. But it was Jess who occupied most of his thoughts on the journey back to West Yarmouth.
He wanted desperately to keep an open mind on Jamie Bickerstaffe, and tried to smother the jealousy he felt for a rival.
Jamie looked at Kit in a rather detached way, his thick black hair swept back, his suit fashionably creased. Kit looked at him with curiosity, wondering, as one always did with one’s partner’s exes, what they had seen in each other. He found this question easy to answer: Bickerstaffe had a relaxed, confident air and looks that could easily have secured him a job in films. He was accompanied by the striped-shirt smoothie from the estate agent’s in Totnes. They arrived, as promised, at three o’clock in the afternoon for a look round the place. Kit tried to be positive. Perhaps the light would shine at the end of the tunnel, even though the sky looked threatening and lumpen clouds were bowling up over the iron-grey sea to the south-west.
Bickerstaffe seemed impressed with the house, but then only a Philistine could have failed to be charmed by the delicate if diminutive Queen Anne façade, the warm orange brick and the perfect proportions. “Great. Lovely.” He murmured suitably platitudinous compliments at the required intervals as they toured the rooms. Outside they approached the stables and Kit explained with some trepidation about the two female residents. “No probs,” had been the response. Kit was surprised that Bickerstaffe should be such a pushover on this front, and relieved that neither of the ladies was present, just in case appearances should put off the prospective purchaser. Jess had still not returned from Totnes, and Elizabeth, having been told of the impending visit, had found an excuse to disappear for the afternoon. This had surprised Kit, who had expected her to want to stick around and grill the prospective purchaser.
They walked past Wilson’s sty to the accompaniment of grunting. Bickerstaffe approached the enclosure and leaned on the wall, smiling benignly at the robust incumbent. The effect this had on the pig’s demeanour was dramatic. Slowly, and with great ceremony, she turned her back on the visitor and expelled a torrent of ordure that even the most dedicated countryman would have found overwhelming. She then trotted off as lightly as her considerable bulk would allow to the back of her sty. From here she regarded her visitors though half-closed eyes, but only for the few seconds it took them to escape the putrid atmosphere that hung like a threatening cloud over her enclosure.
Kit suppressed a laugh and hurriedly apologised to the two men, whose noses were buried in handkerchiefs. “Must be out of sorts,” he offered.
“Hope so,” muttered Bickerstaffe, whose cheeks seemed paler than they had previously.
Kit felt strangely defensive and could not prevent himself from remarking, “That’s the country for you. Unpredictable and smelly.” Then he wished he hadn’t.
“Mmm.” Bickerstaffe seemed unimpressed.
They walked on past the orchard and Jess’s newly dug vegetable patch, where a bed of strawberries and a row of raspberry canes had appeared since Kit had last taken notice. “Kitchen garden,” he offered, waving a hand at the newly turned earth, hoping it would redeem him in the eyes of the purchaser, who had now put away the square of crisp white linen and was trying to fill his nostrils with cleaner air.
Bickerstaffe nodded, and Kit felt a pang of sadness that Jess’s planting and Wilson’s soil cultivation had not been appreciated.
They walked on, down through the Combe and towards the fields that had been cultivated until recently by Arthur Maidment. Kit pointed out the extent of the farmland, and then they retraced their steps, crossed the tumbling waters of the Yar, and made their way through the Wilderness and then the Spinney, finally pausing a few yards from Rupert Lavery’s grave. Neither of the two men noticed it, and Kit, anxious to move on before they asked questions about it, endeavoured to guide them back up the valley. But they remained rooted to the spot, looking back at the Wilderness and nodding at one another before turning their heads to gaze out to sea.
“Great position,” offered Bickerstaffe – his most positive comment so far.
“Well, there we are. That’s it,” said Kit. “The West Yarmouth estate.” He felt an unaccountable lump in his throat and put it down to the presence of his father just a few yards away.
The estate agent cleared his throat. “Right. Everybody happy?”
Bickerstaffe stifled a yawn. “Yep. I think so.”
“Mr Lavery?”
Kit looked concerned. “And you’re quite happy to continue with the nature reserve? Only it’s important, you see, that it carries on.” His eyes caught the granite headstone behind them. “My father worked hard here . . . to make it what it is.”
Bickerstaffe nodded. Kit noticed that his shoes were covered in mud. City shoes.
He remembered Elizabeth’s recommendation and decided to bite the bullet. “There’s probably going to be an SSSI put on the place, which makes it even more valuable as a conservation area.”
The silence could have been cut with a knife and the estate agent’s face bore a look that might have split a plank.
Bickerstaffe pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Sorry? An SS what?”
“SSSI. Site of Special Scientific Interest,” explained Kit. “It’ll probably take about a year to come through but it’s English Nature’s way of designating areas of importance as far as nature is concerned.”
“And what does that mean exactly?” asked Bickerstaffe.
“It means, Mr Bickerstaffe,” said the estate agent, in steely tones, “that the place will have to remain a conservation area by law.”
Bickerstaffe’s whole demeanour changed, as though he had swallowed something that had violently disagreed with him. He stood perfectly still and drew several deep breaths. Then, speaking slowly and deliberately, said, in the direction of the estate agent, “I think we’re a little too late, Stephen.”
The estate agent paled visibly, then looked sourly in Kit’s direction and said, “I’m afraid an SSSI reduces the value of the property, Mr Lavery. It also reduces my client’s interest.”
“Removes,” said Bickerstaffe icily, before looking down and endeavouring to wipe the mud from his handmade shoes on to the soft grass of the cliff-top.
Kit hardly knew what to say. He stood alone in front of the two men, who looked at one another but said nothing. Bickerstaffe tilted his head in the direction of the climb, then nodded curtly at Kit before beginning the walk back to his car. The estate agent spoke softly to Kit through clenched teeth. “I think it would have been better to have told me about this, Mr Lavery. We could have saved a lot of time and money.”
“But you said that he was happy with the arrangement. I explained about the reserve and everything.”
“Yes, Mr Lavery, you did. But in addition to the saying ‘caveat emptor’ – let the buyer beware – there is another saying we use in estate agency, and it is couched in more colloquial terms. ‘Once you’ve sold it, it’s no longer yours.’ If you understand my mea
ning.” He strode off up the cliff in the direction of his client and his lost commission.
Kit stood rooted to the spot, feeling profoundly stupid. He stared after them until they disappeared from view, then walked over to his father’s grave. A small bunch of primroses had been laid on the bright green turf, and he read again the legend on the simple stone:
RUPERT LAVERY
1938 – 2000
WHO MADE
HEAVEN ON EARTH
For a moment it seemed to him that he had only just escaped turning that heaven into hell. He sucked in the tang of sea air. Jinty had been right all along.
He sat down on the turf at his father’s graveside as a lone gull shrieked above him and the tide flung itself on to the beach below, with a thunderous, hungry roar. He lifted his arm and leaned against the rough-hewn granite, then stroked its rugged contours while looking out to sea. He said, very softly, “Sorry, Dad.”
Chapter 27: Eyebright
(Viola tricolor)
The following morning Jess reappeared. She made no announcement of her return but Kit came across her in the Combe with a strange contraption on her back – a sort of tank, fitted with a length of flexible tubing and a lance that seemed to have an old tin can on the end of it. She was pumping at a handle connected to the side of the tank and occasionally releasing a trigger on the lance so that some kind of spray was deposited on the sprouting weed growth around a plantation of young saplings.
Kit’s surprise at her return was put to one side as he enquired about the purpose of the equipment.
“It’s a knapsack sprayer – with adaptations.”
“The tin can?”
“Old baked-bean tin. Stops the spray drifting on to the trees. It’s weed-killer. To give them a decent start – without competition.”
“I thought you were organic?”
“We are, as far as possible, but we can’t keep control of weeds out here in any other way.”
“Convictions and contradictions,” muttered Kit, under his breath.
Animal Instincts Page 18
