Whether he fell or jumped off the cliff I cannot say, but since that moment I have found it hard to live with myself, and even harder to face both you and Jess on a daily basis, knowing what I know. It is for this reason that I must go away.
I do hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me, though I realise that this is a request I have no right to make. You may even feel that what I did was a criminal act and that I must be punished. If that is the case I will respect your wishes. I shall be staying with my brother for a few weeks at the address below, and then I shall see what I need to do to pick up the pieces of my life.
You are a good man – in that respect very much like your father – and Jess is a brave and courageous girl for whom I have the greatest admiration. I think I can ask you to take care of her without you thinking me an interfering old woman.
You are in charge of a piece of countryside for which I shall always feel the greatest love, and I know I can leave it in hands that will take care of it. I am only sorry I shall not be able to see you all grow.
With my love,
Elizabeth.
Kit leaned on the wall of the pig-sty trying to take it all in. He could feel only an overwhelming sympathy for Elizabeth, in spite of the unwanted revelation. She had clearly loved his father so much that she found herself unable to prolong his suffering, at the same time knowing that her actions would deprive her of the man she loved. For the first time since he had met her, he acknowledged some kind of bond with the woman who had remained loyal to his father until the bitter end.
Carefully, and with a great sense of purpose, he folded up the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, then screwed up both envelope and contents and let them fall slowly through his fingers and into the pig’s trough. Within seconds they had become a part of Wilson’s meal, and Kit walked slowly back to the farmhouse for a stiff drink, safe in the knowledge that no one else would ever know Elizabeth’s secret.
Roly found himself equally devastated at a sudden departure. He sat in his usual chair, by his usual fire, with his usual glass in his hand as Charlotte consoled him as if he were a small child. “She obviously thinks she needs a change. We always knew she didn’t see the stables here as her life.”
“Yes. I know. But, ah, she’s just gone to another stables. Why not stay here?”
“I think you know that. She needs to sort herself out. Away from familiar surroundings. She won’t stay at Lambourn for ever, but she’s had a tough time of it recently. I think she needs to do a lot of thinking.”
“Mmm. But what about me? Mmm? I’ll miss her.”
Charlotte perched on the arm of his chair and stroked the iron-grey hair at the back of his head as she gazed into the fire. “We’ll all miss her. I hate this house when it’s quiet. I’m just relieved at the new company. And thank you for being such a darling.” She kissed the top of his head and looked across at the basket by the fire and the two sleeping bundles of white fur that had returned with Roly from his ‘meeting’. Arthur and Galahad, aged ten weeks, dozed in the warmth of the blaze. It would be only a few minutes before they woke again and made Roly’s life a misery. He patted Charlotte’s thigh and rose to fill his glass, wishing with all his heart that there were still three of them for supper.
Chapter 33: Rosy Morn
(Lotus corniculatus)
What to tell Jess? It was clear that he could not tell her the truth, although part of him wanted to. But to betray Elizabeth’s confidence, even to Jess, seemed wrong. He thought about how she must have tortured herself and replayed the events in her mind time and again until finally she could no longer escape the consequences.
But how could he reproach her for taking the course of action she had? What would he have done himself in the same circumstances? He would never know.
But he was only too aware of the strange workings of the human mind. He had been at the mercy of his own over the past few weeks, and only now could he see why he and Jinty could not have remained together. The grand passion needed to be underpinned with a common ground. He had thought at first that it didn’t matter. She hunted, he didn’t. No problem there – his parents had lived happily in such circumstances. But the gentle niggles that had eaten away at the relationship, couldn’t they have been ironed out, talked through? Only if both parties wanted to achieve the same ends. It seemed that they did not.
It was while he was sitting at Rupert’s desk, rereading, yet again, the letter his father had written him, that the phone rang.
“Kit?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Charlotte Billings-Gore.”
“Hello.”
“Hello. Look, I’m sorry to ring, and Roly will be furious if he knows I have, but I didn’t want to interfere so much as to explain.”
Kit wondered what Charlotte was getting at.
“It’s just that Jinty’s decided to go and live in Lambourn for a while.”
The words seemed to echo down the line to him. Guilt mingled with sadness seeped into his mind.
“I see.”
“I know things had gone a bit awry, but I just thought you would want to know.”
“Yes. Thanks. And she’s OK?”
Charlotte sighed. “Just a bit confused, I think. She’s had a bit of a time, one way and another. I just hope that more time will act as a healer, if you know what I mean.”
“Has she – has she gone already?”
“Yes.” Charlotte paused. “She’s dropping some things off for Roly at Quither Cottage, Titus’s place, and going on to the station by taxi.”
“I see.” The information sank in. “Thank you.”
“Please come and see us sometime. We’d enjoy your company.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Well, thanks for telling me. And . . .” He paused.
“Yes?”
“I hope she’s OK.”
In the best traditions of the country landowner’s wife, Charlotte clung to her dignity. “So do I. Goodbye.” She put down the phone gently.
She was bound to have gone by now. Quither Cottage was not far from West Yarmouth, but her stay would have been brief. ‘Dropping something off’ was how Charlotte had put it. Seconds probably, not even minutes. He drew up in the lane outside the cottage, convinced that he was wasting his time. And then he saw the taxi waiting. He got out, closed the door quietly and walked round to the row of kennels. She was leaning forward, stroking Nell’s nose through the iron railings and whispering to her. There was no sign of Titus.
He stood watching her, perhaps twenty yards away, then she glanced up and saw him but did not move. He was shocked by the short hair. She looked, if anything, even more beautiful, but strangely distant. For what seemed like an age they stared at one another, neither wanting to make the first move. Then he walked slowly up the rough little path towards her and stopped alongside Nell’s kennel.
“I just came to make my peace with Nell,” she said.
Kit looked down at the spaniel, whose tail was wagging slowly and whose eyes seemed to be begging forgiveness. “I don’t think she meant you any harm.”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” She stroked the dog’s head, and he watched her long fingers as they ran through the brown and white hair.
“Why are you going?” he asked.
She continued stroking the dog. “It’s for the best.”
“It’s all my fault. I’m sorry I was so determined . . . wrapped up in it all.”
“It wasn’t just you.” She turned to face him. “I think I was looking for something that wasn’t there.”
He nodded. “I think we both were.”
“Passion isn’t really enough for you, is it?”
He was shocked to hear her say it.
“You have other important things in your life, and other people. I just couldn’t bear the thought of sharing you. Call me selfish, if you like, but I wanted all of you all of the time.”
“But –”
Jinty shook her head. “It’s not just you.
It’s me, too. I thought I was over him but . . . well, it takes time.”
He wondered if she meant it, or whether she was giving him an easy way out. Easy! How could the ending of a relationship like this be easy?
“It’s never logical, is it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Think what we were like together. How could either of us end something like that? I’ve never felt like that with anybody else – so wrapped up in them, so physically in tune.”
“And here we are, saying goodbye. Because you can’t get him out of your head?”
She stared at him. “And because you’d rather be with somebody else.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know . . . I just feel it. You’re probably not even sure yourself.”
He met her gaze. “Oh, I think I am.”
“I see. Lucky girl.” She stared at him, and he looked into the pale green eyes that had once promised so much, but which now looked so far away.
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he said.
“I will. And you.” She slipped her hand into his, squeezed it briefly, then walked towards the cab. He leaned against the cold, hard railings as he listened to the wheels of the taxi rumble down the lane.
Peeping through his kitchen window, Titus watched as Kit stood alone by the kennels, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He reached for the kettle and, with a gnarled, horny hand, wiped away the moisture from both his good eye and the glass one.
It was early evening before Jess came back from the Wilderness. Kit had stayed out of her way, partly because he had wanted time to think about Elizabeth’s letter, and partly because he wanted a chance to work out his feelings in the light of Jinty’s departure.
He did not encounter Jess until she tapped on the kitchen door and came in carrying a letter. “I found this on my bed.”
Kit gazed at the envelope. It was identical to the one that Elizabeth had given him. He saw that it had been opened. “From Elizabeth?”
“Yes. Did you know about this?”
“She told me this afternoon.” How could he pacify her?
“Why didn’t you come and find me – tell me about it? Why did you let her go?”
“Because I couldn’t stop her. I thought it was all for the best.”
“But how could you say that?” Jess looked wounded.
“What do you think I should have done?” He waited for Jess to let rip about Rupert, and Elizabeth’s failure to help him.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just told her that she could have stayed.”
Kit was confused. He held out his hand. “Can I see?”
She handed him the envelope. He pulled out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it. Jess came and stood by him as he read, her hand resting on his arm.
My dear Jess,
I’ve decided after all these years that it’s time to move on. I wanted to stay until I was confident that Kit would be able to manage the reserve (or would even want to) and now that he has decided to do so I don’t want to be a burden on him. With you to help he’ll be in good hands and I rather think it’s time I found a new challenge.
I’m sorry this is so abrupt, but I can’t be doing with long goodbyes. I do hope you’ll understand. I have so enjoyed working with you. Please go on being yourself – in spite of everything.
With love,
Elizabeth.
Kit folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope and handed it to Jess. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that’s that, then.”
“Just you and me, then?” Jess asked.
“And a pig.”
“Yes. And a pig.”
Kit put a hand on each of her shoulders and turned her to face him. “But there’s something you need to know.”
She looked up into his eyes, calm, patient, and as serene as he could ever remember seeing her.
“I wasn’t going to tell you. I’m still not sure that I should tell you, but I just don’t want any secrets between us. I want things to be open.” He hesitated. “It’s about Dad. And Elizabeth. You see, when he fell . . .”
“He didn’t fall. He just stepped over the cliff.”
“Do you know that for certain?”
“Yes. I saw him.”
Kit felt relief at the lifting of the uncertainty, saddened by the reality, and surprised at Jess’s calm retelling of events. She had known all along. She, who had loved his father as much as Kit had, had known of Elizabeth’s actions and understood.
“I watched her sitting with him. I knew how much she loved him. I could tell. She just sat there and stroked his head, talking to him all the time. We never spoke about it. We both knew it was what he wanted.”
“And you knew about . . .”
“The Alzheimer’s? Yes. She did what she – we – thought best.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “We all miss him, don’t we?”
Kit nodded.
“But he’s happy now. We have to believe that.” She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. “And what about you?”
“I’m not sure what I am. Confused. Surprised. A bit bewildered. I’m not sure that I’ll ever understand women.”
“Don’t try too hard.”
He turned to face her again. “Jinty’s gone.”
Jess said nothing, just held his gaze.
“I saw her this afternoon.”
She looked fearful.
“She knows it’s you I want to be with, that it’s you I love.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I worried that it was just a need to protect you at first. Then I saw you on the beach one day, having a swim.”
She smiled. “I know.”
“What?” That sinking feeling was back in the pit of his stomach. “But it was an accident – I didn’t want to –”
She laughed. “I know. I could see what had happened.”
“But you just carried on . . .”
“I know. Wicked of me, wasn’t it?”
He looked at her, bewildered.
Jess looked down. “I fancied you like mad. I wanted you to fancy me, too, not just feel sorry for me.”
“But it’s more than that.”
“I know. Soulmates.”
He smiled. “Soulmates.”
She looked up at him, her face glowing with love, her fair hair still damp from the shower and her skin scented faintly with orange blossom. The little perforations from the now discarded studs betrayed her days of anger and confusion, but now her face was lit up with a wide smile.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with a tenderness that took her breath away.
In the pig-sty some yards away from the house, her evening repast completed, Wilson snored contentedly. Kit would be forever grateful for the arrival of Jess in his life, and for the robust digestive system and patient counsel of a Gloucester Old Spot sow.
If you liked Animal Instincts
don’t miss
Only Dad
by
Alan Titchmarsh
Chapter 1
There are things you ought to know about Tom Drummond. For a start, he never intended to own a restaurant. Well, half of one. Not that there’s anything wrong with owning half a restaurant, but it would be a mistake to assume that he had either an obsessive interest in nutrition or a burning desire to entertain. He had neither. He became the owner of half a restaurant entirely by accident. He’d intended to be a farmer. Or, more accurately, his mother had intended him to be one. Tom himself had long harboured dreams of being a writer, but it’s difficult to persuade your single parent that you are working when all you do is gaze out of the window wearing a vacant expression. So partly to please his mother and partly because no other job held any particular appeal, Tom became a farmer. It surprised his mother, and it surprised Tom by being particularly enjoyable.
Now you could argue that looking after sheep on the Sussex Downs isn’t exactly on a par with crofting in the Cairngorms, but in spite
of their supposedly soft location in the southern half of the country, the rolling slopes above Axbury Minster are often blasted by biting winds in winter. Tom and old Bill Wilding would regularly feel the bite of the baler twine on their knuckles as they doled out the summer-scented hay to the obliged Southdown sheep, and the ice on the duck pond would crack like a pistol shot when broken with the heel of a well-placed welly. But on a good day in June or July the smooth, soft slopes were framed by a fuzz of deep green woodland and clear blue sky, and from dawn till dusk Tom shepherded the sheep, cleared the ditches, made the hay and worked the land with a song in his heart and a spring in his step.
Friends asked him why he did it. Why commit yourself to slave labour for peanuts, you, with your nine O levels and three A levels? He knew why: because it gave him thinking time, dreaming time, time to write in his head. So in spite of the long hours and paltry wages, he was, to use an agricultural term, as happy as a pig in muck.
But the happiness was short-lived. Old Bill Wilding popped his clogs in the dead of winter and the farm came up for sale in spring. After just two years Tom was out of a job and his mother was out of sorts. They took her into a nursing home. For months she deteriorated slowly but steadily and the following summer she departed this life quietly, leaving Tom with a small terraced house, a smaller legacy, a heavy heart and a clean slate.
It was time to write. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it was not the time to publish. After a year of setting down his finely crafted prose on paper only two short stories had appeared in print – one in a regional newspaper and the other in the Lady. It was a fair way short of the stuff dreams are made of. Tom conceded that it was time to knuckle down. But to what? Over a bowl of soup in a local bistro he scanned the sits-vac column. Its offerings were not immediately attractive: ‘Household insurance: experience essential for liaison and telephone support role’ or ‘Expanding estate agent requires trainee negotiators’. Difficult to work yourself up into a lather about those. He was beginning to consider seriously how he could fulfil the role of ‘Deputy matron required for full-time day duty’ when he fell into conversation with the chef – a fair-haired, fresh-faced youth called Peter Jago. Together they bemoaned their respective fates: Tom at a loose end with the remains of a modest legacy, and Peter, with a refreshing lack of anything approaching modesty, desperate to strike out on his own. It was foolhardy, really – they didn’t know one another – but they pooled their resources and opened a bistro, the Pelican, with Tom running front-of-house and Peter slaving away in his whites over a hot stove.
Animal Instincts Page 24
