* * *
In the busy rush-hour traffic it took almost an hour to get to the M4 motorway. Once on it, though, I was able to get moving. Eventually, after an hour and a half of steady driving, I turned off at Exit 18 onto the A46 leading to Bath.
It was good to get away from the speed of the motorway traffic and I relaxed with the more comfortable pace dictated by the country road. Now, too, able to take more notice of my surroundings I found myself constantly surprised by the beauty of the scenery. Rain had fallen during the night and the colours of the countryside all around were rich and fresh. The trees—at the very height of their growth—were masses of varied greens, while on a nearby rolling hill the acid yellow of mustard flowers looked almost too brilliant to be real.
Coming out of Bath I took the A367, passing signs bearing quaint, rustic-sounding names like Inglesbatch, Wellow, Carlingcott; places I had never heard of before and which I now pictured all as tiny, identical, picturesque villages, each one nestling in quiet, unspoilt English hills.
Following the instructions given by Mrs. Weldon I look a right turn immediately after passing the village of Clandown and there, seeing my direction confirmed by a signpost, set off on the last part of the journey. Another sign, a mile or so further on, sent me branching off to the left; here the road was narrower still, with high banks on either side on which tall beeches grew, joining their branches overhead in a leafy canopy shot through with the rays of the bright sun. The road climbed and I came out into the open again, emerging onto the hilltop. Here I pulled the car over to the side, brought it to a halt and got out.
Looking down across an expanse of green fields I saw the tiny village of Whitefell nestling into the hillside, showing itself as little more than a cluster of half-hidden roof tops among the trees. I stood gazing down for a few moments more and then, glancing at my watch, got back into the car. The winding road led me into the heart of the village and I drove on, emerging on the other side of it. Another half-mile and I saw before me a high stone wall. At last I’d come to Woolvercombe House.
Driving along with the wall on my right I came eventually to a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates. I stopped the car and got out. The gates were locked. There was a bell-button set into the stone pillar at one side and I pressed it. After a few seconds a disembodied voice came to me from a small grille set in the stone.
‘Yes . . . ?’ It was a man’s voice.
I gave my name and said that Mrs. Weldon was expecting me. There was a pause and then the voice instructed me to push the gates at the sound of the buzzer and close them again when I was through. Immediately following, a loud buzzing sound rang out into the quiet air. I shoved at the gates and swung them wide. When I had driven through I got out of the car and pushed them together again. They locked at once.
Soon after starting off along the drive I found that I no longer had any sign whatever of the outside world. I was enclosed by a wooded park, at times so densely timbered that the sun had difficulty in getting through. I noticed among the trees a rich variety of other plants, some of them looking strangely exotic with unusual leaves and flowers. At one time, clearly, someone had tried to cultivate much of the area; now, though, it grew wild again. From outside the grounds I had gathered no idea of the size of the place and as I continued along the winding way I began to wonder just how much further it could go. Yet still it went on, and the vegetation grew thicker, the branches of the trees snaking down and dipping low over the driveway, the leaves, still heavy from last night’s rainfall, leaving drops of moisture on the car’s windscreen. Added to the lush, overgrown look of it all there was the pungent scent of the growing things, sweet, green and ripe.
And then, quite suddenly, the landscape began to change its appearance. The vegetation grew thinner and the sunlight came clearly through again. All at once I was out in the open once more and approaching the flower-beds and lawns of a formal garden. There, up ahead, I saw the walls of Woolvercombe House.
I drove the car onto the forecourt, brought it to a halt and gazed up at the imposing building.
It must have been built, I reckoned, sometime about 1800. It was a beautiful house, with mellowing grey-stone walls reaching to three storeys around the top of which ran an intricately fashioned parapet. Immediately in front of me on the ground floor high, elegantly arched windows flanked a covered porch with tall, smooth columns. In those days, I thought, architects had been more aware of the need for beauty and grace . . .
I got out of the car, went up the steps and rang the bell. After a few seconds the door was opened by a tall, heavily built woman in her late forties who blinked myopically at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles and then offered up a grave little smile, lips stretching over horsey, prominent teeth.
‘Mr. Rigby . . . ?’
‘Yes . . . Good morning.’
‘Please, come in.’ She edged back a pace and I stepped through into the wide, spacious hall. As she closed the door behind me she said: ‘I’m Miss Harrison . . . Miss Stewart’s housekeeper . . .’ She moved past me. ‘—If you’ll come this way, please . . . Mrs. Weldon would like to see you.’
Turning to the left she stopped at a door and tapped softly upon it, then without waiting for an answer she pushed it open and said into the room beyond, ‘Oh, Mrs. Weldon, Mr. Rigby is here.’
I entered a large sunlit study and as the door closed behind me Mrs. Weldon got up from behind a wide desk and came towards me with a smile, her hand outstretched.
‘Mr. Rigby, how nice to see you!’
Less than two minutes later I was sitting in a comfortable wing chair, nursing a scotch-and-soda and commenting on the relative ease of my drive down. Mrs. Weldon sat behind her desk sipping a sherry.
‘Your things are still out in your car, are they?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded, picked up the telephone and said into it: ‘Oh, Miss Harrison, ask Carl to come to my study, please.’
A minute or so later a man knocked at the door and entered the room. He looked to be in his late thirties; he wore a grey uniform-like tunic and had fair hair and light blue eyes.
‘This is Mr. Rigby,’ Mrs. Weldon said to him and he turned to me and politely inclined his head. ‘Sir,’ he murmured.
‘Carl will look after you while you’re here,’ Mrs. Weldon said to me and then shifting her attention back to the footman suggested he made a start by getting my luggage out of the car.
‘The two suitcases contain my personal things,’ I told him. ‘The rest of it is needed for the painting—wherever I’m to do that.’
‘I’ll sort it all out, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have your car put in the garage.’ His voice, I noticed, had a slight German accent. As he turned to go I said:
‘Be careful with the canvases, won’t you; they can be very easily damaged . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
When he had gone I remembered the gold cigarette lighter Mrs. Weldon had sent me. I brought it out and placed it on the desk before her.
‘I felt sure it must have been yours,’ she said as she picked it up. ‘Ah, well . . . I’ll just have to send it to Fortnum’s—let them take care of it.’ She opened a drawer, dropped the lighter in and, with an air of getting to more important matters, said: ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve prepared a room with a north light for your work. You did say you wanted a north light for your painting, didn’t you?’
‘Ideally, yes,’ I answered. ‘With a north light one is least affected by the passage of the sun.’
She nodded. ‘When did you want to begin work on the painting?’
‘—If it’s all right I’d like to make a start this afternoon.’
‘So soon? I should have thought you might want to relax a little first . . . recover from your journey . . .’
‘I may as well get on with it,’ I said, ‘—and as the young lady’s time here
is limited . . .’
‘Yes, of course. Well, we won’t waste time . . .’ She got up and moved out from behind her desk. ‘I’ll take you up to your room.’
I followed her into the hall, up the staircase, past the first floor and on up to the second. There at the top of the stairs she turned to the right and led the way along a corridor on the inner side of the east wing. At the end of the passage she opened a door and went in.
‘It’s quite a pleasant room,’ she said. ‘I do hope you don’t mind being up on the second floor . . .’
‘Not at all. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable here.’
Being situated at the very end of the wing the room had windows on three sides. Apart from its brightness, which I loved, the room had elegance and an air of casual luxury. I noticed that my suitcases lay open and partly unpacked. Carl certainly hadn’t wasted any time.
Moving back to the doorway Mrs. Weldon looked at her watch and said: ‘Lunch will be in forty-five minutes. A very informal affair.’ She smiled at me and left, closing the door behind her.
From the adjoining bathroom I heard the sound of movement and the clink of glass on metal. After a moment Carl appeared in the doorway.
‘I’ve just been setting out your toilet things in the bathroom, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d like to take a bath before lunch . . .’
‘I’ll run it for you, sir.’
He retreated into the bathroom and a few seconds later I heard the sound of running water. When he emerged again he said, ‘If there’s nothing more right now, sir, I’ll get on and take your painting things to the other room.’
When he had gone I undressed and put on my bathrobe. Then, with the sound of the running water murmuring gently in the background I moved over to the window that faced the opposite wing across the courtyard.
As I stood there my eye was caught by movement over to my left. Stepping away from the house on a path leading beside the kitchen garden were three figures, three women clad in black with little white trimmings about the head. What are nuns doing here? I wondered.
As they moved through the bright sunlight I could see the movements of their heads as they conversed. They had their backs to me but I could tell from their posture and their walk that they were young. I watched until they were out of sight among the trees.
Chapter Seven
I expected to meet others from the household when I went down to the dining room, but there was only Mrs. Weldon. As we took our seats she told me that Miss Stewart always ate in her room; then she added: ‘Catherine you’ll meet later on . . .’
Lunch was fish pie followed by a lamb casserole. It was delicious—if somewhat heavy—and I realized how hungry I was. As we ate we talked and in the course of our conversation I mentioned the women I’d seen from my window.
‘Is there a convent here?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs. Weldon smiled and shook her head. ‘Those young ladies have come here as members of a rather select, little-known sisterhood. This house is used as a—a kind of—half-way house for them. They travel abroad in the service of the Almighty. Miss Stewart has for years run such an establishment—at other places before this one. There are five young women here at the moment. They arrived just a day or two ago. They don’t mix with the rest of the household. They have their own place—a little villa—back there in the woods.’ She waved a hand gesturing to the rear part of the grounds. ‘Although this house has about twenty-five rooms it’s been Miss Stewart’s practice to keep the young women somewhat sequestered. They come to the house only infrequently.’ She gave another little smile. ‘—We try to disturb them as little as possible.’
I nodded and then said: ‘The grounds must cover quite a large area . . .’
‘Not too much. Somewhere about eighteen acres.’
‘It’s so quiet—so private,’ I said, and then added: ‘In some places the gardens appear to be almost—tropical.’
‘Oh, they do.’ She nodded. ‘Many years ago the house was owned by a keen horticulturalist. It seems he imported quantities of flora from other lands—some of which, as you’ve noticed, have flourished only too well.’
‘I’d like to take a close look some time—if I may.’
‘Of course—do as you wish. Only I would mention again that the young ladies live in the grounds at the back—and we wouldn’t want them disturbed. Still, if you keep to this side of the stream you won’t bother anyone.’
‘Where do they go when they leave here?’ I asked.
‘Wherever they’re needed. Mostly to the underdeveloped countries. They’re trained, of course—experienced in a variety of things—nursing, teaching and so forth.’ She neatly laid her knife and fork before her on her empty plate. ‘Mind you, they don’t get any of their training here. No, as I said, this is a kind of—clearing-house. They stay here for a few days, weeks, a month or two—while places are found for them abroad. We make all the arrangements for their travel and so on. Our responsibilities end there. Of course there’s no profit in it . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Miss Stewart does it mostly for the satisfaction it gives her.’
After coffee—which followed apple-pie and cream—I shook my head and said, ‘I’ve eaten so much. I just feel now that I could go away and sleep.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘why don’t you go and have a little nap? I’m sure one afternoon’s not going to make any difference.’
‘Yes . . .’ I nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. And I do have to admit that I don’t feel capable of very much inspired creative effort.’
She smiled at me. ‘That’s right. Leave it until tomorrow. Start then.’
Up in my room I stretched out on the bed, sank my head into the pillow and closed my eyes. The only sounds came from my little portable alarm clock—now set for four-thirty—and the songs of birds in the garden. I lay there for a while just listening to the birdsong. Then I slept.
Awakened by the ringing of the clock’s alarm, I got up and washed my face and combed my hair. I was just lighting a cigarette when Carl knocked at my door. When I opened it he gave a slight inclination of his head and said in his clipped, accented tones:
‘Mrs. Weldon is wondering whether you are engaged in anything at the moment, sir . . .’
‘No, nothing, why?’
‘Then if it is convenient she would like you to meet Miss Stewart . . .’
I found Mrs. Weldon in her study. As I approached she got up from her chair at the desk and smiled warmly at me.
‘Did you sleep?’ she asked.
‘Only like a log.’
‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be none the worse for it.’
She led me from the hall into the east wing where along the corridor she stopped outside a heavy, oak door.
‘I’ll come for you in a few minutes,’ she said. ‘She won’t be able to talk for too long; it tires her.’
Turning, she gave a short sharp rap on the door and, without waiting for an answer from within, opened it and ushered me inside. Following me into the room she called out: ‘Mr. Rigby is here to see you, Miss Stewart—’ then, giving me a little nod of encouragement, she went away.
With the door closed behind me I just stood there, disorientated. The room was stiflingly warm and very dark, illumined only by one small lamp over to the side. From where I stood the walls and the furniture were only vague shapes in the shadows. I realized that all the curtains were drawn; no thread of air or sunlight came into the room.
There was something else I was aware of too. A smell. It lingered in the still air like the scent of some strange, sickly plant, and at first that’s what I thought it must be—some species of exotic vegetation. How, though, in such darkness, I asked myself, could any plant survive. And then I realized what the smell was. It was the smell of age.
‘Please . . . come in.’
T
he voice, cracked and tremulous, came to me from somewhere to my right. I turned towards the sound and found that I was facing a tall screen with what looked like flowers painted on it. The voice came again.
‘Are you still there . . . ?’
Moving towards the sound I stepped cautiously around the screen and peered through the gloom.
She was reclining on a chaise-longue, and as I gazed at her I had less the feeling of meeting a real person than of encountering some kind of large, grotesque doll.
As my eyes became more accustomed to the shadows I found that I could begin to take in some of the details of her appearance. I saw that she was wrapped in some kind of brocaded robe with buttons from her ankles to her throat. I could make out too what appeared to be an abundance of scarves, silk and chiffon, that wound about her neck and shoulders, some of them with heavy fringes that draped over her arms onto the upholstery. Her face seemed to have an almost luminous dry whiteness about it, while her cheeks in contrast looked heavy and dark with rouge. The ghastly clownlike effect was added to by a wide painted gash of a mouth, glossy and smeared, and a thickly curled wig which even in the dimness came over as a flaming red, and beneath which I could see pathetic wisps of white hair exposed.
‘Miss Stewart?’ I said. ‘—How do you do.’
She smiled at me, her painted lips stretching wide in the lined, white face, her long teeth a dull yellow blur. ‘Mr. Rigsby, is it? How good of you to come.’
For a moment it was on the tip of my tongue to put her right as regards my name but I let the moment go by. She indicated a chair some little distance from her feet and I sat down. I watched then as she reached out—her arm emerging scrawnily from the loose sleeve of her robe—and tugged at a bell-pull. As she did so she looked into my face. I found it unnerving, her steady gaze from those pale watery eyes, and I glanced away as if to look at the room. When I turned back I found her eyes still upon me, still continuing their long, careful gaze.
The Reaping Page 5
