‘This is so nice,’ she said warmly. ‘The fire and the coffee and—everything. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a fairytale. It’s all so magical.’
It was his turn to feel a little shy. ‘It’s the same for me,’ he mumbled, pouring milk from the carton. ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’
His sudden loss of confidence had the effect of lifting her spirits. ‘Let’s be crazy together,’ she suggested, liking him for his shyness. ‘Tell me about the house. What it was like when you first saw it, and Lady Todhunter and everything.’
‘Everything is a tall order,’ he said, settling down beside her, lounging easily. ‘But I’ll try. OK. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’
Chapter Twenty-one
‘That was your Aunt Melissa,’ said Mike, putting down the telephone receiver and ruffling Luke’s hair as he sat in his highchair. ‘She’s spent a comfortable night somewhere on the moor and is about to have her breakfast. Now we’ll have ours, shall we?’
As he moved about, preparing Ready Brek for Luke, putting slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster, he was conscious of a relief from his anxiety. It was so difficult, keeping his fears from Melissa, trying as hard as he could to live as if she were not under a sentence of death. For short periods they managed it but it was impossible to maintain the pretence for long. To begin with she had been angry, bitter with resentment, railing against such a cruel fate, but gradually her rage had subsided and a quieter resignation had taken its place; resignation punctuated by periods of depression. Yet, once she had decided to let nature take its course, her natural resilience and optimism had reappeared along with a determination to enjoy wholeheartedly whatever time was left to her. He guessed that, paradoxically, although she needed him so much he was the one person from whom she could not hide her true feelings. This brief respite, this opportunity to be normal, was so necessary for her emotionally and spiritually; what toll it might take physically simply had to be accepted. Mike put the marmalade on the table, picked up Luke’s toy car and rescued the milk in the saucepan on the electric ring. So far, with Melissa’s help he’d managed without a nanny.
‘Women bring up their children without a nanny,’ he argued, when friends expressed astonishment at his coping on his own with Luke. ‘Why shouldn’t I? After all, I work at home.’
It was lucky that he liked to work late, writing in the evening when Luke was asleep in bed, but it was good to have Melissa around; good to have someone else to talk to, joke with, to discuss the work in progress over endless cups of coffee. He hadn’t been able to talk to Camilla about his work, not that she’d been particularly interested anyway, but Melissa was different. They’d shared so much. Perhaps this was due to those isolated years of childhood when, denied friends and any normal social life, they’d been thrown upon their own inventions. He’d made up stories and written plays in which they’d acted, sharing the roles between themselves. Odd, then, that both he and Melissa were gregarious people who enjoyed parties and had plenty of friends. He’d loved the years in the theatre—the Camilla years—but, since Luke, he’d settled down to a quieter life: intimate suppers with just a few friends around the kitchen table; a pint at the pub with the locals.
With Luke growing up, Mike had been aware of a growing need to move out into the country again. He could remember his own childhood, the freedom and the space, and he wanted it for Luke. There was so much fear in the world, so much perceived danger, and he wanted Luke to develop with a balanced, happy view of people and the universe. He could remember a past when you could exchange greetings with passers-by, smile at children, embrace a friend and not fear that these natural expressions of a loving nature were misunderstood. Maybe it was already too late to hope for such a world for Luke—but he intended to try for it—although the edge of Bodmin Moor was perhaps a little extreme.
Melissa had sounded enthusiastic about Moorgate but the signal had kept breaking up and he hadn’t been able to hear too much, apart from the happy lilt to her voice. It was evident that she was enjoying herself and that was all that mattered. He’d restrained himself from fussing, from reminding her not to get overtired. It didn’t matter too much where she was—he could always contact her on her mobile—but it was necessary to know that she was safe and happy.
‘It’s good, Mike,’ she’d said joyfully. ‘It’s really good. But oh! it’s so cold:
‘You’ve picked the coldest week of the winter,’ he’d told her. ‘The weather’s coming from Siberia. Be careful driving and keep warm.’
‘I shall,’ she’d said, ‘don’t worry. I’m having a lovely time. How are you? How’s Luke?’
Amidst the crackling, her voice fading and suddenly returning, he hadn’t been able to do more than give her their love and ask her to stay in touch. She needed to feel free, normal, untrammelled by fear. If she could achieve it for a week or two then it would be a wonderful miracle.
‘Go for it, Lissy,’ he murmured, sitting down at the table beside Luke. ‘Here we are, old son. Breakfast at last.’
‘Gah!’ said Luke, drumming on his small table with his fists. ‘Bah! Dadadada!’
‘That’s it,’ said Mike. ‘Me, Dad. You, Luke. This is breakfast. Open wide, please.’
‘Hi, babe,’ said Posy. ‘I know it’s an early one for me but I thought I’d just check you’re OK down there. I understand that the West Country is freezing hard and pipes are bursting and cars crashing on black ice and goodness knows what.’
Maudie, delighted at being addressed as ‘babe’ again, felt her spirits soar.
‘It’s certainly cold,’ she said, ‘but everything’s working properly, I’m glad to say. I saw the forecast yesterday, so Polonius and I went to Bovey to stock up, just in case. I shan’t be taking the car out, so don’t worry. How are you?’
‘Great. Cold, though. This house is freezing. I went to bed in all my clothes …’
She chattered on cheerfully whilst Maudie felt as though some great weight was being lifted from her shoulders. When Posy finally rang off, Maudie returned to her breakfast.
‘She’s in splendid form,’ she told Polonius. ‘Such a relief. Now if only Selina would come to her senses we might all be able to return to normal.’
Before she could start on her toast the telephone rang again.
‘Good morning, Lady Todhunter. It’s Ned Cruikshank. Sorry to catch you so early but I wanted you to hear my news first hand. I’m being transferred to the London office at the end of the week.’
‘Good heavens,’ she said, startled. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear this, Ned. I shall miss you. I’m sure you’re thrilled?’
‘I am rather.’ As usual he sounded slightly breathless and confiding. ‘I shall be sorry in some ways, though.’
‘Well, I hope I shall like your replacement and that whoever it is will be as enthusiastic about Moorgate as you’ve been.’
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you.’ He became even more confidential. ‘I think I may have a buyer. A young woman. Very keen indeed. I hope to have good news for you by the end of the week.’
‘But that’s wonderful, Ned. I shall be very pleased to think that you brought it off and I hope you get a good commission.’
He laughed. ‘So do I. Anyway, I wanted you to know the glad tidings but I’ll ring you again before I leave. Just to bring you up to speed and to say goodbye.’
‘That’s very nice of you, Ned. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Is it very cold down there?’
‘Freezing.’ He made shivery noises. ‘They say it’s going to snow but it’s a glorious morning. Must dash. Goodbye.’
Maudie replaced the receiver feeling quite shocked.
‘Well,’ she said to Polonius. ‘What a morning we’re having. I do hope he’s right. It would solve so many problems.’
For the third time she sat down to her breakfast, watching the birds on the feeder, planning her day, more light-hearted than she had been for many weeks. A genuine buyer would let her off
Selina’s hook and she might be able to stop feeling guilty.
‘The G-word,’ she murmured, thinking of Posy. ‘How it rules our lives. And I was going to enjoy myself so much, paying the piper and calling the tune. Oh, it’s so frustrating.’ Polonius cocked an eye at her and she nodded. ‘Quite right. More important things to do. We’ll have a walk out towards Lustleigh after breakfast. It’s too good a morning to waste indoors.’
Breakfast at Moorgate was a rather patchy business; mainly coffee and fruit. Melissa woke to find Rob putting a mug of coffee beside her. She uncurled herself, shivering a little, glad to see the fire was newly made up.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ Rob said as he folded back the wooden shutters, ‘but I didn’t want you to be cold, either. It’s quite warm in the bathroom if you feel you can brave it.’
He went away again, closing the door behind him, and she sat up, dazzled by the sunlight which poured into the room. She reached for the mug, cradling it in her hands, remembering. They’d sat together, talking for hours—or so it seemed—before they settled down to sleep. Somehow, the talking had eased them away from embarrassment and, when she’d come back downstairs from the bathroom, he’d made up a bed for her; her sleeping bag arranged on one of the beanbags with a rug tucked over it.
‘In you get,’ he’d said. ‘I’m off for a quick sluice. Make yourself comfortable.’ And she had been comfortable—and warm. She’d been aware of him during the night, moving quietly about, making up the fire, before settling down again, and she’d lain awake for a while, watching the shadows leaping and falling and listening to the hiss of the flames as they curled greedily round the wood. For once these wakeful periods were brief and full of anticipation and she’d slept well and felt unusually rested. She wriggled out of the sleeping bag and, mug in hand, rug trailing, went to the window. A rime of frost sparkled in the sunshine and the rooks were arguing in the tree across the lane. She sighed with deep satisfaction, excitement fizzing. Today he would show her the ford and they would walk on the hills and she would imagine—just for today—that they had a future together.
‘Breakfast,’ said Rob from the doorway, ‘will be a little disappointing after the feast we conjured up last night. At least, I’m assuming that you haven’t got a packet of porridge in the car or a boot-load of bacon and eggs?’
Melissa shook her head, laughing. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m not a big breakfast eater, to tell you the truth, but this morning I’d kill for a plate of bacon and eggs. I wish you hadn’t mentioned it. Oh, and some big field mushrooms and a sausage.’
‘I know a café in Tintagel,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘which could answer most of those requirements. How about we try it? I could go out and shop and cook it on the Esse but it would be unfortunate if Ned Cruikshank turned up in the middle of it. Or Lady Todhunter.’
‘Oh, heavens. Is that likely?’ She looked alarmed. ‘I must admit that having the keys has given me a false sense of security. I never imagined anyone else turning up. Do you really think Lady Todhunter might appear?’
‘Unlikely but not altogether impossible. As caretaker I feel I can take certain liberties but I suppose we should keep within the limits of reality.’
Melissa made a face. ‘How dull and unadventurous of you. Never mind. Tintagel it shall be.’
‘We’re OK early and late,’ he said, ‘but we must be careful during the day in case the wretched Ned takes it into his head to appear. Since you’ve got his keys it’s most unlikely that he will, unless he telephones me first. I’ll keep my mobile switched off.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said at once. ‘Keep it switched on so that you can head him off. Or at least we’d be forewarned if he were determined to come down.’
They laughed together, like conspirators, and Rob looked about the room.
‘I’ll clear the stuff away under the stairs,’ he said. ‘Hide the evidence. Hurry away, wench, and get ready. I’m starving.’
She went upstairs, taking her coffee, smoothing the banister appreciatively, pausing to stare out of the landing window at the icy, rolling moorland where the lambs skipped erratically at their mothers’ heels and a raven strutted, driving his beak into the frozen earth. The chilly spaces drove her into the warm bathroom and presently she was back downstairs in the kitchen, eating an apple whilst Rob tidied things into the hamper.
‘What a useful man you are,’ she commented, watching him. And a very attractive one, she might have added. He wore a thick fisherman’s jersey and jeans, and his hair was clean and shiny, curling a little from his early morning shower. He glanced up at her but this time she did not blush or look away.
‘Good morning, Rob,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you what fun I’m having.’
‘We aim to please,’ he said—and she went to him quite naturally and put her arms about him, hugging him. ‘This is cheating,’ he said, holding her tightly, his hands full of forks and plates, ‘because you know I’m far too hungry to take advantage of you.’
She kissed him quickly and let him go. ‘Let me do this,’ she said. ‘I know where everything lives. How far is Tintagel?’
‘Not far,’ he said, ‘but we’ll take your car, if you don’t mind, and collect mine later.’
He’d already put away the table and chairs so that no sign of occupation was left and a few minutes later they went out, carrying the hamper and some rugs, to find the car.
‘Gosh!’ she said, gasping, waiting whilst he locked the back door. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘The wind’s from the north,’ he told her. ‘Come on. It’ll be warmer in the sun.’
Inside the car it was like being in a fridge and her teeth chattered as she drove away down the lane, following his instructions until at last they came to Tintagel. They fed lavishly on eggs and bacon, with toast and more coffee, in the company of the café proprietor, who watched them meditatively. Content at last they sat back and looked at one another.
‘I hope,’ said Rob, trying to sound casual, ‘that you aren’t going to abandon me now that you are replete with victuals.’
‘Certainly not.’ She sounded shocked. ‘You promised me the ford and a clapper bridge. You said that I could splash through the ford if I’d brought my wellies. I hope you are not intending to renege from your promise?’
He sighed happily. ‘We shall splash together. I just wondered if… you had any other engagements.’
The diffidence in his voice moved her heart and she lightly touched his fist where it lay on the table.
‘None,’ she said. ‘I’m a free agent. I spoke to my brother earlier on my mobile so my duty is done for the day.’
He turned his hand, holding hers, watching her curiously. ‘Did you tell him where you were?’
She grinned. ‘Not exactly. He knows that I’m staying on the moor and having a wonderful time. It’s a pity, isn’t it, that if you move about the signal breaks up a bit and it goes all crackly and you have to shout? Things like, “Sorry. Can’t quite hear but I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later.” That sort of thing. I don’t want him to worry but he might not quite understand.’
Rob began to laugh. He laughed himself into a choking fit and the proprietor, concerned, came and poured more coffee whilst Melissa watched sympathetically.
‘No, he probably wouldn’t quite understand,’ he agreed at last. ‘In his place I’d have had a fit and ordered you back to a hotel.’
‘Exactly,’ said Melissa comfortably, sipping the fresh hot coffee. ‘You take my point.’
‘You’re in no danger from me,’ he grumbled. ‘Always was a fool with women.’
‘I expect Jack the Ripper used to say the same thing,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but it’s too late. I’m in love.’
He looked at her sharply, eyebrows raised.
‘With Moorgate,’ she said sweetly, challengingly, and he chuckled. ‘Those keys aren’t going back just yet.’
‘In that case we’d better stock up for the day,’ he suggested—and h
esitated.
‘Oh, at least,’ she said at once. ‘After all, tomorrow we could have a nice early breakfast, couldn’t we? It’s not that I don’t like it here—the food’s great—but I’d like to have breakfast at Moorgate.’
There was a short silence.
‘In that case,’ said Rob, finishing his coffee, ‘we’d better do some shopping.’
Chapter Twenty-two
It was just after break, in the staff room, that Patrick noticed the advertisement. The paper had been folded back to the classified ads page and the headline caught his attention. ‘Could you be a L’Arche assistant?’ it asked. He’d heard of L’Arche; communities which looked after people with disabilities and learning difficulties. Perhaps it was Mary who had mentioned it. His eyes wandered over the column. ‘There are no specific qualifications for being a L’Arche assistant, except being at least 18 years old … Others decide upon L’Arche as a career change. Many find the vocation fulfilling enough to stay for many years.’ He remembered reading about Jean Vanier, a naval officer and then a professor of Moral Theosophy who gave up a promising career to help those who had been marginalised by society. He’d bought a little house and invited two such men into it—and so had started an incredible world-wide movement.
Patrick stood holding the paper, an idea forming at the back of his mind. The door opened behind him and Mary came in.
‘Oh,’ she said, taken aback, clearly expecting the room to be empty. ‘Hello. I left my paper. Oh, yes. That’s it. Were you reading it?’
Patrick looked at her, faintly saddened by her brittleness, still surprised by his own indifference. This odd depression, which numbed all feeling, was a strange business. He smiled at her quite easily, feeling in his jacket pocket for his pen and his diary.
‘Mind if I jot down a number?’ he asked, resting the diary on the table, flattening the paper. ‘Won’t take a moment. Just an advert that caught my eye.’
‘Tear it out,’ she said, almost impatiently, suddenly not caring about the paper, needing his attention.
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