Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  She gave a little moan. ‘Oh no!’

  After ten minutes of searching, she was more or less certain the key had gone into the ditch. There was nothing else for it but to try to stop a passing motorist. She turned to the roadway and was a little surprised to find there was not a car in sight. A road which less than half an hour ago had been humming with traffic was now completely silent.

  Another ten rather chilly minutes went by and it grew perceptibly darker. She switched on the car lights and stood at the rear of the vehicle. When a pair of headlights did at last come into view, the car flashed past her, in spite of her frantic signal. Sara felt almost like weeping, then she heard the sound of another car, but coming from the other direction, and before she could make a move to the front of her vehicle, it too passed her. But it made a U-tum and stopped behind her vehicle. As she went towards it a man stepped out. She recognized him instantly as the man with the camera and hesitated. He spoke as if he had never met her before.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  Sara couldn’t help wishing it had been someone else. So much for her ordering him off! She forced a smile.

  ‘Thank you for turning back. I’ve got a puncture and I’ve lost the wheel nut key.’

  His dark eyebrows came together in obvious disapproval.

  ‘When you used it on a previous occasion, I presume?’ Sara stopped herself from giving a sharp answer, but her smile disappeared. ‘As a matter of fact about a quarter of an hour ago. It flew out of my hand and went into the ditch, I think.’

  ‘Bad luck. Just a moment and I’ll get mine.’

  He returned in a few seconds with a wheel key and a large torch which he handed to her without saying anything. She directed a beam of light while he worked and in less than ten minutes the wheel was changed and the gear stowed in the boot.

  ‘How far are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Barker’s boatyard. Do you know it?’

  ‘Quite well. I’ll tail behind you until you reach it. It’s possible for you to get another puncture, and with no spare wheel and no wheel key—’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m going that way.’

  Sara started her engine and left the verge. It was still not really dark, but visibility was not very good. She came near to the narrow lane leading to the boatyard and signalled her intention to turn into it. To her surprise the lights on the car behind her made a similar signal. Five minutes later she ran the car in the shed in the boatyard, switched off the engine and turned off the lights. She was fiddling to get the key in the lock of the car when a torch-light beam struck exactly in the right place to help her. She drew in a startled breath.

  She was finding his presence quite a bit unnerving.

  ‘I remembered you didn’t seem to have a torch with you,’ he said. ‘Whereabouts is your cruiser?’

  ‘Cruiser? I haven’t one.’ She laughed. ‘Surely you remember my crashing into your dinghy with a little launch?’

  ‘I do indeed, but since you’re not staying on a cruiser, you’d better let me drive you to wherever you are staying—or living.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but it’s not possible. I’m staying at Fenchurch Mill.’

  ‘Good heavens! I had no idea the place was occupied again.’ He piloted her out of the shed and closed the door for her. ‘Your people must be getting very anxious about you and you’ve got me pretty worried now. If Ted Barker’s left out a craft of any kind, I can see you safely home. Let’s get you to your launch, then I’ll have a look around.’ He took her by one arm. ‘You shouldn’t stay out until it’s dark like this before you get back. Your folks must be worried stiff by now.’

  Sara hid a smile. How old did he think she was? Sixteen? She supposed he must be nearly thirty. They reached the launch and he helped her into it. As she struggled into her lifejacket she looked up at him.

  ‘Don’t worry about trying to find another craft to go with me. I don’t think I can get lost and if I do happen to fall in I’m quite a good swimmer.’

  Obviously reassured, he nodded. ‘I’m pretty sure Barker will have everything locked up anyway. Quite a bit of pilfering goes on these days. But you must take my torch. You’ll have difficulty in finding your dyke without a light of some kind.’

  She thanked him. ‘Shall I leave it with Mr. Barker for you?’

  ‘I’ll be on your part of the river tomorrow morning. I could call at the Mill and pick it up.’

  Sara hesitated for a moment, then said brightly, ‘I usually make coffee about eleven o’clock. I’ll expect you then. Goodnight, and thank you again.’

  ‘Switch on an upstairs light when you get to the house,’ he told her. ‘Then I’ll know you’re safely home. Otherwise I’ll have you on my conscience for the rest of the evening.’

  With this parting shot he left her. Sara took a deep breath, partly of amusement, partly of annoyance, and started the engine, moving into darkness that was like black velvet. The torch stabbed a long, narrow beam in front of her and gave her the impression of travelling through a tunnel. Once she glanced backwards but could see no sign of any light, and the loneliness of the place closed in upon her, sending a shiver up her spine. Even wearing a lifejacket, a tumble into the water now would be a very nasty and frightening experience. She knew from her previous trips that making a landing in the wild growth which grew along the banks would be difficult, and even when a landing was made there were no paths of any kind. This was a place where nature ruled and did not take kindly to the intrusion of human beings.

  From time to time, Sara swept the right-hand bank with the beam of the torch, but even so she nearly went past the narrow entrance to the mill dyke. She reduced speed to a mere tick-over and brushed gently past the reeds until she saw the open water of the mill staithe. A minute later she was in the house and savouring its warmth as she ran up the stairs to switch on lights. She looked through her bedroom window and was just in time to see a distant pair of headlights make a wide sweep, then disappear.

  She put out the light and went downstairs again to cook the evening meal. What a curious mixture of a man he was, she mused. She had never met anyone quite like him. He certainly wasn’t a bit like the image usually conjured up by the term ‘bird watcher. Was he pursuing a hobby—or was he a professional ornithologist? Whatever his job, he was an odd mixture of Sir Galahad and Sir Jasper. Few motorists would have been gallant enough to want to see a girl safely home—even if they had mended the puncture. At the same time she guessed he was not the kind of man who would suffer fools gladly. He would not easily forgive a mistake which arose out of sheer carelessness, or lack of foresight, or not giving attention to the job in hand, which a smell of burning told her she was not doing at this moment.

  She whipped out the grill pan, reduced the heat and watched it more carefully until the steak was grilling quietly, then her thoughts wandered again.

  What a contrast there was between the man wearing the floppy hat, duffle coat and waders and the well-dressed one who had come to her assistance this evening. The suit he had been wearing had that well-cut look which only comes from a good tailor. As to his car—that was super. Not flashy, more sober—but very expensive-looking.’ Was he really a professional bird-man? Or more likely a business tycoon following his hobby. Perhaps he didn’t even live in Norfolk. Very likely he was having dinner at this very moment in some comfortable, expensive country hotel.

  Sara sat down to her own meal. She was hungry and she enjoyed it, but was very conscious of the silence and the lack of company. At the moment a glass of wine, a companion and good conversation were very desirable. She sighed as she rose from the table and began to wash her dishes. Thirteen weeks, and she was not yet halfway through the first of them. How was she going to stick it?

  She slept late the following morning and woke to the sound of the bulldozer, but when she went to her window she could see nothing but a spiral of exhaust gas disappointingly far off. She br
eakfasted and afterwards scurried around, tidying rooms which beyond a faint film of dust on polished surface, were already tidy. She stopped in her tracks.

  All this fuss for a man whose name she didn’t even know—anyone would think she was expecting royalty! After all, he was only a man who had been kind enough to help her, and who had lent her his torch. There was more than an hour before he could be expected. She put on her quilted jacket over the dress she had decided to wear for his benefit and went into the garden at the back of the house. The sun was shining and in the shelter from the wind provided by the house and the surrounding jungle, she found it surprisingly warm. She walked along a moss-grown brick path and looked at the decayed growth in the flower beds without much enthusiasm. To her, plants were something you bought in pots in the early spring. Flowers came by the dozen in neat bunches and were quite expensive. She supposed this unkempt, wizened-looking mass might possibly produce something. Or even if it was only dug up or sheared off, it would at least look neater.

  There was a shed close to the Mill tower. She went to it and looked inside. An array of garden tools hung from the walls and there was also a wheelbarrow and a lawn-mower. She trundled out the wheelbarrow and put a big pair of shears into it. Back on the path she clipped at everything within reach and put the clippings into the barrow. Then she stepped back and was surprised what a difference she had made. Things looked more cared for—at least, as far as she had gone. But she had barely started on the job.

  She went on working, then looked at her watch. A quarter to eleven and she hadn’t even put the coffee percolator on! From being too soon, she would now be late. She rushed indoors and set that matter right. While she was doing it she saw the state of her once well-manicured hands and made haste to repair the damage, but before she had done so the door bell chimed.

  She opened the door and asked him in, leading the way to the sitting room. ‘I won’t keep you a moment. I was in the garden and didn’t notice the time.’

  But they had barely entered the sitting room when he lifted up his head and gave a sniff.

  ‘Is something boiling over?’

  ‘Good heavens, the coffee!’

  She rushed into the kitchen, but he was even quicker and had whipped the percolator off the stove in a flash.

  ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think you’ve lost much. I’ll turn the heat down, shall I—er—’

  ‘Sara,’ she said in a frantic tone. ‘What an absolute idiot you must think me.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been known to let coffee boil over myself. It’s just one of those things. Sara—what?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Seymour.’ She laughed. ‘You’re ahead of me now. What am I to call you?’

  ‘Hugh. Hugh Cornish.’

  ‘Well—Hugh, if you’ll make yourself comfortable in the sitting room I’ll bring in the coffee in a few minutes.’ As he went into the hall she wiped the top of the stove and set milk to heat, keeping a very sharp eye on the milk while she put out biscuits and cheese. She wondered vaguely what he did think of her. A young incompetent? Not that it mattered very much. It would soon be a case of ‘Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing.’

  She carried in the tray and set it down. ‘Black or white?’

  ‘A sort of dark brown, please.’

  ‘What a friend of mine calls khaki.’

  ‘That’s just the right word. And two lumps, please.’

  She sat opposite to him. ‘I take it you’re here on holiday?’

  ‘Holiday? No. I’m doing a book.’

  ‘Doing? Oh, you mean writing one? How exciting. It should be marvellous background for a thriller.’

  ‘I don’t write fiction. This will be an illustrated handbook of British birds.’

  Sara thought his tone sounded superior, as if the writing of fiction were beneath his dignity.

  ‘I like a good thriller myself,’ she said, unconsciously on the defensive for those who did write them. ‘Of course I like other kinds of books as well. Arnold Bennett, Hemingway, Daphne du Maurier...’

  ‘I don’t read much fiction these days. Fact is interesting and entertaining enough for me.’

  ‘But surely good fiction has a place in education as well as being a form of relaxation,’ she argued.

  ‘I don’t think I can agree with you there. If more people read facts instead of fancies there would be far less trouble in the world.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it was books like Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Oliver Twist that set public opinion against slavery and workhouses, although the facts were there for anyone to see, let alone read.’

  ‘I still think well presented facts exert the major effect. Fiction is all too often exaggerated or biased.’

  She could have retorted that so-called documentaries were often biased, too, but she knew what his answer to that would be. His accent had been on well presented. ‘More coffee?’ she asked.

  He appeared to hesitate. ‘Thank you, I will. You make an excellent brew. Do you mind if I ask a personal question?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Will your stay here be short or long?’

  ‘Sort of in-between. My aunt, or I should say my great-aunt, bequeathed this place to me, but I couldn’t possibly live here permanently.’

  ‘Why not? I know it must look a dreary and inhospitable area to you now, but in the spring and summer it’s really beautiful. You should at least arrange to be here in the warmer weather.’

  ‘I shall probably still be here in the early part of May. But there are other reasons why I can’t make this my permanent home.’ She did not think she should disclose legal business to a man she scarcely knew.

  He gave her an odd look. ‘I see. Well, perhaps later on I might ask a favour of you.’

  ‘Why not now? No time like the present.’

  ‘Very well. I’d like your permission to take some photographs from the top of the Mill tower.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll leave the key handy for you somewhere.’

  ‘You should never do that. Leaving keys is an open invitation to thieves.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right—but in a place like this—besides, there’s nothing in the Mill to steal.’

  ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must be off. I have work to do. Thank you for the coffee.’

  She went with him to the door, then gave an exclamation. ‘Good heavens, we’re forgetting your torch! The very thing you came for.’

  She darted into the kitchen and brought the torch to him, then watched him get into his dinghy and row away with even and precise strokes. He wasn’t bad, she concluded, but he was inclined to be stuffy. That business of the Mill key, for instance. Suppose she did leave it under the proverbial doormat. Who was there to find it? And if someone did, what was there to steal? Hereabouts there couldn’t even be a tramp seeking shelter. Somehow the thought of her isolated position reminded her of the fact that the car still had a punctured tyre for a spare. Suppose someone from the yard should take the vehicle out?

  She hurried into the hall and dialled the boatyard number. Ted Barker answered her and laughed when she told him her fears.

  ‘That’s all right. No one would have used the car without ringing you first to see if you wanted it. Anyway, I’ll get young Peter to take it to the garage and have it fixed.’

  ‘I ought to do that. Please. I do have the time, oceans of it. I’ll be along in a few minutes.’

  When Sara stepped on to the boatyard quay she saw Peter stepping aboard a big cruiser with an armful of blankets. She called to him jokingly:

  ‘Feeling the cold?’

  ‘These clients might do tonight.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve actually got holiday people at this time of the year?’

  Ted stepped out of the cabin at that moment. ‘Hello, Sara. Come aboard if you have the time.’ He spoke to Peter. ‘Lifejackets and the T.V. set next.’

  Sara
climbed on to the after-deck, then down into the well, and looked past Ted into the saloon.

  ‘It looks very comfortable, almost luxurious.’

  ‘Come in and have a real look around. I’d like your honest opinion about things.’

  ‘Mine? But I don’t know a thing about boats.’

  ‘That’s why I want your opinion. This is a new layout. About half the people who’ll hire this boat or any other on the Broads will be first-timers, so the opinion of someone like you will be valuable. Have a good look around from the woman’s point of view. Just imagine it’s going to be yours for a week or a fortnight.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t spare the criticism. Some of the hirers won’t, particularly if they’ve had bad weather!’

  As Ted went out of the saloon, Sara tried a comfortable-looking settee. From a sitting position she could see the gaunt-looking opposite bank of the river quite well without having to crane her neck in the least. To her, that would be important. She tried the dinette area intended for four people and was pleased at the fact that there were four separate chairs, allowing any one person to leave the table without disturbing the others, a thing she had found something of a nuisance on a caravan holiday she had once tried.