Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  Sara straightened up very slowly. Never until this moment had she ever seen a robin at such close quarters, and she had never believed one could have so red a breast. Christmas card artists were not guilty of overcolouring, after all.

  Almost holding her breath, Sara watched the bird intently, sure that at any moment it would fly away. Then it darted to where her fork was still stuck in the ground, made a lightning peck and hopped about a foot away, a small white grub in its beak.

  Sara moved cautiously to press the fork further in and lever up half frozen earth. She suppressed a squeal of delight as the robin hopped into the small hole she had made and pecked rapidly. She moved the fork again and it soon became apparent to her that the bird had no fear whatever either of her or of the implement she was clumsily wielding.

  A half hour passed and it seemed the robin had an insatiable appetite. Sara straightened a back which was beginning to ache and as she rested her hands on the fork the robin flew to perch on top of them. It regarded her for a few seconds, then hopped back into the hole she had made and resumed its pecking.

  Sara experienced a feeling she had never known before. It was at one time both a transport of delight and an intense yearning for the natural things of life. She began to understand that in spite of the magnetism of big city existence, life could not be lived there to the full. She still watched the robin, but her thoughts now strayed to Hugh. What a wonderful career he had chosen, studying birds, photographing them and writing books about them. Someone like him should have inherited Fenchurch Mill, not an ignoramus about nature—a townie like herself. Someone had to live and work in the big cities, of course, or there would be no one to print the nature-lovers’ books and no great libraries to house them when they were printed. All the same...

  As she moved down the path, a thrush winged past her and settled on the edge of the hole she had dug. It poised for a moment, then made a sudden stab at the ground. The next second it was braced in a tug-of-war with a long brown worm, a losing war for the worm. She laughed and stabbed her fork into the ground again, and immediately the robin flew to explore at her feet. Then it seemed suddenly alarmed and darted in swift flight towards the jungle thicket at the end of the garden. Sara saw it disappear from her view and went towards the spot, hoping to see its nest. There was a tangle of leafless stems and branches and about a yard back among the seemingly dense wood a holly bush about ten feet tall. Low down in it was a perfectly formed nest. Sara was trying to push her way closer to it when she heard the distant roar of the bulldozer. She turned quickly, with one thought in her mind—the holly bush and its nest must be saved.

  Running into the house and up the stairs, Sara looked through her bedroom window. Beyond the end of the garden, and almost reaching it, was a very narrow lane and about a quarter of a mile from her the bulldozer was lumbering steadily towards her on the business of widening it.

  As she closed the window again she became aware of the awful din of the television set downstairs. Desmond seemed sufficiently entertained, so there was no reason why she should not leave him alone a while longer. She changed rapidly into slacks and a sweater, pulled on her stout shoes and left the house by the back door again. Some exploration of the rank growth close to the Mill tower showed her a gate that had fallen off its hinges. She went through the gateway, thrusting aside dead growth which still had the power to sting and rasp, and came to the newly opened lane.

  She walked at a good pace until she came closer to where the bulldozer was making its bucking progress. Then the operator saw her and the nerve-shattering roar was suddenly cut off. The man leaned out of his cab and regarded her intently for a few seconds before saying in a pleasant voice,

  ‘You want to speak to me, Miss Seymour?’

  ‘Yes. Please—if it’s at all possible—there’s a holly bush near the end of the garden that I’d like saved.’

  ‘Little old holly? That should be all right, miss. I won’t be so far as that until Monday noon.’

  ‘And will you be able to skirt around it?’

  ‘It’s mill land, miss. You just say what you want done with her.’

  ‘You mean there’s more than this lane belongs to the mill?’

  ‘A biggish piece more. On this side of the road there’s a strip about a couple of hundred yards wide and a drainage dyke. On the other side it’s about a quarter of a mile to Sedge Farm.’

  ‘I had no idea there was so much land. It’s practically an estate.’

  ‘Getting towards it, and there’s some good timber on it too.’ He laughed. ‘Nearly enough to set you up as a timber merchant.’

  She laughed with him. ‘I hadn’t thought of myself as a timber merchant. You’ll have to tell me more about it. Come up to the house on Monday morning and we can discuss it over a cup of coffee. Or perhaps you’d rather have a bottle of beer?’

  ‘Well, it is a thirsty job, miss. The dozer kicks up a fair old dust.’

  ‘Come and quench it about half-past ten on Monday, Mr.—’

  ‘Sam Blake. Thank you very much.’

  Sara smiled and walked away and a moment later the air trembled once more to the roar of the giant machine. When she got a little distance away again she thought once more how easy it was to make friends in this part of the country. The people seemed to stand back at first to have a good look at you, then they completely accepted you.

  Entering the house, she had qualms of conscience about having left Desmond to his own devices, but the roar now of football spectators as she walked into the sitting room and the fact that Desmond did not even turn his eyes from the screen told her she was worrying unduly. She glanced at the clock and was almost relieved to see it was time to prepare tea.

  She went into the kitchen and suddenly realized she was bored with Desmond. They had never been in any way romantic about each other, but in the setting of swinging London—the boutique, the coffee bars, the pop scene, they had found a certain pleasure in each other’s company. Yet here, in the country—Or was it that she was unconsciously comparing him with Hugh Cornish? But that was ridiculous. There was no comparison. In any case, it was always silly to compare one person with another.

  What else did Hugh do besides bird-watching and writing? Did he ever take out a woman? But how absurd. Of course he did—a man like that. Any woman would be proud—eager—to be seen with him. She pictured him with a woman who was tall and dark, a woman with dignity and poise, dressed well but not ostentatiously. Certainly not in any of the trendy fashions she designed for her teenage customers.

  The smell of burning toast claimed her attention, but for some reason she could not dismiss Hugh entirely from her mind. He was still with her when she loaded the tea trolley and wheeled it through to the sitting room, but the silence which now reigned there and Desmond’s moody expression set her thoughts on a different track.

  ‘Had enough television?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘They’ve got some kid stuff on now.’

  ‘Never mind. As soon as we’ve had something to eat, it’ll be time for us to make for the bright lights.’

  She arranged two of a nest of tables and poured tea, ‘What sort of a place are we going to?’ Desmond asked. ‘I hope it’s lively.’

  ‘I had to choose by the name. It’s a Mecca. They’re always good.’

  ‘Hum,’ he spoke with a mouthful of toast. ‘It depends. There’s very often too much old-time for me.’

  ‘I like a bit of ballroom dancing.’

  ‘What—all that slow, slow, quick-quick slow stuff? It looks a grind. Couldn’t you have found a discotheque somewhere?’

  ‘I hardly know my way across the town yet. There’s bound to be some pop. There always is.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Sara was feeling slightly exasperated and looked for another topic of conversation.

  ‘I was digging in the back garden a while back and—’

  ‘Digging!’ The complete disbelief in Desmond’s tone made Sara feel as if she ha
d committed some enormous crime, but she went on desperately,

  ‘A robin with a very red breast came and hopped into the hole right at my feet. Then when I stopped digging and rested my hands on the fork it came and perched there for almost a minute.’

  ‘That’s great. A little Robin Redbreast.’

  His sarcasm was unmistakable. Normally, she would have barely noticed it. Now—

  ‘Another muffin?’

  He yawned. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘More tea?’

  He merely shook his head.

  Sara drew herself upright in her chair. Like most of his type Desmond had always been offhand, making no effort at good manners, or to hide what he was feeling, but at the present moment he seemed to her insufferably rude. Didn’t he know the difference between being a guest in someone’s house and sitting at a table in a coffee bar or beating out rhythm in a discotheque? She let her annoyance subside before saying quietly:

  ‘I don’t think you like it very much here, do you, Des?’

  ‘Well, it’s dead, isn’t it? Like being in a cemetery. Even if you look out of the window there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘It is very quiet.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I’ll clear away, then we’ll get ready to go.’

  ‘Okay. Where do you keep your telephone?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘The telephone? In the hall.’ Then understanding dawned. ‘Of course—you haven’t fixed up where to stay yet, have you? You’ll find a directory there. Try the yellow pages.’

  He did not move from his chair while she was loading the trolley, but when she was in the kitchen his voice reached her faintly from the hall, and as she ran water into the sink she couldn’t help wishing his visit was over.

  An hour later they were in the car and making good speed towards Norwich. Desmond had hardly uttered a word, but as Sara was negotiating a turn into the busy traffic of the ring-road, he said casually,

  ‘There’s a train for London at half-ten. I think I’ll catch it.’

  She laughed briefly. ‘I hope you’re good at getting up early on Sunday mornings, then. I seem to remember you once telling me you liked to stay in bed until about noon.’

  ‘I meant the half-ten tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? But—’

  This again was typical of Desmond—changing his mind without the least consideration for others. All part of the cult of so-called freedom. All the same, it was quite a relief knowing she would not have his company tomorrow, too.

  She concentrated on her driving through the quite heavy traffic and hardly spoke again until they were inside the dance hall and seated at their table. A modern waltz was in progress and the floor was not over full. At any other time Sara would have been delighted to have danced to the lilting music, but one glance at Desmond’s cynical and contemptuous expression was enough to give swift wings to the notion. A waiter came. She picked up her menu card and ordered with complete abandon. This was going to be a dinner, not a dinner-dance.

  By nine o’clock there had been only one number for those who preferred jive. But a second one followed shortly afterwards and Sara took the floor with Desmond without any great enthusiasm. She left him when the dance ended and spent an overlong time in the powder room before going back to him and announcing that it was time to leave if he wanted to catch the ten-thirty train.

  Outside, it seemed to her to be very cold and she noticed that the concrete of the car park was slippery with a thin film of ice. However, the engine gave no trouble in starting and she arrived at the station at least a quarter of an hour too early. Desmond broke a silence which had lasted during the drive.

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear of any suitable premises.’

  ‘Yes, do. Goodnight, Des.’

  She hardly waited for him to close the door before letting in the clutch and for a few minutes she had to struggle to prevent her annoyance interfering with safe driving. But the traffic was thin at this particular hour and soon she was on the well lit, straight road through the suburbs. Then came unlit miles, along a frosted road glittering under the beams of her headlamps. Sara forced herself to dismiss all thought of Desmond’s behaviour in her concentration over the dangerous surface. Near Wroxham she had a horrible moment when she felt the back wheels spin as she negotiated the zigzag of the railway bridge.

  Later, as she was travelling along the narrow lane to the boatyard she had a decided skid, so she finished the remainder of the journey at not much more than a walking pace.

  The rough ground of the boatyard looked as if it had been covered by a light fall of snow and the surface was difficult to walk over. Then when she reached the launch the canvas canopy was board-stiff and the mooring rope seemed a bar of iron.

  There was a light, tinkling sound as she got into the launch which she identified as a skim of ice on the river breaking as the boat rocked. She started the engine and got into the pilot’s seat holding the torch so that the beam was straight ahead. Then she noticed a fitment which had not been there before—a searchlight.

  Sara fumbled and found the switch and as a brilliant beam shot out felt a great glow of gratitude. Ted Barker’s kindness to her knew no bounds. He must have returned to the boatyard after his ordinary hours and fixed the light for her. With its aid she made a good pace along the main river, but slowed the engine to a gentle throb as she turned into the mill dyke. To her surprise the powerful beam picked out a dinghy close into the fringe of reeds. She recognized the duffle-coated figure and called out,

  ‘Hugh, it’s Sara!’

  ‘I guessed so when I saw the light.’

  She came alongside the dinghy and stopped. He stooped low to peer under the hood.

  ‘You’re alone. I thought—’

  ‘Desmond took the ten-thirty train back to London.’ Suddenly she felt a compelling urge to talk. ‘Have you finished what you’re doing? If so why not come up to the house and have coffee, or something?’

  ‘Well, I certainly won’t get any more photographs around here tonight.’

  ‘You mean my coming along has frightened everything away? I’m sorry.’

  ‘You needn’t be. People happening along is one of the hazards of this business. I can’t expect to have the river to myself. I’ll accept your offer of coffee, “or something”. Just a minute and I’ll hitch on to your stern and you can tow me.’

  A few minutes later, a thrill of pleasure bubbling up inside her, Sara opened the front door and switched on the light. Hugh came in after her and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Give me your coat and make yourself comfortable in the sitting room while I make some coffee,’ she told him.

  She hung his coat up and led the way into the sitting room, noticing that his gaze rested on the piano.

  ‘Do you play?’ she asked.

  ‘When I have the opportunity.’

  She laughed. ‘Then you have one now, while I see to the coffee.’

  He walked straight to the instrument and as she passed through to the kitchen, he struck a few preliminary chords. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should be playing while she did this last piece of domestic work for the day. As she filled the percolator the most glorious sounds seemed to fill the whole house, thrilling her heart as nothing had ever done before. But when she carried the tray into the sitting room the chords were becoming muted, softer and softer until the final gentle arpeggio lingered on the air like the faint breath of a dying breeze. She tried to put the tray down silently, but a spoon tinkled against a cup and brought him swinging his long legs around on the stool to face her.

  ‘I do apologize,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid I rather got carried away.’

  ‘What is there to apologize for? I liked it—and I did ask you to play.’

  ‘Yes, but concertos aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.’

  ‘Aren’t they? I’m afraid I hardly know one kind of music from another, but I did like what you’ve just played. It was—tremendous—so grand.
’

  He smiled. The Warsaw Concerto. Play the heavy passages loudly enough and if your audience is not too discerning, they won’t notice how badly you play.’

  ‘Then thank goodness I’m not discerning. I thought it simply wonderful.’

  She poured the coffee, making his almost black as he liked it. Khaki.

  He sat opposite to her. ‘From that good-looking dress you’re wearing I’d say you’ve been looking at the night life of Norwich.’

  Ridiculously, she thrilled that she was wearing something he liked. It was a demure little maxi-dress sent by Mrs. Worthing by post. Softly gathered at the waist and buttoned to the knees, it was in a paisley-like pattern of powder blue and white.

  ‘Yes, I have. Des and I went to the Norwood Rooms. ‘‘It’s a good place. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Not a lot. Des doesn’t do ballroom dancing and by the time the jive started it was time for him to go.’

  ‘You should have tried the Samson and Hercules,’ he said in an abrupt tone.

  ‘Yes, of course! How silly of me, although now I think of it, I didn’t realize he wouldn’t know how to do ballroom dancing. Do you like jive?’