Summer of the Raven

by Sara Craven

  With a muffled groan she swung her legs off the bed and stood up, walking across to the dressing chest to study her reflection in the mirror. If there were no visible marks left on Carne, then her own face bore enough incriminating evidence to convict her with Antonia. Her eyes looked twice their normal size, and her mouth looked flushed and swollen from Carne's practised assault on it. She supposed she should be grateful she didn't bruise all that easily, or her arms, and back and ribcage would have suffered from his rough handling.

  No one had ever told her that making love could be more like making war, she thought, pressing her fingers lightly to her tender lips, and wondering whether it was his teeth or hers which had done the most damage. And he had accused her of playing games. She gave a brief mirthless

  laugh and turned away.

  Ironically, her white lie was becoming all too true. She was developing a rare headache. She went into the shared bathroom and took some of the aspirin in the small medicine cabinet before returning to lie down again on the bed, but this time removing- her shoes and stripping off her jeans and shirt. They were soiled anyway, and not merely from the earth she had knelt on. As she had removed the shirt she had been conscious that the fibres still retained a hint of Carne, of the warm male scent of his body. It was all too

  painfully reminiscent, she thought, kicking the clothes away from her almost violently before she slid under the covers. She lay still for a few moments, practising the relaxation techniques she had learned on a brief meditation

  course a girl at college had persuaded her to try a lifetime ago, it seemed.

  'I'd like to be that Rowan Winslow again,' she thought. 'With not a problem in the world except tomorrow's lecture and yesterday's essay.' She hadn't been particularly happy, but there had been a kind of contentment in doing her work well and conscientiously. She had been well thought of as a student. But that Rowan Winslow no longer existed. Even if she got the opportunity in the autumn, she wasn't sure that she would try to resume her course. After all, the ultimate intention was to become a social worker, and a fat cheek she had planning to help other people with their lives when she couldn't even manage her own!

  Almost to her surprise, the relaxation worked, in spite of her emotional confusion, and she found herself drifting into sleep, and a dream where she stood in Carne's arms in a garden, and his mouth on hers was as gentle as a petal falling from a flower, and she awoke to find tears on her

  Lice.

  She was calm, with all traces of grief or passion smoothed away, by the time she presented herself in the kitchen to cook the dinner. Antonia, clearly fearful that she would have to handle the meal herself, had already taken some lamb chops out of the freezer to defrost and was prepared to take the line of least resistance by grilling them with chips. But Rowan decided she could do better than that. She'd bake them a la Provencale, she thought, with potatoes and onions and garlic and layers of tomatoes. And she'd make an Eve pudding to follow, and if Carne read any significance into that, he was more than welcome!

  The meal was in the oven sending out tantalisingly savoury aromas by the time he appeared, and no evidence to show who had made all the preparations, Rowan thought with a sudden satisfaction as she looked up woodenly from the kitchen table and the paperback novel she was making a pretence of reading.

  'Where's your stepmother?' he asked bleakly, his eyes skimming over her dismissively.

  'Changing for dinner, I expect.' Rowan kept her own tone level.

  'Clearly it doesn't occur to you to do the same.'

  She was tempted to retort that the jeans and shirt she was wearing now were not those she had had on earlier in the day, but she bit her tongue;

  'Did you want Antonia for something?' she asked.

  'I wanted to tell her that some friends are coming over for a drink after dinner-the Listers. Perhaps you'd let her know. I presume the drinks cabinet is reasonably stocked?'

  Anyone would think we'd been swigging the stuff in buckets, Rowan thought in sudden irritation. Aloud she said sweetly, 'I think there'll still be enough for your needs.'

  Carne nodded abruptly, and left the kitchen. Rowan released her pent-up breath on a little sigh. So that was how he wanted to play it-the master of the house with a less than bright member of the staff. Well, it would do, and perhaps when sufficient time had passed, arid especially if he reached an understanding with Antonia, then they could get back on a more normal footing.

  Antonia was less than pleased with Rowan's news.'

  'Who are these Listers?' she demanded. 'Some dreary local people, no doubt. 'What a bore!'

  Rowan shrugged. 'Carne simply said they were friends. Shall I check on the glasses?'

  'Yes-fine.' Antonia frowned a little. 'A married couple, did he say?'

  'No, but I presume so. Why don't you ask him?' 'Because that would be just a little too obvious,' said Antonia, patting Rowan's cheek as she went past in a little wave of Caleche. She was looking particularly glamorous in a draped dress in white and amber jersey, and her hair and nails were immaculate. Rowan thought of her own hair, looped back into two bunches and secured by elastic bands, and her nails, bitten down to the quick again during her morning soul-searching. In spite of Carne's acid comment, she wasn't going to change, 'she thought defiantly. If she looked scruffy and rebellious, that was all in keeping with the image he had of her anyway. And even if she spent an hour in the bathroom and put on the most attractive dress in her wardrobe, she still couldn't compete with Antonia.

  The Listers arrived in time for coffee, which Rowan started and Antonia completed with something of a flour­ish. They were married, and both were slightly older than Carne, because it transpired that they had grown-up chil­dren-a girl of twenty who was working in Paris, and a teenage son, David, a year younger than Rowan. Grace Lister was wearing a caftan in muted shades of brown and gold and an assortment of attractive rings containing semi­precious stones on her square capable-looking hands. Rowan wasn't surprised to learn that they ran a successful local pottery and gift shop. And they ware far from being the local drears Antonia had grumbled about. Both Grace and her husband Clive, who was about a head shorter than she was, with a balding head and a neatly trimmed beard, had a lively line in conversation, and it was clear from the most casual observation that they and Carne were old friends.

  It was also clear that while they seemed to know all about Antonia, Rowan was an unknown quantity. Carne introduced her to them, his voice expressionless, and after I hey had made a few conventional enquiries about how she liked her new home, she was left pretty much to her own services. When drinks were being offered she refused Carne's somewhat pointed suggestion of a fruit juice and retired to a seat by the window, leaving Antonia to play the role of the hostess with considerable verve. Even to Rowan's rather jaundiced eye, it was a notable perform­ance. Antonia made quite sure that the Listers knew that she and Carne were cousins, provided ash-trays and smiling small talk, saw that everyone's glass was kept filled, and deferred prettily to Carne on almost every topic, at the same time allowing a faintly proprietorial tone to enter her voice whenever plans for the house and garden were discussed.

  'Carne and I think' was a phrase which seemed to rise with the utmost readiness to her lips. Watching Carne beneath her lashes, secure in the knowledge he was too engrossed with his guests to notice, Rowan thought he looked faintly amused at times, but he made no effort to contradict Antonia, or dispel the impression of togetherness he was so eager to foster.

  She's making quite sure that the return invitation in­cludes her too, Rowan thought cynically.

  She was just returning with more ice which she had been despatched to the kitchen to fetch when she realised Grace I.ister was bemoaning a shortage of staff for the new season.

  'Lynne was wonderful, of course, a born saleswoman, hut she's having a baby, and she's been told to take it easy for a couple of months,' she was saying. 'I coped over Easter, but in a couple of weeks' time it's going to start getti
ng silly, and I can't serve in the shop and do the demonstrations as well.'

  'What about David?' Carne asked.

  Grace flung up her hands in mock horror. 'Worse than useless, darling. Never knows the price of anything and breaks more than he sells. Besides, just at the moment, work-especially in the family business-is a dirty word.'

  'Is it now?' Carne said drily, and his eyes met Rowan as she stood in the doorway, holding the bowl of ice. 'Here's snother one with similar views.'

  'Oh, I can hardly believe that,' Clive Lister said jovially, smiling across at her.

  Rowan bit her lip. Then she said slowly and clearly, 'I know nothing about selling pots, Mrs Lister, but if you need a salesgirl, I'd be more than willing to learn. Would you consider giving me a trial?'

  'My dear child,' Grace Lister was half laughing, half embarrassed, 'I really wasn't hinting-I didn't mean to give the impression . . .'

  'But I did,' said Rowan. 'I need work, and there can't be many convenient local vacancies. If you're looking for staff, then I'd like to be considered.'

  'Mrs Winslow,' Grace turned to Antonia, 'how do you feel about this? Do you mind the thought of your step­daughter serving in the gift shop?'

  Antonia shrugged smilingly. 'It really has very little to do with me. Rowan does as she pleases,' she said, and Rowan knew instinctively that she was inwardly simmer­ing with anger.

  Grace Lister's warm eyes studied Rowan with faint puzzlement for a moment or two, then she said briskly, 'Well, I do need someone, and you need a job, so it all fits. Shall we say a week's trial to see how we all get on to­gether? It's very much a family atmosphere and we need to keep it harmonious.'

  Rowan nodded. 'Shall I start tomorrow?' she asked pol­itely. 'What time would you like me to be there?'

  Grace Lister made a little helpless gesture as if events were moving too fast for her. 'Shall we say nine-thirty? Don't worry about overalls. I supplied Lynne's-rather pretty ones. You and she are much of a height. They should fit you . . .'

  'Well, how nice to have it all settled,' Antonia said brightly, and spuriously. 'Mr Lister-Clive-may I top up your drink for you?'

  Rowan was standing brushing her hair in front of the mirror that night when Antonia came in: without cere­mony.

  'What the hell are you playing at?' she demanded accus­ingly. 'Your job is to help me here, not to stand about all day in some crummy gift shop flogging souvenirs to trip­pers!'

  ‘Then perhaps you'd better explain your point of view to Carne,' Rowan said calmly. 'He has the impression that I’m work-shy.'

  Antonia's eyes flashed. 'If you think you're going to make a different impression by sliming round his friends, then you're mistaken!'

  'There are times, Antonia,' Rowan said steadily, 'when you are impossibly vulgar. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go to bed.'

  'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-but what am I going to do?’ Antonia burst out. 'You know I can't manage without you, especially with Carne prowling around like some re­volting overseer all the time. I keep expecting him to inspect the ledges for dust. How am I going to manage the cooking as well as the housework?'

  Rowan sighed. 'I'll cook for the freezer in my spare time, then all you'll have to do is warm the stuff up. You can do that much, surely?'

  'But you didn't have to volunteer to do this awful job.

  I ell be terribly tiring, and I expect she'll pay you starva­tion wages. Those sort of places always do.'

  'It's no sinecure here, and I get paid nothing at all,' Rowan reminded her levelly. 'Besides, I like Mrs Lister, and I think I'll enjoy working for her. Potteries are inter­esting places.'

  'Well, I don't understand you,' Antonia's voice was sullen. 'If I were to explain to Carne . . .'

  'No,' Rowan interrupted swiftly. 'No more explana­tions, please. I've had as much as I can take as it is. And it's Hot the end of the world. I'm only on a week's trial. Mrs Lister may decide I'm unsuitable.'

  'That's hardly likely. You heard her saying how difficult it was to get anyone.' Antonia sighed deeply. 'Well, on your own head be it,' she announced magisterially, and went off to her own own room.

  It was decidedly cooler the following day with a hint of rain in the air. Rowan put on a simple dark red button­ through skirt and teamed it with a polo-necked cream sweater in fine wool. She also decided to wear tights and a pair of comfortable shoes instead of her usual sandals.

  She had hoped to find the kitchen empty, but to her dismay Carne was sitting at the table eating a piece of toast and reading a newspaper. He glanced up as she came in, and his mouth curled sardonically.

  'The gallant volunteer,' he remarked. 'At least you've dressed for the part.'

  'I'll be wearing an overall anyway.' Rowan could have done with some toast and coffee herself, but she didn't want to have to eat it under Carne's caustic gaze.

  'So you will. Do you think you'll be able to stand it?

  You'll work long hours, and the shop gets very busy during the high season.'

  Rowan shrugged. 'We'll have to see.'

  'That's just what we won't do,' Carne said sharply. 'Grace is a friend of mine, and I don't want you letting her down just when the shop's at its busiest because you've decided it's too much like hard work. I'd rather ring her now and tell her you've changed your mind.'

  'But I haven't. Nor shall I,' Rowan said equably, although inwardly she was seething. 'I intend to do my best.'

  'Whatever that is,' he said satirically. 'Well, you'd better get going. You don't want to be late and make a bad impression on your first day-whatever may happen in the future. Oh, and' another thing,' he added, as Rowan slid her arms into the sleeves of her shabby cream trench coat and tied the belt round her slim waist. 'If you must try out your embryo wiles on someone, make sure it's David, and not Clive. If that's not asking too much, of course.'

  She said on a little breath, 'My God.' And then, 'You bastard!'

  'Harsh words, sweetheart,' he said coldly. 'But the warning stands. One hint from Grace, and I'll give you the thrashing of your young life.'

  Rowan hadn't the slightest desire to go to the pottery arid start work. All she wanted to do was go up to her room and cry until her heart broke, but Grace Lister was expect­ing her at nine-thirty, which in its way was a kind of salvation, because it meant she had to .swallow her misery and her rage and go.

  A persistent misty drizzle was falling as she made her way down the drive. How very appropriate, Rowan mut­tered to herself, winding a dark red silk scarf round her hair and securing the ends at the nape of her neck. Grace had given her fairly explicit directions how to find them. ('Not,' he'd said, laughing, 'that you could actually miss us. Ravensmere isn't your bustling metropolis.')

  Rowan's step became brisker once she had walked through the gates and out on to the road, as if some in­visible burden had suddenly been lifted from her. And the fact that the road wound downhill to the village helped too. When she finally emerged into the main street, she paused for a minute to get her bearings, then took the warning which Grace had mentioned.

  The pottery was housed in an adjoining pair of con­verted cottages. The workshops and display rooms occupied the ground floor, and the upper floor, coupled with an extension at the rear provided the Listers with their living accommodation. The whole building had been painted white, and a small hand-made sign swung from a wrought iron support.

  Grace must have been looking out for her, because as Rowan approached she flung open the door, and Rowan heard the welcoming tinkle of a bell.

  'You're early,' she greeted her smilingly. 'That's a good start.'

  As Grace showed her where to hang her raincoat, Rowan found herself wondering if her new employer had really expected her to arrive at all. There had been a note of- surprise?-in Grace's voice when she greeted her, and Rowan thought that probably hints had been dropped after she had gone to her room the previous night. She could have ground her teeth in rage, but she forced her­self to stay cool. Whatever had or h
ad not been said-and maybe she was just being over-sensitive—Grace was hardly likely to discuss it with her, so the best thing she could do was put it out of her mind. And for the next hour or two she was kept so busy as Grace took her round the show­rooms, showing her the range of pots they produced and their prices, that she had little time to worry about any possible impression which might have been given in her disfavour.

  The Listers, she discovered, were more than competent potters. They dealt mainly in stoneware and ceramics, and the goods which crowded the shelves and display tables had been conceived and executed with real flair and imagi­nation. Their use of glazes, Rowan thought appreciatively, was clever, and often inspired, and she loved the chunky peasant shapes of much of their cookware.

  She turned regretfully to Grace. 'It's a pity you have to put up notices asking people not to touch. Most of these things are aching to be picked up and handled.'

  Grace looked pleased. 'Do you feel that too? I always feel that's the mark of a successful pot. After all, it only comes into shape because of the potter's handling originally. But it's a rule we've had. to make, otherwise the breakages would be more horrendous than they are. Later on, we'll show you the process itself-you can have a go at throwing a pot yourself it you like-and you'll see the time and the effort which goes into each item, and know why it breaks my heart every time someone bungs one of them on to the ground and blitherly says "Sorry". She paused and then laughed. 'Speech over for today! To return to basics-­everything is priced before it's put on display-we use small stickers on the base of each item. But as a general guide, we put up one or two lists as well so that people can decide whether what we're offering is within their price range without being put to the embarrassment of asking. Generally speaking, you'll be on your own in here-unless there's an emergency, say, a couple of coach parties arriv­ing together-and it can happen, and then you holler for Clive or me.'