Listening to the Reverend read the order of morning service, Max let his gaze drift around the church. Constance was right. St Faith’s was a wonderful church. All those beautiful stained glass windows set in mellow sandstone and...
‘Author of peace and lover of concord,’ Reverend Hope intoned, causing Max to start and look across to the pew Alison was sharing with Bunty. Willing her to look in his direction, he was not disappointed. She met his questioning gaze with a brief but knowing smile.
‘I stand corrected,’ Max whispered softly, after the service and followed her to the back of the church where the congregation hovered, waiting for coffee and biscuits.
‘I shan’t say I told you so,’ teased Alison, ‘but I’m quite sure you didn’t believe me yesterday, did you?’
For a moment Max hesitated and looked into her eyes. Yesterday against the blue chambray, Alison’s eyes had appeared a clear blue; today however against the blackness of her raincoat they looked different... almost like...
‘Stormy seas,’ he murmured to himself.
Alison looked up with a puzzled frown.
‘Oh! I... was merely thinking if this weather gets any worse we could be in for a storm.’
‘Then perhaps Reverend Hope knows something we don’t.’
This time it was Max’s turn to look bewildered.
‘His choice of closing hymn, or didn’t you notice? “For those in peril on the sea”.’
‘Of course,’ came the none too convincing reply. ‘I trust you received your picture from our budding Picasso.’ Max passed Alison a coffee from the tray Bunty was holding.
‘Yes. And did you notice the emphasis she placed on my legs? Poor Rosie, I think she was quite disgusted, seeing me in a dress. It must have been quite a shock for her.’
Mention of Alison’s long legs caused Max to look in their direction. Today, however, they were barely visible beneath the mid-calf length raincoat, while her slender feet were hidden in black-buttoned ankle boots.
Aware of his penetrating gaze sweeping over her from top to toe, Alison felt her cheeks flush with colour. Nervously, she sipped at her coffee, anxious for a diversion.
‘That looks promising, I must say,’ Bunty whispered to Connie, returning the empty tray to the table behind the screen. ‘At least today they’re speaking.’
Connie raised her eyes towards the altar with a murmured, ‘Thanks be to God. He must have heard my prayers.’
‘They do say the Lord moves in mysterious ways, Connie. But in this instance I think we have young Rosie Jennings to thank for the current thaw in the Max/Alison affair. Sorry! Bad choice of word, that.’
‘Bunty! You don’t think Max and Alison…’
‘Gracious no! Why, those two have been at loggerheads ever since Max came back to the village. Although…’
‘Although what…?’
‘Well… I have to admit they made quite a charming picture yesterday, setting off for the village together in search of a replacement Concorde for Rosie.’
Collecting the tray to gather up the empty cups, Connie’s imagination went in to overdrive. Alison and Max, she thought to herself. No… surely not. Moments later, however, when Bunty fixed her with a knowing wink and she spied Max and Alison once more in animated conversation, perhaps it didn’t seem quite so preposterous after all.
Hearing the sound of water in the washing-up bowl, Alison excused herself and, taking Max’s empty cup, helped Bunty and Connie with the drying up.
‘Quite a good turn-out today,’ Connie acknowledged, stacking away the last of the saucers. ‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me. We get a better turn-out on a wet day than we do when the weather is bright and sunny.’
‘Possibly because they can’t think of anything better to do,’ Bunty replied, ‘even though St Faith’s isn’t exactly the most warm and welcoming place on a dreary and depressing day like today.’
Placing the used, damp tea-towels in a plastic bag, Connie remonstrated. ‘There I beg to disagree. Only moments ago, Max’s friend Nigel was saying he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a friendly church. Which reminds me, I’d better get a move on, Nigel will soon be leaving to go back to London.’
‘He’s not staying for lunch?’
‘No, Bunty, he’s not. He’s heading off to Heathrow to meet his fiancé.’
‘Then let’s hope she’s nice, because Nigel seems such a pleasant young man and deserves someone nice.
Sensing three pairs of eyes in his direction, Nigel joined the three women as they approached the church door. Even before they stepped into the porch, they heard the persistent sound of raindrops cascading into ancient guttering.
‘I trust St Faith’s roof is in a state of good repair,’ Nigel remarked in Bunty’s direction.
‘Oh, the roof’s OK. It’s the tower that’s in need of restoration now. That’s why we’re glad yesterday’s fete was so successful’
Nigel watched Connie and Bunty reach for their umbrellas in readiness for the deluge. To his surprise Alison didn’t have one.
‘So… what’s next on the fundraising agenda?’
‘The harvest supper at the end of September,’ Alison replied, before breathing in deeply and closing her eyes.
Nigel was transfixed, watching her turn her face upwards to feel warm raindrops caress her skin and hair. Didn’t most women usually hate getting their hair wet? Certainly, his adored Vanessa always shied away from the first raindrop.
‘Alison’s the lucky one,’ Bunty began, as if reading Nigel’s thoughts. ‘Wet or dry, long or short, her hair always looks lovely.’
Exiting from the solid oak doorway, Max caught the tail end of the conversation. Reminded of that first fateful meeting in the churchyard he recalled Alison’s flaxen bob hairstyle, bathed in late evening sunshine. Today, however, darkened by rain, her newly acquired urchin cut framed her delicate features to perfection.
‘You see,’ exclaimed Nigel, acknowledging Max’s presence, ‘she really is a sea-sprite.’
For the second time that morning, Alison felt herself colour and, bidding Nigel a sincere but brief farewell, hurried to Bunty’s side. Max, meanwhile, watched by Connie and Nigel, could only gaze after her with a puzzled look upon his brow.
*
With a final wave of farewell, Max watched Nigel’s car disappear from view. Moments later he returned to the kitchen where Connie was basting a tray of roast potatoes. Now fully recovered from the previous night’s over-indulgence with the whisky, Max savoured the smell of crisply roasting potatoes, pale golden Yorkshire puddings and a wonderful sirloin of beef. For the first time in weeks he felt hungry.
‘Lunch won’t be long.’ Connie said, placing the basting spoon on its rest. ‘I only need to make the mustard and get some of George’s…’
‘Here, let me,’ Max insisted, reaching for the familiar yellow tin, ‘and if you’ll just remind me where George keeps his lethal concoction of horseradish.’
With a bemused smile, Connie motioned to the far corner cupboard and whispered under her breath, ‘Welcome back, Max. You’ve been gone from us for way too long.’
*
At Keeper’s Cottage, preparations for lunch were on a much simpler scale. Bunty opened the oven door to examine the four chicken breasts – two for today and two to have cold tomorrow.
‘Almost done,’ she said. ‘Gracious! I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It must have been that long walk home from church. I can’t believe I let you persuade me to take that route.’ Patting her frizz of curls, Bunty turned towards Alison with a grin. ‘Your mother always liked being out in the rain, too.’
Mention of her mother reminded Alison she’d not seen to the African violets on her mother’s grave. Until recently, they’d still been blooming beautifully. After last night’s rain and this morning’s downpour, they’d probably be in need of her attention.
Later, with the lunch dishes washed and cleared away and watching Bunty settle into her armchai
r by the fire, Alison went upstairs to change.
‘Definitely Barbour and Wellington weather,’ she announced to Jasper who looked up with a deep longing in his eyes. He’d already given up on expecting his mistress taking him for a walk. She was making such strange noises, with her mouth gaping open and the Sunday papers spread-eagled across her wide girth.
Succumbing to Jasper’s soulful, brown-eyed appeal, Alison quickly grabbed the customary bag with its poop scoop and headed for the door, where young woman and young dog breathed in the earthy dampness of the unusually cold late August Sunday afternoon.
Deciding to exhaust Jasper completely, before visiting the churchyard, Alison headed in the direction of the woods. There, as a result of the overnight deluge, trees and undergrowth, previously parched and sun-shrivelled, appeared to revel in the welcoming gift of long-overdue rain. In the dismal greyness of afternoon, everywhere was bathed in a refreshing veil of green.
Kicking at the yielding leaf mould beneath her feet, Alison’s gaze swept to what in May had been an expansive carpet of bluebells. Sadly, the once drooping racemes of flowers were now just a spent mass of green, spiked stalks and rain-spattered leaves.
Doubtless excited by the scent of a rabbit or some other small, furry creature, Jasper lunged towards a maze of bulbous seed-heads, yapping excitedly as he did so.
‘Jasper, leave!’ Alison commanded. ‘Rabbits and squirrels are also entitled to rest on a Sunday.’
Rest, Alison pondered, looking at her watch. How long had Bunty been resting? It was now almost three o’clock and she’d asked to be woken at four. There was a film she wanted to watch on television.
Quickening her pace, Alison clipped Jasper’s lead back on his collar and ran swiftly in the direction of the churchyard. Once there, she deadheaded the African violets, pinching away their limp and soggy wilted flowers and took them to the compost bin in the far corner. Only then did she make her usual cursory glance in the direction of Tara’s grave, with Max’s ever-present floral display.
Pausing only briefly, Alison cast her mind back to this morning’s church service and, bending down to remove a stray seed head caught in Jasper’s collar, found herself making comparisons between the dog’s thick, wiry coat and Nigel Painton’s unruly auburn curls. It was inevitable, therefore, that her mind should wander from auburn curls to the sleek black head of Max Craven.
How appropriate then to step from the footpath and discover Max’s sleek black Saab moving swiftly in her direction. Startled, she nodded in acknowledgement as the car sped past, unaware that she’d released the catch on Jasper’s extendable lead. What was the saying: give him an inch and he’ll take a yard? In Jasper’s case his ‘yard’ meant lumbering towards a densely filled verge of cow parsley.
Moments later, hearing a screech of brakes and aware of a car heading back towards her, Alison waited with baited breath.
‘Jasper!’ she called desperately, but there was no response from the far end of the lead. ‘Oh, well, perhaps that’s just as well’, she sighed. The last thing she wanted was Jasper leaping all over Max again.
Without turning to look, Alison heard the Saab come to an abrupt halt, followed by the sound of a car door slamming and footsteps running to catch up with her. When she felt a hand – Max’s hand – on her shoulder, a tremor ran through her entire body.
‘Alison. Can I offer you a lift? You look positively drenched. What on earth are you doing out in this awful weather?
Ignoring the rain, Alison held up white-knuckled fingers, tenaciously gripping the handle of Jasper’s lead.
‘Oh,’ Max said warily, looking first at the distant movement in the tangle of weed and cow parsley and then at the immaculate leather interior of his car. ‘Shall I assume that’s Bunty’s dog on the end of that lead?’
‘Right first time,’ Alison said, regaining her composure. ‘And don’t worry, Max, I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you by accepting your offer of a lift, particularly not with Jasper in tow. As you can see, I’m more than perfectly dressed for the rain, unlike yourself.’
Feeling the unwelcome presence of rain, dripping from the leaves of an overhead beech, Max lifted his jacket collar and studied her carefully.
‘If you’re really sure? I suppose I had better get back. Constance won’t thank me for dripping water over her magnificent carpet.’
For what seemed like an eternity, Alison looked up into his dark, searching eyes. Was he waiting for a further response to his question?
When none came, Max stepped from the kerb and opened the driver’s door. He was still looking at her expectantly.
‘Th… thanks for the offer anyway,’ she mumbled, feeling less composed than she had only moments ago. ‘Another time perhaps?’
This time the sound of the car’s pulsing engine caused Jasper to give up on his investigations in the undergrowth. He bounded back in Alison’s direction just as Max disappeared from view. Flushed and with her own pulse racing, Alison lifted the latch at Keeper’s Cottage.
Bleary-eyed, with her hair all tousled and her clothes all askew, Bunty peered first at the clock and then at her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘Goodness! Is that the time? And just look at the state of me. I look like the wreck of the Hesperus.’
‘Then that makes three of us,’ Alison called from the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid Jasper and I are both very wet and very muddy.’
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Bunty cried, just in time to stop her dog from making his way towards the warmth of a welcoming log fire. ‘It’s a bath for you, young man!’
*
Having hung up his jacket and dried his hair, Max joined George and Connie in the drawing room. Connie poured tea into blue and white Royal Doulton tea cups and gestured to a freshly-made fruitcake and scones on the dumb waiter.
Max took his tea, but declined the cake.
‘I thought you’d be hungry after your walk, Max.’
‘I never went for a walk, Constance. I merely took a drive out to look at the Stables. You’re forgetting, with no proper access road as yet, it’s like a quagmire up there. I barely stepped out of the car.’
‘If you didn’t go for a walk, how did you manage to get so wet?
‘Oh, that,’ Max replied without thinking. ‘That was when I stopped for Alison.’
‘You took Alison with you? How nice! Then I take it you’ve changed your mind about her renting part of the Stables for her business venture. Did you hear that George? Max is…’
‘No, Constance,’ Max declared flatly. ‘I’m not doing anything of the kind.’
‘But you said…’
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort. I merely said I stopped for Alison and the reason I stopped was to offer her a lift after I’d been to the Stables!’
Registering the hurt and disappointment on his sister’s face, Max strode uneasily to the window. Gazing into the storm-soaked garden, he stood transfixed while raindrops bounced onto a lace-cap hydrangea before exploding in droplets against the window pane.
Tracing a solitary raindrop with his finger as it meandered down the window, Max emitted a barely audible sigh. There had been raindrops on Alison’s face where they’d dripped from the urchin-cut spikes of hair clinging to her forehead. Raindrops he’d wanted to reach out and brush away from her cheeks… raindrops like silent tears.
Had Alison looked like that when she’d shed her tears? The morning she’d received his brutal letter announcing his intention with regard to the Stables? Certainly Constance had reminded him about it often enough as had Bunty. She’d been positively seething with anger when she’d bumped into him quite by chance in the village. It had almost been a case of ‘pistols at dawn!’
Pistols at dawn, Max thought to himself. The last time his thoughts had turned to duels was on that train journey from London. All those commuters armed with their mobile phones and… Alison’s dear, sweet face gently arousing him from sleep.
With arousals of a different nature stirring within him, Max r
eached out for the customary scented geranium leaf only to hear Constance cry out.
‘Max! What are you doing? Look what you’ve done to that poor hibiscus!’
Still clutching the crushed flower head, Max left the room in silence.
‘Well! What do you make of that?’ Connie asked, rising from her chair. She walked to the door, only to be stopped in her tracks by George.
‘No, Connie! Leave him!
‘But he was fine at lunchtime. Now you’ve only got to look at his face to see there’s something wrong.’
‘I know.’
‘You know, George? Then why didn’t you do something to stop him?’ Connie hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. ‘Look, I need to go and talk to him…’
‘You might need to… but I don’t think it’s what Max needs right now. I think he needs to be left alone for a while. Don’t forget there’s ten years of mixed emotions churning away in that stubborn head of his. Let’s be honest, Connie, we both know there are several unanswered questions relating to both Tara’s accident and Virginia’s death. Max’s return to Church Haywood has finally set the cogs in motion for those questions to be answered. Something tells me it’s not going to be easy for Max… and it’s certainly not going to be easy for Alison.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘To be honest, I don’t rightly know. I simply have a horrid feeling that none of us are going to like what crawls out of the woodwork.’
George studied his wife’s anxious face and reached for her hand. ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. I’m sure it will all work out eventually.’
Chapter 12
The next morning, replacing the phone on its hook, Connie walked into the hallway to find Max examining his post.
‘I don’t know,’ she said with a smile. ‘We’ve never seen so much of the postman as we have since you came back. You must need a sack all to yourself. Perhaps you should get yourself a secretary.’
‘Nonsense, I’m perfectly capable of dealing with a few letters.’
Connie raise a bemused eyebrow; in her opinion Max’s pile of envelopes was more than just a few.
Secrets From The Past Page 12
