Stoney Beck

by Jean Houghton-Beatty

  “I know, I know. I’m so glad I called you. It’s as if a load has been lifted off my shoulders. I’ll write the letter tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go to church and slip it to him when I’m leaving.”

  Her uncle now knew almost everything except that Biddy had stolen Jenny’s snapshot. But what would be the point in telling him that?

  They chatted for a few more minutes, long enough for Uncle Tim to tell Jenny he’d met a nice widow. Yes, he knew he’d said one failed marriage was enough but that was before he met Mary Louise.

  Jenny stuck her hands in her anorak pockets as she trudged toward the lake, mentally composing the letter to the priest. She felt a strange and surprising sense of release. Not only was she about to beat Biddy at her own game, but at last she had plucked up courage to tell the priest. What he did after he’d read the letter was up to him.

  She stood at the water’s edge and watched a large brown trout glide over the lake’s sandy bed and head away from the shore. A couple of mallards preened on the lone rock the heron had fished from the other day.

  She jumped as a Frisbee was plopped at her feet, and gave a little surprised laugh as she looked down at Pete. He panted beside her, at least six inches of tongue dangling out the side of his mouth, his friendly, keen eyes begging her to throw his Frisbee.

  “Don’t throw it,” Andy Ferguson said as he strolled toward her. “You’ll only encourage him.”

  There he stood with that crooked smile, his hair flopping across his forehead, the way she’d seen him that first day when she’d stepped off the train.

  “Hey, Pete, you good dog, you,” she said as she bent down and rubbed his ears before picking up his Frisbee and hurling it across the water. Pete flung himself off the grassy bank into the lake.

  “Show off,” Andy shouted after his dog as he sliced through the water.

  Jenny dug her heels into the ground and clasped her hands behind her back to stop herself from reaching out to him, for a touch of any kind. At the same time, a strange unexpected envy coursed through her veins, a sort of yearning for the friendship these two had for each other, this man and his crazy, wonderful dog.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Looking for you. Thought you might need some company.”

  “I guess your uncle Angus told you everything. I saw you cross the street to his house.”

  “You did, ay. I could have sworn you hadn’t seen me. When I shouted out, you didn’t even look up.”

  “I know. I was so blown away by what he told me, I just had to get away. You know, to think. I mean it isn’t every day—”

  “He knows that.”

  She looked out at Pete slogging back through the water, Frisbee clenched between his teeth.

  “Did you know Sarah was adopted?” she asked Andy.

  “Yes, but—”

  “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, you didn’t ask. It just never came up. It’s no secret. The whole village knows, even Sarah herself. But I don’t think anybody knew about the twin part, except shady old Uncle Angus and Biddy. The Hare’s old landlord knew but he’s been dead for years. Even I didn’t know. The solicitors did of course, but other than that—”

  Jenny kicked a loose stone by the water’s edge, then dodged back as Pete leaped out of the water.

  “Don’t you dare shake all over Jenny,” Andy said, as he picked up the Frisbee and tossed it back in. Pete leaped into the air and caught it on the fly before crashing into the lake.

  Andy grabbed Jenny’s arm. “Watch out, here he comes again.”

  She jumped at his unexpected touch and felt her face burn. Had he noticed? He still held her arm but his gaze was on Pete who shook where he was, Frisbee still in his mouth.

  “Listen,” Andy said, “how about us getting a drink in the Hare then you coming home with Pete and me for dinner. I’ve got some of the world’s best Spaghetti Bolognese simmering on the stove. I’m an expert cook, one in a million, and if you don’t believe me, ask Pete. He eats everything I cook.”

  “OK,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. Andy Ferguson wasn’t the type to beg, and if she refused, he’d probably never ask her again. “I’ll come if you promise not to ask questions.”

  “It’s a deal.” He took her hands and breathed on them, then rubbed them between his own as a parent would a child’s. “You’re cold. Come on, let’s go in the pub.”

  Pete trotted beside them until they reached the bar door.

  “Stay, boy,” Andy said. The dog moved to the side as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. He sat against the wall, set his Frisbee down beside him, then stared sentry-like, straight ahead.

  “What have you done with Miss Priscilla Fortescue-Smythe?” Jenny asked as she sipped her chardonnay, looking for something to talk about besides the twin thing.

  “I thought you said no questions.”

  “I did, but—”

  “But you didn’t mean you couldn’t ask me anything, ay.” He grinned as he picked up his glass of beer. “Only kidding. What is it you want to know about Miss Priscilla?”

  “Are you two serious about each other?”

  He smiled as he looked at his watch. “Right about now, I’d say she’s probably climbing into her big West End director’s bed. That Prissy’ll do anything to get her name up in lights.”

  As Andy stuck the key in his door, he told Jenny that a wealthy spinster aunt had left him the hundred-year-old house. His parents who now lived in Torquay had lent him the money to buy the garage next door. He led her along a passage at the side of the house for a quick look at the garden out back, half an acre he said proudly, big by English standards. There were vegetables growing on one side of the path and a lawn with a border of flowers on the other. A fishpond, complete with miniature waterfall, and which Andy said was full of koi, was in the center of the lawn. Even as they stood there, a mist seemed to literally climb the wall and spread across the garden.

  The first floor of the three-story house, or at least the huge room they’d entered, was wall to wall with clocks. Standing side by side against the far wall were three grandfather clocks and a couple of grandmothers, which even Jenny with her limited knowledge, guessed were worth a great deal of money. There were shelves with wall clocks and mantle clocks of every size and type, some antique, some modern. The two work tables in the center of the room were strewn with clock parts and machinery.

  “Oh, man,” Jenny said. “I knew you tinkered with clocks, but I can’t believe this.”

  He walked across the room to one of the grandfathers and adjusted its pendulum, then ran a hand down its side, stroking it almost tenderly. “It started out as a hobby. Now though it takes up more of my time than the garage.” He stood with his hands in his pockets as he looked around the room. “Sometimes, especially at night, I get down here and start tinkering. Before I know it, it’s two in the morning. This friend of mine tells me he forgets what time it is when he’s surfing the web, but with me, it’s clocks. I go to all the estate sales, haunt flea markets looking for deals. I buy clocks and sell them. I fix and appraise them for people too.” He grinned. “When I get old, all the kids round here will probably call me that crazy old clock guy.”

  “I bet they don’t.” Jenny said. “These clocks must be worth a fortune. Aren’t you scared you might get robbed?”

  He pointed to the locks on the door and the box over it. “I’ve got as much security in this place as the crown jewels in the Tower. That burglar alarm shoots right through to the police station.”

  It was one of those old English homes Jenny had seen in magazines. There were nooks and crannies everywhere, with two or three stairs leading to each room, each little separate place. It had exposed oak beams and the windows were leaded glass with small diamond-shaped panes. All the doors had glass knobs which Jenny could have sworn were lead crystal, and there was a huge stone fireplace with thick leather cushions at each end of the wide hearth. The off-white walls w
ere covered with wildlife prints and travel posters, some framed and others stuck on with tape. In the corner was a grandfather clock, its case inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and looking as if it was worth a great deal of money. She wandered over to Andy’s bookcase. At least three or four books on clocks, a couple on the history of trains, marine biology, with at least two to do with Green Peace. There were a couple of novels by Grisham, Clancy, and other men’s type books. Piled high next to the bookcase was a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. There was a threadbare carpet on the floor, and deep leather chairs to lose yourself in which Andy said he’d picked up for a song at an estate sale. The worn brown leather chair near the hearth bore the telltale imprint of Pete.

  Andy looked toward the French doors at the far end of the room. “There used to be a window there but I had it made into a door, then made a terrace out of the garage’s roof. It’s a good place to sit and the highest spot in the village. The tourist bureau comes up here and takes pictures of the view.” He peered upwards through the mist. “There’s a full moon tonight, up there somewhere. Maybe this fog will lift later.”

  Jenny stood beside him, able to make out lawn chairs, a couple of hanging baskets as well as birdhouses on poles. There were tubs in all four corners filled with begonias and geraniums. She turned back to the room. This was a man’s house without the touch of a woman anywhere, unless you counted the huge glass vase of roses and carnations on the sideboard, as well as two brand new pale blue candles in wooden holders were in the center of the table which was already set for two.

  “Everything’s ready. Were you that sure I’d accept.”

  “No, but I used to be a Boy Scout.”

  She nodded and smiled. “I know. Be prepared.”

  Andy snapped his fingers and turned to his dog. “I told you she’d twig. Why did I listen to you.” Pete ignored him and leaped on to his chair.

  Jenny sat in the chair across from Pete while Andy went into the kitchen and came back with a tray laden with glasses of red wine, cheese, and crackers. He placed it on the low table by the hearth and took a match to the laid fire. It caught and the flames leaped up the chimney. He switched on the stereo down low—Nat King Cole and Natalie singing Unforgettable. Jenny smiled shyly up at him. A silence had come between them, as if neither knew what to say.

  Pete slipped off his chair and sidled towards her, then lowered his head onto her knees and nudged her hand with his nose. Unable to resist his pleading look, slowly she began to rub his ears.

  “I need to put the pasta on,” Andy said. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

  “Can I help?”

  “If you like. There’s lettuce and stuff in the fridge for a salad.”

  He grinned and the awkward moment was gone.

  He fixed a bowl of the same food for his dog, right down to sprinkling it with Parmesan cheese and even adding a dash of salt and pepper. Pete leapt out of his chair.

  “I’m glad I came,” Jenny said after Andy lit the candles, and she’d taken the first bite of food. “You and Pete have got it made. You’re a good cook too. This is delicious.”

  He passed her the basket of hot French bread. “Ada gave me the recipe. I was worried about making it but she said there was no way I could mess up.”

  “I thought you said you made the best Spaghetti Bolognese in the world.”

  “I lied,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve never made it in my life. Ada was right though. It was easy.”

  For dessert there were strawberries and fresh cream from the local farm, as well as cappuccino coffee.

  They stacked the dishes in the kitchen then sat on the sofa and drank Drambuie. Pete, asleep in his chair, whimpered and his legs twitched, probably chasing his Frisbee in some dog dream. Jenny felt a quiet peace. It was this house. Here in front of the fire like this, it was the most natural thing in the world for Andy to put his arm around her while she nestled next to him.

  She didn’t want to talk any more about Sarah or Biddy, didn’t even want to think about the priest. She wanted to tell Andy something of her own life in Charlotte, maybe talk about Uncle Tim. But against her will, and maybe because she’d had three glasses of wine, as well as the Drambuie, she felt her eyes closing.

  Andy eased himself off the sofa and very gently placed a pillow under her head. He brought a lap rug from the chest in the corner and draped it over her. He stood, hands on hips looking down at her and fighting an urge to scoop her up in his arms and place her in the middle of his bed. If he did, would she reach for him, eager as he was, or would she jump up and bolt for the door? In the end, he gently smoothed away the hair that had fallen across her left eye, before going into the kitchen and loading the dishwasher. Later he sat opposite to her and flicked through a couple of sports magazines. Every now and then he looked across at her, watching her sleep, with her hands tucked under her cheek.

  Pete slipped down from his chair and stretched full length in front of the couch where she lay. Andy smiled at his dog. “You like her too don’t you Pete,” he whispered. “I never saw you do that with Prissy.”

  At midnight he knelt beside her and gently shook her shoulder. “I hate to wake you, but it’s late. I don’t want you clobbering me in the morning if I left you to sleep here all night.”

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “That’s OK. You were tired. You don’t have to go back to the cottage if you don’t want to. I mean, you’re welcome to spend the night with me and Pete.” He turned to look at his dog standing beside him, head cocked to one side as he stared at Jenny. It was as if he understood every word his master had said and was begging her with his eyes to stay.

  “I’ve got extra pajamas,” Andy said. “They’ll be a bit big but you could make do, and I’ve got at least one new toothbrush. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs with its own bathroom.” He held up his hand in a sort of pledge. “No funny stuff, I swear.”

  “I believe you,” she said softly, unable to resist a big smile at his pitch. “Still, I guess I had better get on back.”

  He held her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. “Are you sure?”

  She swung her legs off the couch and got up. “No, I’m not sure, but yes, I guess I really should go.”

  He took her hand and led her toward the French doors.

  “The mist’s lifted. Before you go at least tell me show you the view from my terrace.”

  A full moon shone on the wet rooftops, and Market Street’s cobblestones. It cast a mantle of silver on the hushed midnight village and the lake beyond. Stoney Beck was a scene from the middle ages and Jenny could almost see the town crier of hundreds of years ago. He walked down Market street in his breeches and tri-cornered hat, swinging his lamp in one hand and ringing his bell in the other as he shouted oyez, oyez, twelve o’clock and all’s well. Or something like that. Lights twinkled here and there in the fells beyond and somewhere far off they heard the call of a night bird.

  “What do you think?”

  She let out a deep sigh. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Would you like to live here?”

  Jenny kept her gaze on the view as she felt his hand tighten its grip.

  “I don’t necessarily mean here in the house of course,” he said quickly. “I mean in the village, in Stoney Beck.”

  “I don’t know. It’s—”

  “A nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live here?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know. Just kidding. And anyhow, anybody from a sultry climate like North Carolina would never survive a winter up here in the lakes.”

  “Are they that bad?”

  “It depends who you are, what you like. I love them, but they’re not everybody’s cup of tea.”

  He snapped his fingers at Pete. “Come on, boy. This woman’s got scruples. Let’s walk her home.”

  Pete gave a little woof then trotted toward the box that held his Frisbee.

>   “Leave it Pete. It’s midnight for God’s sake.”

  The tail drooped a bit but the dog did as he was told.

  As they walked down Market Street, Andy put his arm around her and pulled her to him, while Pete walked beside them, his tail swinging from side to side. Lights were still on in a number of houses. People stayed up late in England. The big tabby sat in the dim glow of the Knitting Needles window and eyed them suspiciously as they walked past the shop. Jenny wondered if the cat ever slept. There was laughter from somewhere down the street, then snatches of hushed conversation from a group under a street lamp near the Hare and Hounds.

  When they reached the cottage, Jenny pulled out her key and opened the door. “I had a real nice time tonight,” she said. “The spaghetti was delicious and you went to so much trouble. You know, the flowers and all. Sorry I fell asleep.”

  “I told you it was OK.”

  He moved toward her and reached for her hair, hanging loose on her shoulders. He wound it around his hand and pulled her to him. The kiss made Jenny glad he hadn’t done that inside his house, because if he had, she’d have stayed for sure. He smoothed her hair back in place and held her face in his hands then ran a thumb across her lips.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?” His voice was hoarse, ragged.

  Jenny looked behind her through the open door. She stuck her hands in her pockets.

  “Better not,” was all she could manage. What would be his reaction if she told him she herself had been conceived in this very cottage. But this of course she couldn’t say.

  “OK. I’ll see you some time tomorrow.”

  A breeze blew his hair across his forehead. Under the lamp outside the cottage, his blue eyes were the same color as his shirt collar worn outside his navy jersey. Hardly aware she was doing it, she reached out and stroked his face. He brought up his own hand and placed it over hers then kissed her palm.

  She kneeled beside his dog and put her face next to his. “Night Pete.” Then she went inside.