‘Thanks—I’ll do the rest.’
He laughed softly. ‘Afraid of something?’
‘No, I just prefer to dry myself, thank you.’
He relinquished the towel and fished out his own. ‘Pity. I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’
‘I’m sure you were, but I’m not accustomed to such intimacy even if you are.’
He rough-dried his hair, then rubbed at his muscular arms. ‘You must admit it has its merits.’
‘I’m admitting nothing of the kind.’
‘You will one of these days—and I hope I’m around when you do.’
She wrung out her long dark hair and rubbed the dripping ends. ‘There’s not much likelihood of that,’ she told him.
He grinned at her. ‘Don’t be so emphatic! You never know.’
She draped the towel around herself and stripped off her diminutive bikini, then pulled on her clothes. When she turned around she saw him striding towards the children playing with their buckets and spades. He borrowed one of their buckets and dipped it in the sea.
‘I’ve brought some water to wash the sand off of our feet,’ he told her when he returned. ‘Sit on the edge of this rock and I’ll do yours first for you.’
She did as he told her, and he poured the water over her feet and then dried them. The act gave her an odd sensation of being cared for and she felt a rush of feeling towards him that she couldn’t explain. She knew an overwhelming desire to run her fingers through his thick dark hair as he bent to his self-appointed task. She took a deep breath and fairly gritted her teeth. He was doing this deliberately, she told herself. She simply would not succumb to his charms. This was the kind of thing which had earned him his reputation for being such a hit with women.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely when he had finished. ‘Now, you must let me do the same for you.’
He shook his head. ‘You pull your socks on and your shoes. I’ll wash my own feet.’
She shrugged, and pulled on her socks and sandals. When he had returned the child’s bucket they took the chair lift back to the top of the cliff. Ruth had done this a number of times before, but it was always something of a thrill of being airborne, of having a magnificent view of the different colours in the rocks and of the surrounding terrain. When they had had tea, Ross asked her to choose a gift made of the coloured sand, and Ruth chose an ornament in the shape of a graceful, long-necked swan. She looked at the ashtrays, thinking she might buy something for him. After all, he had given her a very good lunch. But she suddenly couldn’t remember ever seeing him smoke. So many Foresters didn’t.
Ruth glanced around to see where he was, and to her utter surprise he was standing just outside the shop actually smoking a pipe. Of course, she had not known him very long, and he could hardly fill a pipe and smoke while he was driving. Or when dancing, for that matter. However, the fact that he did decided her. She chose a large one, deep and wide in the same multi-colour as the swan he had bought for her.
Ross came back into the shop just as she was handing it to the assistant to be wrapped.
‘Gift for a friend?’ he queried.
‘You could say that,’ she answered, having it in mind to present him with the gift at the end of the day. It would be a surprise for him. She liked giving people surprises.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she said to him when they were outside.
‘Only a pipe—and on odd occasions a cigar.’
‘But why didn’t you smoke when we were having our coffee?’
‘I thought you might object. And on such occasions—when I’m out to a meal with a lady—I usually have a small cigar, but I’d run out of them. Being in the kind of job I’m in where a fire can be a disaster, I seldom, if ever, smoke on the job, so I’ve trained myself to go long hours without wanting a pipe. You don’t smoke at all, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘But I don’t mind a man smoking a pipe. Father smoked one, so I’m used to it.’
By the time they had made the return journey to the mainland by the ferry it was seven o’clock.
‘You must be getting hungry,’ said Ross. ‘Shall we find somewhere to eat or would you like to come back to my place? I’m sure my landlady could rustle up something for us, if it’s only the remains of the Sunday joint and some apple pie.’
But Ruth thought he had spent enough money in the way of food for one day, and the idea of the remains of the Sunday joint and stodgy apple pie did not appeal to her at all, nor did his landlady, who was something of a gossip. Besides, she felt like some music.
‘What about you coming back with me?’ she countered. ‘I could do you the omelette of your choice with asparagus tips and either chip or croquette potatoes with a choice of dessert such as ice cream with strawberry sauce or fresh fruit, or fruit and cream—’
His laugh interrupted her. ‘Say no more, but lead me to it! Sounds great.’
At home, Ross insisted on helping her with the cooking, each cooking one omelette so that they would be able to sit down to eat together. It was fun, and served to remind Ruth how lonely she had been since the death of her father. She would be equally lonely in any other house, but she tried not to think about it.
While they ate they listened to some music Ruth had put on the record player, and she was struck by the look of sheer pleasure on Ross’s face. She found herself thinking how lovely it could be if they were to share the house. But it was unthinkable. The sooner she found a place for herself the better.
Ross pronounced the meal ‘out of this world’. ‘Much better than cold meat and pie. Ruth, you’re a genius! You’re the sort of woman men dream of coming home to.’
‘What—just because of the cooking? Anyway, you helped with that. Besides which, any man marrying me might find me up to my ears and eyebrows in paint—metaphorically speaking—and no sign of dinner. In fact, he might have to do the cooking for us both.’
He grinned at her. ‘Trying to put me off?’
But she felt it was a dangerous subject. At least, she was somewhat afraid of it. She began to collect up the dirty crockery, but Ross stopped her.
‘Tell you what. I’m rather partial to piano music. You go and play something—and leave the door open—and I’ll do these dishes and then make some coffee. How does that sound?’
It sounded great. Ruth was only too pleased to do as he suggested. She improvised at first, playing chords and arpeggios until her fingers found the opening notes of a plaintive little piece by Beethoven. Feeling happy and relaxed, she went on from one piece of music to another until Ross came in and leaned on the flat top of the baby grand. She glanced at him and smiled.
‘Coffee is served—madam,’ he said softly.
She finished what she was playing and stood up, feeling at peace with the world and certainly at peace with Ross Hamilton.
He had also re-kindled the log fire. Ruth urged him to smoke his pipe if he wished, and they sat in comfortable silence as they sipped their coffee. Ruth had seldom felt so happy.
Presently there came the sound of a heavy shower of rain. Ross smiled.
‘That’s what I like to hear—especially at night. It means no worry about forest fires.’
Ruth nodded understandingly. ‘Rain must be a great relief to you. You’re having enough troubles at the moment.’
Immediately she knew she had said the wrong thing.
Ross took his pipe out of his mouth and gave her a sharp, cold look.
‘What do you know about any troubles I might be having at the moment? What are they, pray?’
Ruth felt distinctly discomfited. ‘Well, I—not much, really. Gareth just happened to mention—’ She broke off, wanting time to think, feeling she shouldn’t repeat anything Gareth had said to her.
But Ross pounced on the name. ‘Ah! Gareth, eh? And what has Gareth been telling you, may I ask?’
Ruth gazed at him wide-eyed. He was completely different from the man with whom she had spent such a pleasant day. His eyes were c
old, his face taut, his whole manner aggressive and domineering. He was on his feet now towering over her like some inhuman inquisitor. She felt instinctively that if she did not answer he would shake it out of her—or worse. He was not a man to be trifled with. She should have realised that.
‘He was—merely telling me about some of the difficulties the Beat is having. We—we often talk about the Beat. Don’t forget that before you came my father was Head Forester.’
‘I’m aware of that. But I am Head forester now, and I want to know what is being said about my Beat.’
But Ruth was beginning to feel angry now. She had been deceived into believing he was capable of normal, ordinary behaviour, that he was even a nice person. She, too, rose to her feet. She would not be intimidated by him.
‘All that’s being said about your Beat is about the things that are happening—and I’m sure you know all about those,’ she retorted.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ he demanded, his voice cold with anger.
‘Well, shouldn’t you know?’ she retaliated. ‘You’re the boss, aren’t you? You’re responsible for what happens on your own Beat, whether it’s gates left open, the wrong weed-killer used or the wrong trees marked and felled.’
He drew an angry breath, and Ruth quailed inwardly, though she stood her ground. She felt sure he was longing to take her by the shoulders and shake her in his anger. She gritted her teeth. If he dared to lay a finger on her—
‘You seem to know a lot about what’s going on,’ he told her with a sort of dangerous calm. ‘Perhaps you also know who is responsible for all these things. Come on, out with it!’
But she refused to let him bully her. ‘Don’t talk to me in that fashion, Mr. Ross Hamilton! As you’re no longer behaving like a guest, then I must ask you to leave.’
He took a step forward and grasped her arm. ‘So you do know, otherwise you wouldn’t avoid my question.’
She winced, really angry now. ‘You asked me who I thought was responsible. Well, you are. These kind of things never happened in my father’s time. They shouldn’t be happening now. But don’t expect me to tell you who’s been doing them if you haven’t, because I don’t know—and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you!’ she said defiantly. ‘And let go my arm. You’re hurting me!’
He let her go, at the same time giving her a little push so that she lost her balance and fell back into her chair. She felt like some unwanted pest who had been flung away from him in disgust, and their pleasant day lay in ruins.
‘I might have known you wouldn’t,’ he said in a contemptuous tone of voice. ‘But rest assured, I shall find out, without either your help or anyone else’s. And woe betide the culprit—or culprits—when I do, that’s all.’
He strode out of the room and the next moment she heard the outer door slammed behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
For a long time after the sound of Ross’s car had died away, Ruth sat in the chair gazing into the fire. Though she was no longer angry she was disappointed and disturbed, and somewhere deep inside her there was pain, too. How could a man change so rapidly? One minute he had seemed to be her friend—something she had never thought could happen, and never wanted to happen. But the next moment he had behaved more like an enemy. The thought brought tears to her eyes. He was a most unpredictable, disturbing man. She had never met anyone like him. What a fool she had been to mention anything at all about the Beat, and then to give him the impression that she thought he would do all those things that were wrong or neglect his work in any way. And not only that, to say that even if she knew she would not tell him...
She sighed worriedly. She had been angry with him at the time, of course. Surely he realised that? But who was trying to make trouble for Ross? She simply couldn’t believe Gareth would have anything to do with it, much as he disliked and resented him. It was all a great puzzle. She reflected again how odd life was, that one minute one could be happy and carefree, and the next, the whole world seemed to be tumbling around one.
She put out the lights and made her way to bed. Surely that was an exaggeration? Just because she had spent an enjoyable day in his company? But she had almost come to like him. She had found the whole of her being reaching out to the man. Was she falling in love with him?
She placed the swan he had bought her on the white-painted windowsill of her room and was surprised at the feeling of tenderness which filled her heart. It was ridiculous. She must put a stop to this line of thinking.
After the rain of the previous evening there followed a period of high winds and sunshine with weeks without rain. All too quickly there was a situation of drought, and as more and more visitors came to the New Forest, the danger of outbreaks of fire was in the forefront of most of the Foresters’ minds.
Ruth had redoubled her efforts to find a place either to buy or to rent without success. Houses or cottages to rent were almost non-existent, with or without a place she could use as a studio, and there were few places to buy within her price range. She began to worry about it, and once again Jill invited her to live with herself, Hugh and Gareth.
‘But—but, Jill, there’s all my furniture—’
‘Put it into store or sell it.’
Ruth shook her head, near to tears. ‘But I couldn’t put father’s piano into store, it would ruin it, and it would break my heart to sell it.’
Gareth put his arm across her shoulders. ‘Of course it would. Darling, if only you’d marry me, it would solve all your problems—and mine.’
Ruth smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Gareth, but I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate. Anyway, it would be just as difficult for you to find a suitable house.’
‘Ah, but you could pool your resources, and you could easily build a studio in the garden, if there’s no attic,’ Jill put in.
‘Jill—’ Hugh said in a warning voice, ‘let Ruth and Gareth make up their own minds. Ruth’s not the girl for a marriage of convenience, so stop putting the pressure on.’
Ruth was glad of his intervention, but her problem was no nearer being solved. Indeed, it became even more urgent when, a few days later, she met the District Officer in Lyndhurst. Inevitably, he asked how she was progressing about finding somewhere else to live.
‘Not very well, I’m afraid,’ she had to confess, and told him of all her difficulties.
He looked troubled. ‘Unfortunately, there aren’t many Forestry Commission houses left. There are certainly none on the market at present. But it’s a problem. Ross ought to be in that house. I’d certainly feel happier. I know we have the fire look-outs, but there’s many a fire been spotted in the nick of time from the Head Forester’s house—as you well know.’
Ruth nodded miserably. ‘Yes, I know.’
The D.O. patted her shoulder. ‘Well, not to worry,’ he said over-heartily. ‘I’m sure you’ll find somewhere soon.’
But it was Ross himself who presented a solution. She had not seen him for some weeks. Following their quarrel on the day they had gone to the Isle of Wight, she had kept clear of the areas of the Forest where he was likely to be. She had plenty of work in hand in her studio, anyway. She had seen him as he had driven past her in Lyndhurst, and twice he had Linda with him in his car, a sight which had utterly depressed her.
As usual, Ross crept up on her unawares—or so it seemed. She was engrossed in her work when his head suddenly appeared in the aperture. She turned so sharply, a line of green paint was slashed across the canvas where she did not want the colour. Hastily she applied a turpentine rag.
‘Have I disturbed you?’ he asked, bringing up the rest of his tall frame.
You invariably do, she wanted to retort, but bit off the words. She kept her attention focussed on her work longer than was necessary to repair the damage, finding she was somehow disorientated at his presence.
He came to her side and took a long look at her picture. It was one of her ‘forestry workers’ series. Indeed, it was the one during the outlining of w
hich he had threatened to remove her forcibly.
‘Very good,’ he pronounced. ‘You’ll make your name with those, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He sounded so different from the last time they had been together, she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to make him change his attitude towards her. Then he said:
‘When you can spare a few minutes I’d like to talk to you.’
She wiped her brush on a rag. ‘What about?’
‘I’ll tell you when you’re free and we can talk properly. Would you like me to come back at a more convenient time?’
It was late afternoon. She could well break off now. ‘No, no, it’s all right. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea? I could do with one myself—painting is always thirsty work.’
‘The turps, I suppose. All right, if you’re sure—’
Ruth put away her palette and pulled off her smock. It seemed odd their being so polite to each other, and she wondered with some trepidation what it was he wanted to talk to her about. The house? She hoped fervently that he was not going to suggest marriage or sharing the house as he had last time.
While she was making the tea he strolled into the garden; pausing to look at the various plants and shrubs. The borders badly needed weeding, and she decided that when he had gone she would spend the rest of the daylight hours doing just that.
She took the tea things into the living room and arranged the chairs in front of the open patio doors. She would have taken it outdoors, but if he had something important to say—She called him and he came in.
‘Don’t you have any help in the garden?’ he asked, indicating that he, too, had noticed the weeds.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll get out there when we’ve had our talk. I—suppose it’s about the house,’ she said, plunging in at the deep end.
He took the tea she offered. ‘That’s right. I saw the D.O. this morning. He tells me you’re having some difficulty finding a place to suit you. Needless to say, with the summer season upon us, the dry weather and the increasing number of visitors, he feels I should be here.’
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