It was against Rose’s better judgement. But she had lost most of her faith in her own judgement. She was badly shaken. People had always taken to her on sight. People came to her to talk about their troubles. Harmless kind Rose. And now she felt like some kind of monster . . .
‘All right,’ she said. ‘And if he won’t come back, ask him how much we owe him.’
She went up to her bedroom. She watched them set off up the lane, chattering excitedly, off on a great expedition. Then she looked at herself in the dim, fly-spotted mirror of the dressing-table. Large brown eyes; they were her best feature. Kind eyes, even if they did have smudges under them this morning. A high clear forehead, even if it was showing a few wrinkles. A generous mouth, and not quite enough chin; that was why people had always known she was harmless. Not any kind of monster . . .
The house was too quiet now. She didn’t want to stay in it, with the kids gone. Didn’t want to be alone with that stupid book downstairs . . .
She decided she would go and walk by the sea; it would soothe her.
Five
Halfway down the long path to the sea, she began to get the absurd idea that she was being followed. She told herself as usual not to be silly. It was just that this path was so long and straight and narrow. It felt like walking down a ruler. The narrowness and the high unkempt hedges, and the utter boringness of the fields on either side, which gave you no excuse to turn off into them . . . if you saw somebody a long way off, or a long way behind, you would be trapped into passing them eventually; there was no way of avoiding people.
But why should she want to avoid people? You would just smile and nod, and squeeze past, and that would be that. And usually, in the country, she liked meeting people. God, I’m getting neurotic, she thought. A few days away from the dominating safety of Philip and I’m getting neurotic. I don’t deserve to be an independent woman. Snap out of it, girl!
But the back of her neck went on prickling, as if someone was following her, was watching. Oh, surely the prickling was just the breeze blowing little stray strands of hair against the soft skin at the back of her neck . . .
Having satisfied herself with this entirely rational and scientific explanation, she immediately turned and looked behind.
Someone was following her. A man, only about a hundred yards behind. She got only a brief glimpse, before she turned her head back to the front, feeling the traitorous flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. But she had seen enough. That tall unbowed figure was no slow-plodding farmworker. It was walking with a brisk city gait. And it was wearing a trilby hat, which looked absurd with the bright banded sweatshirt. Only one man in Wallney would be fool enough to turn himself out like that for a walk. Jack Sydenham; the stupid, cocky and revolting Jack Sydenham.
But, stupid and revolting though he was, he was still a man. The loneliness of this spot made that the most important fact about him. A man, bigger and stronger than she was. And she was letting him herd her like a sheep, drive her further and further from the safety of her house.
With a spurt of rage, she decided to call his bluff. She would face him out. She would lean against the next gate and wait for him to pass her.
She found her gate and leaned against it. She considered pulling out a long stem of grass and chewing it, to show just how casual she felt about him. But she decided against it; it would only give him an opening for one of his stupid remarks . . . So she just waited, feeling his eyes tickling over her cheek and jaw, terrified her thin skin would blush again, and give her away. She heard the swish of grass, the slight thud of his foot upon bare soil, the crunch on the odd patch of gravel some farmer had once used to mend the path.
‘Morning,’ said Jack Sydenham, in a falsely-hearty voice. ‘Nice morning for a walk!’
She turned, feigning surprise. ‘Oh, Mr. Sydenham! Are you taking a day off, too? Things slack at the shop?’
His knowing eyes dropped; the knowing grin was wiped off his face. She knew he had not even bothered to think up an alibi for himself, an excuse for being on the path at this time of day. Fool! But along with her exultation at catching him on the hop she felt her heart sink. He was following her; there was no chance now that he’d been here by accident, on some innocent errand.
‘Got a few things to do, down at the beach,’ he said at last, his voice sharpened a little with anger at being caught out.
‘Fishing?’ she asked, with a sudden wild spurt of mockery, surveying his totally empty hands. Surely attack was the best form of defence?
‘Just things,’ he said sullenly. ‘I’ll walk along wi’ you.’ And he raised an arm towards her, in a curling arc. It left her with only two choices. Either she moved off towards the sea, in the direction he wanted, or she let him touch her.
A bolder woman would have stood her ground; let the hand touch her, and greet it with an icy glance, a flinch of disgust that would really put him to flight. But Rose had never had that kind of boldness, and she was aware of being alone.
She moved off towards the sea, in front of him. He was content to follow behind. It was not reassuring. Now her backside was tingling, and the backs of her thighs. She was sure he was looking at her figure, in the nastiest possible kind of way. And it was unnerving, not being able to see him.
‘There’s room to walk two abreast,’ she said, stopping abruptly. Then was sorry for what she’d said. The word abreast contained the word ‘breast’ and he looked at hers, now, with the slight smile of a secret joke on his face.
Still, he had to walk beside her after that, and she took care to drop back a little, so that he could no longer look at her, but she could look at him, without having to meet him eye-to-eye. And she stayed silent, trying to force him to say something. They said whoever broke a silence first was the weakest . . .
‘You enjoying your grand vacation, then?’
She almost said, ‘Till you came along to spoil it,’ but bit her lip just in time. Then she just said, ‘Yes.’
‘I would have thought you would find us dull, after all the grand things you’re used to . . .’
‘What sort of grand things are those?’
‘Foreign travel. Tunisia? Thailand?’
He was really asking where her husband was. It wouldn’t do any harm to let him know she had a husband.
‘My husband can’t get away from his firm at the moment. They’re very busy.’ Then she added, ‘He’s hoping to get down at the weekend.’
‘Only hopin’? He must be busy!’
She said, defiantly, ‘They are!’ But she didn’t sound convincing, even to herself.
‘Can’t imagine a grand businessman like your husband taking to an old dump like Sepp Yaxley’s. I’d ’a’ thought he’d want a five-star hotel!’
‘He likes curious old things. Like me.’
‘I wouldn’t ’a’ called you a curious old thing, missus!’
They had reached the beach, and he turned and surveyed her with an up-and-down admiration that was pure insult. ‘So what kind of curious old things do you like? What do you get up to, in Richmond? What’s in for the jet-set these days? Still wife-swapping down there? Or isn’t that good enough any more? Black magic rituals? Witches’ covens? Dancing naked on the back lawn? That’s what you read in the papers . . .’
Rose could scarcely believe her ears. Rose, whose idea of a pleasant social gathering was listening to a friend’s clever daughter from the Royal College of Music playing Chopin on the piano.
Her patent amazement must have pierced even his stupidity. His eyes dropped; for once, he was silent. She stared wildly at the breaking waves on the beach. Whatever had possessed him to bring up the topic of black magic?
He almost seemed to pick up her question out of the air, as if she had spoken out loud.
‘It’s just what you read in the papers,’ he said, almost humbly, as if aware he had dropped a clanger and wanting to make up for it. Or cover it up.
‘I’m afraid I don’t read that ty
pe of newspaper,’ she said frostily.
‘So you are a reader, then? Interested in books? Old books, mebbe?’
‘Jane Austen,’ she said. ‘Virginia Woolf, Iris Murdoch. Good biographies.’ She took a delight in the fact that he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. ‘Highbrow stuff,’ she added viciously. Put the lout in his place while you could.
But he just stared at the horizon and said, ‘I hear old Sepp Yaxley was a great reader . . .’
‘He had a lot of books.’ It seemed a safer topic of conversation.
‘Old Nathan Gotobed said you’d found one o’ Sepp’s. He saw you readin’ it . . .’
God, how gossip got around in this village! So it had been that book that had frightened Mr. Gotobed. Well, at least she could use gossip in reverse now, to her own advantage.
‘Oh, that,’ she said, with an attempt at a light laugh. ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I just found it while I was dusting. I was curious, that’s all.’
He swung round to face her. ‘So it meant nowt to you,then?’
‘Not a thing. It was in some sort of shorthand. I can’t read shorthand.’
‘Can I borrow it? I used to be able to read shorthand. I took a bit at nightschool.’ His eyes, an unpleasant gooseberry colour, were suddenly avid. For the first time, she realised what he was after. And it wasn’t her. A huge wave of relief swept over her, and with it, a little tinge of ridiculous pique.
‘Oh, it wasn’t that sort of shorthand. Not evening-class shorthand. I know the look of that.’
‘Look,’ he said fiercely. ‘Let me borrow it. I’ll give it you back safe . . .’
‘It’s not mine to give. It belongs to Miss Yaxley. You’ll have to ask her.’
‘Don’t be such a fool.’ In his avidity he had grasped her wrist, hurting it. ‘You give me that book, you’ll have no more bother . . .’
For once, she was able to look him in the face, as she struggled to free her wrist. What on earth did he want the book for? She was sure he wouldn’t be able to read it.
‘Would you mind letting go of my wrist? You’re hurting me. And what do you mean, bother . . . ?’ She managed to snatch her wrist free.
‘You don’t know this lot round here like I know them. They’re like nobody you ever met. They think us London people are fools . . . they’re peasants, this lot. Medieval peasants . . .’ There was so much bitterness in his voice, and it was not directed at her. It was directed at the people he lived with. Maybe at the wife who could dismiss him to fetch a case of Lilt, send him away like a kicked cur. Suddenly she felt a little sorry for him, a fellow-Londoner marooned on this lonely coast.
Perhaps he saw her eyes soften. Because it made him grab her again, by both wrists this time.
‘Please!’ she cried. ‘You’re hurting!’ She struggled.
There was a slight choofing chug from somewhere on her right, somewhere inland, in the region of the last hedge. There was a hiss in the air. And the next second, Jack Sydenham’s ridiculous trilby hat lifted from his head and went spinning through the air, to land six feet away on the sand.
He was so startled, he let go of her wrists. They both stared at the hat, in mutual amazement. There wasn’t a breath of wind to have moved the hat so mysteriously.
Finally, Jack Sydenham took a step forward, then another, and picked the hat up.
‘There’s a hole in it,’ he said stupidly. ‘Two holes. One in each side.’
‘That’ll teach you to lay hands on my mother,’ called a clear young voice. And there was Timothy walking down the beach, with that appalling long black air-pistol in his hand. And Jane was just behind him, fixing Jack Sydenham with her most ferocious glare.
‘You young toy,’ roared Jack Sydenham. ‘That was a good hat. That was my best bloody hat. Cost me twelve quid . . .’ He closed in on Timothy.
The air-pistol came up in Timothy’s hand, quite unwavering. Pointing at Jack Sydenham’s nose. Rose stared horrified at the black hole in the end of it; she was sure it was loaded again.
So was Jack Sydenham. At least he stopped in his tracks and changed his bluster.
‘Have you got a licence for that thing? I’ll have the police on you . . .’
‘Please do,’ said Timothy. ‘Then I can tell them how you manhandled my mother. Common assault. If not indecent assault, eh, Jane? And three witnesses against one. You haven’t got a prayer, chum.’
His eyes and Jack Sydenham’s locked a long time. Then Timothy said, ‘I should push off, if I were you. While you still can.’
Jack Sydenham made a noise that was halfway between a yell and a groan. Then he was striding away up the path, away from the sea. Timothy watched him till he was well away, then turned and took careful aim at a can with a yellow label, lying on the sand among the seaweed, twenty yards away. The air-pistol chugged again, and the can leapt a yard in the air.
An icy hand clutched Rose’s vitals. Dear God, it had been loaded! And she had seen her son’s finger tighten on the trigger!
‘Timothy,’ she said faintly.
‘What?’ he said, very offhanded, loading again, and closing one eye, firing and making the can jump again. And again. And again.
‘Timothy, I don’t think you ought to have that gun. Not till you’re older.’
‘Would you rather have been raped, dear little Mummy dear?’
‘Timothy!’
‘We saw him from the village,’ said Jane. ‘We saw him following you down the path. We knew he was up to no good. So we ran back to the cottage and got Tim’s gun. We ran like hell all the way.’
Rose’s heart moved within her. It was the idea of them running like hell all the way. They stared at her, young faces full of concern, and she knew suddenly how much they loved her. Traitorous tears started in her eyes, and she knew she just couldn’t be stern enough to get the gun off Tim. It would be so ungracious to try. It would be punishing virtue, and she could never punish virtue.
‘He wasn’t after me,’ she said. ‘He was after Sepp Yaxley’s book. The one I found. The one that upset Mr. Gotobed.’
‘There’s something very odd about that book,’ said Tim, still quite cool. ‘I shall have to have a good close look at it. Meanwhile,’ he added, ‘Mr. Gotobed’s wheelbarrow is still sitting unguarded in the middle of the village. If somebody nicks it, we are in trouble.’
And the next second, to shouts of ‘Ta-ra’ they had taken to their heels up the path.
Rose followed, very shaken all of a sudden. Full of recent memories of love and hate that swept over her like waves. Jack Sydenham’s hate, her children’s love. She mustn’t underestimate either.
She must do something to soothe her nerves. She must do something to break the spell of this utterly strange place.
She would go and shop in Cley. It would do her good.
Six
Cley did her good at first. People said good morning in Cley, or at least nodded in a friendly way if you passed them in the street. The shopkeepers smiled and called her madam. Nobody thought her a monster. She bought yogurts and quiches and pasties and postcards of the church, and even more Coke for Mr. Gotobed, in case the kids coaxed him back.
But when she came out of the last shop, clouds had covered the sun, heavy rainclouds, though it wasn’t raining yet. The dimness depressed her; she told herself she was far too vulnerable to the weather. Ever since she’d been a little girl, sunshine had meant God was smiling at her; and clouds had meant he’d turned his face away . . .
As she drove south out of the village, she saw the church lights were on, in the gloom. It reminded her that Cley church had very lovely medieval bench-ends, intricately carved, and noted in all the handbooks on Norfolk. She parked the car and told herself she would go in and inspect them; though to be truthful, she had to admit to herself she was looking for a little more than medieval oak.
The church was busy with women in pinafores, and filled with the cheering odours of Brasso and furniture polish. T
he chatter was not particularly godly, being mainly about the ailments of the elderly and the adultery of the young. The talk stopped as she neared, but the women smiled and bobbed their heads, as if to reassure her that she was not among the topics of conversation. She started to study the bench-ends, with great concentration, to indicate to the women what her business in their church was. Satisfied, they went back to dusting and chattering.
She was so lost in the bench-ends that the male voice startled her. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? The best in Norfolk, they say . . .’ The voice was musical and warm, south Welsh.
She turned and saw it was a little minister, very proper in clerical grey. Chubby face, and really nice smile. He looked young, with his wavy dark hair; a mere boy, except that he was going bald in front. Somehow she knew there was no danger of his going holy on her. Although she was quite religious herself, she had a horror of ministers who suddenly dragged God into a conversation by the scruff of His neck.
‘You’re on holiday.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes.’ She smiled back; his smile was really very infectious.
‘We’ve got a cottage at Wallney . . .’
‘Wallney?’ He raised dark smooth eyebrows. ‘Some of my ladies do a good bed-and-breakfast, but I didn’t know anybody down Wallney way . . .’ He gave a little frown, though it might have been only a frown of concentration.
‘Miss Yaxley . . .’
‘Oh, Miss Yaxley, yes.’ His face cleared. ‘My only stalwart in the village of Wallney, I’m afraid to say. Never misses Christmas and Easter. Otherwise, I’m afraid they’re a godless lot. If they’d all been like Wallney, I think they’d have broken my heart long since.’ His mouth winced slightly, as if at unhappy memories.
‘Why should a whole village be godless?’ She felt a surge of sympathy; ministers had an uphill struggle these days.
‘Oh,’ he shrugged. ‘They’ve never had their own church, of course. Country people are more loyal to their church than they are to God. The church is where their memories are . . . when I have an appeal for the tower or the organ or the roof, here, far more people give money than ever come to church, even for harvest festival. I think Wallney must always have resented not having its own church . . .’ He went on frowning, as if there was more he hadn’t said.
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