A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

‘I will. He’ll be over the moon.’

  ‘And as for anyone coming to stay, it’s best to wait till I’ve got beds, electricity etcetera sorted. Shouldn’t be long the way things are going . . .’

  ‘I’m impressed and I know your dad would be too. Oh, and let me know if you have any problems with the bank there.’

  ‘I will.’

  Tears finally moistened her cheeks as the call ended and when she stared through the windscreen, it was as if she was blind.

  How the hell could she drive anywhere in these weather conditions? Perhaps she should wait. After all, she told herself, it was still only 9.30 in the morning. She clicked central locking and let the engine idle to activate the heater and Radio 1 where at least people seemingly from a different planet were having a good time. She then looked at the road map, calmer now, and saw that Llandrindod Wells was only ten miles south east. At least there’d be hotels and proper shops, she told herself as to her intense relief, a sly pale sun began to infiltrate the sky.

  Having waited until the road markings re-appeared, she moved off, still unable to lodge the implications of Hector’s admission from her mind. If he was right, why hadn’t Mark been banged up? And where had ‘the other one’ gone? She couldn’t ask Enid Evans any more about them now, but surely Llandrindod possessed a decent library. That would be the deciding factor because no way would she proceed towards even an Exchange of Contracts unless she was sure Mark hadn’t been involved in any crime. It would be like living with a wolf outside the door. For who could say if he’d killed once, he wouldn’t kill again?

  Think of the way he’d held that knife, she told herself. Think of those eyes.

  Her mother and Jon would have to wait.

  Despite the economic downturn following the foot-and-mouth epidemic, the predominantly red-bricked Spa town seemed busy enough with late summer tourists filling its characterful streets. However, as Lucy drew closer to its town centre she realised something else was going on. The many posters she saw proclaimed a week-long Victorian Fair and sure enough, it wasn’t long before ponies and traps bearing people in Victorian dress clattered past her to the sounds of barrel organs and street vendors selling their wares; sweetmeats, candles and all kids of preserves. There were even children dressed up as urchins begging for coins, as if they’d just stepped from between the covers of Oliver Twist. She should find out more about this annual event, but her priority was to find somewhere to stay.

  She’d heard about the Metropole, of course, but until Monday her funds wouldn’t stretch that far. However, The Larches Hotel situated near Temple Park was cheap and welcoming, but it wasn’t until she checked in for two nights that she realised she’d not even brought a toothbrush with her. She soon found a shop with a sale in progress and, for £20, acquired a pair of cropped jeans and a pretty blue T-shirt embroidered with flowers across the chest. Her mother’s cheque was still intact, symbolising her indecision. If she was staying, she’d bank it on Monday. If not, it would be sent back.

  Then on to a discount store for a Bart Simpson toothbrush and toothpaste, leaving her change from two pounds. This was the easy bit, she thought, making her way across to the park itself, where, in the distance a group of young lads in nineteenth century clothes were kicking footballs around. They looked happy and carefree making the quandary she was in seem even worse.

  She bought a Coke from a nearby kiosk and sat down on an empty bench next to a rugged sandstone carving of Owain Glyndwr which was clearly part of an outdoor sculpture show. Unlike her, he’d been prepared to die for his cause.

  The cool drink calmed her racing thoughts and as the boys’ laughter mingling with the melodic tunes of a passing barrel organ reached her across the grass she asked herself, was she really that scared?

  Certainly the ten miles to Llandrindod had helped restore some rationality to her thoughts, and with the mist having completely lifted, the sun was now casting everything in a balmy light. Its warmth on her face encouraged her to weigh reason against fear; to drive away the stubborn demons blighting her happiness. Hadn’t Mark tried to save her from that old well? Hadn’t the way he’d held her close stirred feelings she’d never once had for Jon? And what about the hours he’d clearly spent creating that poem and her birthday card? Finally, wasn’t it just possible that Hector had lashed out at him without thinking? Her Dad had sometimes done that after a gruelling day at the Practice. Not much fun to listen to, but for him it had been a safety valve. That eccentric chimney sweep was right. Families . . .

  But surely she’d forgotten something? Indeed she had, and like the darkness on the hills before rain, the contents of that black shoe in Mark’s bedroom came to mind. That putrid smell, those revolting morsels . . . She suddenly shivered as if winter had touched her skin and quickly turned her face back towards the sun.

  She sipped from the can once more and closed her eyes as the barrel organ’s final tune faded away. Bliss . . .

  When she opened them, however, she blinked in surprise. For there, crossing the grass in front of her was the same dishy blonde-haired man she’d seen in the Morfa tea rooms only yesterday.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What is more hateful than lies? – a love which bleeds.

  What is more hurtful than loss? – a loss never to be regained.

  Anon

  This time the stranger’s trenchcoat was slung over one shoulder and when the boys’ football came his way he skilfully kicked it back into play.

  Part of her willed him to keep walking, but the rest was even more intrigued. As if sensing her curiosity he eyed the bench she was sitting on and came over. Her blush deepened just as it had done on June 15th with James Benn. Would she never learn? she admonished herself. Was she that sad and insecure?

  ‘Hi. Mind if I park alongside you?’ he asked. ‘This whole Victorian thing’s worn me out.’

  ‘Sure.’ She removed her shopping bags and placed them by her feet.

  In close-up, here was sex on legs and just then, all thoughts of the Joneses, of Wern Goch and its troubled history slipped away. It was her birthday after all and not much of one so far. His blue eyes which exactly matched the sky looked her up and down then turned to the statue.

  ‘Been a fan of Mr Glyndwr here since I was a kid,’ he began in an accent she couldn’t quite place. Part West country, part something else. ‘Meic Bowen, our old prof, was a bit of a Nat. His folks had come from the Rhondda during the Depression and we learnt the lot. Fascinating stuff.’

  ‘Where was this?’ Because the way he pronounced Rhondda suggested to her that he was no stranger to Welsh. Unlike the so-called literati at Hellebore.

  ‘Bristol.’

  ‘What a coincidence. My mother studied at the Uni there.’

  ‘Nice place if you can afford it.’

  She watched the stranger fold his mac and set it down in the space between them. Then he cupped his chin in both hands and stared at the kids as if, given half a chance he’d go and join them.

  ‘I’m sure I saw you in Rhayader yesterday afternoon,’ she ventured, gripping her Coke can to steady her leaping pulse. ‘At the Tea Rooms.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m taking a sabbatical. Just to see what old Bowen was on about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was right. Wales is weird. I’m planning on Dolgellau for a bit of climbing tomorrow, then Bardsey Island . . . Hey,’ he turned to her, ‘I’m Paul. Paul Furniss. And you?’ Those awesome eyes expectantly on hers. In close up she noticed they weren’t just blue. More the colour you’d find underneath a wave. The sky and the deep all rolled into one.

  ‘Lucy Mitchell.’

  ‘Nice,’ he grinned, beautiful teeth. ‘You should write a novel with a name like that.’

  ‘My job’s to edit them, not write them.’

  ‘So, you’re in publishing?’

  She thought of Anna and the manuscripts she’d promised to send on.

  ‘Freelancing for a while. Just to take a breather from London. It�
��s hard going there year in year out . . .’

  ‘Based in Rhayader?

  ‘For the time being.’

  Despite the total ease she felt in his company, Lucy wasn’t yet prepared to tell him all her business or that today was her birthday.

  ‘By the way, who was that dark-haired guy you were having tea with?’

  This caught her unawares. She thought quickly.

  ‘One of my authors on his way to a Writers’ Retreat. He’s a bit up his own backside if you must know.’

  ‘Doesn’t look your type at all, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I don’t, and I agree. He’s strictly business. And what about you’ she deflected. ‘You could pass for an estate agent.’

  He suddenly slapped his thigh and laughed.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Lucy. Why not say I’m a pimp or a money launderer? I’d be more flattered.’

  ‘I’m sorry. OK?’

  ‘Apology accepted. I’m what’s called a Research Fellow. Shell are funding me till I take up a senior post after Christmas. I’m into mineralogy. It’s the new sex, don’t you know?’ He bent over to brush a speck of something off one of his moleskin shoes while Lucy blushed again.

  She told him about the family treks to Malham Gorge where, having scrambled to the top the three of them would stride out over the vast limestone slabs, where the cracks between seemed to go deep into the bowels of the earth. The stranger also learnt about a boat trip she’d taken inside the dark damp Blue John mines, and how after her panic attack her parents had been forced to turn back. He listened until she’d finished, then checked his Rolex, as if she’d been merely describing a shopping expedition, or a night out with friends.

  ‘Now then,’ he added with a beguiling smile. ‘I’m starving. Can I get you lunch, or do you have other plans?’

  ‘Lunch would be great, but I’d need to get going around two. Got some scripts to pick up.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Together they left the park and, having sauntered along Dol-y-Coed Road found Luigi’s Ristorante under a green-striped awning, half-buried under a mass of plastic vines. After a leisurely hour over lasagnes – which he didn’t finish – and a carafe of Chianti, during which her new acquaintance had been attentiveness itself, he left a huge tip and paid in cash from a bulging Vuitton wallet.

  Not bad for a researcher, she thought, idly wondering how she could get in on that particular act, watching every move he made. The way his tanned fingers worked the compartments of that wallet. How he pushed back the hair off his face . . .

  Suddenly that hand was in hers and once outside, he drew her into the wider doorway of insurance brokers closed for the afternoon. He was standing close now. His aftershave, everything, making her feel dizzy.

  ‘I’d like to stay in touch if that’s okay with you,’ he said.

  ‘Me too. Do you have a mobile?’

  For a moment his hand slipped into his chinos’ pocket. Then he quickly withdrew it.

  ‘Dammit. Been meaning to get a new one for days. What’s your number?’

  He clearly wasn’t geared up for this kind of thing, she thought, dropping her shopping bags, discovering a pen then tearing a page from her Hellebore diary. Anna would have made mincemeat of him. Probably driven him away. But not her. Each move he made was too hypnotic. Each fresh angle of his face and body more perfect than the last. In fact, he was beyond perfection and, in trying to describe him to herself, she realised the inadequacy of words.

  ‘Cheers.’ He took both items from her and, having pressed the paper against the brokers’ window wrote the numbers as if each one was an effort. ‘I’ll give you a call sometime,’ he smiled again as he returned the pen and folded the scrap into his pocket. ‘Maybe we could go and look at some rocks together.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Sounds good? Is that all you can say? Because a new and exciting virtual reality was kicking in. Who better to go over the hills and far away with? she asked herself. Who better to lie next to in some hidden grassy gulley with just the birds and the sunshine looking on? Here was the man who could turn her life around. A man she now desired more than anything else in the world, and every bone in her confused and lonely body knew it.

  She reached up to kiss his stubble cheek and in doing so, felt him stiffen against her as his lips moved to cover her mouth. Warm, urgent, but brief as a dream.

  ‘Good luck with everything,’ he said finally, drawing away.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Keep your phone on, remember?’

  ‘I will.’

  Then, moments later, he was gone as other anonymous faces took his place in her field of vision. She searched each in turn but there was none so perfect. How could there be? she asked herself, feeling bereft. Not even the dark and moody Mark Jones could hold a candle to Paul Furniss. He’d not only re-lit the flame so cynically extinguished three months ago, but aroused her. Made her want a man inside her again. Simple as that. And at thirty years old, was that so much to ask?

  At first, she was tempted to follow him, to see where he was staying, even the make and number of whatever it was he drove. Because being his shadow was better than being without him altogether. However, she soon realised he’d totally vanished.

  Dejected and miserable, she returned to her hotel past shops and more shops, quickening past the bookshop window where James Benn’s Tribe was being featured. In the privacy of her room she dumped her shopping on the bed and accessed her phone’s voicemail.

  NO NEW MESSAGES

  Stupid cow.

  What did she expect? He wouldn’t have bought himself a new phone in that short space of time. Give him a chance, she told herself.

  She had a quick wash then, while drying her face, pressed two fingers horizontally against her lips. He was there, kissing them again. It didn’t take much to imagine, especially when she closed her eyes . . .

  ‘Are you pathetic or what?’ She then shouted at herself in the washbasin’s mirror, before going out again into the afternoon sunshine and asking a couple of women dressed in bonnets and shawls for directions to the town’s public library. She thanked them and headed for Cefnllys Lane where an imposing white building could be seen amongst trees around the corner from Coleg Powys and the converted church, now St John’s Headquarters. However, before entering its inviting foyer, she hesitated. Was she sure about going digging like this? Supposing Mark or Hector found out? She watched people passing by on their way to the well-advertised book sale, keeping the library open beyond its normal one o’clock closing time. Mothers and buggies, teenagers, whole families, bits of families yet all seemed content with life. Reassuringly normal. All the more reason to try and find out more about the Joneses and what lay behind Hector’s sudden outburst. To discover what had really happened.

  A desk-bound official glanced up expectantly as she approached the Local History section in the main area. Lucy guessed she was around her age.

  ‘I’m looking for two things,’ she explained. ‘Firstly, any parish records for north-east Rhayader and secondly, whatever local papers you’ve got for May 1987.’

  The young woman gestured towards the entrance.

  ‘Parish records are held at the County Archives just five minutes away. But I’m afraid they’re not open on Saturdays. Anyway, I’d have thought there’d be a problem for that particular part of the world you’re looking for.’

  ‘No churches.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What about Census returns?’

  ‘Nothing doing after 1901. But County Archives might still be your best bet. And if not them, you could always try The National Archives in Kew. As for any newspapers, we’ll need some ID first. Just in case . . .’

  ‘Just in case of what?’ Annoyed that at the moment, she was of no fixed address.

  ‘We’ve had some trouble recently with mischief makers. Information can get into the wrong hands, you know.’

  ‘I’m not a mischief maker. I’m buying
a house.’ Honesty here might be the best policy, she thought.

  ‘Your solicitor would help you there, I’d have thought. After all, they do searches, don’t they?’

  ‘Not the kind of search I need.’ She placed her driving licence and Hellebore photo tag which gave her the oddest feeling when she saw it. As if she still had a job to go back to; an identity in the world of publishing. ‘Look,’ she went on as these items were scrutinised. ‘If you were putting money into a property where someone had been murdered, wouldn’t you want to find out more?’

  That did the trick, and once her details had been taken, the librarian indicated where the old newspapers were stored.

  ‘We do make a charge for any copying,’ that same voice called after her. ‘The copier’s here. Next to me.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ Lucy muttered, sensing that earlier dizziness return. If her mother could see her now. Or Mark, or Hector . . . But she had no choice.

  She was familiar with operating fiches and soon accessed both the Brecon & Radnor Times and the County Times for 1987. Here was Gorbachev and glasnost; the Herald of Free Enterprise tragedy and local agricultural news a-plenty scrolled by, but so far, after April and more searching she found nothing on Ravenstone Hall.

  ‘We close in twenty minutes,’ the librarian called. ‘Our book sale will be over by then. Any luck yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s this place you’re buying, then?’

  Lucy had to think on her feet. So far she’d found nothing, but she didn’t know this person from Adam. Was it time to cast suspicion to the winds? She asked herself. And the answer was yes.

  ‘On the Ravenstone Hall estate.’

  She heard the scrape of a chair against the floorboards. The click of heels drawing closer.

  ‘Here, let me have a go,’ the other woman offered. ‘I’m Verity, by the way.’

  Lucy sat alongside her as she scrolled past Thatcher’s third term re-election and the Tour de France result, until August appeared.

  ‘Surely this is too late?’ she said. But the librarian shook her head.