The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Rowan grinned. ‘Because this morning I discovered that Hal’s suffering with the same symptoms.’

  Alison laughed. ‘Well, yes, I think you might have a point there.’ Then she went on, ‘But perhaps you ought to go and see Paul Cassen. He’s marvellous. Not like those bloody city doctors who haven’t even got time to remember who you are. He’s really caring and thorough.’

  ‘Oh, it’s probably just due to the change of diet. Or we’ve picked up some kind of flu bug or something. . . .’

  ‘Maybe. It sounds like something I had three or four weeks back. Paul Cassen fixed me up in no time at all.’

  Over to the left of the path was a wide wood and they cut into its north-east corner, where in its shade the wood sorrel bloomed and the wood anemones were spread in a white carpet. Emerging into the sunlight once more they moved downhill across open ground towards a line of tall chestnut trees beyond which the ground rose sharply again. Somewhere a cuckoo called. Since they’d started out they hadn’t seen another human being. They might have been miles from the nearest human habitation; there was just space, blue sky and green fields and trees. Rowan’s sense of freedom was very real.

  Passing beneath the wide arms of the chestnut trees they started up the grassy slope of the hill. As they climbed, Rowan saw, rising up beyond its summit, the peak of a second hill, topped not with grass and brambles like this one, but with a huge crest of stone that reared up, dark against the May sky, its northern edge jutting like a pouting lip far out over the side of the hill on which it stood.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Alison, ‘that’s the Stone.’

  ‘It’s so dramatic,’ Rowan said. ‘Right out here amid all this green—springing up out of the hilltop. Is it some kind of geological freak?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Alison shook her head doubtfully. ‘I think it must have been brought here in ancient times. Like with Stonehenge and those other stones. Probably for use in some pagan rites or something.’

  They moved on upward, over the top of the hill, down the other side and up again towards the Stone. Drawing closer to it, Rowan saw that its face in line with the gradually sloping hillside had been hewn to form crude steps, shallow and very wide. She followed as Alison started up them. At the top she found that within its roughly hewn rim the surface had been cut quite flat—which had been impossible to discern from below. The platform covered a wide area—about twenty yards wide by thirty or forty long, she reckoned. She walked along it towards the lip that jutted out over the almost sheer side of the hill. Behind her Alison’s voice came: ‘Aren’t you afraid of heights? There’re no mattresses or trampolines down there. Just a bunch of rocks. And they’re a long way down.’

  Smiling over her shoulder, Rowan saw that Alison was standing at the top of the steps. ‘I am afraid of heights,’ she said. ‘I’m terrified. But don’t worry—I shan’t go near the edge.’

  She didn’t. She came to a halt some five or six yards from the point where the rock platform just stopped, the lip suspended in space, high above the scattered rocks below.

  When she turned again she saw that Alison had seated herself on the top step and was lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s amazing,’ Rowan said, ‘you can see for miles from up here.’ She looked over to her right, to the east where the village nestled in the hollow of the hills. ‘I can see our house there—so clearly.’ She raised her hands to her eyes, curling her fingers into binoculars. ‘Oh, yes, and there’s Hal there—pretending to work.’

  ‘Only pretending?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Rowan had touched on a subject she had no wish to pursue. She turned her back on the view of the village, moved across the surface of the stone and sat down beside Alison on the step. Alison said:

  ‘Have you heard how your Mrs Prescot’s sister’s getting on? Is she any better?’

  ‘About the same. Mrs Prescot phoned a couple of days ago. Poor thing. It’s so worrying for her.’

  Alison nodded. ‘I’m sure.’ After a pause she asked: ‘And how’s it working out with Mrs Palfrey? Is she still working like a Trojan?’

  ‘Oh, she’s incredible. Paul Cassen was right when he said she was very able. She is. I’m well satisfied.’

  ‘And Hal?’

  ‘Well—she’s been with us less than a week—and he says it’s much too soon to form any judgement. And he’s right, of course. Though he’s not too enamoured, you can tell.’

  ‘Does he say why?’

  ‘I don’t think he even knows. But for some reason he just doesn’t care for her very much. He didn’t want to hire her in the first place.’

  The talk moved on to other things. As she lit her third cigarette Alison said, ‘We’d better go when I’ve finished this.’

  ‘Will there be more work waiting for you?’

  ‘A bit, I expect. Nothing worth hurrying back for; nothing that wouldn’t keep till tomorrow. I really don’t understand why Miss Carroll went to all the trouble of hiring somebody from outside. I’m sure there are plenty of local girls who could easily do what I’m doing there.’ She shrugged. ‘Still, it’s her money.’ A little silence fell, then she added: ‘Anyway, I’m leaving in a few weeks.’

  Rowan looked at her in surprise and dismay. ‘I thought you were going to be here for a year . . .’

  ‘Well, yes, I was—originally. But near the end of May Geoff’s coming back to do some business connected with his job—and I’ve decided to return with him when he goes back out east. He’s got a nice flat there now, he says—and it’s a good opportunity for me to see a little more of the world. The main thing is, though, I shall be with him. That’s what really matters. I do so hate it—our being apart.’

  Rowan’s feeling of disappointment made it difficult for her to smile. ‘Well, I’m glad for you,’ she said. ‘But I’m really sorry—from my point of view—that you’re going.’

  ‘Yes, that part of it’s a shame.’ Alison nodded. ‘Now that we’ve just met and find that we get on well together. But there— ’ She grinned, as if hugging her knowledge to her. ‘I can hardly believe it: I shall be seeing Geoff soon.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting him. He sounds pretty special.’

  ‘He is, believe me. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.’

  After a moment or two Rowan asked: ‘How long have you known—that you’ll be leaving?’

  ‘Two days. I got a letter from Geoff. I couldn’t tell you earlier because I hadn’t told Miss Carroll.’

  ‘And she knows now?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I felt awful about that—telling her. I told her this morning. She was a bit taken aback, as you can imagine. But I think she understands. She was very nice about it.’

  ‘So now she’ll have to find somebody else . . .’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She sighed. ‘Ah, well, it can’t be helped.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. ‘We’d better get back.’ Looking around her she added with a wry smile, ‘And I’ll be bloody glad to get off this heap of rock. For some reason it gives me the creeps.’

  11

  From his desk Hal had watched Rowan ride away to keep her appointment with Alison.

  His head was aching and there was a slight but constant unsettled feeling at the pit of his stomach. It made the effort of work more difficult than ever. All morning he had stayed in his study, either sitting hunched over his loose-leaf writing pad or just staring into space. His pencils, sharpened and unused, stood before him in their pot like a battalion of soldiers. He’d got nowhere at all.

  It wasn’t long after Rowan had gone that Tim Farson, his agent, telephoned. How were things going? Farson asked. How was the new book progressing?

  The publication of Spectre at the Feast last year was to be followed this coming autumn by Hal’s sixth novel, Kill or Cure—his work on which he had long since finished. His concern now was with a new one—as yet untitled—which was intended for publication
next year. If he ever got it done, that was. At the rate he was going it was something he couldn’t be sure of.

  Now, lying in answer to Farson’s questions he said that the book was going well, adding that it should be completed within another three or four months.

  ‘Fine,’ Farson said. ‘I just wondered. And wondered how you are, too. It’s been a while since we had a chance to talk . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ Hal agreed, ‘it has.’

  ‘Do you get up to town at all these days? Or are you too busy?’

  ‘I plan on coming up very soon,’ Hal said. He hadn’t made any such plan, but the sudden thought was an attractive one. ‘Early next week,’ he added. ‘I shall probably stay for a couple of days.’

  ‘Well, maybe we could have lunch.’

  ‘Good idea. Which day would suit you?’

  ‘You say . . . Monday or Tuesday . . . ?’

  ‘Tuesday would be fine.’

  ‘Can you come to the office about twelve-thirty?’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  As Hal replaced the receiver he was aware of how eagerly he’d jumped at the excuse to get back to the city—if only for a short while—and how he was now looking forward to it.

  Pleasant as the prospect was, though, it in no way helped him with his most immediate problem: the book.

  The idea for the new novel had been conceived some weeks before the move from London, and in the excitement of its discovery he had worked quickly and enthusiastically to get a roughly-constructed plot down on paper. That done, he had begun his first draft, working long and earnestly, and confident, as in the past, that the book’s development would follow its usual course.

  And it had gone well. And then the move from London had loomed on the horizon. With that threatening he had worked even harder, trying to get as much as possible behind him while he had the chance. There hadn’t been much time, though. So much in the way of preparation had had to be done in connection with the move, and very quickly all thoughts of any serious work had had to be put aside. And so it would be, he had told himself, until the moving business was over and some kind of order in their lives was again discernible.

  Well, they had been in Moorstone for a month now and the moving in was over. By this time, with their lives fairly ordered again he should be deeply involved in the book once more; he had the time and the opportunity . . .

  But it hadn’t happened as he’d expected, as he’d hoped. What was it that had got in the way? At this stage in his work—halfway through the first draft—he was usually so passionately obsessed with what he was doing that the hours flew by and he’d often find himself resenting any interruptions that might occur. Not now. Right now he would have welcomed any interruptions at all.

  Perhaps, he said to himself, he’d feel more like work when this debilitating feeling of sickness had left him. As it was he had no energy at all. And no appetite either. At lunch he hadn’t felt like eating at all. Like Rowan, though, he’d forced himself to do so. Neither had wanted to offend Mrs Palfrey . . . At the back of his mind, however, was the vague thought that his lack of drive and enthusiasm was unconnected with his slight, temporary illness. Whatever it was, though, he could only trust that it would soon pass. It must. Not only did he have to get going on the book but soon he would have to begin work on the screenplay for Spectre at the Feast.

  After sitting unmoving at his desk for a few minutes longer he got up, went outside and took his bicycle from the garage. Seconds later he was pedalling away.

  Heading nowhere in particular he moved in a westerly direction with the village on his left. Up ahead of him in the distance he could see the dark shape of the Stone rising up. He must go there one day, he said to himself—get a closer view of it. Not today, though.

  About twenty minutes after setting out he had half circled the village. Now he re-entered it, rode into the High Street and parked his bicycle at the kerb.

  He was idly wandering from shop front to shop front when he saw the painting.

  It hung in the window of an antique shop, over to the right and partly obscured by an old hanging brass lamp. The framed canvas, quite small, depicted a line of trees against the sky. Silver birches. He recognized the scene at once, and immediately he could see in his mind the old lady standing forlornly at the edge of the chalkpit, turning, pointing: ‘I painted those too—in different lights, different moods . . .’

  But Paul Cassen had told him that never, to his knowledge, had she done any such thing; she’d never painted, he’d said.

  Although Hal craned his neck he could see no signature on the picture. The lower left corner of the canvas bore no sign of one, while the lower right was hidden by the lamp. After standing there looking at the picture for some minutes more he went into the shop and approached a young man who sat at a desk writing in a ledger. In answer to Hal’s query he said that the painting was the work of a young woman from the village, Mary Hughes. Was he interested in buying the picture? he asked Hal. No, Hal replied, he was merely curious.

  Outside on the pavement again he stood and looked once more at the painting. This was no Sunday painter’s daubings. This was the work of someone with experience and training; the technique alone gave evidence of that. The colours and the tones were cool and clear, while the paint had been applied in bold, vigorous strokes, giving the impression of sureness and youthful energy.

  The subject, though . . . surely those were the trees he had seen before . . .

  He stood at the window for some seconds longer, then, with the image of the birches fixed clearly in his mind, got back onto his bicycle and rode away from the village.

  Ten minutes later he was deep in the heart of the moorland countryside, pulling to a stop at the side of the road. Yes, he remembered this spot only too well. There was the gap in the hedge. He laid his bicycle down on the narrow grass verge and stepped through the gap into the field beyond.

  Reaching the rise in the ground he saw before him once more the chalkpit. The scenes from the past nightmare were vivid in his mind. He thrust them aside and, turning about, sought the line of trees the woman had indicated. And there they were—five slender silver birches—exactly as they’d been captured in the painting he’d just seen.

  He looked back to the pit, just briefly, then moved away from it back over the grass towards the hedge. Depression had settled over him like a cloak. He should have stayed at home. . . .

  He took a roundabout way back to Crispin’s House, all the time skirting the edge of the village. So much of the route was unfamiliar to him. Then, just before he turned right onto the familiar Rookery Road he saw on his left a sign saying Primrose House. Beyond it was a tall old building set back amongst green lawns and almost hidden by surrounding trees. He came to a halt and, astride his bicycle, stood peering through the foliage.

  So this was Primrose House. And, according to Alison, a mental home . . .

  Surely, though, she must be mistaken. Moorstone was so small. How could it possibly warrant the necessity of such an institution . . . ?

  With a final glance at the building he got back on his bicycle and headed for home.

  There was music coming from Crispin’s House.

  At first he thought Rowan must be back and was playing the radio or a record. Her bicycle was not in the garage, though. After leaving his own bicycle there he moved closer to the partly open sitting room window and realized that the sound was actually coming from the piano within. Furthermore, the instrument was being played by someone who knew what it was all about. And that definitely excluded Rowan. She, in her piano studies, had never gone beyond the fourth year.

  He recognized the music. It was something by Chopin, familiar to him from his own early years. At the moment the playing of it was reaching the end of the first section. At times the music came to his ears a little haltingly—sometimes the rippling notes stumbling, like a tired runner losing his rhythm. Nonetheless, it sounded to him quite brilliant.

  The mi
ddle episode began, its beautiful melody less demanding of dexterity. Here in this much slower passage the notes were struck more surely, and with great feeling and tenderness. He listened, rapt, as the slow, lyrical section ended and the fingers took off again, attempting the rippling cadences of the fast, difficult closing passage. And here the music seemed beyond the fingers’ ability. After stumbling a couple of times the notes, in mid-passage, came to an abrupt end.

  Entering the sitting room a few moments later he found Mrs Palfrey sitting at the piano looking down at the keyboard. She had her back to him but then at the sound of his step she turned, saw him and got quickly to her feet. She looked flustered and a little embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Graham,’ she said, ‘I didn’t hear you come in. I wouldn’t have—I mean . . .’ Her words trailed off and she briefly lowered her eyes.

  ‘Please—don’t apologize.’ He smiled, trying to put her at her ease. ‘I was listening to you, outside. I couldn’t help it.’ He paused. ‘That piece—it’s Chopin, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. His “Fantaisie-Impromptu in C Sharp Minor.” It’s a very popular work.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s lovely. And—well, I never would have dreamed that you could play so well.’

  At this she gave a little smile. ‘Oh, I don’t play well, Mr Graham. Not now. Though once I did.’

  ‘You obviously studied for a very long time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, years ago. Yes . . . I had the very best teachers.’ Raising her head slightly she added with a note of pride: ‘Oh, yes, I could play. I’ve played before great people. Heads of state, kings and queens. In my time I’ve played for them all.’ She smiled again and gave a little shake of her head. ‘Ah, but what’s the point in reliving the past. It’s all over.’ She looked down at her misshapen hands. ‘I wouldn’t get far with these now, would I? I’m surprised I managed to do as well as I did with that little piece. . . .’ She lowered the lid of the piano over the keys. Turning back to face him she asked: ‘Did you ever study any musical instrument?’