‘It must be: you jumped at it fast enough.’
He sighed. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘No, you’re right, it isn’t. You’d better get going or you won’t get there tonight.’
He looked at her levelly for a second then started towards the door. As he went by her she added:
‘And it’s quite obvious that you can’t wait to get away.’
He stopped, turned back to face her.
‘You’re right,’ he said with quiet intensity, ‘I can’t.’
‘So you admit it finally. It isn’t just a case of your not settling, is it? You just don’t like it here.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t like it here, Rowan. I hate it here. I hate it. I hate this place. And the sooner we get away from it the better it’ll be—for both of us!’
His hands were shaking, she could see; and there was anger in his eyes. ‘Don’t speak for me too,’ she said.
‘I am. I’m speaking for both of us. I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Do you? You never ever gave the place a chance.’
‘I’ve given it as much chance as I’m prepared to give. And I don’t feel like giving it any more.’ He paused. ‘It’s been at the back of my mind for days and days now—growing stronger all the time. And today I finally realized I’d had enough. As I came back from trying to see Alison I suddenly knew that that was it. It was just one more thing. Rowan—I’ve had this fucking village up to my eyeballs.’
‘And now you’re ready to pack up, are you? Just like that. Pack up and get out.’
‘Oh, God . . .’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘This isn’t the way I wanted to say it. Not like this. But, yes—that’s what I want. And that’s what I intend to do.’
‘And what about me? I could have been happy here. I still could. I like this place.’
‘We’ll find somewhere else. Moorstone doesn’t have a monopoly on old, characterful houses and pretty views. We’ll find somewhere closer to London—as we originally planned. Some place that’s not so completely cut off from everything we knew. Some place where we can still maintain some contact with the outside world.’ His voice softened slightly. ‘I know what it meant to you, coming here. You saw it all as some kind of—retreat—some kind of sanctuary. And I went along with it. I felt I had to. But it’s not right for us. Maybe some other little village is, but not this one. This place—it’s just not real. I don’t know how to explain it but . . .’ His words tailed off and he stepped towards her. ‘Listen—don’t think I’ve forgotten what it was like for you after Adam died, but—’
‘Don’t,’ she cut in quickly. ‘Don’t. Don’t bring him into it.’
‘You see?’ he said. ‘You won’t face anything. And you’ve got to. After Adam died I could understand you being desperate to get away. I could. But we can’t do it forever. You can’t deal with all your problems by just—cutting yourself off from them. At some time or other you’ve got to face up to them.’
‘I thought I was doing that.’
‘No, you’re not. Somehow your—your colossal relief at getting away from the city and all those bad associations just—blinds you to everything else. This place—it isn’t the answer to your prayers—our prayers. It’s not the Garden of Eden. You might think it is, but it’s not. There’s something—wrong about this place, and I can’t help but be aware of it.’
‘Of what?’ She could hear the scorn in her voice. ‘Just what are you so aware of?’
‘I don’t know what it is. But there’s some—undercurrent here. I can’t explain it. But I feel it.’ He moved closer to her. ‘Rowan—I’m uneasy here.’
‘But—why? For what reason? How can you be?’
He paused. ‘Things—people—they just don’t add up properly as they should. Things are not right. There are too many coincidences that are just—odd. I don’t know any more than that. I just feel—I’m certain—that there’s something going on in this place. I don’t know what it is—and I don’t intend staying around to find out.’
‘So what do you intend doing?’
‘I’m sorry to put it like this, but—well—when I’ve seen Goldman tomorrow I’m going to find a flat or something for us in London—’
‘No.’
‘Just a temporary place—where we can stay while we look around for something else. Someplace that will be good for us.’
‘—But—this house. We haven’t been here five minutes!’
‘I can’t help that. We’ll sell it.’
‘You’ve been making all these plans—for both of us.’
‘Please—Rowan—I’m doing what I think is best.’
‘Yes, you’re doing it. And if I don’t see it as the best thing for me?’
He stared at her. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. He shrugged. ‘Then I would go on my own,’ he said quietly.
For a few seconds neither spoke. Rowan turned and stood looking down the drive to where the car was parked. Hal stepped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘Look, I’ve got to go now,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you turn off the oven, throw a few things into a case and come with me. I don’t want to leave you like this. Come with me; we’ll have a chance to talk.’
She shrugged his hands away. ‘I don’t think there’s much left to say.’ She gestured towards the car. ‘Why don’t you go before you leave it too late.’
She was still standing there in the same spot when she saw him get into the car and drive away.
She remained there for some moments after the car had gone from sight, then went into the kitchen where she checked on the contents of the oven. He would be back soon, she was certain; he wouldn’t really go off leaving the situation as it was between them. Taking a bottle of sherry she opened it, poured herself a glass and sat drinking it at the kitchen table. When the glass was empty she refilled it. After half an hour a third of the bottle’s contents was gone and Hal had still not returned.
There never had been a situation like this before in their marriage, she reflected, and over the deep disappointment and hurt that had been with her over the past three days she felt anger, a sense of suffered injustice and betrayal. Mostly it was due to Hal, but Alison also played her part in it. By rights and by design, Rowan thought, she and Hal should have been welcoming Alison and Geoff for a pleasant evening together. Instead of which she was sitting here alone.
The aloneness was what she wanted, needed, least of all. She had to see someone, be with someone—and Alison was the only one right now who could help. She finished the glass of sherry that stood before her, got up, switched off the oven and left the house.
There were not many people abroad in the High Street, and of those who were most looked to be dressed in their Sunday clothes. She felt them staring curiously at her as she hurried by. She went to The Laurels, rang the bell and waited, breathless and distraught. After a few seconds Miss Allardice opened the door.
‘Yes?’ Her smile was very bright.
‘Is Alison in?’ Rowan asked.
‘Yes, she is, but—’
Rowan cut in: ‘I must see her. It’s very important. Please tell her that I must see her.’
‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.’ Miss Allardice shook her head. ‘She’s not seeing anyone right now, I’m afraid.’
‘But—but—please—at least tell her I’m here.’ Rowan felt she was on the verge of tears. ‘Please . . .’
Miss Allardice hesitated for a moment and then nodded. ‘Just a minute.’
Rowan, left standing on the doorstep, watched as the other woman walked away along the hall and entered a door at the far end. Once Alison knew that it was she, Rowan, who wanted to see her she would agree at once, Rowan knew. The murmur of voices came drifting through the hall; women’s voices; a man’s voice was there too. Geoff’s? It must be. Then there came a brief ripple of laughter, quickly dying.
Miss Allardice returned then, her head on one side and
her face giving a look of sympathy. ‘Just as I said, Mrs Graham. Mrs Lucas is terribly sorry but she can’t see anyone right now.’
Rowan stared at her. ‘But—did you tell her it was me . . . ?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m afraid she’s frantically busy right now—with Miss Carroll. As I told your husband, Miss Carroll is very ill, and Mrs Lucas is caring for her. She asked me to tell you, though, that she’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, without fail. In the meantime she sends you her apologies . . .’
The words were impossible for Rowan to accept. As Miss Allardice reached for the door Rowan said hurriedly, ‘Well—Mr Lucas. Would you tell him that I’d like to see him for a moment, please?’ Although she’d never met Geoff she knew that once she’d talked to him he would persuade Alison to see her. Miss Allardice just frowned, though, and said, ‘Mr Lucas? He’s not here.’
‘He’s not?’
‘No. Oh, no. He was here earlier today but not now. I believe he’s at The Swan.’
There was a moment of silence while Rowan hovered there, and then Miss Allardice, her sympathetic smile still in evidence, gently but firmly closed the door.
23
Hal had parked the car and was standing in line for his train ticket when he came to the decision not to go on. All the way to Exeter the doubts had been with him: should he turn back? should he continue on? Now, with the moment of commitment immediately before him he hesitated for just a moment longer and then stepped out of the queue.
In a nearby telephone kiosk he dialled the number of Crispin’s House. He would tell Rowan that he was returning. There was no answer, though. After standing for some seconds with the ringing tone sounding monotonously in his ear he replaced the receiver and dialled Tim Farson’s home number. Luckily the agent was in. Something had come up, Hal told him, and he couldn’t get to London after all. Farson, clearly disappointed, said he supposed it couldn’t be helped and that he’d pass on Hal’s message and apologies to Goldman and try to fix another meeting soon.
That done, Hal left the station, got into the car and drove away.
Although he was returning to Moorstone he was going back on nothing he had said. He’d meant it all. He wasn’t returning for good. They would leave that place—and the sooner the better. He would persuade Rowan that it was the best, the only, course for them; but he would do it reasonably, tactfully—not in the clumsy, brutal way he had already used. He realized now that he had allowed his unhappiness and doubt to come between them—just as Rowan’s contentment in the place had, in turn, erected its own barriers. Whichever way you looked at it, it was Moorstone that had been the damaging factor.
Not, he reflected, that Rowan had seemed very content over the past few days. On the contrary, now that he thought back she had appeared despondent and very unhappy. Her unhappiness had not been due to her surroundings, though; that much was certain; she’d made that clear enough. With what, then? With him? No. He brushed the thought aside. They would get it all sorted out, very soon, and soon everything would be all right again.
One great mistake he had made, he realized, was in not confiding in her with regard to his doubts and the endless questions that had gradually formed in his mind over the weeks. Knowing how much the new environment had meant to her he had kept it all to himself—only giving intimation of his uneasiness to Alison—who shared his misgivings. And throughout it all he had been hoping, trusting, that the questions would be resolved and go away. But they had not. They had grown stronger and more numerous. In protecting Rowan he had built for them both a situation that had now become intolerable.
Now, though, he would tell her and at least try to convey to her some of the reasons for his own disquiet. He had spoken to her of an undercurrent in the place, of odd coincidences and the feeling that something was going on. Things were not right, he had said. And the more he thought about it all the more certain he was that it was so.
Crispin’s House was empty when he got there.
The dining table was just as he had last seen it—set for three. The napkins lay folded just so, the glass and the silver gleaming. In the kitchen he found the oven turned off and the half-prepared food just left. On the table was an empty tumbler next to a part-empty bottle of sherry.
He went outside and checked in the garage. Her bicycle was still there. In the house again he dialled Alison’s number. If she could be persuaded to leave Miss Carroll’s sickbed for a moment perhaps she could tell him where Rowan was. He got the number unobtainable signal. It must still be out of order.
Lighting a cigarette he poured himself a drink, sat in his armchair in the sitting room and settled down to wait.
24
Rowan’s shadow was long and black on the dark floor of the rock. Behind her the sun had lost most of its brilliance and was slowly sinking towards the horizon. From the east clouds were moving. A chill wind had sprung up. She sat in the centre of the wide, flat space, looking out over the village. As far as she could see the view spoke to her of nothing but peace and tranquillity—such things she so desperately needed for herself.
Following Alison’s rebuff she had come up here to the Stone. She felt bewildered, and totally alone. Hal . . . and now Alison. And on top of the crushing disappointment over the Child. For that was how she had thought of it. But it never had been, she told herself; it had never even been the beginning. She had merely been a week late; it had been nothing more than a minor malfunctioning of her body.
Near her right foot was a dark stain just discernible in the fading light. There were splinters of glass there too. She could make out dusty footprints as well, scores of them, all over the floor of the rock. There had been many people up here, and recently. After a few more moments she got up and moved towards the rough-hewn steps. Into her mind came the memory of Alison’s words when they had visited the Stone together: I’ll be bloody glad to get off this heap of rock. For some reason it gives me the creeps. Touched briefly with the same cold feeling, Rowan quickly descended the steps and hurried away down the hillside.
She half walked, half ran along School Lane until she reached the High Street. Reaching it she paused for breath and in doing so caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window. Her hair was all awry. Her blue woollen dress was marked with dust from the Stone. Her hands were filthy and there was a dark smudge on her cheek. She turned away from the sight.
As she hurried on along the street she suddenly saw David Lockyer emerge from the main door of The Swan and cross over the road towards his front gate. He was right in front of her. Momentarily she checked her stride, coming to a halt. She felt she wanted to hide; she didn’t want to see him; she didn’t want to see anyone. It was pointless, though; he had seen her; there was nothing for it but to go on.
He was standing there at the gate as she drew level with him and she saw the look of surprise come over his face.
‘Rowan . . .’ He moved a step closer to her as she came to a hesitant stop on the pavement. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
She just stood there, wordless. She knew that if she spoke she would cry. He spoke again, concern clear in his voice and his face:
‘There’s something wrong. What is it? Tell me.’
Briefly closing her eyes she shook her head and made to step past him. He reached out, though, and grasped her firmly but gently by the arm. He turned her towards him and looked into her face.
‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘Please, tell me . . .’
She made no answer.
‘Where are you hurrying off to like this? Home?’
Another shake of the head in reply: no; she didn’t know . . .
‘I think you’d better come in for a minute,’ he said.
He opened the gate and she allowed him to lead her along the path to the front door and into the house. In the cluttered sitting room she sat on the sofa. He took an armchair facing her.
‘Something’s very wrong, isn’t it?’ he said.
The gentleness and the compassion she heard in his voice were all that were needed to break down the last of her self-control. Putting her hands up to her face she began to cry.
Lockyer, she became aware, was now at her side, one large hand on her shaking shoulder. He said nothing; just let her weep, waiting for her sobbing to cease. After some minutes she grew quiet again and she took the Kleenex he held ready and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing, ‘the only time I ever seem to see you is when I’m in some kind of trouble.’
As she turned to look at him he gave a smile. ‘Anytime,’ he said, ‘if I can be of help.’
She nodded her thanks.
‘Would you like to tell me what kind of trouble you’re in now?’ he asked.
‘Oh . . .’ She felt the tears might return and she took a deep breath and fought to control herself. ‘I—I don’t know,’ she said hoarsely after a moment. ‘I just—just feel that—everything’s gone wrong. Everything.’
‘What has gone wrong?’
She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him about the baby, about Hal, about Alison. . . . ‘Just—everything,’ she repeated.
He looked at her for a few seconds then got up. ‘I think I’ll have a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a couple in The Swan, but now I think I could do with another. I think you could as well.’
She said nothing.
‘Is whisky okay?’ he said.
‘Fine.’ She whispered it.
He poured the drinks, handed her one and sat beside her again. ‘We seem to have done all this before,’ he said.
‘Don’t remind me.’ She was aware of his closeness.
‘Is your hand all right now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And have you settled in all right? You’ve had a few weeks here now.’
After a moment’s hesitation she said: ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Leaving? You’re going away from here—from Moorstone?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘It’s not my decision.’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 16
