Chapter 43
The next morning Viv found herself sitting in Ursula’s aviary doing nothing but holding out a piece of meat.
‘Are you sure you want me to do this?’ she asked Heath. ‘I feel a bit guilty doing nothing whilst you’re cleaning out the cages.’
‘It’s important,’ said Heath, as he tended to James, the great grey owl who had a huge round moon of a face. ‘And don’t worry, if you feel guilty you can turn over the compost heap later on. I wouldn’t want you to feel as if you were missing out.’
‘Why don’t you ask Nicholas Leighton if he’ll build you a new sanctuary?’ asked Viv.
Heath stared at her as if she were mad. It was a look she was getting used to seeing.
‘That way all the animals would stay together, wouldn’t they?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Heath. ‘He wouldn’t give us a penny more than he has to. His “people” offered to help find the animals new homes – which I obviously refused to let them do because how can those corporate . . . idiots be trusted – but if you think he’d build a whole sanctuary for us, then you’re . . .’ he rotated his finger at the side of his head. ‘Besides, even – even – if he had a mental aberration and offered to do that, it still wouldn’t be here, would it, here on this land where it should be.’
‘So you didn’t ask him?’
Heath gave a weary sigh.
‘If you must know, yes I did ask.’ His voice was tight and Viv could tell that it pained him to admit he had. It must have taken him a lot of effort to swallow that amount of pride.
‘He said no, then?’
Heath gave her a look not unlike the look Ursula was accustomed to giving him. ‘Surprisingly enough, Miss Blackbird, he did refuse.’
But you asked because you’d do anything to keep this place together, Viv said to him silently.
‘He’s very rich isn’t he?’ she asked him.
‘Very.’
‘Why would he want to build a housing estate here? You’d think he’d prefer this area to be quiet, wouldn’t you?’
Heath blew out his cheeks. ‘To answer your first question: because people who lived here would want things and he’d supply the shops and restaurants and make even more money. To answer the second question, the valley bowl is far enough away from his estate not to cause him a problem.’
‘But what if —’
Heath was obviously tired of her questions. ‘Look, Ursula isn’t playing ball today so why don’t you go and pick up the feed. I can finish off here by myself.’
She had broken her promise not to press him, so Viv didn’t argue. She walked obediently back to the cottage, changed out of her wellies and into her ankle boots and set off in the pick-up.
It was a lovely drive on the top road. Even flooded in sunshine, the moors looked bleak, mysterious and full of secrets. In August they would be a sea of purple heather, but she would be long gone then. And so would Wildflower Cottage.
A pheasant ran across the road, cutting off her train of thought. Viv stamped on the brake and the vehicle lost control, stopping just short of a ditch. Her heart jumped into her mouth. Concentrate, concentrate, she snapped at herself. She needed to clear her mind of everything but driving. Which was easier said than done.
She picked up the feed and headed back, but decided to call in at Mawton en route. She pulled into the car park near St Francis Church, as she had done last time she was here, and walked down the main street, intending to have a sandwich at the café, but it was full. They did have a selection of takeaway sandwiches for sale though, so she bought an egg mayo, a bottle of fizzy orange and looked for somewhere to sit and eat it in the sunshine. Some people were sitting in the pretty grounds of the church: a man in a suit tearing into a baguette, two old ladies sharing a flask of tea. She walked past them and sat at the next available bench, which was tucked away in a corner out of the way. She unwrapped her lunch and began to eat it. Gentle scents drifted to her on the fluttery breeze: freesias, violets, sweet peas. She tilted her head back and let the sun warm her face. It felt as if it was leaning down close to her, holding her cheeks in its hands and, like a caring parent, was telling her that everything was going to be all right. Her mind emptied of all but the feeling of heat on her skin and she could easily have drifted off to sleep. A breeze stirred its fingers in her hair and wafted more floral perfume towards her, this time a dense rich scent which she recognised immediately: grand prix roses. Huge velvet-headed roses with tightly packed petals that pulsed out a bouquet of myrrh, musk and wild fruits with a distinctive shadowy note of spices. Viv pulled it into her nostrils as if she were savouring the breath of a rich, deep wine.
As she stood to go, the scent of the roses drew her, challenging her to find them. She walked steadily down the path, trying not to look like a bloodhound on a quest. She’d walked too far, the scent had dissolved; she turned back and it was there again. Forwards now, leaving the path, passing ranks of stones until she saw them three rows up, five across: tied in a bunch, their perfect blood-red petals facing the tall, grey headstone, bright against the darkest green leaves, their long stems laying across the heart of the person who lay beneath. Viv had impressed herself being able to pick them out from so far away. In Loving Memory of Emily Sowerbridge, Precious wife. Viv looked at the dates and worked out that Emily had died on her seventieth birthday. Today she would have been eighty. Hence the beautiful birthday roses with the card amongst them in an old man’s scratchy scrawl. Emily. You are missed every day. What must it be like, thought Viv, to meet someone who came into your life and never left it, even after death separated you. She wondered if Heath thought about Sarah or if Antonia Leighton had supplanted her in his affections.
Viv strolled back to the path viewing the different-shaped stones and reading the inscriptions. Some were very old, dating back centuries, the writing weathered and barely readable. One had a cameo photo of a smiling old gent. The sight of a small, white stone carved into a heart pulled her to a halt. Apart from the dates of the incumbent’s birth and death days, there were just four words:
SARAH BERNAL
BELOVED DAUGHTER
She died aged twenty-five, four years ago. Was this another Sarah who had died at such a young age, or could this be Heath’s wife? But if it was, why wasn’t it her married name that had been chiselled into the stone?
Viv’s brain started to spin with the intrigue of it all. Heath, Geraldine, the animals . . . she had to stop them slipping into her heart when she wasn’t looking and making her care about them. Because she had the potential to be their worst enemy of all.
Chapter 44
Stel buzzed around cleaning the already immaculate house. She was so jittery about the evening to come that she had to use up all the adrenalin-fuelled nervous energy or she would have exploded. Then she changed outfits four times because her jeans looked too casual, her dress looked too dressy, her trousers made her bum look big – leggings and long top it was then; flat shoes, hair up and dangly earrings. She gave herself an appraisal in the mirror and wondered if she should have chosen the jeans ensemble instead, but time was moving on.
The pasta was ready for the oven, the table was set, she had decanted a bottle of Merlot like a proper wine buff. She’d even dropped an old penny in the bottom because she’d read at the weekend in the Sunday World supplement that it made it taste more expensive. Then she sat on the sofa and waited and wished she had never invited Ian Robson to her house. She was so tense that an evening in her pyjamas watching an old Columbo seemed a much more sensible idea.
She thought she heard a car and jumped to her feet. She opened the front door and peeked out to see Al from next door walking up his path, holding his biker’s helmet in his hand. He’d had a mid-life crisis and bought himself a Harley Davison. Mid-life suited him though – he’d never been as happy, as well-off, or as fit.
‘Hello Stel,’ he smiled, but then Al was always smiling. Ever since he ditched that bitch of a wife a
nyway.
‘Hello Al,’ she smiled back.
He sniffed. ‘Not half a nice smell coming from your house. You cooking me dinner?’
‘I’ve got a date,’ bubbled Stel, with a childish giggle.
‘Have you? Well, good for you, pet. Hope he’s treating you well.’
‘He is,’ she nodded.
‘He’s a lucky fella. I hope he knows that. You look lovely, all sparkly.’
Stel was just about to say that he didn’t look bad either. He was dressed in his biker’s leathers and he wore them well. She wondered if he’d ever thought, when he was sitting in their front room eating fish finger sandwiches and trying his best not to appear as if he hadn’t eaten for a week, that one day he’d own his own business, live in a lovely house and ride around on a piece of metal that would have grown men crying with envy. But he started talking again.
‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, Stel, because there’s something I probably should mention . . .’
Then Ian’s car drew up and Stel cut him off. ‘Oh, he’s here. Sorry, Al, you were saying?’
‘Ah, it’s nothing. There’s your man,’ he said as Ian got out of the car. ‘I hope you’ve got a good one this time, Stel.’
‘I hope so too,’ replied Stel. ‘You know me though, Al, too much of a dreamer. I’ve stopped waiting for that knight in shining armour to come riding up the road on his white steed.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have. If you aim low, that’s what you get. As you know only too well.’
Inside, Stel cringed a little with embarrassment that Al knew so much about her shit love-life. He’d seen off one of her dates a few years ago when he arrived drunk as a skunk at the door demanding that she let him in. But she never felt as if he judged her, though she suspected he might have fondly despaired of her a few times.
Ian walked towards her carrying a bunch of pink flowers and a carrier bag in one hand and a jacket over the other arm. He was wearing a smile of greeting, but, had Stel been looking at a photograph of him at that moment, the caption underneath would have read: ‘what is wrong with this smile?’
‘Hello mate,’ said Al, pulling off his leather glove and extending a big paw. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Al, Stel’s neighbour.’
Ian’s hand came out but slowly, dragged into position by politeness. ‘Hello,’ he returned, his tone flat.
If Al noticed that, he didn’t show it. ‘Have a good night, you two,’ he said, slipping his key into the lock and pushing open his door. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
‘Can I take your jacket?’ asked Stel, once they were in the house. She was trying to stay calm but failing. There was an awkward interchange as Ian passed over the flowers just as Stel was reaching for his coat. They both laughed and when the coat was hung up and Stel had cooed over the flowers, she led him through to the kitchen.
‘It looks bigger than the last time I was here,’ said Ian, looking around. ‘Oh, there’s my friend. Hi Boris.’
‘Basil,’ corrected Stel, as Ian bent down to give Basil a stroke, though Basil darted off out of the room and up the stairs.
‘He’s a grumpy old sod,’ said Stel, excusing him and then she felt a little ashamed of herself for lying, as if Basil could hear her, because he wasn’t really.
‘He probably remembers me as that bloke who threw his coat over him trying to catch him,’ said Ian, taking four bottles of wine out of the carrier bag. ‘Two red and two white. Do you think that will be enough?’
Stel trilled a laugh. So he’s brought his car but he’s drinking. That means he’s probably going to drive home in the morning.
As if he heard the workings-out in her head he put out his hands as though to push those deductions back. ‘Just in case you’re wondering, I’ve brought the car because I don’t like leaving it on my street if I’m not in. I’ll get a taxi and come back for it in the morning.’
‘No worries,’ said Stel, feeling a pang of disappointment. ‘Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.’
‘Is that garlic bread I see?’ asked Ian. ‘Our breath is going to be nice and stinky then.’
Stel closed her eyes against her own stupidity. Just the very thing to cook when she was hoping for a snogging session. And there was loads of it in the pasta sauce too.
‘What a total . . .’ Stel sighed. Ian chuckled and caught hold of her hand. A second later she was in his arms.
‘We better have that kiss now then, hadn’t we?’ he said.
Stel gulped but didn’t have time to say anything because Ian’s lips were already descending. His gentle kiss made Stel feel light-headed and warm, young and desired.
Half an hour after they had eaten pasta, Stel was pulling him upstairs and neither of them seemed to care that they were engulfed in a fug of garlic.
Chapter 45
Stel drifted back to consciousness after a wonderful, satisfying night’s sleep, to find Ian propped up on the pillow, studying her. She was horrified.
‘Don’t look at my morning face,’ she said, covering it up with both hands. She hoped he hadn’t been staring at her for long and seen her snoring or slavering out of the corner of her mouth. She dabbed it to check if it was damp and found, to her relief, that it wasn’t.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Ian, peeling her fingers away. ‘You’re lovely. I actually like you better au naturel.’
‘You should get yourself to Specsavers,’ replied Stel with a dry chuckle.
‘No, I shouldn’t. You’ve got beautiful skin, why would you want to cover it in disgusting gunk,’ he said, stroking her cheek gently with a crooked finger. ‘And your lips are lovely and naturally pink.’ He leaned over and kissed them softly. ‘Let me tell you, women look a lot more attractive with natural eyelashes than with big clumps of mascara stuck on them. Women like men to be as they are, but yet men aren’t allowed to think the same, are they?’
Stel opened her mouth to say that she couldn’t even bear to look at herself in a mirror without make-up on, never mind go outside and show her face to the world. People would think Halloween had come early.
‘Tell me, would you prefer George Clooney with his natural hair or dyed dark brown?’
Well, that was easily answered. ‘But he’s a man,’ said Stel. ‘You lot can get away with the natural look.’
‘Okay then, imagine Judi Dench with Chelsea eyebrows and bright red lips.’
‘Yeah, but she wouldn’t go to those measures, would she? She might just use a bit of enhancement; so you hardly notice.’
‘So then what’s the point?’
He had her there. She opened her mouth to argue back but couldn’t.
Ian stroked her hair back from her face. ‘How pretty you are,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of coffee and bring it up for you.’
‘Oh.’ Stel’s gasp was in proportion to a declaration that he had bought her Elizabeth Taylor’s big diamond. But it was a big deal for her because no man that Stella Blackbird had ever been out with had brought her a cup of coffee up to bed. It was one of those small considerations that her ideal man would afford her.
He hopped out of bed with enviable confidence in his nudity and Stel saw again the scar on his side where he’d had the knife wound when he’d been in the army. She also saw his little flat bum and wished she hadn’t. What was wrong with her? Why, after a lovely night with an attentive man – and he had made sure she had been more than satisfied – was she being so judgemental?
Hearing him pottering about downstairs, Stel sneaked across to her dressing table and opened the curtains slightly for some light. She looked at herself in the mirror and knew that there was no way she could go out in public without make-up. She would rather not wear knickers. But, she supposed she could tone it down a bit. She had worn bright lipstick for thirty years, maybe it was time for the subtle fairy to wave her wand over her make-up bag.
*
As Viv was driving back from replenishing stocks of teabags and milk at the village shop, somethin
g pink darted across the road ahead of her. Intrigued, she pulled up, got out of her car and tried to spot where it had gone, and what it was. She saw it almost immediately; it was some sort of animal, resting in the long grass that grew against the fence. Viv approached it tentatively and it pressed deeper into the foliage. She wasn’t an expert on British wildlife but she was pretty sure none of it was pink. And it was too small to be a disorientated baby flamingo, if indeed the things flew. Whatever it was, was now trapped between the fence and her presence. Viv leaned over and moved aside the grass coverage. It was a rat, a giant rat. She stepped back and squeaked in horror. But it wasn’t the right shape for a rat, it was like a furry ball. Its mouth was twitching. Viv bent down and saw that it was a small rabbit, with no ears. A straight line crusted with blood traversed where they should have been. Someone had cut this little bunny’s ears off and sprayed him bright pink.
Viv didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t leave him there, but she couldn’t pick him up either. Well, you’ll have to do one or the other, she said to herself. She peeled off her cardigan, aware that her heart had quickened in pace. She really wasn’t looking forward to this at all.
‘Come on, Viv Blackbird, you can do this.’ She danced on the spot as if she were gearing herself up for the starting blocks of an Olympic sprint. She’d had a psychotic owl’s claw in her hand. This should be a doddle. One-two-three. She threw the cardigan over the rabbit and scooped the animal up. It wriggled furiously in her arms and she fought against the urge to drop it. She held on with one hand, opened her boot with the other, and placed it in. Then she shut the lid quickly. Her whole body was shaking.
Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage Page 17
