Desirable Property

by Catherine George

  In some ways she was almost glad to be alone, grateful for a respite from this charade of marriage she and Ben were playing. Basically a straightforward girl, Verity was exhausted by the sheer necessity of always being on her guard with Ben, in public affectionate and devoted, in private civil and semi-detached. This double standard had been started in some ways on their brief honeymoon. By day Ben had driven her all over the Cotswolds, with occasional forays as far as Wales and the West country, taking her to every possible place of historical and geographical interest he could think of before driving back to Wychford for dinner each evening followed by hot, dark nights in the fourposter bed, where he taught her every last thing he knew about making love.

  That, however, had been the only experience of 'connubial bliss' granted to Verity. On their arrival at Tern Cottage Ben had moved his belongings into the guest room and had remained there the entire four weeks and three days—and nights—since, leaving Verity to many a sleepless night in solitary state in the master bedroom. This morning had been the first intimation Ben had given that he had any similar problem with insomnia, and Verity felt distinctly cheered by the thought. Neither of them ever referred to the cause of their estrangement, and sometimes Verity wondered bleakly if Ben wanted a divorce, though determined never to bring up the subject in case he said yes. At first she had hoped fervently that their strange, angry honeymoon might have resulted in a baby, eventually glad when this hope was scotched. If she had a child she wanted one born of love, not resentment.

  With more than enough time to herself to mull over Gussie's insinuations Verity reached the bitter conclusion that she had behaved like an idiot, playing right into Gussie's soft white hands. That lady's intention had been to ruin Verity's honeymoon as effectively as possible, even if it meant the end of any relationship she herself might have with Ben. With disgust Verity remembered Gussie's resentment in school on their final Speech Day. Verity had been awarded the Geography prize, and Gussie, who had always considered any form of study a waste of time, had been furious. The prize, an expensive Atlas, had suffered a mysterious accident a day or two later, a bottle of ink tipped over its centre pages, though Gussie had been hysterical with her denials of guilt. No doubt her motivation had been the same when she heard Ben was to marry Verity. It was hardly in her power to prevent the wedding, but skill in spoiling Verity's happiness in her marriage was well within her grasp. And if Verity had not been so consumed with jealousy and distaste she would have recognised Gussie's ploy for what it was.

  Verity sighed. It was all very well to be so sane and sensible about the whole thing in retrospect, but the fact remained that she had voiced her suspicions to Ben, and he looked likely never to recover from the insult. She scowled as she cleared away her breakfast things, thinking Ben was behaving in a very stiff-necked way about the whole thing; after all, there was no denying that once upon a time he had been highly enamoured of the fair Augusta. Verity felt it would have required a nobler nature than hers not to need some reassurance in the face of Gussie's statement, whether it were true or not, and wondered how Ben would have reacted if the situation had been reversed. As she was never likely to know, she locked up the house and set off for Temple Priors in her Mini, sensibly deciding that work was the best antidote for her depression.

  The day was unusually busy, with Ben and his father away, broken only by a very brief lunch with Isabel Dysart, who scolded Verity for working so hard.

  'You work longer hours here for love than ever you did with Lockhart and Welch,' she said severely. 'Ben expects too much, Verity. I must have a word with him, you look very tired.'

  Ben too, thought Verity privately. Their mutual insomnia was beginning to show.

  'I enjoy the work,' she said reassuringly, 'really I do. There's not much to do at the cottage and I'm used to having plenty to occupy me.' She glanced over at the window in dismay as she caught sight of snowflakes beginning to come down thick and fast past the window. 'Oh no, Isabel, here we go again. A third fall of snow this early in the winter.'

  'If it's like this here it must be worse in Scotland.' Lady Dysart looked anxious. 'I hope Hugh and Ben don't get stranded somewhere.'

  'They were using a helicopter to get about up there, so don't worry, I'm sure they'll be fine.'

  'Well you must stay here tonight,' said her mother-in-law. 'I really don't like to think of you alone in that cottage, especially in this weather.'

  Verity shook her head and jumped to her feet, swallowing the last of her coffee. 'Thank you so much, but I think I should go home—I'm haunted by thoughts of burst pipes and water on the carpet. I'll get off before dark today, though.'

  It actually was dark by the time Verity had trudged on foot down over the fields to the river through a thick layer of snow. When she got home she switched on all the lights and turned up the heating a couple of notches, then went upstairs for a bath and a change into warm pyjamas and Ben's wool dressing-gown, thick wool socks and furry slippers on her feet. She chuckled at her reflection in the hall mirror on her way to the kitchen. If someone broke in with pillage and rape in mind her appearance would be the only deterrent necessary.

  Verity cooked herself a couple of cutlets and made a small salad, the radio on for company as usual. A news flash told her that severe weather was expected in the Midlands during the evening, with a gradual thaw overnight. Reassured she put her dinner on a tray and ate it in front of the television in the drawing-room, curled up on the sofa. Afterwards she inspected the weather now and again, but there seemed no let-up in the heavy white curtain falling steadily outside the window. Her mother-in-law rang a little later asking if Verity was all right, advising her to stay indoors the following day.

  'Morrison can manage this end and I don't like the thought of you out and about in this weather. It's almost four miles up here by road, and it must be well over two if you come along the fields at the back, so have a lie-in for once and get some rest while Ben's away.'

  Verity promised and rang off, smiling. Lady Dysart was plainly under the impression neither of them got much sleep under the same roof; which was true enough in its way, but not for the reason popularly believed. Almost immediately the phone rang again, Ben's clipped tones easily recognisable even above the crackling on the line.

  'I rang before. The line was engaged.'

  'Yes it was.'

  'I know that—who was it?' he demanded.

  'Your mother,' said Verity, irritated.

  'I see. How's the weather down there?'

  'Thick with snow, but a thaw promised overnight. How is it with you?'

  'Pretty bad—it'll probably wash out the trip. I'll let you know.'

  'Fine. Hotel good?'

  'First class. Did you work today?'

  'Yes. But I came home early when the snow started.'

  'You should have stayed with Mother,' he said again.

  'I'm afraid of burst pipes.'

  'More than things that go bump in the night?'

  'Much more.'

  'I must go. Stay indoors tomorrow if the weather's bad. Goodnight, Verity.'

  'Goodnight.'

  Verity put down the telephone and stayed where she was for a moment, her eyes absent as she remembered the time when the terse, dictatorial voice of this evening had once murmured such erotic things in her ear down the line in what seemed like another existence. After a while she went to bed to watch the television Ben had bought for those 'sinful Sundays' that had never transpired. She was glad of its company as the old house settled down for the night, very much aware of creaks and groans never noticed when Ben was home. Drat Ben and his 'bumps in the night' she thought crossly and with determination settled herself for sleep. At some stage in the night she woke to the sound of wind and rain lashing against the windows and cuddled down relieved. The thaw had arrived..

  Verity slept late the following morning, feeling absurdly guilty as she rolled out of bed, yawning widely. She drew back the bedroom curtains to stand aghast at the si
ght that met her eyes. Rain was driving against the glass, but it was still possible to see that the river had risen alarmingly. She dressed rapidly and flew to the landing window to look at the front garden, her eyes widening in concern as she saw the bridge was gone, obviously swept away by the debris rushing past in the swollen river. She ran downstairs to collect anorak and rubber boots, then went down the back lawn and along the bank to the other bridge among the willows. She stopped short, hands in pockets, as she stood in the freezing, drenching rain, staring at the place where the bridge had been, coming to terms with the fact that she was cut off until the water went down, unless she wanted to swim the river. Shuddering at the mere thought Verity went back to the house to ring Lady Dysart and explain the situation, but discouraged any idea of someone being sent to help.

  'Frankly I don't think there's anything anyone can do at the moment, Isabel, and the men have enough to cope with as it is. It isn't as if I'm in any danger, really.'

  'But my dear, aren't you a bit apprehensive?' Isabel Dysart was obviously worried.

  'Not in the least,' said Verity stoutly. 'I'll soon call for help if I need it, and the water's bound to stop rising soon.'

  'Do you have enough to eat, Verity?'

  'Masses of food. Enough for a siege. Don't worry, please, I'm fine.'

  Despite her brave words, Verity was seized by a deep longing for Ben's authoritative presence. Nevertheless her optimism lasted fairly well through the hours of daylight. She occupied some of the time in making a meat pie and a couple of savoury quiches from recipes in one of the cook books received as wedding presents, and the highly successful results of her labours were cooling appetisingly on one of the counters when the radio suddenly went dead. Verity frowned, then switched on one of the lights. Nothing. Biting her lip she went to look out of the back window. The river was now past the willows and encroaching on the lawn. It was deadly quiet without the radio until inspiration struck. One of the drawers in the kitchen unit was given over to Ben's possessions, and to Verity's jubilation it contained a whole beautiful box of transistor batteries, not to mention a couple of dozen candles. Once the radio was functioning again and several candles were installed in pottery soup bowls Verity felt very much better, and decided it might be a good thing to inform someone she was without light. The telephone, however, also proved to be dead. Verity grinned ruefully; elements two, manmade miracles nil she thought, and took stock of her situation. The refrigerator was full of things like bacon and eggs, that were no use without some means of cooking them, but it also contained a couple of pints of milk, yoghurt, salad ingredients, ham, cheese, butter and orange-juice. The food in the freezer would last for a couple of days as long as she kept it closed as much as possible, but she would need bread. Verity whipped two loaves out of the freezer at once, then stopped dead, a loaf in each hand in the shadowy room as a thump came against the front door.

  'Who—who is it?' she called, her voice an undignified squeak. There was no answer except for another muffled thud. The gloom in the hall was sepulchral as Verity crept across it, her heart pounding as the thump sounded again. Shades of The Monkey's Paw, she thought with a shiver, then pulled herself together and marched over to the door, throwing it open to stumble over a very large, very wet yellow labrador, who shook himself all over her making graphic noises plainly intended to explain his plight. Verity made a tremendous fuss of him. She laid down newspapers in the hall and fetched candles, towel and brush and dried and groomed the grateful animal, who wagged his tail in constant appreciation. She examined his name tag by the light of a candle.

  'It just says "Taff" and your telephone number,' she told him, grinning as he pricked up his ears at the sound of his name. 'I bet someone's in a terrible state thinking you're drowned or lost. Never mind. We have light, we have music—you'll like that if you're Welsh— and now let's see what we can find in the way of food for you.'

  Verity opened a tin of corned beef, mixed it with crumbled water biscuits and put it down on an old plate on the kitchen floor, then mixed dried milk and water in a plastic bowl and gave Taff that too, the whole lot disappearing like magic.

  'Come on, let's go for a quick walk,' she said briskly, 'I'd like to keep an eye on that river.' She felt a great deal more cheerful now she had the dog for company, her spirits raised even further when she found a black rubber-covered torch at the back of Ben's drawer while searching for a length of cord to tether Taff in place of a lead. Even with the help of the torch it was difficult to tell what the water was doing in the darkness, but the rain was still streaming down, it was decidedly chilly, and Verity felt ready to sell her soul for a cup of hot coffee. As she and Taff went past the outhouse she had a thought. Nick's camping equipment was stored in there and it was just possible there might be something to cook with among it. With the dog sniffing round in great interest Verity shone the torch round the shadows of the outbuilding, giving a war-whoop of joy as the beam picked out a camping stove and several container of gas.

  'Thank you, Nick,' she said with gratitude, and bore her trophies into the house with triumph, the dog close at her heels.

  While a pan of water came to the boil on the small stove Taff was subjected to another rub down, then Verity made herself the desired coffee, drinking it with relish, and sharing the biscuits she ate with Taff, while she considered the unthinkable prospect of water on her beloved Shiraz carpet if the house actually were flooded. The idea nagged like toothache, and eventually she went into the drawing-room, running her hand through her dishevelled hair as she considered the best way to deal with it. She pulled the chairs and table away and rolled the freed carpet laboriously, then inch by painful inch she dragged it out of the drawing-room and up the stairs, not daring to pause in case the whole thing slithered down again. Halfway up the flight she began to regret the entire idea bitterly, especially as the dog thought it was some kind of game and barked with enthusiasm, licking her face now and then whenever he could reach it. Verity was very glad when the carpet finally came to rest on the landing and so could she, collapsing in a heap with the dog, her heart going like a trip-hammer and her breath labouring in her chest. She froze as she realised the hammering was coming from the front door, as well as her heart. The dog snarled, the fur rising on his back as he sensed her fear, the hammering beginning again as she crept warily down the stairs.

  'Verity!' roared Ben's voice. 'Let me in, for God's sake.'

  A great tide of relief rendered Verity almost limp as she reached to the door and unbolted it, throwing it open to the sodden man who catapulted into the hall to be greeted with frantic barks from the excited dog, who was obviously prepared to do his best to defend Verity from all comers.

  'Where the hell did he come from?' demanded Ben, who was shaking the water from his dripping hair in much the same way as the dog had done earlier. Verity flew to the cloakroom for a towel, and Ben rubbed himself energetically in the flickering light.

  'Thank God you've got here—how did you manage it—' Verity took a good look at him to find he was naked except for a pair of brief navy underpants. 'Good grief, Ben, you'll get pneumonia—'

  'Like Leander, I sort of swam the Hellespont, or was it some other chap,' he said, his teeth chattering as he tried to grin. 'Give me the torch, explanations later, I'm going up to find some clothes.'

  'The water in the tank might still be warmish,' said Verity anxiously as he ran upstairs. 'You'll have to rub yourself down well afterwards—' she broke off, giggling at his colourful language as he tripped over the carpet.

  'What the blazes have you been doing?' he bellowed. 'It's like an obstacle course up here.'

  'Never mind that now,' she shouted, and lit the camping stove. 'Get a move on.'

  She put a pan of water to boil then flew into the drawing-room with the best part of a box of firelighters, stuffing them under the piled logs with prodigal extravagance, and soon had a steady blaze which gave the added bonus of light as well as warmth. Ben came in shortly after, rubbi
ng at his hair, and dressed in a dark roll-neck sweater and some ancient military-looking trousers with a large pocket on one thigh.

  'What happened to the carpet?' he asked.

  'Nothing. I was worried the river might rise up as far as the house, so I dragged the carpet upstairs.' Verity sat back on her heels, suddenly conscious of a shiny nose and wildly untidy hair. 'I'm a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. Sorry to be at such sixes and sevens—I wasn't quite sure what to do for the best.'

  Ben grinned down at her, the flames flickering on his face as he bent down to help her up.

  'I don't see how you can say that. I raced here in the Landrover to succour a damsel in distress, only to find you about as helpless as a Marine. I don't suppose all this hyper-efficiency would run to a spot of sustenance?'

  'Of course.' Verity gave him a smug little smile as she hurried off to the kitchen and made coffee with the water bubbling away on the camping stove, handing Ben a steaming mug as he leaned against the counter-top watching her. He drank gratefully, his hand stroking Taff's head, the dog apparently reconciled to the intruder's right to be in the house.

  'Where did this chap come from?' Ben asked.

  Verity opened a tin of soup and poured it into a saucepan to heat, stirring it as she spoke.

  'He arrived in somewhat similar fashion to you— soaked to the skin and thumping on the door for admittance. Must have got lost.' Verity smiled as she looked up from her stirring. 'At least he kept his coat on! Where are your clothes?'

  'I parked the Landrover at the Bell when I saw you were awash. Stan Mayhew's lad came down the hill with me and took back the clothes I stripped off to swim the river. It's a bit deep by this time, and hellish cold, not to mention all the debris bobbing about in it.' Ben gave a reminiscent shiver and took a mouthful of the mug of soup Verity gave him.