A Leap of Faith

by Trisha Ashley

  Miranda looked from the phone to me, and opened and closed her mouth silently like a starving chick. ‘D-do you mean the Eagle and Stone?’

  ‘Whatever. And bring Spike with you this afternoon, the walk will do him good.’

  She brightened, but still looked uncertainly at the phone. ‘Perhaps I ought just – I mean, he must have b-been so surprised when you answered, and b-be wondering . . .’

  ‘Let him marinate for a bit.’

  ‘I expect he’d like to know how the b-biscuit recipes are d-doing b-because the publisher wants the manuscript by the end of the month. Everything’s written d-down, b-but it wants typing out, and I’m so slow at it. Violet D-Duke usually d-does it for me, b-but she and her sisters have b-been away visiting relatives in Australia.’

  I sat up a bit straighter: ‘Violet Duke?’

  ‘Yes, the D-Dukes are your nearest neighbours, and there are three of them: Violet, Pansy and Lavender.’

  ‘Poor Pansy. Dafydd Ace mentioned nosy neighbours once, but if Violet can type she’s the ideal neighbour.’

  ‘She was a secretary until she retired, and she d-did a computer course recently so she’s very up to d-date. They’re all about seventy, b-but still working. Pansy is the local d-decorator – she carries everything around with her on her b-bike and trailer. Lavender is a gardener – light gardening only – b-but she paints watercolours of flowers in the afternoons at the Castle Craft Centre.’

  They all sounded enterprising, but I was more interested in Violet’s accomplishments. ‘Do you think Violet would type my work up for me from cassette tapes and hand-written notes? I hate doing it myself and it takes for ever.’

  ‘Of course, and she’s terribly efficient. She’ll d-do it on her computer and print it out.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ I sighed. ‘I can see that coming here was a brilliant move. In a couple of weeks not only will I have the house straight and my regular writing routine established, I will have my very own typist.’

  And maybe I will be writing Spiral Bound: Last-Shot Pregnancy too, I thought.

  That afternoon I successfully unloaded Fantasy Flowers on to Miranda. She soon got the hang of it, and I left her perusing the order books and unpacking foliage, while I went to browbeat the plasterer into returning to fill in the various cracks and channels left by the electrician, so that I could slap on a coat of nice clean white paint.

  I didn’t expect to live in a plain white house for ever, but I would repaint as the inspiration took me.

  By the end of the afternoon the house looked better, and I joined Miranda in the kitchen where she was sitting with Spike over a cup of coffee.

  ‘How are you doing with the flowers?’

  ‘Oh, fine. It couldn’t b-be easier, really, could it? The b-booklets spell out the messages, and the flowers are all labelled – everything’s there ready. And I know how to put together a Victorian-style posy. It’s fun! How can Mu b-bear to give it up?’

  ‘You know Mu – low boredom threshold. And she’s been commissioned to do a whole series of Corduroy Cat picture books, because the first was such a success.’

  ‘I should think children love them. Isn’t it odd that none of us has children? I was upset when I lost that one just after we were married, and for a couple of years when no more came along – b-but really, I d-don’t mind at all now. It wasn’t meant to b-be.’

  ‘I never even gave a thought to having children until recently, when someone pointed out that I was leaving it very late. It’s gained an insidious fascination since then, so who knows, I might just do it for my Duke of Edinburgh’s Challenge Forty Award.’

  Miranda looked unflatteringly aghast. ‘You aren’t serious, are you? What you need is a d-dog like Spike, not a b-baby! Unless – I mean, there isn’t anyone special, is there?’

  ‘No, there’s no one at all, but that doesn’t matter, does it? I could even go to a clinic and pick a sperm, though actually if I did decide to do it, I’d like to check out the donor first.’

  Mu certainly had, but I didn’t tell Miranda about the impending teenager-and-turkey-baster situation, because Mu would, if she wanted her to know.

  ‘. . . sea-washed pebbles,’ Miranda was saying.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Under the silt in the courtyard – there are those lovely b-big smooth pebbles, and with some tubs of flowers and the outside paintwork d-done . . . and then a vista d-down the garden . . .’

  ‘It’s a rumble in the jungle at the moment, but I can picture it. Still, I need to sort out the inside of the house first so I can settle down to write and earn some money. And at least all that grey woodchip is off – it was like being surrounded by cold cellulite,’ I said with a shudder. ‘I’m going to buy gallons more white paint, a basic tool kit and stuff tomorrow. It’s all going to cost me a fortune.’

  ‘This table b-belonged to the Aces, d-didn’t it? D-didn’t Gil want it?’

  ‘Apparently not, and it’s pretty loathsome . . . though it’s sort of begun to grow on me.’

  ‘We could go to a car b-boot sale,’ she suggested. ‘Llyn at the shop goes to one every Sunday and she gets great b-bargains.’

  ‘Does she? Do you think it might be fun?’

  ‘Well, I might find some more cookery b-books, and I’ve always wanted to collect old kitchenware, only Chris said it was just a d-dust magnet.’

  ‘Forget what he thinks and get a life.’

  I stretched and yawned. ‘We’d better get cleaned up and go to the pub before I fall asleep – and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. My furniture from Aunt Pops is arriving.’

  Miranda’s face lit up. ‘I’d forgotten Poppy and Jaynie! Remember when they arrived outside our d-digs at midnight on a b-big noisy motorbike, and serenaded you from the lawn with a mandolin and a paper and comb?’

  ‘Was that the time they forgot to bring any clothes, and the suitcase was full of salami, olives and Portuguese wine for me? They still come over on the Harley, you know, to stock up with Marmite and crisps, but I think they like the excuse for a long run and some English beer.’

  When I got back from the pub I lay awake on my perfectly comfortable camp bed for hours despite being exhausted, thinking about things.

  Just why is everyone trying to put me off having a baby? I mused. I’m very fit, everything still works (as far as I know) and I fail to see why a child should be such a tie. After all, I was very happy with Pops and Jaynie when my parents went off to do their own thing, and I have lots of people I could park mine with (park and ride) if I wanted to.

  Or I could take it with me on my travels, which would probably be very good for it.

  There’s the problem of finding a suitable sperm donor before August and the big Four-O, of course, and since my preference runs to dark-haired men I’d probably feel more drawn to a dark-haired child. I need someone who won’t try to interfere afterwards, too.

  It’s a pity Simon is blond, because it would have been very convenient – though on second thoughts if Mu and I both got pregnant and had matching babies it would be a bit hard to explain.

  It could be quite tricky finding a sperm donor . . . all the decent men I know are married, and you can’t simply request to borrow someone’s husband, or even just their sperm.

  Unless it was my friend Tom Mac, perhaps (who writes all those really erotic fantasy books), because he’s so fertile his wife would probably be glad if I removed some. But however dark and attractive he is, in a Charles Stuart sort of way, he’s shorter than me and that is somehow a bar. Whose genes would win out?

  I’ll put him on the reserve list.

  Maybe before Big F Day in August I’ll find someone so attractive I’ll do it the traditional way, though I’ve never been one for sudden impulses. And nowadays you have to think about Aids and stuff, which is so unromantic: but then, so is the clap and herpes . . .

  I fell asleep trying to formulate a polite phrase of enquiry into a potential donor’s medical status. It was tricky.

&n
bsp; Chapter 8

  Egged On

  I had intended taking a week or two off writing in order to sort out the cottage, but old habits die hard, and I found myself leaping out of bed at five ready to work next morning, despite the exhausting day before.

  By fiddling with the mechanics of the dentist’s chair I achieved a reclining position of maximum comfort from which to dictate the next episode of Dark Destinies: Deathless Delights, which seemed to be taking off in unexpected directions.

  At seven I stopped for breakfast, which is when I discovered that Miranda had pushed a note through my letter box at some time during the night.

  Dear Sappho,

  I’m putting this through your door because I can’t live with my conscience any more, especially when you’ve been so good to me. I just have to tell you. I’m sure Mu knows already, although she’s never said anything.

  It’s this: remember the day Dave sprung a surprise engagement party, and you turned and left him flat the second he tried to present you with the ring? I felt sort of sorry for him, and you didn’t come back, and he – well, I suppose you knew I always had a bit of a crush on him. I’m not attempting to excuse myself. What I’m trying to say is that I had a bit too much to drink and ended up in bed with him that night.

  The baby I lost just after I married Chris was probably Dave’s. There, I’ve never said anything about it to anyone before (especially Chris) and the guilt has been enormous. I’m such a worm. I’m sorry, Sappho, and I’ll understand if you never want to see me again.

  Miranda

  Honestly, bottling that up all this time – and quite pointlessly, too. Dave’s main defects were his inability to keep his trousers on or his mouth shut about his conquests. I scribbled a postcard back:

  7 a.m. I already knew most of that, you dimwit, though it does explain why you married a little twerp like Chris. See you later for posy packing.

  Love, Sappho

  When I walked down and popped it through her letter box I could hear Spike’s snores reverberating.

  At least, I hoped it was Spike.

  The village slept under a crystalline coating of dewdrops. Wrapping my hair around my neck twice for warmth, I carried on past The Hacienda and up on to the moors, following the track past the cromlech – a sort of a giant stone table, minus, I’m told, the burial that once gave the village its name – and back down again into the lane just beyond my house.

  There was probably still time to get another couple of hours of Vengeane in before there was any possibility of the furniture from Portugal arriving.

  The idea of giant stones and tombs had rather got me going again . . .

  ‘Come,’ said Dragonslayer, ‘I have discovered the Place of Stones that I thought was but a legend, and you must lend your strength to mine before the Ancestors will speak to me.’

  I was already on Planet Vengeane as I turned into my gate, which is why the voice suddenly addressing me from behind the hedge nearly sent me into orbit, but it was an exceptionally high, carrying voice.

  ‘Hello, there!’ A head covered in lavender-blue pin curls popped up on a neck like a stiff twist of pink rope.

  I noticed for the first time that the hedge now sported a radical haircut extending to a point halfway between us: the lopsided Mohican look.

  ‘You must be our new neighbour? Wait, and I’ll come round!’ she announced, and a moment later a tall, thin, elderly lady clad in pinkish tweeds and large pearls strode through the gate, hand outstretched.

  ‘Sappho Jones? So pleased to meet you. How exciting to have a Real Author living next door! Pansy and Lavender will be so pleased. My sisters, you know. I’m Violet Duke.’

  ‘I thought you must be – Miranda Cotter told me about you,’ I said as my hand was enfolded in a wiry clasp. ‘I’ll feel a little less isolated now I know I have neighbours.’

  ‘We’ve been away, you know, visiting our youngest sister, Lily, in Australia. Quite an adventure.’

  Good grief – if they arrived back only last night and already knew my name and that I was a writer, the local grapevine must be super-efficient.

  It was. ‘Dear Gilbert – have you met Gilbert Ace? – kept us up to date with what has been happening in Bedd during our absence. And last night he collected us from the airport and drove us home. Such a sweet boy – his mother was one of my oldest friends. And poor Dorinda! If only I’d been home at the time, I might have been able to prevent her disappearance in some way.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘I’m not precisely sure, dear, but I got to know Dorinda very well while we were taking evening classes in computer studies together, and she’s a very forceful woman. I could at least have assured the police that she would never have done anything so weak as to lose her memory and wander off.’

  ‘Then what do you think did happen to her? An accident?’

  ‘More than likely, for she was convinced that there was another bone cave in the Gower cliffs still to be found, one even more spectacular than that of the Red Lady of Paviland. You do know about the Red Lady, Miss Jones?’

  ‘Yes, and didn’t the bones turn out to be a man’s?’

  ‘That’s right – so amusing! And Dorinda was systematically searching for another cave, but she had a secretive nature – a dislike of sharing the limelight, I’d call it – so she wouldn’t even confide in poor Gil about the areas she was covering. I told her it could be dangerous, so if she did have an accident it is quite her own fault that no one knew where she was.’

  She paused and looked at me triumphantly – and she wasn’t even out of breath.

  ‘But Miranda says her car was never found,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Well, I could be quite wrong,’ Violet said cheerfully. ‘It could be Foul Play.’

  ‘You mean Gilbert—’

  ‘Oh, not Gilbert! I didn’t mean Gilbert. Absolutely out of the question! He’s such a sweet-natured boy and he absolutely adored Dorinda. And it wasn’t that nice potter, Nye Thomas, from the craft centre either,’ she added to my surprise. ‘Lavender knows him quite well, and she said he couldn’t possibly. He may have argued with Dorinda over his little chalet being an eyesore, it’s true, but nothing more. Besides, he looks so like an angel he couldn’t possibly be bad.’

  ‘I don’t think all murderers are ugly men,’ I suggested. And Lavender was quite wrong about the potter, if that was him I tried to drown in mud, because he looked a far remove from angelic.

  ‘Perhaps not, but in this case I trust Lavender’s judgement. No, if it was Foul Play one of those Strange Men must have come across Dorinda when she was alone on the cliffs.’ She looked at me triumphantly. ‘They’re always ready to take their chance, you know.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘One flashed at me when I was collecting driftwood only last autumn. He was wearing a wool overcoat, which must have been terribly itchy – and serve him right. He said: “Cop a load of this!”’

  I choked slightly. ‘How awful! What did you do?’

  ‘I just said: “Not today, thank you, young man,” and walked on.’

  ‘That must have depressed his pretensions.’

  ‘I expect the cold wind already had,’ she remarked drily, and then added with a sudden change of subject: ‘Like gardening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ she repeated.

  ‘Not at all, though I like sitting in one with a drink on a nice day.’

  ‘Oh?’ She regarded me curiously, for obviously I was some strange breed she hadn’t previously come across. ‘Well, you’re a writer, aren’t you – don’t suppose they go in for it much. My sister Lavender does most of ours, but we all give a hand and – oh, here are Lavender and Pansy now.’

  Lavender was squat and puffy-necked like an amiable toad, while Pansy, the painter and decorator, was a stocky competent-looking woman with short white hair and matching overalls. She gave me a firm handshake, barked that she was pleased to meet me, but must ge
t off to a job, and with no more ado wobbled off on a heavily loaded pushbike and trailer, holding a stepladder under one arm.

  ‘Bye-ee!’ chorused her sisters, staring fondly after her and waving until she vanished towards the village. I hoped she had good brakes, because it can’t be easy cornering with a ladder under one arm.

  ‘I’ve got a goitre,’ confided Lavender, adjusting a wet hen kind of hat as though she might find an egg under it.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, for I’d been trying not to let my eyes rest on this fairly spectacular (and surely unnecessary?) affliction. ‘So you have.’

  ‘It’s a gift from God,’ she explained, while behind her back Violet grimaced and made unkind finger-to-temple motions.

  ‘He moves in mysterious ways,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like me to cut your side of the hedge? I do gardening, you know, but not heavy digging. I’ll give you my little information sheet – and Pansy’s, too, though I expect you’ve already done most of your painting and decorating. And Violet—’

  ‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ I turned to Violet: ‘You do secretarial work, don’t you?’

  ‘Typing, computers, anything!’

  ‘It’s my books – I still dictate most of them on to tape, but I write some parts in longhand as well, so it’s all rather scrappy. I’d love someone who could type them up for me, so I could make alterations easily.’

  ‘I could put them on to the computer,’ she said efficiently. ‘Then print them out. It’s so easy to change things on the computer. The old days of three carbons and lashings of Tippex are long gone.’

  ‘I see,’ I said appreciatively and, leaving Lavender clipping my side of the hedge in a dainty yet efficient manner, took Violet inside to arrange terms.

  Treasure trove: graphite transmuted into gold.

  Later, after Violet had left carrying the first instalments of Dark Destinies: Deathless Delights, and the Pickford’s van had dropped off my Portuguese furnishings, so that the house now looked less as if I was merely camping out in it, I went down to investigate the village shop.