The Healing Stream

by Connie Monk

  ‘It’s perfect – right for the house and right for you, Giles.’

  He raised his eyebrows, mocking laughter in his eyes. ‘Perfect? But there’s not a highly polished brass in sight nor even chintz curtains at the windows.’

  ‘But this is Spain, silly. Brasses and chintz are for the thatched cottages of England.’

  ‘And you think you could be happy here amongst the almond groves?’

  ‘I could be happy in the poorest hovel, so long as we’re together like we were in Shropshire.’

  He drew her close, holding her against him. Again he did it rather than let her guess his thoughts, but this time he felt ashamed and humbled. He must treat her fairly; he must never destroy that trust.

  An hour later, the storm having passed round them and the rain stopped, with her bicycle propped on the back seat of his open-top car and she sitting by his side, he drove down the steep and rutted path to the road.

  ‘You never told me that you grew almonds. Do they look after themselves most of the time? You’re usually in England, aren’t you?’

  ‘Tell you the truth I think I’m something of a butterfly – or a common moth, maybe – I flit from place to place as the spirit moves me. I fear you’ll find me a most unsatisfactory sort of husband. Will you mind upping sticks at a moment’s notice? That’s the way I’ve always lived.’

  Ignoring his question, she returned to the almonds. ‘I suppose you’re back here now because the nuts are being harvested. Then what do you do with them?’

  ‘God knows. Personally, I do nothing with them. A neighbouring family, Marcos Rodriguez and his sons, have most of the land round here. There’s just a field opposite owned by a bit of a crank and the five acres down the hill belonging to my place. Rodriguez approached me with a view to taking the land off my hands, but I refused. I like to look down on it and know it’s mine. But I told him I had no use for the trees – he could do what he liked with them. Can you imagine me scratching around picking up wretched nuts? Oh, no. So Marcos adds my meagre offering to his own crop.’

  ‘But Giles, it would be great to look after the trees. It would make one feel as though one belonged, don’t you know.’

  Glancing sideways at her he thought, as he had so often, what a delightful creature she was. ‘You’ll shortly be Señora Giles Lampton; you’ll need no trees to make you belong.’

  ‘Just a typewriter and a set of headphones,’ she said with a laugh, the cares and worries of her weeks of searching swept clean from her mind – just as was all thought of the almond trees.

  Once the excitement died down Julian poured them all a glass of local wine to drink a toast to the happy couple.

  ‘All I can offer, I fear,’ he said. ‘This is just a place to sleep in. Sheer chance that we even have this. But the sentiment is the same. We raise a glass to wish you a long and happy marriage, and by way of congratulating you, Giles, my friend, for your choice of a wife.’

  To Tessa it was like living a dream. Then her thoughts jumped to Naomi. What would she be doing, alone there at Chagleigh? Ashamed, she realized that she hadn’t telephoned since they’d been living by the harbour.

  ‘I must ring Auntie,’ she said, putting the chunky wine glass belonging to the house on the table. ‘I haven’t spoken to her for ages and I promised I would keep her in the picture.’

  ‘I supposed you must have found a telephone somewhere when you’d been cycling,’ Julian said. ‘However, I call her most evenings.’

  ‘Did she tell you I hadn’t spoken to her? I feel awful, letting the days go like that.’

  ‘I tell her that you are busy helping Deirdre to bed. She always understands. She probably has too much on her own mind to even notice; too much for any of us to be much help to her, I fear. If you ring her with your news, tell her I shall phone shortly. Today she had a helper starting, a woman who served in the Women’s Land Army during the war. She can’t go on as she is, and she refuses to engage a man to take on your uncle’s work.’

  ‘You tell her about Giles and me, Mr Masters. Say that I’ll speak to her tomorrow when we have a date fixed. I know she’d love to be here for the wedding, but it’s just not possible.’ Tessa remembered how resentful she’d felt towards Richard when his mother was dying. Her understanding had come a long way in a year and a half.

  So Julian went off to use the coin-operated telephone in the porch of Pedro’s, a local café frequented by the fisherfolk. No one referred to what he’d said about speaking to her most evenings; uppermost in Deirdre’s mind was the excitement of a wedding, while in Tessa’s imagination were the years ahead of her when they would make that lovely house on the hill their home.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ Giles said. ‘Are we supposed to obey that inelegant notice?’ He pointed to a card stuck to the wall above the mantelpiece on which was written in bold letters, PROHIBIDO FUMAR.

  ‘Afraid so,’ Deirdre chuckled. ‘Señora whatever-her-name-is was really insistent, and she comes in every morning and Daddy says she warned him that she has a nose like a bloodhound.’

  ‘I’m off to look at the sea and have a cigarette.’ And that’s where he was when Julian retuned from talking to Naomi.

  The storm had blown away and the evening was still. In the lamplight he could see the fishing boats swaying gently in the harbour. Out with the dawn, home with the setting sun . . . did that make for a secure, peaceful, contented life? For him it wouldn’t. He needed the stimulation of a changing scene, new people to meet, new challenges. Christ, but he’d got a challenge now! Of course he loved Tessa. Physically she filled his every desire, just as he’d known she would from the day he’d first set eyes on her. Sex – surely that had to be the most important thing in any marriage. Imagine being tied to a woman of intellect, a woman with interests in world affairs, even all that and beauty, too – it would ultimately count for nothing if she hadn’t a sexual appetite akin to his own. But marriage . . . unchanging routine . . . faithful to one woman – could he make himself adjust to that way of living?

  So deep in thought was he that he didn’t notice Julian approaching, realizing he was there only when the flame from a cigarette lighter made him turn his head.

  ‘Didn’t hear you,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking.’ Then, hearing his worried tone, he flourished the hand which held the cigarette. ‘And obeying instructions.’

  Julian laughed. ‘And you haven’t even met the lady. I wouldn’t want to cross her. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you contact Tessa in all these weeks?’

  Just for a moment Giles hesitated, tempted to give a truthful answer. But what would be the point? ‘You know me, Julian – I never tie myself to dates. And to be honest, after our being together for a fortnight earlier in the summer, we couldn’t go back to living as we had before. We both knew Richard Pilbeam wouldn’t see me as a suitable husband for her – and perhaps he would have been right – that’s why we decided to wait until she comes of age. She deserves someone her own age, not a man old enough to be her father and pretty soiled with living.’

  ‘What she deserves is a man who will be faithful to her and give her the love she needs and deserves. Whatever you’ve done in the past, that was before you knew her. She’s a very special girl and you’re a lucky man.’

  ‘You and Deirdre will stay for the wedding? I’ll get things sorted out in the morning. Meanwhile, I’d better be getting home. Here comes Tessa to say goodnight.’

  Julian left them, making the excuse that he was going to say goodnight to Deirdre.

  ‘Now that we’ve told them everything, come back home with me tonight. In no time we’ll be married; what’s the point in your living here and me there?’ He was standing behind her, holding her close. His hands cupped her breasts, breasts that had changed more than the rest of her body in these early weeks of pregnancy. There was urgency in his words as he spoke softly, his chin moving on her head, his thumbs working the magic he knew she couldn’t resist. ‘Come home with me. He can’t stop you. Thi
nk of the night we can share.’

  ‘More than anything it’s what I want. I’ve longed and longed for it. But I can’t come home with you now.’ Turning suddenly, she put her arms around him. ‘Loving together is the most beautiful, wonderful thing. But I can’t say to Mr Masters that we don’t want to wait, we want to sleep together tonight. It would be spoilt because we’d know they’d be thinking about us, imagining. It would make it horrid instead of – of something sort of sacred.’

  ‘My sweet Tessa. I really do love you.’ And in that moment it was the truth.

  That same evening at Chagleigh Farm the atmosphere was very different from that in the little house by the harbour. Naomi sat alone, her elbows on the kitchen table, a half-eaten plate of scrambled egg, cold and unappetizing, in front of her. She had carried the daily paper through and laid it on the dresser on top of yesterday’s, neither of them even unfolded. If her conscience would allow, she would tell the newsagent not to deliver them any more, but once she did that she knew she would be on a slippery slope to opting out of society. Society? To what society did she belong? She had even had to take her name from the flower rota at church, her one afternoon away from the farm.

  Richard, I’m making such a mess of it . . . such a bloody, bloody mess. Today it was afternoon before I took the things to the shop – and could I wonder that Bert Louch there told me he had been approached by Geoffrey Huntley’s manager? Of course they would be more reliable, they’re not a one-man band. What can I do? But I can’t, I won’t, have some other man doing your things. Oh, Richard, why did you leave me? I’m no use; I don’t know what to do. When Geoffrey called hassling me I sent him packing just like you had when he offered before. I can’t sell Chagleigh, I won’t. It’s what we made it. No, that’s not true. It’s what you made it. Richard, everywhere I look I see you. And if you’re watching me, what must you think of the mess I’m making? Just so tired . . . so tired . . . miss you so much . . . don’t know what to do . . . nothing matters without you . . . sitting here blubbing . . . where’s my backbone? I can’t give up. But suppose – I won’t do it, but just suppose – I agreed to Geoffrey Huntley’s offer, I’m so frightened. If I moved away, to the village perhaps, would I still hold you close? And if I am holding you close, if it’s true and not that I’m going barmy, what must you think of what I’m doing to our Chagleigh?

  Oh, look at me, won’t you, gone to bits like some silly kid . . .

  And that’s when her miserable thoughts were interrupted by the shrill telephone bell. She blew her nose then rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands before she took a deep breath and unhooked the receiver from the phone on the wall.

  ‘Wonderful news, my friend,’ Julian’s voice greeted her. ‘Tessa has found the missing bridegroom. He’s about seven miles inland from where we are staying on the coast.’ Then, when she didn’t answer, ‘Naomi, are you still there? My dear, you’re crying,’ as he heard a telltale snort.

  ‘Rubbish. It must be a bad line. Is everything all right with them? About the baby?’

  ‘Everything seems remarkably wonderful; you need have no fears. He’s going to town in the morning to make arrangements for the wedding. Tessa will ring you herself tomorrow to tell you what’s happening. She’s anxious about you, how you’re getting on. It must be a weight off your shoulders to have a one-time land girl with you.’

  ‘Julian’ – and he could tell by the sudden change in her tone that her defences had slipped – ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she croaked, her battle lost. ‘I look around and all I see are things that I haven’t done. Geoffrey Huntley was here this morning trying to persuade me to sell – he tried to persuade Richard about a year ago, but of course he wouldn’t. This was our life; now he’s gone and it just – just mocks me.’

  ‘Do you not think that Richard might want you to accept Huntley’s offer? He’d certainly not want you to wear yourself out trying to do his job and your own too. What about this one-time land girl? She must make a difference.’ Purposely he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, knowing that was the only way to help her find her control.

  ‘She’s very willing. But she knows nothing about animals. She spent the war growing vegetables in East Anglia.’

  ‘And she didn’t say when she applied?’

  Naomi started to laugh, although there was no humour in the sound. ‘I didn’t ask and she didn’t say. But she’s OK, she’ll learn, or rather she is keen to learn but I’m only learning as I go myself.’ This time there was no disguising her snort. ‘I’m behaving disgracefully. Richard would be so ashamed.’

  ‘I think not. I think he would be wretched to see the situation, but never ashamed. As soon as the wedding’s over Deirdre and I will come home. She may not be as useful as an able-bodied helper, but she has all the enthusiasm and she misses you.’

  ‘I love having her here and she is a huge help. But I have so little time for the dairy. She’ll be by herself a lot.’

  ‘Unless I engage someone to replace Tessa she’ll be by herself at home, too. And I don’t think she’d want to replace Tessa. Now she has her own transport of a sort, I’m sure she’d rather be working in the dairy. She needs to feel useful; we all do. To be honest I find retirement hard to take.’

  ‘Funny life, isn’t it? When things are going well we imagine it will stay that way forever.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time for change. Why don’t you give Huntley’s suggestion consideration?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Her answer was positive and immediate. ‘Please don’t talk about it.’

  ‘Very well, it’s forgotten. But when I get back to Marlhampton would you think I was intruding if we talked about your way forward? Because for you, for me, for everyone, the future has to be lived and we have to make of it the best we can.’

  A few minutes later, leaning against the sea wall, smoking and talking to Giles, no one could have guessed that Julian’s mind was miles away in a farmhouse kitchen in Devon. What was there about Naomi Pilbeam that made it so impossible to put her out of his mind? Was it because for the first time his days were empty? A wealthy man – and although he didn’t add his appearance to the equation, there was something very distinguished about him with his slim, upright build, his iron-grey hair and moustache, his rather courtly manner that was a natural part of his personality – who if he’d been looking for a wife would have had no trouble in finding one. But he wasn’t looking for a wife and what he gave to Naomi was undemanding friendship. Yet she was always there at the back of his mind. No one could see her as a beauty, with her thin face etched with lines, her hands hardened with work. She was painfully scrawny, yet there was an underlying strength about her. He hated to think she was there alone, alone and miserable.

  That was when Tessa came out of the house and he went indoors to say goodnight to Deirdre.

  At Chagleigh, Naomi scraped the remains of her scrambled egg into the scraps to be made into pigswill, rinsed her plate, banked up the fire and went to run a bath before bed, for there wasn’t time for such luxuries in the morning with a herd of cows to bring in for milking.

  Lying in the warm water she longed to be soothed, comforted; but all it did was make her more aware of her loneliness and aching misery. Talking to Julian she had purposely given the impression that it was because she felt she was failing Richard in her care of their farm. And of course that was part of it. Not to anyone could she share the anguish that filled her. Everywhere she looked she could imagine Richard there. She’d close her eyes and feel that if she put out her hand she would touch him; she seemed to hear his step in the yard just as she heard an echo of his voice. Jealously she guarded her memories, frightened that they would dim with time. But how could they when he held her heart just as he had ever since she’d been a schoolgirl? Now look at her, ageing ahead of her years, tired to death, and yet . . . and yet . . . With her eyes closed she soaped her hands and moved them sensually on her body, pressing them against her groin as if to conjure up the weight of him. Richa
rd, Richard, help me find you, want you . . . help me find you . . . As she arched and lowered her body the water swirled over her shoulders, her breathing quickened with excitement . . . make it be wonderful . . . always wonderful with you . . . stay with me . . . stay with me . . . now, yes now.

  As she opened her eyes the cold light of the bathroom showed her just what she was – a lonely woman in a bath of cooling water. Climbing out, she dried herself without looking in the steamed mirror, then scrubbed her teeth and went to her lonely bedroom. She seemed to hear her voice echoing from hundreds and thousand of nights as it whispered ‘Glorious’; just as she remembered the feeling of contentment and thankfulness. But not tonight. Perhaps she had satisfied the physical need in her, but she didn’t want to think about it. There had been nothing glorious about that final moment, only confirmation – if confirmation were even needed – of just how alone she was.

  Later, believing herself too tired to sleep, she lay staring out of the window into the dark night. Had she been awake some ten minutes later she would have realized that her day’s work wasn’t over; she would have been faced with yet something else beyond her ability.

  By morning when she went out to climb the slope of Lower Meadow to drive in the milking herd, she glanced to her left to Brook Field where the cattle grazed who were not in milk. Something was wrong. She knew it from the sound of a feeble lowing. Milking must wait. As she climbed the stile into the field, that all-too-familiar sense of failure flooded her. Why couldn’t she have realized last night that the poor creature was going to calf?? And even if she had realized it, what could she have done? At what point do you wake the vet in the middle of the night?