Windy Night, Rainy Morrow

by Ivy Ferrari

  Tina watched a couple of Chequered Blues daintily pecking. ‘Did Bruno like them?’

  ‘Aye, he did: He named yon mealie—called her “Moonlight”. She’d just done her first two hundred miles.’

  Tina said hurriedly: ‘Matt, please tell me something. Do you think Bruno would treat Helen Copeland the way everyone suggests?’

  He shook his head, seemed distressed. ‘I don’t. But I didn’t know him that well. Tina. You might say we both kept something of ourselves back.’

  ‘I see.’ She felt suddenly blank and hopeless. ‘I suppose I’d better go.’

  ‘Like me to see you across the moor?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not dark. And you’ve the pigeons to see to. But I’d like to come again.’ After all, she thought, what could she have hoped to accomplish on a first meeting?

  ‘I hope you do, though I doubt if it’s wise.’ His honest blue eyes met hers wistfully.

  She smiled a good-bye and ran down the long slope of the moor, deeply shadowed bow in every dimple and fold of the land. What a queer primitive household it was, she thought, and could well imagine the august Adam Copeland disapproving. Yet she felt drawn to return.

  Over the next rise a mongrel dog raced barking towards her, then rolled on his back, all four paws in the air.

  ‘Hallo Hadrian.’ As she stopped to pat him, the twins burst into view. They pulled up short at sight of her. She noticed they were not identical. Bobby was the taller of the two.

  ‘I’ve just been to your house,’ she told them,

  ‘We know who you are.’ Rosie scraped her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘You’re staying with Cushie Butterfield. Did we wake you up singing?’

  ‘You didn’t call that noise singing!’

  They giggled. Hadrian ran round them in circles, giving short barks of ecstasy.

  ‘Did you go to school today?’ Tina asked.

  ‘No. We were in our tree house in the woods.’

  ‘You mean Mr. Copeland’s woods?

  ‘Aye—why not?’ Bobby seemed surprised.

  ‘Doesn’t he object?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. Or else he turns a blind eye,’ Rosie explained carelessly.

  ‘What do you do in your tree house?’

  ‘We play real houses.’ Rosie’s eyes shone, ‘We’ve got cups and pots up there.’

  Billy was scornful. ‘She’s aye wanting to play houses. But that’s not all we do. We spy on people. It’s great.’

  ‘But you can’t surely keep missing school like that?’

  ‘Now and again we do, then the Inspector comes to the house. Matt gets mad then and tells us off. Then Mr. Copeland comes and shouts at Matt.’

  ‘Charming!’ said Tina.

  They giggled again. ‘He threatens to put us out of the house. But he won’t. He’s gey sorry for us really.’

  ‘Aye. He got us a council house once, so we could have a proper bathroom.’ Bobby said importantly.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Council put us out. People complained because we fought all the other bairns and Hadrian fought all the dogs. That was when we went to live at Quarry Farm.’

  ‘Wasn’t Matt angry?’

  ‘Not him!’ Rosie stared. ‘It meant he could start his pigeons in the old loft.’

  ‘What did Mr. Copeland say?’

  ‘He was fair mad. He said trying to help us was like casting pearls before swine.’

  Tina’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Now he’s to put us in a bathroom, when the grant comes through. But Matt’s mad because it makes us more in Mr. Copeland’s debt.’

  ‘I see.’ Tina felt that the twins’ revelations could now well be cut short. She had quite enough to think about for one night. ‘I’ll be coming back to see you.’ she went on. ‘I might even bring you some sweets if you promise not to miss school.’

  ‘We’d rather miss school.’ Bobby explained kindly.

  ‘Couldn’t we have the sweets anyway?’ Rosie appealed.

  Tina studied her a little more intently. Though like Bobby, her fair skin was tanned by the moorland wind, there was a peakiness beneath it. Her cheekbones seemed too prominent and shadows lurked below her pretty blue eyes. Perhaps she was just growing too fast, Tina thought, but wondered a little uneasily if Francey took proper care of her. Knowing Francey she felt doubtful.

  Next minute, as if to prove her fears ungrounded, Rosie turned a very showy cartwheel on the grass, and bounded away down the hill, Bobby and Hadrian at her heels. Tina smiled, relieved that her fears were surely unjustified.

  Her thoughts reverted to Adam Copeland. She felt mystified. The more she learned of him the more of an enigma he was. At first meeting she was impressed, attracted, almost overwhelmed.

  On learning his identity, his opinion of Bruno and thus obliquely of herself, she had been prepared to resent, almost to hate him. Now he had been presented as a friend of the poor and helpless, now she had learned he was determined to protect, to advise, and if necessary to threaten the Finches for their own good, she was bewildered again. Such actions showed a generous, forgiving nature, at absolute variance with his behaviour over Bruno.

  She tried to harden her heart. The Finches were not her concern—Bruno’s memory was. She must not allow herself to be sidetracked into unwilling admiration.

  The following evening Tina borrowed Carrie’s car and set out to find Coventina’s well.

  ‘Or what remains of it,’ Carrie had warned her. There’s nothing to see but a few stones round a swamp now. You’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘I’d still like to go.’

  ‘I know,’ Carrie nodded. ‘It’s not what you see, it’s what you picture in your own mind.’ Carrie had already shown her, earlier that day, the stone monument from the well in Chester’s Museum, with its carved figure of the little goddess, holding in her hand a water-lily leaf, like many Roman monuments found along the Wall, it had had to be removed to safe keeping because of possible defacement and vandalism through the years.

  Tina drove eastwards until she saw the roadside sign pointing to Carrowbrough fort. Leaving the car at the lay-by, she took the path across a. hilly pasture. Beyond the gap of the Tyne valley the hills of South Northumberland tumbled to the skyline, a waste of lavender and grey distances under the threatening sky. She paused a while at the fort excavations and the site of the Temple of Mithras, then paced her way to the site of the well, only to find the spring rains had turned the lower ground to bog.

  Ripping off her shoes, she risked the ruin of her tights and floundered across to a ring of ruined stones. And there it was, desolation indeed, a lonely spring in a smother of weeds and mud, once a noble fountain held sacred by Roman soldiers to her long-dead namesake.

  Her emotions were mixed. It was all so strange, so unlike what she had imagined. Did any local people care, she wondered, or ever turn aside from their shepherding and farming to muse on that sad little water-nymph and her shrine? Almost furtively she dug a sixpence from her pocket and threw it in the pool, where it sank instantly from sight.

  ‘Very touching!’ a voice said just behind her.

  She turned abruptly, almost losing her footing in the mud. Adam Copeland stood just behind her, his hands dug into the pockets of an old donkey-jacket. His leisurely gaze went over her.

  ‘Paying homage, are you?’ he asked. ‘I saw you cross the field and guessed where you’d be. At the moment, though, you look most unlike a water-goddess, except perhaps for your feet.’ His voice rose to a masterful rasp. ‘Was it really worth getting your feet soaked? This is northern spring, you know, not summertime in Italy. You’ll probably get a stinking cold.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She faced him defiantly. ‘I’ve always wanted to see Coventina’s well.’

  ‘And now you’ve seen it, I suggest you get back to your car as quickly as you can.’

  ‘I was just going anyway.’ Under his withering gaze she climbed the wall and sloshed through the swamp to high
er ground, pulled her shoes on to her soaking feet. The damp penetrated uncomfortably. To her annoyance she sneezed.

  ‘See what I mean?’ he said.

  As they climbed the path he glanced at her: ‘You had no difficulty finding the well? You learned it all from your plaster model, I suppose. Carrie told me about that.’

  Tina was silent, resentful. She had to hurry to keep up with his long strides, but he either failed to notice or ignored the fact.

  ‘A plaster model.’ he repeated. ‘It’s almost incredible. Why, you’ve got to live a lifetime on the Wall to really know it. But you wouldn’t understand that.’

  ‘I’m a Roman!’ she flashed.

  ‘Half a Roman, I believe.’ he corrected. ‘And when the Roman cohorts stationed on the Wall took Northumbrian girls as their slave-wives, their daughters may have looked much as you do. Maybe they even had eyes like Coventina’s forget-me-nots too.’ His glance was inscrutable, but his voice had sunk to a grudging softness.

  ‘There weren’t any forget-me-nots.’ she complained.

  ‘In early April? Hardly. I promise you there will be—in June.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ They had reached the road again. Tina’s gaze took in the bleak ridge of the crags, gloomy under trailing cloud. ‘I can’t believe flowers ever grow here.’

  ‘See that gold at the roadside? Coltsfoot. And there are daffodils in the cottage gardens. Spring comes late on the Wall. When it does, I promise you you’ll be enchanted.’

  Tina shivered. They had reached Carrie’s car and she saw the Land-Rover parked behind it. ‘How is your sister today?’ she asked.

  ‘About the same.’ His brow darkened. There will be little improvement for quite a while yet.’

  ‘And you still refuse to allow me to visit her?’

  His face grew dangerously taut. ‘I still refuse.’

  ‘And you expect me to accept that?’

  ‘I not only expect it, I demand it. I expect you to keep my rules in my house.’

  ‘And a host? Has he no rules?’ Tina was completely roused now.

  ‘Not this one, my dear. I’m a law unto myself. But just in case you’re still embarrassed by accepting my hospitality, I have a suggestion to make.’

  ‘Yes?’ He was lighting a cigarette with smooth deliberate movements.

  ‘I believe you are an expert typist.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And I am without one since Helen’s illness. Would it put you out at all to desert the dig for two hours every morning, while you give me a hand? Starting on Monday?’

  ‘I suppose I’m expected to say yes?’

  He gave her an ironic smile. ‘I not only expect it, I’ve anticipated it. There’s a three-day backlog of work piled up ... And don’t bat your eyelashes at me, my dear. You’re quite free to refuse.’

  ‘You know very well I can’t.’ Her heart was racing. She wondered what it would be like to work with this man, in the close privacy of his office. Impossible to imagine, yet surely overwhelming.

  ‘I’ll give it a try.’ she said coolly.

  ‘Thanks.’ His tone held little gratitude. ‘And now I suggest you get back home and change those stockings—or tights or whatever they are.’ He waited while she unlocked the car. ‘How do you get on with Carrie, by the way?’

  ‘I like her very much.’ Greatly daring, Tina stressed the ‘her’. ‘I think she’s a very genuine person.’

  ‘Agreed. Though inclined to be a dreamer. Are you a dreamer, Tina Rutherford?’

  She got into the car, faced him boldly. ‘No, I’m not. I like the truth.’

  ‘Be it bad or good?’

  ‘Be it bad or good.’ she repeated.

  He stood eyeing her, his mouth set, his eyes measuring. ‘Yes, I think you do. Haven’t you discovered yet how the truth can hurt?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You will, Coventina. You will. Seekers after truth tread a hard road.’

  She got into the car and pulled the door to. I’m going now, Mr. Copeland. Thanks for the lift.’

  He lifted his hand in a relaxed salute, but did not turn away. And because his presence flustered her she muffed her gears. His laughter was soft but audible. She drove back to Hadrian’s Edge, her face burning.

  A day or two passed. Rather to her surprise Tina found she had slipped easily into the life of Hadrian’s Edge. It was a house of order and peace, though continually haunted by the sound of the wind, which made the heavy curtains and log fires seem an added comfort. She could sense the presence of former generations of Copelands, who had contributed their heavy antique furniture, and who must have often gazed as she did from the deeply-alcoved windows towards the hills, their far troubles and longings now lost on that eternal wind.

  In Carrie’s den she always found a friendly welcome. Carrie had the art of friendship without involvement. There among the Air Force souvenirs Tina could make a confidence without regretting it, or sit in silence without giving offence.

  She found an equal if different welcome in the kitchen, which Isa had made very much her own domain. Two rocking chairs nodded at the hearth, a text or two decorated the high white walls, and under the window stood a small harmonium, flanking with incongruous effect a modern sink unit. Isa explained that she played the organ in chapel and must keep in practice.

  ‘Though I can’t pull out all the stops I’d like.’ she sighed to Tina. ‘For Mr. Copeland, now, he aye comes in and reminds me I’m not playing at the Odeon in Newcastle. “In quietness and confidence shall be your strength, Isa,” he says. For he’s a great man for coming up with a text himself. But then he reads the lesson in church once a month, and I think he saves them up to fair bamboozle me.’

  She often invited Tina to sit by the stove with the ginger cat Samson on her lap, while she served up strong tea in the kitchen cups. Though she was a natural gossip, her country courtesy made her respect Tina’s affairs, but she was only too ready to talk of her own.

  ‘I’ve never married.’ she explained. ‘For the lad I fancied, he fancied another lass. And the lad who fancied me, I couldn’t take to him, though his mother offered me a whole kist o’ the best linen, all drawn-threadwork it was.’

  ‘Don’t you mind, Isa—about not being married, I mean?’ Tina asked.

  ‘No, hinney, I’m well content. For if I’d got wed, I could have had worse troubles—a man who drank, or got in a bad fettle if my pastry wasn’t just right.’ She paused. ‘I’ll say this for Mr. Copeland.’ she went on impressively, ‘he’s a reasonable man aboot pastry!’

  Tina hid a smile. Isa admired her dress. ‘By, I can see that cost something ... But then I’m fair lucky about clothes mysel’. For I was cook once to Mrs. Greenwood—they were big shipping people on the Tyne. She got all her clothes from Paris. Aye, and she passed so many of them on to me, for we were the same size, that I haven’t had to buy a new dress for years. Mrs. Butterfield now, she says they’re old-fashioned, for Mrs. Greenwood was older nor me. But, says I, they’re the best quality and worth a mint o’ money. I’m like to throw them away when the Hexham shops are asking ten guineas for a bit of a wool dress—so-called wool, for no Otterburn sheep ever went near it!’

  Isa paused dramatically. ‘Some of them are on the dressy side, I’ll warrant—I’m talking o’ Mrs. Greenwood’s dresses. There’s a mite o’ beads and fancy bits on some o’ them for a woman like mysel’ who’s strict chapel ... Aye, but ma conscience is clear, for when I’m off to play the organ Sundays I wear my plain black coat ower the top o’ them, so I don’t get above mysel’.’

  Carrie grinned when Tina relayed the conversation. Those dresses have to be seen to be believed. Pure twenties and thirties, most of them. She wears them sometimes in the afternoons—always reminds me of a character from Doctor Finlay’s Casebook. But who cares, as long as she’s happy?’

  Then there were the evening meals in the dining-room, when Adam Copeland appeared. Just as Carrie’s company was reassuring and Isa�
��s amusing, Adam’s was an uneasy challenge. Tina could not deny that his presence rounded off the day, gave point to the household’s domestic activities. His ease as host, his racy tales of the countryside, his bland disregard of her reserved silence, both fascinated her and increased her resentment.

  Sometimes he sat in the living-room afterwards. Carrie had a disconcerting habit of disappearing suddenly on ploys of her own, and then Tina found his presence, even if he were quietly reading, so overpowering that she too would escape to Carrie’s den, a quiet sanctuary except for the wheezing of the harmonium from the kitchen.

  Yet even then she was still aware of the man across the hall, so self-possessed, so arrogantly king of his castle. She told herself firmly that though the rest of the household revolved round him she must resist being drawn into that dangerous whirlpool. She must remember he was her enemy ...

  On Monday morning Tina presented herself at the estate office, deliberately choosing the hour of nine-fifteen.

  Adam Copeland was talking on the telephone, significantly glanced at his wrist-watch and a moment later hung up.

  ‘You’re late! Please try to be here at nine tomorrow. I begin at eight-thirty.’ His tone was glacial.

  ‘I thought this was a friendly arrangement,’ Tina said with spirit.

  ‘It’ll be a darned unfriendly one if you keep me waiting about, my lass ... Now, a quick guide to the office. These are the letter files, accounts the other side. Estate wages and maintenance in that metal cabinet. That’s a map of the estate on the wall, with the names of all the farms. The sooner you memorise them the easier your work will be. This side door here behind the curtain gives on to the drive. Anyone coming on business rings the bell there. Right? Now, better get down to some of these letters. I read fast, but I expect you to be absolutely accurate.’

  ‘I begin to see why you had to get your sister to do the job,’ Tina said. ‘I suppose no other girl would stay.’

  ‘And you?’