Windy Night, Rainy Morrow

by Ivy Ferrari

  After such a genial interlude he would say stiffly: ‘Sorry, this can’t possibly interest you.’

  ‘But it does!’ she wanted to cry, except that his reaction would surely be sceptical. He always seemed to forget her Northumbrian blood, or that she knew much of the county’s folklore through her father’s tales.

  It was at these times, when the barrier between them seemed misty and transparent, that her conscience smote her. For she was still planning her secret visit to Helen. Reports on the sick girl’s progress were good, and Adam visited his sister rather less than before.

  Tina waited patiently for the right opportunity. It came perhaps sooner than she deserved.

  Adam was to be away for the day consulting Sir Walter’s solicitor in Newcastle. Tina, however, was not expected to extend her working hours. A young man from Hexham who was learning the estate business was to take over for the afternoon.

  ‘Which suits me down to the ground,’ Carrie said with relief. ‘For I have done it in the past, and I must say it’s a strain to be in the third century one minute and yelling down the phone about drains and County Councils the next.’

  Tina laughed. ‘I think I’ll take an afternoon off from the dig myself.’ she said. ‘Any chance of borrowing your car?’

  ‘Wall exploring? I’m afraid I’ve rather fallen down there—meant to take you myself. But it’s good to be alone there, take it from me ... Where is it to be—Housesteads?’

  ‘I’m—not sure yet.’

  Carrie gave her a shrewd look but said no more. Tina wondered if she had guessed her real destination.

  This day’s journey to Thornriggs was in marked contrast to the last. It was a dazzling afternoon, the clouds high and peaceful, the sunlight holding a new warmth. Along the Bellingham road the woods showed tassels of new green, the gorse on the moor was gold-spangled and the new heather growths an olive carpet flowing between the stony outcrops.

  The car seemed to leap up the Thornriggs road, passing the plantation where she had sheltered, making short work of the rough surface. The road dipped and curved again, mounted a low ridge which gave her her fist view of Thornriggs, a few stone houses round a triangular green, a church and a village school She parked outside the one shop, bought a bar of chocolate and enquired for Turret House. The directions were simple. She drove between a pair of white gates near the green, up a long drive and found the house at the end. It was a secluded but smaller edition of Hadrian’s Edge.

  She rang the bell under the stone portico. There was a delay in answering, giving Tina time to tremble a little and wonder at her own audacity. Eventually the door opened and an elderly woman stood regarding her.

  She looked into severe grey eyes; saw the blue cress that suggested a nursing sister. ‘Yes?’ the woman asked curtly.

  Tina gave her name; then Helen’s. Instantly the woman’s gaze was affronted. ‘Did you say Rutherford? ... I’m afraid you can’t see Miss Copeland. I have strict instructions that she has to have no upsetting visitors.’

  ‘I won’t upset her.’ Tina spoke politely but with rising anger.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ the woman went on repressively. ‘I am Miss Coxon and am in complete charge of my patient. Mr. Copeland left strict instructions that you, of all people, must not be allowed access to his sister ... And now, as I’m very busy, I’ll bid you good afternoon.’

  Tina withdrew a step, but insisted: ‘Do you mind telling me when Mr. Copeland left that last instruction?’

  ‘I see no point ... Oh, very well then, it was ten days ago or thereabouts.’

  The door was now closed firmly in her face. Tina drove hack up the avenue, her feelings in tumult. At the village green she pulled up, knowing she needed to compose herself before driving on.

  So Adam Copeland had guessed she would try again. The date of his instruction, coming after the previous attempt, proved it without doubt. And all the time she had thought his suspicions lulled. Despair washed over her. Despite all her scheming he had been too much for her, had read her thoughts as easily as his own barometer.

  She unwrapped her chocolate, eating it for solace rather than hunger. It was peaceful on the village green, the only sounds a restless cawing of rooks; and the faint singing of children in the school. Tina sat on, deflated and lifeless. There was no reason why she shouldn’t go on to explore the Wall. But today the urge had gone.

  It was as if Adam Copeland, after his genial relaxation of the last week or two, had slammed a steel door in her face.

  She was roused by the sound of a vehicle. Glancing in her driving mirror she saw a lorry emerging from the white gates of Turret House. Next moment she recognised the driver—Jamey!

  He did not glance her way as the lorry shot off with a hideous grinding of gears toward the Bellingham road. She remembered the farm at the back of Turret House, belonging to Matt’s pigeon-fancying friend. Even as she eyed the dark turrets above the trees she saw a flutter of pale wings. Two pigeons mounted into the dazzling brightness and streaked eastwards

  As for Jamey, he had obviously been making some king of farm delivery—innocent enough, possibly. Yet Helen could scarcely be a prisoner in the house, and if she knew the time of Jamey’s deliveries what simpler than to stroll round the far at that time?

  Helen—and Jamey? Was it really possible that the old flare of interest was not dead? After all, Helen had a reputation for irrational behavior. And wasn’t Jamey utterly ruthless where his own interests were concerned?

  Or was she allowing her imagination to run riot, in her anxiety to make Helen a scapegoat?

  She finished her chocolate, temporarily dismissed Jamey from her mind and shook herself out of her despondency. She wasn’t beaten yet. She could still write to Helen. No one could intercept a letter and to disguise the sender she could type the address. Much less satisfactory than a meeting, and Helen would be under no obligation to answer but at least she, Tina, could state her passionate disbelief in Bruno’s guilt.

  She drove home slowly, still in no mood to finish her afternoon exploring, though to the south the dark ribbon of the Wall, plunging and climbing the contours of the crags, drew her eyes often. But no, she would go home and compose the letter. Only then would she have peace of mind.

  At Hadrian’s Edge, as there was no collection box nearby, it was the postman’s custom to collect any letters from the house when he made his deliveries. Tina dared not risk leaving hers for the morning collection, as at most there was only a slim selection. The afternoon post, though, contained all of Adam’s business mail. It was easy to slip her typed envelope under the pile on the hall table.

  Adam was back from Newcastle, she learned, but had gone out again.

  She walked into supper that evening to find him drinking a whisky at the sideboard. His stare was disconcerting, there seemed the old sarcastic twist to his mouth. She made a remark or two and moved towards her seat. Then she stopped as though stung. At her place setting lay the letter.

  ‘A letter for you.’ he said. ‘And very silly of you, my dear. I happened to come in for a moment just before the postman, to check if young Groves had answered a certain letter. I found—that!’

  She was silent under the shock. His tone roughened. ‘Do you take me for a fool? Even if it had reached Turret House my sister wouldn’t have seen it. Miss Coxon has instructions to save all unfamiliar letters for my inspection. And it was equally stupid of you to waste time and petrol going to Thornriggs this afternoon. Why not accept defeat and save your dignity?’

  Tina crushed the letter into her pocket, humiliated beyond bearing. Adam lounged against the sideboard watching the effect of his words. His heavy head of hair seemed blacker than ever above a pale grey town suit. His eyes dominated her.

  ‘Well, lost your tongue?’

  ‘No!’ she exploded at last. ‘Dignity? ... Do you think I care about my dignity when it comes to Bruno’s good name? If I did, do you think I should ever have come to this house, where daily
I’m reminded that you—that you—’

  That I face truth—reality?’ He straightened, drained his glass and set it down. ‘And come, my dear, don’t tell me it’s been one long penance. There have been occasions when I even thought you found glimpses of happiness here.’

  ‘Everyone has been most kind, I agree. That is—’

  ‘Everyone except myself?’ he asked quietly. ‘Yet apart from our main bone of contention it has always been my sincere wish that you should benefit from your stay in my house.’

  ‘Benefit?’ she echoed. ‘When you prevent me at every turn from discovering the only things that can give me peace of mind!’

  ‘Have it your own way.’ His voice held ice again. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  At this point Isa plunged in with the soup, Carrie followed and the conversation was closed.

  Later Tina looked in at Carrie’s den, but found her writing a letter. ‘Come in if you like, Tina, but I can’t be very sociable. That fool Everard-Kipps has actually had the nerve to criticise that article I’d published on centurial stones. He calls my findings poppycock, if you please! I’ll poppycock him!’

  Carrie turned to the pile of tomes at her side, already oblivious to Tina’s presence.

  ‘I’ll pop in and see Isa, then.’ Her words fell on deaf ears.

  Isa was seated at the harmonium, wearing one of her ‘afternoon’ dresses, of mole-coloured crepe-de-chine, with beaded sleeves. She turned with her usual gloomy nod of welcome. ‘Come away in, hinney. Sit by the fire. I was just thinking of taking a run through “The Lost Chord”, for it makes a right good voluntary at the chapel. They like summat solemn, wi’ a judgment-day sound to it.’

  Tina smiled and nursed Samson. ‘You go ahead, Isa—don’t mind me.’

  She was to regret the words, for it was a thunderous rendering, with all stops out. For, as Isa explained afterwards: ‘Mr. Copeland’s out, and once Mrs. Butterfield’s got her nose in yon muckle Roman books, she’d never even hear the trump o’ doom if it sounded.’

  Somewhat to Tina’s relief, Isa left the organ and set the kettle on the hotplate. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, while we’re at it. What did you think of yon apple-meringue at supper?’

  ‘It was lovely, Isa. You must have been in a good mood when you made it.’

  Isa sat down, nodding complacently. ‘Aye, I was. And I’ll tell you for why. Mr. Copeland, he’s given me a rise. Said I was worth my weight in gold...’ She paused, her gloom returning. ‘I’m no’ so sure now, though, that it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Why, Isa?’

  ‘It could mean changes. He could be buttering me up, like, so I wouldn’t be likely to up and leave if he got wed or anything.’

  Tina said faintly: ‘He’s not thinking of marriage, surely?’

  Isa hunched her shoulders. ‘I’d a bad fright once—I thought he was set on yon Francey Finch. Aye, and if that had come about I’d have been up and away, organ an’ all! For you know what it says in Proverbs: “A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.” Some crown she’d be ... But there, he’s seen sense where she’s concerned. If he’s got summat else in mind, then he’s keeping it dark.’

  Isa looked reflectively at Tina. ‘A lass like yoursel’ now, I wouldn’t say no to. For you’d understand my ways, and no’ be expecting perfection. For it stands to reason if a woman’s feeling down, then her pastry’s got to suffer. And as to the organ, why, I reckon you could turn as deaf an ear as Mrs. Butterfield, if you’d a mind.’—’

  Tina was embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t worry, Isa. It’s not likely to happen.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s as may be. I’m just saying’—Isa paused impressively—‘if you’d a mind that way it would suit me fine.’ She spoke, Tina thought, as though a possible last obstacle had been removed.

  Her next words sent a shock through Tina. ‘Aye, and I’ve told Mr. Copeland the same. You could do worse, I said, for all she’s a foreigner, or as near as makes no difference. And I made plain I’d be ready to stop on.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Why, he made a joke of it, for he’s a rare man for talking in riddles. Said he’d like to choose his own wife, when the time came, and he wasna’ likely to settle for a Roman water-goddess ... But there, I couldn’t make head nor tail of him, for he fair likes to bamboozle me.’

  Tina, unaccountably depressed, drank her tea and went up to bed. Why should she be upset? she asked herself furiously. He could have a hundred wives, for all she cared...

  The following evening she decided to visit Quarry Farm again, with the slight hope of discovering more about Jamey’s visit to Turret House. On the way through the woods she heard a childish call from the tree house.

  ‘Tina! Come up and see me.’

  Rosie’s head peered out from a border of budding branches. ‘I’m here all by myself. Bobby’s gone fishing.’

  Tina hesitated, glanced down ruefully at her crisp cream linen dress. Rosie’s eyes pleaded. She smiled and scrambled up the rope ladder.

  ‘My, you are playing houses, aren’t you? Is this the new tea-set?’

  ‘Yes. Will you be a lady who’s come to tea?’ Rosie’s wistfulness was touching. ‘Bobby won’t play houses. He says it’s a lassie’s game.’

  Tina entered with spirit into the play. There were two bright pink cups and saucers from Woolworth’s, an old tea-pot with a cracked spout containing Coke. ‘It looks like tea,’ Rosie explained. Strips of bark served for plates, holding a collection of chestnut husks, sappy leaf buds and coloured stones.

  ‘They’re the cream fancies,’ Rosie explained. ‘Like in the café in Hexham. You’ve got to pretend.’

  Tina swallowed a little of the Coke-tea, which tasted peculiar. She guessed the old tea-pot needed cleaning. Her delicate passes at the cakes and refined munching made Rosie’s eyes shine. ‘You do it just like ladies in the café.’

  After simulating the polite conversation of the said ladies Tina at last ventured to ask: ‘Been to school today, Rosie?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Miss Purves told us the school doctor and nurse are coming Monday.’ She scowled. ‘I hate it when they come.’

  ‘Why, Rosie?’ Tina watched her closely, thinking it might be a good thing for the child to have a proper examination.

  ‘ ’Cos Francey has to take me, an’ they make her tell all what I’ve been doing—not eating, an’ things like that.’

  ‘But surely it’s better if Francey’s there. All the other girls will have someone.’

  To her surprise Rosie began to cry, kicking out at her plates of ‘cakes’ in a gesture of temper. ‘They might find something wrong with me.’

  Tina made no reply but collected the ‘cream fancies’, giving Rosie time to compose herself. At last she lapsed into miserable snuffles.

  ‘Here, borrow my handkerchief. It’s clean.’

  Rosie brightened. ‘Is yon real lace?’

  ‘I suppose it is ... Rosie, is anything wrong? You’re not hiding anything from Matt and Francey, are you? No pains or tummy-aches?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Her voice was sullen. ‘But the nurse and doctor, they might pick on me. They picked on Alice Tate last time.’

  Tina glanced at her watch, feeling it would be better if Rosie didn’t dwell on such thoughts. ‘I shouldn’t worry about Alice Tate. I’m going down to your house now. Are you coming?’

  ‘No. I’ve the washing up to do, down at the burn. Then I’ve got to hide my cups.’

  ‘Hide them?’

  Rosie looked sly. ‘This isn’t my only hidey-hole. I’ve got another secret place nobody could ever find. I keep my things there.’

  Tina smiled. All children loved secrets. And already Rosie seemed to have recovered her spirits. She felt she could safely leave her, and even decided against telling Matt of the incident. Why worry him when the medical examination was so near? If there was any cause for anxiety he would know soon enough.

  She fo
und him alone in the house, reading the sports page of the local paper. He greeted her eagerly.

  ‘Hallo, Tina ... I’ve done well this week. Peerless Blue won again and Moonlight got a second. The race was from Sussex—like to see the report?’

  Tina read the name M. Finch and the birds’ timings in a very minute paragraph. Matt was a little pathetic at times, she thought, in his obsession with his birds. But she tried to show the proper enthusiasm. She accepted his offer of coffee, perching on the end of the old sofa while he made it. The kitchen was a little tidier, she noticed. Had Adam Copeland’s advice about elbow grease made the difference?

  Matt handed her the mug of coffee, his eyes suddenly solemn under his fair quiff of hair.

  ‘I heard about you going to-Turret House, Tina.’

  She felt a little thrown.

  ‘You—heard? Was it Jamey who saw me?’

  ‘Jamey? No. Why, should it be?’

  Tina explained about seeing his brother.

  ‘Oh, he’s often up at the farm for Charlie Marshall. And there’s only the one way in at the drive. The farm path goes off before you get to the house.’

  She frowned. ‘Then who did tell you—Adam?’

  He shrugged. ‘You can’t do much around here without someone noticing, Tina. And most people know you by sight now.’

  She had to accept this to mean that some passing motorist had seen and recognised her. Matt’s next words sent her thoughts at a tangent.

  ‘I’ve told you, Tina, it’s not wise to go there.’

  ‘So everyone tells me. Everyone seems so scared I meet Helen Copeland. No one gives me credit for any common sense. What I have to say to her is just as likely to be a comfort as the opposite.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ he said sharply. ‘Tina, you don’t know Helen the way we all do. It’s best to keep away.’

  ‘Best?’ she repeated. ‘Or just more convenient for everyone?’