by Norrey Ford
“All right. I’ll go.” A walk across the moors would be better than staying indoors on this bright morning. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Bright too early. It’ll thunder later. Shine before seven, rain before eleven’s as true as I lie here. Is this me breakfast?” She looked sourly at the dainty tray. “Oh, well, what won’t fatten ‘ull fill.”
She made Connie as comfortable as possible, listened to muddled directions for reaching the shepherd’s cottage and tidied the bedroom and kitchen. Then she felt free to set off for the shepherd’s oil.
Her heart leapt with excitement when she had shaken off the oppression of the house. It was full spring here in the north, the air spiced and tangy. At home, it would be warm now, and Grand’mère would take her breakfast coffee on to the terrace and sit in the sun with Grand-père reading the paper and shaking his white head over the Government’s latest folly. The scene came back so vividly—perhaps as a treat there would be fresh crisp croissants and a bowl of yellow butter; Grand’mère’s chair would be set under the laburnums. She smiled, remembering a scene of her childhood. She had set out a doll’s tea-service on a sun-warmed stone, and filled the tiny plates with seeds and torn-up leaves. To make her wooden and china guests feel at home, she had nibbled a leaf or two herself, and eaten a couple of seeds when, out of the blue, Lucien the gardener had snatched her up and carried her indoors to old Gabrielle, who had given her salt and water to make her sick; and a very sick and sorry child she had been that day.
Now why, she wondered, do I remember that to-day? I haven’t thought of it for years.
She tramped another half-mile before she remembered; the seeds she ate were laburnum, out of tiny twisted black and silver pods. Gabrielle said they were poison. And the seeds she had held in her hand this morning, the seeds in Connie’s disgusting old dresser, were laburnum seeds, too.
What on earth did Connie keep laburnum seeds in her dresser for? There were no such trees at Timberfold, as far as she knew. Some of old Michael’s concoctions; maybe, a recipe of his gypsy mother’s? Good against the warts, she thought, smiling at the idea of her own errand. A nurse from St. Simon’s—a nurse who’d passed her Prelim.—going to an old man’s cottage for sheep oil faced with mysterious herbs as a cure for lumbago. Lance and Mollie would be amused.
The day which had started so well was deteriorating. A thin veil of white cloud was gradually obscuring the blue sky, and it was colder. Connie had prophesied thunder, and would probably be right. She had lived all her life on the moor, and should know its moods by now.
Jacqueline remembered the storm which had broken when she was out with Guy, and had no wish to be caught again, alone and without a raincoat. She hurried, watching for the fork in the path of which Connie had warned her. When she came to it, she took the right branch, and presently came in sight of the tumbledown hovel where Michael lived.
There was no sign of life, no smoke, not even a dog. Surely a shepherd should have a dog? The longer she looked at the misshapen building the less she liked the idea of bearding its occupant, and toyed with the idea of going back and demanding Guy’s escort. Don’t be a baby, she told herself firmly. He can’t eat you, and maybe he’s out. She crossed her fingers and went on.
A gaunt scarecrow rose up out of the heather almost at her feet; a man, waving his arms and mouthing horribly at her, shouting words which had no meaning. He had a matted white beard, a battered hat, and he lurched drunkenly towards her, shouting.
Jacqueline screeched with all the power of her young lungs, turned and ran like a hare.
When her panic subsided, she was breathless. She dropped in the heather, panting. She felt ashamed of her headlong flight and thankful no one had seen it. But he’d popped up so suddenly, when her nerve had been shaken by the picture episode.
“No excuse, my girl,” she said sternly. “He was only a drunken old man—nothing to be afraid of.”
She consoled herself by thinking Michael had been in no shape to give her the proper oil she wanted, and she was justified in going back empty-handed. Guy must go next time, she could not face that horrible old creature alone.
Although the old man was not in sight, and probably too drunk to run, she could not stop herself hurrying. She arrived at Timberfold in a very short time, thankful to be in reach of shelter as thunder was already rumbling across the hills.
As she entered the kitchen door the first flash of lightning lit up the dark interior for one vivid second. And in that second, Jacqueline saw Connie’s face turned towards her with an expression of hate, astonishment, fear, frozen upon it She was standing by the dresser, her hand on the door of the little cupboard.
Jacqueline moved forward slowly. “So the lumbago was a fake, after all?” She was quite calm, not even angry now. She knew without doubt that Connie meant her harm, but she was on her feet and facing the danger. This was something real, not a mysterious terror in the night.
“It got better,” Connie said defiantly.
“No, it didn’t. Not so suddenly.” She could hear the rain now, drumming on the roof of the porch behind her. “You got me here by a trick. You knew I was coming—you even aired the bed for me.” Suddenly she laughed. Connie had been trained as a servant of the old-fashioned kind. She would air the bed quite automatically, in spite of herself, because she had been taught to do it and couldn’t be false to her hard training. But at the same time she would plan the evil that was in her heart She darted forward and grabbed Connie’s gnarled hand. “What are you holding? I thought so—laburnum seeds. Did Michael give them to you?”
“Nay, no. I paid him for them. A whole bottle of whisky, I paid him. A bottle for that and a bottle for the picture...” She croaked with laughter. “A good soak, old Mike’s had.”
“Did Michael move the picture for you?”
“Eh? What picture?”
“Never mind now. What are you going to do with these seeds?”
“Nothing—nothing. I was looking for some liniment.” They stared at each other, their faces dim in the darkened room. The sky was black with thunder and an occasional flash emphasized the gloom.
“They were for me, weren’t they, Connie? Why do you hate me so much? Did I ever harm you?”
“Harm—harm? I saw from the beginning you were one of those—the fair ones. I knew Guy would want you, the minute he saw you. And I tried to save him, that first time. I tried to save him, but you came back again. You always come back.”
“You mean you tried to chase me away? Then it was you who struck me?”
“Nay, nay. I never hit you. I only meant him to frighten you, so you wouldn’t come back.”
“Michael? It was Michael?”
She said almost proudly, “It was me thought of laying you at the bottom of Black Crag, as if you’d fallen-like.”
She’s crazy, the girl thought. She’s utterly mad. Why doesn’t Guy come back?
Aloud, she said, “Did Guy know about it?”
“Him? No. Smitten all of a heap he was with you, the first minute. I sent him away with a message about the sheep. Warn’t nowt wrong wi’ ’em, you know, but he blamed old Mike for that. Said the old chap wanted his brains washing. Mike didn’t care—he had his drink, and that’s all as matters to him now.”
“Did you mean to kill me, Connie?”
The woman backed away, towards the sewing-machine in the window. “Kill? Not at first. But you wouldn’t keep away. I only wanted to fritten you at first.”
“But why? What if I did marry Guy? He wasn’t even your son.”
The old woman muttered to herself for a moment, then she shouted and tossed her arms. “Aye, you’d take Timberfold away from me. You’d be mistress, he said. His wife would be mistress. Think I’m going to lose all I worked for all these long years? First day I come I went to the Well and wished to be mistress. I wanted young Peter—I loved him from the minute I clapped eyes on his bonny young face. But he’d have nowt to do wi’ me. Kitchen cat, he called me; common,
mucky, he thought me. He’d pull away if I touched him.”
“You loved my father? But you tormented him.”
“I hated him because he’d have none of me. And I hate you—I can see his eyes looking at me out of your eyes. Saul was the one for my money—he’d have the farm, see. Oh, I wanted Saul. I set me cap at him and he’d ha’ married me. He ought to ha’ married me, but she came.”
“She?”
“The fair one. The yellow-haired lass wi’ blue eyes. And Saul was up and away dancing a jig after her before you could say knife.”
“You hated her, too—Saul’s wife?”
“Aye—and she knew it always. But your Grandma wor too much for me. A little woman she was, too, and never liked Saul; but she stuck up for Saul’s wife and protected her. As far as she could.”
Jacqueline whispered, “You didn’t—? Not Saul’s wife?”
The woman understood. “I never touched her. She died of a broken heart and of cold, cold fear.”
As I should, Jacqueline thought. As I shall if I marry Guy.
Then her blood ran cold and she felt goose-prickles in her flesh. Over Connie’s shoulder, out of the dingy, streaming window, she saw a shape in the rain. The shape of a ragged man in a battered hat, waving his arms; over the noise of the rain, the mutter of thunder, she heard his voice, and it was the voice she heard in her nightmares, shouting to a dog.
“Connie,” she said urgently, “Connie, listen.” The woman’s face was so mazed that it seemed impossible to get through to her. “Throw those seeds in the fire. Quick, do you hear? Throw them away.”
To her surprised relief, Connie shuffled to the fire and tossed the handful of seeds into the flames. They flared and crackled briefly. “A good bottle of whisky, I gave.”
“The black-and-white sheep-dog. Mike’s dog.”
“What dog?”
“The black-and-white sheep-dog. Mike’s dog.”
There was a cackle of laughter. “I killed it. He wouldn’t, so I did, with my own hands. I’m not afraid of killing. It’s easy after the first time.” Suddenly she swung round from the fire and there was murder in her face; she held a worn and stubby poker in her upraised hand. “Easy, easy. Curse you and your white skin and your yellow hair.” She lurched across the kitchen, screeching. Jacqueline dodged round the table and made a dash for the door. Michael was somewhere out in the yard, and in another moment she might be trapped between the two of them.
She was outside and tearing across the yard when Michael caught her. He grabbed her arm. “I want you, girl. I’ve been looking for you. She told me—she told me—”
She jerked herself free and ran; kept on running. She had no coat and was soon wet to the skin. She did not know where Guy was, and to her mind he was as much invested with horror as the others. She was no longer reasoning, but running in blind fear from Timberfold and everything in it.
At the edge of the moor she hesitated a moment. Across the heather was a shorter distance, but in this storm she might get lost or run around in circles till she dropped exhausted for Michael to find. She could still smell the horrible stench of dirt and whisky which came from him, feel the contamination of his hand on her bare arm.
The road, then. When she left the lane and came out on the main road there was always the chance of a lift.
She darted for the road. She could hear Michael shouting again, and knew he had come out of the house. Perhaps he was running after her. She stood a moment, listening. The voice came nearer.
“Girl! Hi, you—girl! Come here! I want you. Michael wants—”
She had wasted her resources in the first wild rush. Now she was so breathless she had to stop or her lungs would burst. There was a clump of furze by the side of the road, and she crouched beside it. She was so wet now that it made no difference.
The thudding of her heart sounded like footsteps in the road. Steady, running footsteps, much too strong for Michael or Connie. But it was only her heart.
When her breathing steadied, the thudding was still there. Someone was coming, running along the road from Timberfold. She crouched lower under the bush.
It was Guy. As he drew level with her hiding-place, he halted, peering through the rain. He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted her name again and again. Afterwards she wondered why she did not walk out to him, but fear held her pressed to the ground like a petrified rabbit.
“Dear Heaven!” he said aloud. “She must have taken to the moor, in this storm.” He ran back the way he had come, and not until his footsteps died away did Jacqueline stand up. Getting back on to the road, she had a piece of bad luck. She stepped into a concealed boggy pool with one foot and went down almost knee deep. As she dragged her foot out, the bog took her shoe and no amount of groping could recover it. It was easy to walk shoeless along the soft turf edge of the lane, but the accident meant she must wait for a lift when she reached the main road. She would never make the Moor Hen in stockinged feet.
In about a mile, she heard a car coming towards her. The wrong direction, of course. She put her head down into the rain again and plodded on, but the car pulled up with a screech of brakes.
She dashed the rain out of her eyes, unable to believe what she saw. Then with a glad shout of “Alan!” she ran into his arms.
He held her tightly, stroking her wet hair with a big hand. “My darling, my darling! I came the first minute I could. What have they done to you—are you all right?”
She leaned on him heavily for a moment. “I was frightened—so frightened, Alan. But I’m all right now.” She laughed shakily. “Apart from being wet and—oh yes, I lost a shoe.” She held up her small foot in a stocking black with peat water. “The turf is quite soft, but I doubt if I’d have made it as far as the Moor Hen.”
He picked her up and carried her to the car. She protested faintly as he bundled her in. “Your lovely car, I’ll make it wet.”
He dragged an old raincoat out of the back and spread it over the seat. “Sit on that—and put my coat round your shoulders. Don’t argue, I’m taking charge of you from now on. Peel off those stockings; don’t be bashful, I won’t look.”
“They’re off,” she said meekly in a moment, and he took her small wet feet in his hands, warming and chafing them briskly.
“That better?”
‘That’s fine. I’ll be all right now, truly.”
“We’ll be at the Moor Hen in no time. Then I prescribe a hot bath, a spot of brandy and dry clothes.”
She gave a shuddering sigh. “That sounds wonderful. Oh, Alan—you came when I needed you. You always do.” She touched the sleeves of his coat lovingly. It smelt of him and was warm, with his warmth. He had found her, and that was all she needed.
“Of course I came, as soon as I could. Are you absolutely sure you’re all right?” He studied her anxiously. “No one has harmed you?”
“Quite sure. I ran away.”
He bellowed with laughter and she smiled, reassured and not in the least hurt. He could always laugh at her, and she would not mind. “My darling, that was beautifully obvious.”
He turned the car in the narrow road and headed for the peace and security of the Moor Hen. Jacqueline was silent, watching his profile as he drove. The car was a warm, secure world, they were shut up in it together. He had called her darling, and held her in his arms, cradled her cold wet feet in his warm hands. It was very little to last a whole lifetime, but it was wonderful.
To her shamed embarrassment, huge tears started rolling down her cheeks, one after another, until she was crying hard. He passed over a big snowy handkerchief. “Take mine—I’ll bet you’ve lost yours. Nothing like a good cry, splendid for the nerves.”
“I’m crying b-because I’m happy. Everything was so awful. That man shouting and smelling of whisky—he’d had bottles and bottles of the stuff. H-how did you know I was at Timberfold?”
“Lance telephoned that you’d been spirited away—and I couldn’t come until this morning. The interveni
ng hours were moderately grim. I had an operation this morning at nine which I could not thrust on to anyone else at short notice. Luckily it did not last long.”
“You worried about me—all night?”
“Yes.”
He could not, at the moment, bear to think of the grim slow hours in which he had discovered, slowly and painfully, just how much this golden girl meant to him. He blamed himself bitterly for letting another man step in and take her from him. Jealousy twisted a bitter knife in his vitals. Jealousy and fear for her safety.
He had tried to believe that he was too old for her, that she would find him dull, stodgy. He was by no means good-looking, and as to the social position he had to offer, being the wife of a busy consultant surgeon had its drawbacks; his hours were long, odd and unpredictable; his work had to come before his private life, he would never be sure of being on hand for parties, theatres or even an evening at home by his own fireside.
But all the arguments he could muster did not amount to a row of beans. He loved her. She had woven herself into the warp and weft of his life until it was nothing without her. He loved her young seriousness, her lilting sense of fun, her fresh, inquiring mind. And he loved her body, too—the light step, the tilt of her proud small head with its pale gold crown of silk. He groaned aloud and paced his room like a caged tiger. Fool, fool, fool! He might have won her, and he had stood by, letting her slip through his fingers. He had not even tried—not raised a hand to stop her falling into Guy’s grasp. He’d shown too much darn self-sacrifice, too much nobility; in fact, he’d been a stuffed shirt.
If he had lost her for ever, it served him thundering well right. But if there was a chance—he was taking it, with both hands.
Meantime here she was, his blessed darling, adorably absurd with her wet tousled hair and his old coat round her shoulders. Safe, thank Heaven! But what had driven her out, coatless and shoeless, in such a storm? In spite of her assurances he saw that she was pale, with dark-ringed eyes. She had been badly shocked and frightened, and at the moment his chief concern must be to get her into Mollie’s mothering hands, warm, in good spirits, as soon as humanly possible.
