Kitabı oku: «Hiding From the Light», sayfa 2
2
Piers stood under the shower for a full five minutes before he stepped out and reached for the towel. He had been expecting Emma to be there when he arrived home from his office but the door had been double-locked, the flat, on the top floor of the converted house at the end of Cornwall Gardens, empty but for two loudly complaining cats. He stopped to give each a brief hello before checking the fridge for dinner party supplies. She couldn’t have forgotten that Derek and Sue were coming over, surely. Hadn’t she said she was taking the afternoon off? Pulling on some cool trousers and an open-necked shirt he surveyed himself for a second in the mirror in their bedroom, checking out his tall lanky figure, smart haircut, tanned skin – even in casual gear he looked cool and sophisticated – before he went into the living room and glanced round. It was tidy as always, a full array of drinks on the top of the low bookcase in the corner. The pale cream sofas, the linen curtains and the wood floor gave just the right impression. Expensive. Elegant. Comfortable. Two young, well youngish, executives with perfect taste. He walked across to the French doors and reached up to the hiding place behind the curtain for the Chubb key, hanging from its little hook. Unlocking the doors he pulled them open and stepped out onto the roof garden. This was Emma’s very own paradise. She had created a little heaven from a sooty expanse between four ugly chimneys. Italian earthenware pots, small trees, roses, honeysuckle, herbs – her special passion – the unexpected riot of colour and sweet scents never failed to take his breath away. Emma’s love for gardening and her indelibly green fingers were one of the unexpected sides to her character which he could never quite reconcile with her astute business brain and the sophisticated lifestyle she shared with him. Closely followed by the two cats, he walked over to the wrought-iron table with its matching chairs and opened the large, bleached-linen parasol. Any moment now the sun would have disappeared behind the rooftops, but the parasol perfected the picture of elegance he so enjoyed up here. And on an evening like this where better to be than a rooftop garden?
‘Piers?’ Emma’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Sorry, darling. I got caught in horrendous queues in Sainsbury’s.’ She appeared at the French doors looking, as ever, a city animal, elegant and sophisticated and cool – the furthest one could imagine from a busy shopping queue, or a gardener. ‘I’ve got cold meat. Vichyssoise. Ciabatta. Smoked duck. Salmon. Salad. Strawberries and cream. It’ll take me five minutes.’ She greeted the two cats with a pat on each eager head, joined him under the parasol and held up her own face for a kiss. ‘Put the wine in the fridge. When will they be here?’
He felt obscurely irritated suddenly. She knew when they’d be there. Damn it, she had rung up and fixed it with Sue.
‘Unzip me?’ She turned in his arms just before his kiss landed on target, presenting him with the nape of her neck and the top of a long black zip. ‘I called in on Ma. I thought she and Dan might pop over and have a drink tomorrow.’ With a quick wriggle of her hips she shed the dress. Under it she was naked but for a pair of the skimpiest bikini briefs.
‘Em!’ In spite of himself he glanced round, shocked. He would never get used to this side of Emma. Unconventional. Provocative. Always teasing him.
‘No one can see! Not unless they’ve got binoculars and are standing on top of the power station chimneys!’ She tapped his lips with her finger. ‘Stuffy.’
‘I know.’ He knew he ought to laugh. But he was cross. He wanted her badly. But there wasn’t time. With a groan he ducked into the living room and went to rummage in the wine rack in the corner behind the kitchen door. ‘Dry Hills Sauvignon OK?’
‘The best! Lovely.’ She was still standing naked on the roof.
‘Em! They will be here in a minute.’
She glanced over her shoulder at him coquettishly, then she relented. ‘OK. I’ll jump in the shower. It will take ten seconds to dress.’ As she passed him she brought her hands to her hips briefly and gave a quick shimmy. ‘Not bad for a thirty-something, eh? And look at the teeth!’ She ducked out of reach and ran to the bathroom. In ten minutes rather than seconds she was dressed, her hair brushed, a quick skim of colour on lips and eyelids and she was ready, once again the cool calm City woman, fit partner for a potential director of Evans Waterman, one of the largest City broking houses.
In the event Derek and Sue were half an hour late. By the time they arrived the hors d’oeuvres were laid out on the wrought-iron table, the wine was chilled, the table was laid and the duck and the salad prepared, the duck locked securely away from the enthusiastic attention of the cats.
It was as they moved on to the coffee at the end of the meal that the subject of weekend cottages arose. ‘We have a place in Normandy, you know.’ Sue leaned back against the sofa cushions and crossed her ankles. ‘It would be lovely if you could both come over for a few days.’
Outside, the roof terrace was dark, lit by two shaded lights hidden amongst the flower pots. A gentle breeze wafted the smell of the hot London night into the window. Sue sipped at her coffee. The two cats were asleep on one of the deckchairs outside. ‘Have you ever thought of buying somewhere yourselves?’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
Piers and Emma spoke at the same moment and they all laughed.
‘Sounds like a fundamental difference of opinion,’ Derek commented as he reached for his brandy glass. As so often, he found himself wondering how Piers managed to hang on to this lovely spontaneous creature.
‘That’s because we haven’t discussed it yet.’ Emma climbed to her feet and went over to pick up her bag which was lying on the side table. ‘I saw something today which intrigued me so much, I want to go and see it.’ She found the folded page and brought it back to the sofa. ‘It’s a little farmhouse in Essex.’
‘Essex!’ Sue hooted. ‘Oh, my dear, I think you could do better than that.’ She held out her hand for the picture.
‘Essex is quite nice, actually,’ Derek put in mildly. He raised an eyebrow in his wife’s direction. ‘The Essex they joke about is in the south of the county, part of the greater London area. But if you go up to the north you have wonderful countryside and lovely villages and towns. Constable country. You’re miles and miles from London there. It’s very rural.’ He held out his hand for the magazine page which Sue had glanced at and dropped dismissively on the coffee table. ‘This one, is it?’ He tapped the photo. ‘It looks a lovely place. Perfect weekend material. Good sailing up there. Do you sail, Piers?’
Piers had risen to his feet. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said briskly. ‘Weekend cottages are not my thing, I’m afraid.’ He looked angry. ‘Emma knows that. I can think of nothing I would like less than pottering about “doing it myself”, mowing grass and being nice to hay-seed neighbours! I hate the country! I was stuck in deep country as a child and I couldn’t wait to get away. I can still remember my parents vegetating, telling me to go bird watching, trying to make me interested in nature, for God’s sake! I couldn’t wait to get away and I will never, never go back!’
There was a moment’s intense silence.
‘Oh, well!’ Emma forced herself to laugh. ‘There goes that idea!’ She took the cutting from Derek’s hand and, folding it, tucked it into her pocket. ‘More brandy, anyone?’
Derek and Sue left early – ‘It’s been a long week, old things, bed for us, I think,’ – but it was after midnight by the time Emma and Piers had stacked the dishwasher and carried two more brandies out onto the roof terrace.
‘Do you think they enjoyed it at all?’ Emma was staring out into the luminosity of the London night.
‘Yes, of course they did.’
‘They left a bit soon.’
‘Like Derek said, they were tired.’ He leaned his elbows on the parapet, rolling the glass between his hands. ‘Don’t worry about it. They have asked us to go to Normandy, don’t forget. And while you and Sue were brewing that second pot of coffee he told me it’s OK.’ He turned to her and she saw the triumph in his face. ‘I’m going to be asked to join the board.’
‘Oh Piers, I’m so glad. Why didn’t you tell me at once?’
‘I wanted to wait till we had a glass in our hand. I wanted us to drink to the future. My future and our future.’ He held her gaze for a moment. ‘And I wanted to tell you when we were on our own because I think we should get married, Em.’
For a moment she didn’t move, and he could read the conflicting emotions on her face as clearly as if she were speaking out loud. Elation – that first, at least – worry, doubt, excitement, caution, then that moment which he recognised so well when she withdrew inside herself, her eyes suddenly unfocused as though viewing the future on some mysterious invisible internal screen. He waited. It would only take seconds for her private computation to take place. Until she had done it, he had learned to wait.
He felt a warm pressure against his ankle. Max was circling his feet, purring. He bent to pick the cat up, tickling him under his chin. ‘Well?’ He glanced at Emma and grinned. ‘So far I am not overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.’
She smiled. Reaching forward, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips. ‘I love you, P. You know that. And I want to live with you forever and ever.’
‘I can feel a “but” coming.’
‘No. It’s just –’ She hesitated, then putting her glass down on the parapet beside him she reached into her pocket. ‘When we talked about country cottages earlier, you were pretty damning.’ She unfolded the cutting. ‘It didn’t sound to me as though there was any room for compromise.’ She reached out absent-mindedly and rubbed the cat’s ears. ‘We’ve never talked about the sort of future that marriage means, P. Kids. Gardens. A life beyond EC1.’
‘And why should we? That’s all for the future, surely. Nothing we have to think about yet. In the abstract, yes, I’d like kids one day. If you would.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never had any sense that you are hearing the time-clock ticking, Em. My God, that’s years off, surely.’
She laughed. ‘Not so many. I’ve reached the dreaded thirties, don’t forget.’ She reached over for Max, who climbed into her arms and draped himself across her shoulder with a contented purr. ‘I want to go and see this cottage. This weekend.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He snatched the cutting from her hand. ‘Em, this is silly. What is it with this place? You know we can’t go this weekend. I’m playing squash with David tomorrow. You’ve asked your mother and Dan over. I’ve got a report to write. We have a hundred and one things to do.’ He moved over to the lamp and held the cutting so he could see it more clearly. ‘Three acres. A commercial herb nursery for God’s sake, Em. This isn’t even a country cottage. It’s a business. Look, if you’re so keen on the idea of a cottage why don’t we go down to Sussex or somewhere and take a look. Or why not France? Now that’s an idea. Derek said property there is still a fantastic investment.’
‘I don’t want it as an investment.’ Letting the cat jump to the ground, she threw herself down on one of the cushioned chairs. ‘In fact, I don’t know that I want it at all.’ There was a sudden note of bewilderment in her voice. ‘I just want to go and see it. I remember it from when I was a child. It’s a cottage I used to dream about. I built a whole fantasy world around it. It means a lot to me, Piers, and if it’s on the market …’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s meant to be.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Not for me, it isn’t. I told you what I think about the country.’
‘Well, I want to go and see it at least. As soon as possible. Tomorrow. I’m going to ring the agent first thing.’
‘Well, if you do go, you go without me.’ He threw the cutting down on her lap. ‘The place has probably gone anyway. Did you see the date at the bottom of the page? The magazine was three weeks old.’
3
For a long time Emma lay awake listening to Piers’s even breathing. They had tried to patch things up; to paper over the awkwardness; but it hadn’t worked. The night seemed to have grown chilly suddenly and going inside they had closed the windows and drifted, apart, towards the bedroom. When Emma had emerged from her long soak in the bath, Piers was sound asleep.
It was impossible not to toss and turn, and after what seemed like an interminable attempt to relax and follow suit Emma got up and walked through into the kitchen. Two alert pairs of eyes watched her from the kitchen table.
‘You know you’re not supposed to sit there,’ she commented half-heartedly, but she made no attempt to move them. Without bothering to turn on the main lights she opened the fridge door. The interior light illuminated the kitchen, filling it with a subdued eerie glow as she poured herself a glass of iced spring water. Slamming the door shut again, she walked on in the semi-darkness into the living room. The faint echoes of the evening were still there. The richness of wine and coffee, of Sue’s scent, the sharp aroma of brandy from the glass Piers had put down on the low table as he walked past on his way to bed.
Emma threw herself down on the sofa and closed her eyes. The curtains were open and a faint light seeped into the room outlining the furniture, reflecting flatly from the cut-glass bowl of roses on the table. Two black shadows padded silently from the kitchen and leaped lightly onto the sofa back to sit close to her, like bookends in the silence of the room.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
In her dream it was the year of Our Lord, 1646. The cottage was very small, the rooms dark, but the garden was bright and neat, a riot of colour. She stood by the gate, her back to the church, staring round, and she knew she was smiling. Hollyhocks and mallow crowded the beds with roses and honeysuckle vying for position on the front wall. She could feel the sun hot on her back as she pushed open the gate and walked up the path. She knew she ought to knock, but the front door was open and she ducked inside.
‘Liza? Where are you?’ She heard her own voice without surprise. ‘Liza? I’ve brought you some pasties from my father’s kitchens.’ She had a basket on her arm, she realised suddenly, the food inside succulent and still warm beneath a white linen napkin. She put it down on the table and went to the foot of the narrow steep staircase. ‘Liza? Are you up there?’
The house was silent. The only sound came from the sudden piping calls of the young swallows in their nests hanging under the untidy thatch.
She ran up the stairs, feeling suddenly anxious, and peered round the room. The small box bed was empty, the patchwork cover neatly spread across it. A coffer chest in the corner was the only other furniture.
‘Liza?’ She ran downstairs again, very conscious of the emptiness of the house. ‘Liza, where are you?’
Outside there wasn’t a breath of wind. The heat was overwhelming. Humid. Uncomfortable. The swallows were silent now. Nothing moved. She tiptoed along the path and peered round the corner to the patch where Liza grew some of her herbs. She had thyme there, and rosemary. Vervain. Cinquefoil. St John’s Wort. Elecampane. Horehound. A basket lay on the ground nearby and a pair of silver scissors. Emma bent and picked them up. ‘Liza?’ Her voice sounded strangely muted out here. And it echoed as if coming from a long way away. There was a piece of green ribbon tied around the mulberry tree. She stared at it for a long time, then slowly she turned back towards the gate. From the lane she could see down towards the blue waters of the estuary in the distance. The tide was in. Two boats were sailing in towards the shore. She stopped to watch them for a moment; only when she raised her hand to her face to brush away a tear did she realise she was crying.
When Emma woke, wondering where she was, she found her cheeks still wet with tears. By the time she had fallen asleep again her mind was made up. She would go and see the cottage in the morning and if Piers didn’t want to go with her then she would go alone.
4
Saturday
Mike Sinclair, dressed in an open-necked shirt and jeans, was standing in the kitchen of his rectory gazing down at the toaster, watching the red elements slowly browning the flabby white slices he had extracted from the bag of Co-op bread his cleaning lady had bought for him two days before. He sighed. He must make time to do his own shopping from time to time. In vain he wrote brown bread on the list, sometimes wholemeal, underlined. White and flabby was what he always got.
The two slices of toast leaped in the air and fell back into their slots. He whisked them out onto a plate and, picking up his mug of coffee carried both over to the table. Butter, still in its paper and already liberally anointed with yesterday’s toast crumbs, stood there waiting together with a jar of Oxford Marmalade. He grinned to himself. In spite of the bread it was still his favourite breakfast and it was going to be another glorious day. He had to spend most of it in his study catching up on paperwork and going over his sermon one more time, but it was still very early and there was going to be time for a walk.
He had only been in the parish a few months and he was still feeling his way with both congregation and geography. The best time to explore, he had discovered, was the early morning when the streets and lanes were comparatively empty and he could wander round without being accosted by his parishioners. So, he would allow himself a couple of hours to eat and walk before coming back inside and facing the pile of papers in his study.
Breakfast complete, headlines from the paper which had appeared on his doormat scanned – he had been amused to see when he had first arrived that the lady from the paper shop had assumed he would read the Telegraph, so he had gone in to thank her, congratulate her on her business acumen in snaring a new customer and tactfully amended the order to The Times – it was time to set out.
The rectory stood back in its garden down a long gravel drive at the end of Church Street. It was not the old rectory, of course – that had burned down a hundred years before – but an old house none the less, acquired by the church in the 1920s as a fit home for a parson and his then large family. It was a big house for one man, but Mike had been enormously pleased to find his new parish was not one of those which had decided a characterless modern bungalow was a fitting habitation for its rector.
It was a pleasant Georgian-fronted building, painted a pale Suffolk pink, the interior probably Elizabethan and heavily beamed. He would try and find out about some of its earlier history one day when he was not so busy. The garden, he had noted sadly, was, apart from a few lovely trees, more or less devoid of interest. It was not very big, which was probably just as well, given the fact that he suspected he would have little time to give to it and there would be no money from either his own pocket or the diocese for a gardener. Wonderfully, he had managed to secure the services of a cleaning lady two mornings a week. Probably not for long. He doubted if he could afford her forever. It had been a shock when he realised just how small in real terms his stipend would be as a country parson. He gazed at the grass. It was as always neatly mown and as always he wondered who on earth had done it. One of the PCC perhaps, choosing a moment when they knew he would be out, or one of the other kind people who had offered him their services when he had first arrived in the parish. Many had offered help. The two food baskets – to stave off starvation, he supposed – which had greeted his arrival, had from time to time been discreetly replaced and two ladies had offered to cook him the occasional meal.
He grinned to himself. Several people, including the bishop, had warned him about the ladies. An unmarried, good-looking rector in his early forties – Mike was broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed – would be a major target once they had decided amongst themselves that he wasn’t gay!
Slamming the door, he headed for the gate. Church Street was, up here at the top, actually more of a lane. Beyond his house, the church itself sat serenely in its churchyard sheltered by three huge yew trees, a surprisingly rural setting when one considered that Manningtree was actually a small town – the smallest town in England, so someone had told him – and that over the hedge he could see lines of old roofs rising gently up the hillside.
This early, the road was deserted. He strode down it purposefully, passing between houses much like his own, except that where it descended into the centre of the town they were terraced and what gardens they had were hidden by high walls. Down on the corner where Church Street met the High Street the last two houses had been converted into double-fronted shops, but a glance at the roofs showed that they too were as old as the rest of the street. One of them, he had noticed, had been empty since he moved in.
In the High Street he turned east, round the corner and down to the River Stour to walk along the road which bordered the narrow strip of salt marsh and the mudflats which were such a characteristic of the river at this point. He passed a solitary dog walker who acknowledged him with a raised hand and continued on his way. He loved this walk. Strolling along under the sycamores which lined the road to Mistley, the second half of his parish, he followed the pavement which on his right ran parallel to the long wall which once had bounded the great Rigby estates, a feature which had given the road its name, ‘The Walls’, whilst on his left lay breathtaking views of water, mud and sky. He stopped and stared for several minutes. The tide was out, the river estuary mostly mud, the low Suffolk coast on the far side hidden in the early morning mist. The shore was blue and mauve with sea lavender and tiny yellow-centred asters and as he walked slowly on he became aware of multitudes of birds running about on the mud. He wasn’t very good at bird identification but he could recognise a seagull when he saw one, and swans, and what he thought might be oystercatchers, with their smart black-and-white plumage and red bills.
He was heading for the second of the churches in his sprawling parish of Manningtree with Mistley, the one which, he admitted wryly to himself, fascinated him probably far more than it warranted. When he had first arrived he had asked to be shown it several times. He knew of course that it was a ruin, but surely, he had thought, there would be something to see. He knew he was a bit of a romantic, a side of himself he tried sternly to keep under control, but he did feel, quite strongly, that even a ruined church would still have an aura of sanctity about it. Perhaps he would be able to hold the occasional service in the ruins. He had not at the time had the chance to put this idea to anyone locally and perhaps that was just as well. His first few requests to see it had somehow not been heard. And this lack of response had intrigued him. He had investigated its history and found amongst other things that it might have been the burial place of the notorious Witchfinder General. He had of course gone looking for it himself at the first opportunity. What he found had disappointed him, but he had driven past on a rainy day. Today he was on foot and it was a glorious morning and he wanted to see if he could find out why the church had been allowed to fall into decay. Why it had been demolished.
Cutting through the centre of Mistley with its irresistible combination of Victorian industrial buildings, old Maltings and quay, its famous Adam Towers and swan fountain, its lovely houses and cottages, he made his way inland up a short track towards the path across the fields. He loved Mistley. The centre of the village was very small and these days so quiet it was hard to picture it as the bustling town it had once been.
The ruins of the old church lay up a narrow road beyond New Mistley, opposite the lane up which he strolled. Beyond, across the shoulder of the hill, he could see glimpses of the broad estuary, the water brilliant blue beneath the clear sky. There was a wind out there. He could see a white sail tacking out towards the sea, but inland it was very still, and the air was growing hotter. He could smell the wild honeysuckle in the hawthorn hedges, and the hot floury scent of the stubble in the fields.
He paused, looking round. There was still no one about. It was extraordinarily quiet. Turning slowly he found himself wishing suddenly that he had a dog to walk. It would be company on his early-morning strolls. In the distance he could see the huddled roofs of the small hamlet of Old Mistley, while behind him sprawled the houses of the new developments. But here, in the fields he was completely alone.
The site of the church was unmarked. All he could see was the brick wall which had surrounded the churchyard. It was almost buried under brambles and nettles now and behind it was what looked like a small orchard or paddock. There was no sign of the church itself at all. Within living memory, so he understood, the tower had still been standing and had been used to conduct funerals, then it had been declared unsafe and demolished. The site had been sold.
On the opposite side of the road was a pink-washed cottage, set back behind a wild tangled hedge. Its windows were dark and bare of curtains. A drunken-looking For Sale sign lounged beside the gate.
‘Can I help you?’
A stocky, bearded man had appeared in the lane behind him, two black labradors waiting patiently at his heels. The man’s eyes were hard with suspicion.
Mike shook his head. ‘I was just looking. I wondered if anything remained of the old church.’
‘It’s long gone.’ The man’s expression did not invite confidences and Mike found himself biting back his intention of introducing himself.
‘A shame,’ he said mildly.
‘Damn good thing. Evil place! You keep out of there. It’s private property.’ Whistling to his dogs, the man walked on up the road.
Mike exhaled loudly. Evil? No, how can it be, it’s church property, he wanted to shout. Mine! But of course it wasn’t true. Not any more. He watched the retreating back for a minute or two, then resumed his inspection of the site. As far as he could see there were no yew trees, no grave stones, no sign at all that there had ever been a church there except for the wall, and, he squinted through the nettles, the twisted remains of a gate lying below what had once been a gatepost deep in the undergrowth.
The wall beyond it, round the corner, had begun to crumble away. Without giving himself time to think Mike pushed his way through the nettles and scrambled over the broken bricks into what had once been the churchyard itself. Branches swung across behind him and within seconds he was totally screened from the road. He smiled to himself. It probably wasn’t wise for the rector to be caught trespassing but on the other hand his curiosity had been intensified by the man’s aggressive manner.
He moved forward into a patch of sunlight and stared round. He could see signs of old walls now, and a faint rectangular depression in the ground where the church must have stood. The whole area was thickly wooded. As far as he remembered from its description in The Lost Parish Churches of Essex it had been a beautiful medieval church with nave, aisle, porch and tower. The village had moved, the population drifting down the hill towards the bustle of the small port on the river’s edge, but that did not explain why it had been so completely lost. After all, there were other remote churches around; churches in the centre of a field or a wood and they had not been pulled down. They had been treasured and preserved. The voice of the man in the lane echoed suddenly in his head. ‘Evil place!’ he had said. Why evil? Was it something to do with Matthew Hopkins and the witches, or was it something else? Something infinitely older? An ancient ash tree shaded the ground and everywhere there were hawthorns and elders, heavy with ripening berries. The grass was kept short, he saw now, by some half-dozen sheep which were grazing on the far side of the trees. It was a beautiful, peaceful place. He took a couple of steps forward and paused. The birds had fallen silent. He shivered as a shadow fell across the ground at his feet.
Why exactly had they demolished the church? And if it was because it had grown dangerous, why had they allowed that to happen? And why had they to all intents and purposes flattened the graveyard? Not a single stone survived upright as far as he could see. And why, on this once-hallowed ground, was there not even one single cross as a memorial to the building that had once stood here?
Slowly he turned. The sun had disappeared behind a single stormy cloud and the warmth of colour had gone out of the morning. Making his way towards the gate he found himself conscious suddenly that someone was watching him. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and he glanced round again. He could see no one.
‘Hello?’ His voice sounded curiously flat in the silence. ‘Is there someone there?’
There was no answer.
By the distant wall the leaves rustled briefly and he swung round. ‘Hello?’ he called again. The wall was in shadow now, the bricks uneven, covered in moss and ivy. Something moved suddenly and he focused on it carefully. A tiny, mouse-like brown bird was running in and out amongst the ivy. A wren. He watched it for a minute and found he was smiling, his sudden tension defused.
