Kitabı oku: «Wanting», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

‘FOR heaven’s sake stop worrying! Of course it’s all right, but Terry said to warn you that you could find yourself snowed in, so take plenty of provisions. Fortunately the cottage has its own generator and all mod cons, so you needn’t worry about that aspect too much.’

‘And it’s perfectly all right for me to use the cottage? He doesn’t mind?’

‘Look, I’ve already told you a dozen times that he doesn’t,’ Jennifer said in exasperation. ‘Here’s the key, and I’ve rung Mum and she says you can borrow her Mini. She’s going to drive it up to Town on Sunday and stay over to do some shopping; check up on us both, so on Saturday we’ll go shopping.’

Her cousin was displaying a remarkable aptitude for organisation all of a sudden, Heather reflected wryly, listening to Jennifer. The more she thought about Terry’s cottage, the more it appealed. She had never been to Scotland; she could even perhaps set some of her novel there. She was planning a factional work, a blend of fact and fiction, using as her base the de Travers family who for centuries had been the local squires of the village where Heather’s aunt and uncle lived. The family had died out during the first world war, but the Hall was still there and the local library abounded with information about the family. Heather had been fascinated by their history for as long as she could remember and knew it off by heart. They had come over to England with Henry II, and their history was closely entwined with that of England, but the information she had about them was not so detailed that she couldn’t embroider relationships where she wanted to.

The week passed without her hearing from Race, but that didn’t lessen her acute state of anxiety. She had lost weight and her nerves were so on edge that even Jennifer had noticed. She could hardly sit still and felt as though she were living on top of a live bomb, just waiting for it to go off. She felt vulnerable, afraid, tense to the point of hysteria. Remembering how she had felt in his arms kept her awake at night.

Jennifer didn’t help either. On several occasions she had pleaded with Heather to change her mind about her trip to Scotland, veering from seeming pleased that she was going to almost begging her not to do so. Heather half suspected her cousin of playing the devil’s advocate, or being primed by Race, but once she got to Scotland she would be safe. It was too far for him to follow her; he couldn’t leave his new position as head of the Documentary Department on Southern Television, not so soon after taking it up, and she began to long for the sanctuary the cottage had come to represent.

She was planning to leave that weekend, and was just deciding what to take with her when she heard Jennifer’s key in the lock.

‘You’re home early.’

‘Um, my boss gave me time off. He’s taking me out to dinner tonight. Well, actually he wants to take us both out. Don’t look like that,’ she told Heather, ‘it isn’t a trick to get you to meet Race. Terry wants to talk, about the cottage, either that or he thinks he needs a chaperon to protect him from me,’ she joked, giggling as she added provocatively, ‘and he’d be right. I love him, Heather,’ she went on more quietly, ‘and I think he suspects it—damn him. No, he wants to see you tonight to make sure you know the way to the cottage, and, I suspect, to check that I wasn’t lying when I told him you weren’t a featherbrain like me.’

Terry picked them up at eight and drove them to a new Italian restaurant run by some friends of his. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxing, and Heather found herself responding quite naturally to his questions. She had always liked him, and suspected he was by no means as indifferent to her cousin as he pretended.

‘I’ve already mapped out a route,’ Heather told him when they reached the sweet course, showing it to him. ‘Jen’s warned me about stocking up with food etc. My aunt is lending me her Mini for the journey.’

‘A Mini? Umm…. The weather can be pretty devastating up there, you could quite easily find yourself snowed in, but Jen tells me you aren’t frightened of your own company.’

‘Not in the least,’ Heather assured him, asking quickly, ‘Have you owned the cottage long?’

He shook his head. ‘Not very, a couple of years, that’s all. I only have a half share in it, I bought it with a friend and we both tend to use it as a retreat. There’s only one bedroom, so we’ve come to a satisfactory agreement about timing our visits and it works quite well.’

‘Pity it’s only got one bedroom,’ Jennifer broke in roguishly. ‘I was going to suggest you took me up with you next time you go.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ Terry agreed, his eyes teasing as he added, ‘You could always sleep downstairs on the settee.’

Mmm, not indifferent to her cousin at all, Heather thought in amusement, but wise enough not to make the chase too easy for her. Jen could well find out that she’d taken on more than she’d bargained for ‘Come on, girls, I’d better take you home,’ he added. ‘I’ve got to be at the studio at six tomorrow morning. Think yourself lucky you don’t work Saturdays,’ he told Jennifer, adding to Heather. ‘By the way, there’s no phone at the cottage, although there is a farm with one about four or five miles away.’

Saturday was busy. They shopped in the morning, the mound of tinned and dried food stacked in the kitchen after their forays, making Heather wonder how she would get it all in the Mini.

‘Dried milk, flour, coffee, tea, butter, eggs—that’s the essentials at least,’ Jennifer commented ticking them off on their list, ‘and then you’ve all these tins.’

‘Mmm, they’ll do for the days when I’m too busy writing to stop to prepare a proper meal. Terry did say there was an emergency Calor gas stove in case the generator failed, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, and plenty of logs. Sounds rather primitive to me. Are you sure you want to go?’

‘Positive,’ Heather told her firmly. ‘In fact I’m looking forward to it. Now, what else? Oh, I mustn’t forget all my research books and my papers.’

‘Keep on going at this rate and you won’t have any room for your clothes,’ Jennifer told her sarcastically. ‘Let’s get some lunch and then we’ll go out again. What else do you need?’ She glanced at her list.

‘Some thermal underwear might be a good idea,’ Heather joked, ‘especially if I do get snowed in.’

‘You need new jeans,’ Jennifer told her, ‘and new sweaters. You can’t go on wearing the twins’ cast-offs for ever. I know a shop that stocks the most adorable hand-knits with the cutest designs on them.’

‘No doubt at the most adorable prices,’ Heather agreed, suppressing a sigh. She had been thinking more along the lines of chain-store clothes.

By the end of the afternoon her feet and legs were exhausted. Jennifer must have dragged her through every shop in London. She had spent far too much money—nearly all her Christmas cheque from her aunt and uncle, and all she had to show for it was half a dozen jumpers, two new pairs of cords, and some sensible fleecy-lined wellington boots, plus a thick padded jacket with a hood. She turned round, looking for Jennifer, grimacing faintly as she realised her cousin had disappeared yet again.

‘Here I am,’ Jennifer announced, touching her arm. ‘Just buying you a little goodbye prezzy.’ She was grinning, and Heather wondered uneasily what she had bought. They were back in the flat before she found out, gasping as she saw the delicate satin and lace underwear Jennifer spread out for her inspection. ‘Oh Jen, they must have cost the earth,’ she protested. ‘And there’s no use saying you don’t want them. The shop won’t take them back, and they won’t fit me. Look,’ Jennifer coaxed, ‘you’ll be wearing jeans and jumpers all the time you’re up there. Indulge yourself a little. There’s nothing for making you feel all woman like wearing sexy undies.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want to feel “all woman”,’ Heather told her tartly. She’d experienced enough of that particular feeling to last a lifetime in Race Williams’ arms, but Jen had only meant to be kind and it seemed churlish to refuse her gift, even though the delicate fabric and brevity of the garments she had bought would be completely out of place in the cottage environment, and totally impractical.

‘Mum should be here soon,’ Jennifer told her as they prepared the evening meal. ‘We’ll load the Mini tonight, so you can get an early start.’

True to Jennifer’s prediction, her mother arrived just as she was putting the finishing touches to the table. She kissed both girls warmly, stretching up to hug Heather, both of them laughing. Like Jennifer, her mother was small and dainty, and when the two of them were together Heather felt like a giantess. ‘It’s freezing out there,’ Lydia Murray announced as Heather served the soup. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Heather? I’ll worry about you, driving all that way.’ That was one of the nice things about her aunt, Heather thought warmly. She never differentiated between her own children and Heather, her love for all of them was unbounding. ‘I can’t understand why you want to go to Scotland,’ she fretted.

‘She’s running away,’ Jennifer said mischievously, adding with a sly grin at her cousin, ‘from a man.’

Her mother looked startled. ‘Jennifer!’ she expostulated as though unable to believe what Jennifer was telling her.

‘I said a man, Mother, that’s a… M-A-N.’ She rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘You know, the sort that makes you weak at the knees, a bit like Clark Gable,’ she teased her flustered parent, ‘and he’s finally made Heather realise that she’s human. Heather,’ she announced, disregarding the bleak look Heather was giving her, ‘has finally woken up and discovered sex appeal—with a vengeance—and now she’s running away.’

‘Jen, you mustn’t tease Heather like that,’ her mother protested, ‘and I’m sure she’s doing no such thing. She’s far too sensible.’

Sensible! A wry smile twisted Heather’s mouth. If only her aunt knew! All her life, because of her height and more serious nature, she had been dubbed ‘sensible’ and ‘practical’, but since her meeting with Race Williams she had been feeling neither of those things—far from it. And Jennifer was far too acute She was glad she was getting away from London, she wouldn’t put it past her to try and engineer another meeting between them if she stayed. Of course she wouldn’t do it from malice, Jen wasn’t like that, but to her there could be nothing more logical than for Heather to want to pursue her acquaintanship with Race. Jennifer thought her reluctance to see him again sprang from embarrassment and the discovery that she wasn’t immune to him. Her cousin had no conception of the fear and anguish rioting inside her; the sheer terror she experienced each time she remembered how he had made her feel. As long ago as adolescence she had told herself that no man was ever going to have the power to hurt her ever again, and that was the way it had been until… until Race Williams touched her and sent her up in flames, all her carefully constructed barriers turned to ashes at her feet.

She went to bed early, knowing she was going to have a long drive ahead of her, and was touched when both her aunt and Jennifer got up to have breakfast with her, coming to wave her off as she headed north.

Once on the motorway some of the tension that had been with her since she woke up disappeared. There had been a sharp drop in temperature overnight and she drove carefully, taking her time, stopping for lunch just before she reached the Lake District, the quiet village pub she found almost deserted.

The food and rest replenished her energy, but she hadn’t realised just how far she was going to have to drive, she reflected ruefully as she glanced at the snow-covered peaks of the Cumbrian mountains, brief flurries of snow dancing against the windscreen. The further north she got, the worse the weather, and when she eventually pulled off the motorway she felt concerned enough to check at the motel she came to, on the state of the roads and the weather forecast.

‘We’ve had it bad,’ the pump attendant told her. ‘Heavy snowfalls twice this last week, and they say there’s been more up past Fort William, but the roads are still open. Where are you going?’ Heather gave him the name of the village closest to the cottage. ‘Mmm—it’s pretty remote up there, hang on a sec, I’ll check with the weather centre. Why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of coffee, it won’t take long.’ When Heather thanked him he shrugged. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. We get too many inexperienced motorists coming up here, not realising how severe the weather can be. That last bad winter several lives were lost, partially through carelessness. Come back in about a quarter of an hour and I should have found out something for you.’

The coffee she ordered came quickly and was hot and reviving. After fifteen minutes had passed Heather returned apprehensively to the forecourt. Having come all this way she didn’t fancy having to turn back.

‘You’re in luck,’ the attendant told her. ‘But I hope you’re planning more than a weekend stay? There’s a blizzard on the way. Should hit tomorrow, so you’ve got plenty of time to get there.’

Thanking him for his kindness, Heather paused to check her tyres. She wasn’t going to take any chances. He smiled approvingly at her as she drove off, giving her the confidence to hold the small car steady on the thin black ribbon of road, alarmingly bordered by unending vistas of white.

It was dark before she reached Fort William, barely pausing there in her anxiety to reach her destination. She thought about staying overnight and then remembered what the garage attendant had said about the blizzard. It would be better to finish her journey tonight, tired though she was than risk having to turn back in the morning. And besides, it was only another twenty miles or so.

They must be the twenty longest miles in existence, Heather thought tiredly after what seemed like hours of driving through the darkness; the road almost deserted, the white silence of the countryside around her; the starkness of the scenery all combining to make her unusually edgy and nervous, Ben Nevis and the surrounding mountains towering above her, the pass along which her small car crawled unnervingly deserted. At last she found the signpost for the village, disturbed to find the road climbing steeply, but fortunately free from the snow which was banked high either side of her. The village, when she eventually came to it, was no more than a small cluster of houses, and a small shop, and garage, the latter illuminated. Thankfully Heather pulled into the forecourt. She wasn’t going any further until she had made absolutely sure of her directions. Even as she opened the door snow started to whirl down around her, and the man who emerged from the small office was quickly covered in the thick flakes as he strode towards her.

‘So it’s the MacDonald cottage you’ll be wanting?’ he asked in the soft sing-song of the Highlands. ‘I doubt you’ll get there in your Mini, lassie. The road’s been closed these two days past.’ Something of her disappointment must have shown on her face, because he said, ‘I’m not promising, mind, but it may be that the Land Rover will make it. Staying long?’

‘Two months,’ Heather told him. ‘It belongs to a friend of my cousin’s. I’m—I’m a writer….’ she added, feeling that some explanation for her sudden appearance was necessary. She knew all about village life and village curiosity from the Cotswolds where her aunt and uncle lived.

‘If you’ll just bide a while I’ll close up here and we’ll load your stuff into the Land Rover. Come well prepared have you?’ He peered into the Mini and grunted approval as he opened the boot. ‘Aye, it’s a good seven mile on foot down here to Mrs Mac’s shop, but I see you’ll not starve. A writer, you say… now there’s a coincidence.’ He didn’t say what the coincidence was, as he lifted one of the large cardboard boxes from the back seat of the Mini and deposited it in the battered Land Rover. ‘I’ll garage the Mini down here for you,’ he offered, ‘get someone to bring it up when the weather lifts. Who did you say your friend was?’ he added gently, but Heather wasn’t deceived and hid a small smile, knowing he was checking up on her, and why not? It was all part of the obvious neighbourliness of the villagers.

‘My cousin works with Terry Brady,’ Heather explained. ‘He and a friend own the cottage.’

‘Aye, that’s right. Comes up for fishing, does Terry. Nice laddie. Come on up with you,’ he added, hoisting Heather into the Land Rover and then slamming the door.

The battered vehicle was cold, and Heather shivered as he got in beside her, wishing she was wearing the thick padded jacket packed away in her case. ‘I had no idea the weather was going to be as bad as this,’ she told him. ‘I stopped in Cumbria and they told me a blizzard was forecast—for tomorrow.’

‘Aye, like as not,’ her companion agreed laconically, engaging four-wheel-drive as they chugged out of the forecourt.

The road to the cottage was steep and ankle deep in snow, deeper in parts, but the Land Rover, although sliding occasionally, causing her stomach muscles to tense made light of the hill in a way that was far beyond the capabilities of her poor aunt’s Mini. As they drove the snow started to come down more heavily, thickly covering the windscreen blotting out the landscape. The road dipped and then rose again and as the wipers cleared the window she had a glimpse of a sheet of water glittering under the stars. ‘Yon’s the loch,’ she was told impassively. ‘The cottage is only a step away now.’

The step was about a mile, and Heather gritted her teeth as they bumped down what could only have been a farm track and which Terry had failed to mention. In the headlights of the Land Rover the cottage huddled against the hillside, dark and unwelcoming. She opened her bag looking for her key as they came to a stop. Her companion, who had introduced himself as Fergus, was already lifting the boxes from the back of the Land Rover, shaking his head when she offered to help him, indicating that she go ahead and unlock the door.

Surprisingly the house felt quite warm, the door opening straight on to an old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a stone floor and large scrubbed table. ‘Oh, aye, that will be Mrs MacNeil from the farm,’ Fergus told her when she expressed surprise. ‘She’ll have sent someone down to switch on the heating, keep the place from freezing.’ He also told her that the cottage had once belonged to the MacNeils but that they had sold it. As soon as the weather clears I’ll tell them you’re here,’ he offered, adding doubtfully, ‘Are you sure you want to stay?’

Did she? For a moment Heather felt doubtful, and then she reminded herself that it was pointless coming all this way to back out at the last minute. The generator was obviously working. Fergus had switched on the lights. The house was warm and would undoubtedly get warmer if she turned up the thermostat. She had nothing to fear, unless it was her own company, whereas if she returned to London….

‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I don’t know where everything is yet. You must let me pay you for your petrol, though.’

Firmly refusing both offers, he brought in the rest of her belongings, and when the tail lights of the Land Rover finally disappeared into the swirling snow, Heather felt an acute sense of loneliness.

An hour later she had unpacked and explored. The cupboards were surprisingly well stocked; even down to half open packets of cereal and fresh food in the fridge. Perhaps the farmer’s wife kept it stocked for Terry and his co-owner, or perhaps Terry had telephoned and asked her to stock it for her. The living room was surprisingly large, furnished attractively in natural fabrics and furniture in soft greens and browns. An open staircase led up to the second floor; the bathroom, and the single bedroom Terry had described. Curiously for such an isolated and seldom used cottage, the rooms had a lived in air which was vaguely comforting.

Downstairs again, Heather made herself a drink and surveyed her cases. She would unpack those tomorrow. She was feeling acutely tired and suddenly longed to go to bed. Back in the living room she studied the table, wondering whether it would be best to work from here or from the kitchen. Her typewriter lay on the floor in its case, and she noticed an empty space on the bookshelves running along from the fire and decided she might as well store it there until the morning. A cupboard beneath the shelves was locked, and she wondered why as she placed her typewriter on the shelf. The shelves also housed an expensive hi-fi system; far too expensive to only be used on the odd weeks in the year when the cottage was lived in.

Heather went to the window and peered out. The snow was coming down very heavily, the wind picking up. Shivering, she checked that everything was put away and then picked up her cases, wondering if the heating also produced hot water. Right at this moment she could think of nothing more attractive than a hot bath, followed by a very long sleep.

Some time during the night she woke up, wondering what had disturbed her, and if she had really imagined the sound of a Land Rover engine. She must have done, she decided several minutes later, when the only sound to break the silence was her own heartbeat. She must have been dreaming about the drive up here.

Well, she had done it. She had escaped. Now she could put Race Williams well and truly behind her and concentrate on the job in hand. Her book.