Читать книгу River of Destiny - Barbara Erskine - Страница 11

‘What does Leo do for a living, do you know?’

Rosemary had cornered Zoë in the garden next morning and reluctantly Zoë had allowed herself to be talked into going next door for a coffee. The Threshing Barn was slightly larger than theirs, and stood at a rough right angle to it. The buildings had been erected centuries apart and with no regard to the congruity of the group. The largest of the three, The Summer Barn, belonging to Sharon and Jeff Watts, formed the third side of the inverted C. That too was medieval, though not much of the original building had survived and it had retained fewer barn-like characteristics in its layout. The shutters were closed and it looked faintly bedraggled. Following Zoë’s gaze Rosemary sniffed. ‘They will be up for half-term, like as not.’ She reached down a biscuit tin from the cupboard.

Each building had a small enclosed back garden, barely more than a terrace, and a front area, slightly larger and more informal. The Watts’s was gravelled and bare, Rosemary and Stephen’s was of neatly mown grass with a narrow flowerbed and a low hedge around it, and Zoë and Ken’s was paved. Lately Zoë had begun to think in terms of terracotta pots and flowing pink and grey foliage. Gardening had never been her thing, but she had begun to dream of something pretty to set off the starkness of the renovated barn behind it. Only The Old Forge had a proper garden, partly enclosed by an ancient wall and partly with a hedge. That area, according to the ever-helpful Rosemary, was where the horses had waited for their turn to be shod, tied to iron rings which were still there in the wall.

‘As for Leo, I’ve never asked him what he does now and he’s never volunteered so I haven’t a clue. Nothing much, as far as I can see. Obviously he was once a blacksmith of some kind. I expect someone paid him millions in compensation for those awful scars. If I were him I would have sued the socks off them.’ She shuddered ostentatiously.

Zoë felt a twinge of distaste at the woman’s lack of charity. Hadn’t he said he was still waiting for an insurance payout? She changed the subject quickly. ‘Is he married?’ Leo intrigued her.

Rosemary glanced sharply at her. ‘Not that I’ve heard. He never seems to have any visitors at all.’ She was laying a tray with a neat lace cloth and silver sugar bowl. ‘He sails,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘As do the Watts. Theirs is the bright red boat.’ She sniffed. ‘Typical!’ There was another pause as she stood staring at the kettle, as though trying to will it to boil more quickly. ‘They will take it away soon. I think it gets hauled out of the water over in one of the marinas. It is a hideous thing. No sails. Just a great big noisy engine.’

Zoë hid a smile. She agreed with Rosemary there. She didn’t like noisy motor boats either. She hadn’t noticed a large red boat down at the moorings, so perhaps it had already been hauled out for the winter. The only other boat riding on the tide at the moorings this morning was the small brown sailing boat she had noticed the day before, which presumably was Leo’s.

‘Someone told me you’re a keen walker,’ she said as the silence drew out between them and threatened to become awkward.

Rosemary nodded vigorously. ‘You must come and join us, dear. It’s a wonderful way to meet people and to get to know the countryside.’

‘Maybe.’ Zoë shook her head enthusiastically, belying the hesitation implied in the word. She couldn’t think of anything worse than going for prearranged walks with a group of people she didn’t know, like small children two by two following their teacher round the pavements of London. She had seen groups of walkers like that round Woodbridge and as far as she could see they never seemed to be enjoying themselves. ‘I like exploring on my own, if I’m honest, and I love running.’ Not that she had done a lot of running since they had moved, which was odd as there was so much beautiful country to run in, but she wasn’t going to admit that to Rosemary.

She followed her hostess into a room which Rosemary called the snug. It was anything but, in Zoë’s eyes, but it had the benefit of a view across country towards the distant woods. Beyond she could see the roofs and upper storey of neighbouring Timperton Hall, beautiful on the hilltop in the emerging sunlight. Their barns had been part of the home farm when the Timperton estate still existed.

Glancing round as she sat down, she noted the beams overhead, not so large as theirs or so gracefully arched, but still beautiful. ‘Does your barn make a lot of noise in the wind?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Creaks and groans?’

Rosemary shook her head. ‘Not really.’ She passed Zoë a cup and then stared at her anxiously. ‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re hearing things over there already.’

Zoë felt a cold draught whisper across her shoulder blades. ‘I know our predecessors heard strange noises. Leo told me.’

‘Sarah was a bit of a silly woman,’ Rosemary sniffed again – it was her version of a punctuation mark, Zoë realised – ‘but I have to say she did have a point. It’s because your place is so old – much older than either of the other buildings. I think someone told me it was fifteenth century or something like that. It is bound to move. You take no notice, dear. I’m sure you are a sensible person. She was hysterical, that one. Completely unstable. I’m surprised they stayed as long as they did.’

‘You never heard anything?’

‘Good Lord, no. And if I thought there were any ghosts here I would soon have them chased out. They are nonsense anyway. People with too much imagination see ghosts.’

Zoë stifled a smile. Privately she doubted if any ghost would have the courage to shack up with Rosemary.

‘What about ghost ships?’

The question was out of her mouth almost before she had thought of it.

‘Ah.’ Rosemary hesitated and then topped up Zoë’s cup. She hadn’t taken a sip yet, and the unnecessary gesture made the liquid slop over into the saucer. Rosemary didn’t look up and Zoë realised suddenly that her hand had started to shake. She put down the pot and finally glanced up with a hesitant smile. ‘I don’t believe it, of course, but there are plenty of people round here who would tell you about it.’

‘A ghost ship?’

Rosemary nodded.

‘A Viking ship?’ It was a whisper.

Rosemary’s eyes widened. ‘You haven’t seen it?’

‘I’ve seen a Viking ship. Twice. Yesterday morning, I could see it through the window. Then last night when we came back from sailing, we heard it. Ken saw it through the

mist, or at least he saw something.’ She paused for several seconds. Rosemary said nothing. ‘I thought maybe it was people coming for a regatta or something – re-enactors, you know …’ Zoë’s voice trailed away.

Rosemary was staring at her, her blue eyes intent on her neighbour’s face, concentrating as though trying to decide whether or not to believe her. She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen it. Nor has Steve. There’s an old legend about it. Pete, the man who comes to mow our grass, told us about it. You should ask him. Loads of people have seen it over the years.’

Zoë stared down at her cup. The coffee in the saucer looked disgusting; there were several drops on the table as well, a splatter trail leading to Rosemary, who had her hand still on the handle of the coffee pot. Neither woman said anything for several seconds, then Rosemary released the pot and stood up, and went back into the kitchen with Zoë’s cup. She poured the contents down the sink, hunted for a cloth to wipe the table and returned with a clean cup and saucer.

‘It’s all superstitious nonsense, of course,’ she said at last. ‘The river can be quite sinister sometimes in the dark and when it’s foggy like it has been these last few nights.’ She poured the coffee once more, this time with a steady hand, and then put the pot down with a sharp bang. ‘What did you see?’

‘A sail. A huge sail, bellied out in the wind, though there was no wind. We went out under power. There wasn’t enough to sail.’

Rosemary sat forward, her eyes still fixed on Zoë’s face. ‘Leo has a book which has a picture of the sail. It is some old book about Suffolk he found. You should ask him to show you.’

Zoë nodded. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to see it.

‘It was a sketch made by one of the farmhands who worked here, in these barns in Victorian times. Very rough, but it showed the pattern on the sail. He saw it a hundred or so years ago, but Noddy Pelham at the golf club told us lots of people have seen it over the years. He reckons that to see it is a portent of doom.’ She laughed and then covered her mouth with her hand, looking stricken. ‘Not that I believe any of it. Steve says it’s probably the shadows of the pine trees falling on the mist. Or a mirage, like in the desert, reflecting sailboats out at sea somewhere.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

Zoë nodded. ‘I think Steve is probably right. But it did feel,’ she hunted for the right word and found one which was totally inadequate for the weird, panicky sensation she had felt, ‘odd.’ She thought back suddenly to the night before, the creak and squeak of the oars, the sense of a huge vessel so close to them that even Ken was frightened for a moment, and she felt once more the prickle of fear across her shoulder blades. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ she went on weakly. ‘But a bit intriguing. As long as the guys on the boat don’t come ashore.’

Both women laughed a little uncomfortably and both almost involuntarily glanced towards the window. There was no view of the river from here. All they could see was the spread of the lawns, some distant trees and a hedge beyond which the fields rose gently up towards the crest of the hill where the eighteenth-century Hall, now converted into flats, sat in elegant repose in the sunlight.

Mr Henry Crosby sent for Daniel the following morning. ‘My wife has complained that you were insolent to her,’ he said. They were standing in the study at the Hall. Dan had his cap twisted between his hands.

‘I’m sorry to hear her ladyship had reason for complaint, Mr Crosby.’ Daniel felt a surge of anger which he was careful to hide. ‘If I gave offence it was unintentional, sir. Did she say in what way I was insolent?’

‘She brought her horse to you and you told her there was nothing wrong with it.’

Daniel was speechless for a moment. ‘But there was nothing wrong, sir. She said the mare was lame.’

‘Because of your incompetent shoeing.’

‘There was nothing wrong with my shoeing, sir. Nor with the horse’s feet either. I checked carefully.’ He could feel the heat rising up his neck.

‘Are you calling my wife a liar?’ Henry Crosby’s voice dropped dangerously.

‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ Daniel looked down at his boots, biting his tongue.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crosby walked across to stand behind his desk. He leaned on it, his hands flat on the blotter, fixing Daniel with an angry glare. ‘Take the mare back with you and see to her. Make sure there are no more mistakes if you want to keep your job, is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Daniel hesitated for a moment, then he turned away. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Outside the door he stood still for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper under control. Then he began to walk slowly down the passage. There was no one in the kitchen or the servants’ hall. He made his way out to the yard and round to the stable block where Bella was tied in her stall. He walked to her head, making crooning noises, and was surprised when she backed away from him, her eyes rolling. She was sweating profusely. Glancing down as he ran his hand down her shoulder, his eyes widened at what he saw and he swore viciously under his breath. Her front legs were a mass of cuts and bruises; blood was pooling on the straw.

It took him a long time to walk the mare down to the barnyard. She was very lame, and he would have preferred to leave her where she was, but a short consultation with Sam, the head groom, whom Dan had found in the harness room, convinced him otherwise. ‘She brought the mare home in that state,’ the older man said quietly. ‘Forbad me to touch the poor animal. Said she had been to you and you had said there was naught wrong and that she was to ride her home.’

Dan was too angry to speak for several seconds. ‘Then she told her husband?’

Sam nodded. ‘She called you all sorts, she did.’

‘That mare was fine when she brought her to me.’

‘I thought she probably was. What did you say to upset her ladyship then?’

Dan shook his head. ‘Lord knows.’

Sam gave him a quizzical stare. ‘Well, let’s hope the Lord will tell you because otherwise you are in big trouble, Daniel, my friend. You keep out of that woman’s way, that’s my advice to you.’

Dan put the mare in one of the line of loose boxes which had been built in one of the bays of the old barn. He washed and poulticed her legs, and Susan made her a bucket of bran mash. They both stood watching the horse listlessly sniff at the food. She didn’t touch it.

‘You’d best keep out of her ladyship’s sight,’ Susan said softly. She leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed over her belly. ‘That woman is trouble.’

‘But why?’

Susan gave a fond smile. ‘Because you are a handsome man and she expected you to show you like her.’

‘But I don’t like her.’

‘Oh, Dan, you duzzy old thing, don’t you see?’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘There’s a certain type of woman who wants every man she sees to fall at her feet.’

‘But I’m just the blacksmith.’

‘You’re a man!’

‘And if I laid a finger on her she would run screaming to her husband.’

‘Probably. That’s the way such folk are.’

‘And I love you, Mrs Smith. I’d never look at another woman.’

‘I know.’ Susan glanced over her shoulder into the shadows of the great barn and shivered. Several other horses stood quietly in their stalls, their great haunches shadowy in the fading light. There was no one else there, but somehow she had felt a breath of cold air touch her face.

There was a small stone church on the hill near the great hall of the thegn. The priest was a good man of some seventy summers; the people of the village liked him and so did the Lady Hilda. She was with him now, sitting on a stool in the cool shadows of the nave. ‘My husband is dying, father, we both know it,’ she said, speaking quietly even in the privacy of the empty building. ‘I need you to bring him the sacrament.’

‘I can’t do that, my lady.’ Father Wulfric shook his head sadly. ‘He has refused baptism yet again.’ He sighed. ‘His father was a good Christian and so is his brother, but the Lord Egbert is adamant in his apostasy. He cleaves to the old gods in his despair.’

‘My husband is a superstitious fool!’ she retorted with spirit. ‘He has found himself a sorcerer from the forest and reveres him as though he were a priest! The man gabbles spells and charms, and scatters runes like spring seed, and promises him a place at the side of Woden and Thunor. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘Egbert keeps on calling for the swordsmith. All that matters to him is that that wretched sword is finished before he dies.’

‘And his brother? What says he to that?’ Father Wulfric tightened his lips in disapproval. He was holding a small beautifully illuminated book of Gospels in his hand. It was the church’s most treasured possession, presented by Lord Egbert’s mother. Kissing it reverently he laid it on the altar.

‘He is preoccupied with raising men for the fyrd. King Edmund is calling warriors to his standard at Thetford. They are expecting more attacks from the Danish host.’

‘So we will soon be left unprotected.’ Father Wulfric turned back to her and sighed again.

She glanced at him, alarmed. ‘The Danes won’t come near us, surely? What would they want with a small settlement like ours?’

Father Wulfric didn’t answer for several breaths. They both knew what befell any settlement in the path of the Viking horde. ‘Please God they will not even know we are here,’ he said at last.

He stood and watched Lady Hilda walking slowly back towards the Hall, her blue cloak clutched closely round her against the sharp autumn wind. Her shoulders were slumped, her whole stance defeated. He shook his head sadly as he turned towards his own house, then he stopped. The swordsmith was standing watching him from the door of the smithy, his arms folded, his face thoughtful. For a moment Father Wulfric considered walking over to join him, but already the other man was turning away into the darkness of his workshop. The door slammed and the old priest heard the bar fall into its slot.

At first she thought Leo wasn’t going to ask her in, but after a moment’s hesitation he stood back and ushered her into a small cluttered living room. Zoë glanced at once towards the window. Yes, he too had the ubiquitous view of the river; his hedge had been trimmed low so he could just see the moorings below the trees. She could see his boat and the Lady Grace tugging gently at their buoys, swinging with the tide. The fire was unlit and she could see an old rubbed leather Gladstone bag on the floor just inside the door. ‘I am sorry. Were you just going out?’

‘I just came back.’ He folded his arms. ‘How can I help you?’ There was no smile to alleviate the slightly irritated tone and she felt an instant reciprocal bristling of irritation.

‘I have come at an inconvenient moment. I’ll come again when it is a better time.’

‘I doubt there will be a better time,’ he said. ‘Please, spit it out. Whatever you came to say was presumably important, or are you merely here to pass the time of day?’

She reined in a flash of temper. Had she given him a reason to be so rude? ‘I wanted to ask you about the ghosts, if you must know. The house is getting to me. But I will phone first next time and make an appointment.’

‘What makes you think I know anything about them, beyond the fact that they scared your predecessors away? At least, they scared her; he was an insensitive clod who wouldn’t have noticed if the entire angelic host had descended on his house.’

She found herself biting back a smile. ‘I wasn’t actually here to talk about the barn. Rosemary said you had a book with a picture of the ship.’

He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment and she saw the tension in his jawline. It accentuated the scars slightly. ‘You’ve seen the ship?’

She nodded. ‘I think so. Twice.’

‘Ah.’

He continued to study her face for several seconds, then he turned towards the bookshelves which lined the wall opposite the window. In front of them there was a long shabby sofa, covered by an old tartan rug. The room was nice, Zoë decided in the silence that ensued. Scented with an all-pervasive smell of woodsmoke, it was furnished with some decent antiques, and some attractive paintings, both modern and old. It felt lived in and comfortable and far more homely than the huge space which they called the great room at home.

He stood in front of the shelves, his eyes ranging left to right; his books were not arranged in order then. She watched silently, folding her arms as she shifted her weight, aware that she was not going to be asked to sit down. ‘Here,’ he said at last. He pulled out a small volume with a rubbed red cloth cover. ‘It’s in here.’ He handed it to her. ‘I’m in no hurry to have it back, but look after it. I will want it eventually.’

‘Thank you.’ Taking it she moved towards the door. She reached out for the latch, then she turned. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘The ship? Yes.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Mean?’

‘Yes. Is it a sign of some sort?’

‘That one is barking mad, for instance?’

‘No, that there is something wrong. Is it a portent of evil?’

He smiled. ‘Who knows? Read the book.’ He moved towards her and reached past her for the door, pulling it open and waiting for her to leave. ‘Are you a religious woman, Zoë Lloyd?’ he said as she stepped out into the porch.

‘No.’

‘So evil is for you a philosophical concept rather than a religious one?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘And what you really meant to say is, is it a sign of bad luck? Impending doom.’

‘I meant what I said,’ she retorted coldly. ‘Thank you for the book. I shall take care of it.’

She was tempted to hurl it at him.

Back at home, she made her way through the kitchen into the living area which she and Ken had by common consent come to call the great room. It had seemed appropriate in every sense on the first day they moved in and the term had stuck. She went to stand by the huge window, staring out towards the river. It was deserted, the sunlight glittering on the water. From here all she could see of the two boats were their masts. She listened. The room was silent. There was no feeling today that there was anyone else there in the house with her.

Curling up in one of the chairs she had placed so that there was a clear view of the river, she looked down at the book in her hands and turned it over so she could read the title on the spine. Tales and Legends of Bygone Suffolk, collected and retold by Samuel Weston. The page she was looking for was marked by a discoloured cutting from a newspaper. She unfolded it carefully. Dated 1954, it related the sighting of a ghost ship in the river: The great sail was set and the ship seemed to move before a steady wind, but there was no wind. The vessel has been seen in the past and on this occasion its passing was witnessed by two fishermen lying below Kyson Point. The men watched as it came close and both described the air as growing icy cold. It passed them round the corner and when they scrambled ashore and ran to look from higher ground the ship had disappeared. There was no sign of life on board and no sound other than the usual lap of the river water. When asked, both men agreed it had been a frightening experience.

She refolded the cutting and tucked it into the back of the book, then she began to read the chapter. It more or less repeated the description of the fishermen, adding details of several more documented sightings in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. She turned the page and there it was, a woodcut said to be taken from the sketch made by one of the farm workers on the Timperton Hall estate. It showed the ship exactly as she had seen it, with a curved sail and on it the design which she had not been able to make out clearly in the mist but which the unnamed farmhand had shown as an animal head with a long ornate tongue protruding from its open mouth. She scrutinised it thoughtfully and decided it might be a boar or perhaps a dragon. He had also shown the animal on the prow of the ship, a kind of figurehead high above the level of the water. He was obviously a man of no little talent – the sketch was detailed and had a pleasing sense of perspective. There was no comment with it, though, no record of what the man had felt. She skipped through the succeeding pages, but there seemed to be no further reference to it. Resting the book on her knee, she stared out of the window again. The sun was lower in the sky now, and the river looked like a sheet of silver metal. There were no boats in sight, real or ghostly. She listened. The room was quiet. How strange to think that the man who had sketched the Viking ship had probably worked in this very barn, perhaps stood with a hay fork in his hand on this very spot where she was sitting. She shivered and glanced round in spite of herself. The roof of the room was lost in shadow without the lights on, the great beams slumbering, hinting at the ancient oaks from which they came.

The door to the kitchen opened revealing the light she had left on over the worktop. ‘Ken? You’re back! I didn’t hear the car.’ She turned to greet him. There was no reply. ‘Ken?’ She stood up uneasily. ‘Are you there?’

The house was silent. There were no sounds of anyone moving around in the kitchen. Putting down the book, she walked across to the door, aware that her mouth had gone dry. ‘Ken?’ She pushed the door back against the wall and stood staring round the room. ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded oddly flat; without resonance as though she was speaking in a padded recording studio. The sun shone obliquely in at the window; in minutes it would start to slide down below the fields on the opposite side of the river. She had to force herself to move forward towards the work island in the centre of the floor. ‘OK, enough is enough,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t like this. Who are you? What do you want?’ She clenched her fists, suddenly angry. ‘If you are not going to show yourself, I want you to just bugger off!’ She wasn’t sure if she was addressing the neighbours’ wayward children or some ghostly presence. Either way she acknowledged that she was scared.

Her heart was thudding in her chest. The feeling that there was someone listening intensified; behind her she heard something roll across the table and it fell to the floor with a rattle. She spun round and stared. A bent corroded nail lay beside the table leg. She stared at it and then looked up. Had it fallen from the ceiling? In here there were fewer beams, the ceiling between them smoothly plastered. There was nowhere it could have appeared from. Hesitantly she stooped and picked it up. It was rusty, squarish, with a small head, cold as it lay in her palm.

She dropped it hastily on the table. ‘Is that yours?’ she called. She was addressing the ghost. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

There was no reply.

Seconds later she heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel outside and, glancing through the window, she saw Ken’s car sweep round the side of the building.

She scooped up the nail and put it into a small bowl on the dresser; minutes later Ken had opened the door and walked in, bringing with him a blast of cold air. He piled some paper carriers on the worktop. ‘I missed the blasted post again! Here, do you want some sausages? From the farm shop. I thought it might be nice for supper.’ He pushed a packet towards her. ‘The forecast is good; shall we go out early tomorrow? See if we can get down the river and over the bar?’

‘Out to sea?’ Zoë picked up the sausages with a slight grimace and went over to the fridge.

He laughed. ‘Yes, out to sea, with waves.’ There was an edge of hardness to his voice.

‘Why not?’ She forced herself to look pleased. Even sailing seemed better suddenly than staying alone in the house with – her thought processes stalled. She thought of it – the ghost, if there was a ghost – as him.

It occurred to her that Ken was watching her and she gave him a forced grin. ‘We could cook the sausages tonight to take with us tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘That would be nice.’

‘OK. How early do you call early?’

He smiled, all charm now he had got his way. ‘We need to go out so that there is enough depth going over the bar.’

‘And come back when the tide turns?’

He nodded.

‘Great.’ She managed to sound enthusiastic. ‘I’ll make the picnic up tonight.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll just go and send out a couple of emails then I’ll wash up for supper.’

That’s me sorted for the evening; cook supper and pack the picnic. Zoë suppressed a surge of irritation. It wasn’t as if she had anything else pressing to do, or that she didn’t enjoy cooking.

Ken was heading for the door when she heard him give an exclamation of annoyance. He stooped. ‘Bloody nail on the floor! Look, I’ve scratched the boards.’ He threw something into the rubbish bin and walked out. It didn’t seem to occur to him to wonder where it had come from.

For a moment Zoë didn’t move. She stared at the bin then slowly moved towards it. She pushed open the lid and looked inside. There, at the bottom of the empty white rubbish bag, lay another rusty nail identical to the first.

She reached down and picked it out and put it with the first one in the bowl, then stood for several moments looking down at them before putting the bowl back on the very top shelf of the dresser.

Leo watched them leave next morning with a sardonic grin. Obviously they hadn’t listened to the forecast. Walking away from the window, a bowl of cereal in his hand, he went into his studio and stood looking at the work in progress. It was proceeding well and he had to admit, albeit grudgingly, he was pleased with himself. There was a rattling noise from the kitchen door.

‘Come in!’ he called. ‘I saw you there.’

The door opened and a face peered in. ‘Hi, Leo.’

‘When did you come down?’ He hadn’t looked round.

‘Yesterday.’ The face was heavily freckled beneath a thatch of fiercely red hair. ‘Mum drove me and the boys down. It’s half-term, in case you didn’t know.’

‘I didn’t.’ It meant the Watts family, occupants of The Summer Barn, would put an end to the reasonably civilised peace of the area for at least a week. He sighed.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working.’

‘Boring.’

‘No. Exciting. As you would know if your father had anything like a decent work ethic.’ He often wondered where the family got their not inconsiderable pots of money from. Better not to know, maybe.

‘What’s an ethic?’

The child moved into the room and stood staring down at Leo’s work. She had a can of Coke in one hand and a wire led from some hidden pocket to the small earphones which dangled round her neck. Otherwise her wardrobe consisted of shabby jeans and a Simpsons T-shirt, probably a castoff from one of her brothers. It seemed inadequate for the chill of the morning but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Drop a millilitre of that stuff anywhere in this house and you are toast,’ he said equably.

‘You’re more likely to spill that stuff you’re eating. What is it? It looks gross.’

‘Muesli.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Bit like an ethic.’ He turned to face her. ‘Have you come for a reason or are you just here to annoy me?’

She shrugged. ‘Bored.’

‘Is your mother not taking you shopping?’

‘There’s no decent shops.’

‘Ah. I see the problem.’ He didn’t bother to ask what decent shops consisted of in her opinion.

‘And your brothers won’t play with you?’

She stared at him. ‘Play?’ She seemed shocked at the word.

‘I know. I am sorry. It’s not a concept you are acquainted with. What are they doing? Should I be barring the windows and calling the police?’

She giggled. ‘Probly.’

He frowned. ‘Jade, do me a favour, love. Tell those vile pigs who are your siblings to keep away from the new people in The Old Barn. OK? They are nice people and we don’t want them being chased away like the last lot.’

She grinned. ‘That was good. They was real scared!’

‘Jade!’

‘I know.’ She sat down on the couch and took a swig from her can. ‘This is shabby. My mum thinks you must be very poor.’ She was fingering the torn throw which covered the worst holes and frayed edges in the upholstery.

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Your mum is a wise woman. But fortunately I don’t mind being either poor or shabby.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got a boat, though. Can I come out on her?’

‘Have you learned to swim?’

She shook her head.

‘Then you know what the answer is.’

‘My dad says sailors never learned to swim ’cos if the boat sank, then they drowned quickly and there wasn’t time to get eaten by sharks.’

Leo nodded, trying to hide a smile. ‘Sounds good logic to me. OK, if I go out I will take you, but only if one of your parents signs something to say I have their permission to drown their child. And I want no brothers.’

‘Nor do I.’ She beamed at him. ‘Can we go today?’

‘No. The wind is going to get too strong.’

‘They’ve gone.’ She nodded vaguely behind her. Leo took her to mean Zoë and Ken.

‘I know. But I think they are experienced sailors. You are not.’ He folded his arms. ‘Right; this visit is concluded. Can you go home, please, Jade. I am busy.’

‘OK.’ She stood up, seemingly happy with the cursory dismissal. ‘Can we go tomorrow then?’

‘We’ll see! Out!’ He jerked his thumb towards the door.

He watched her as she wandered back through his garden, through the gate, leaving it wide open, and up the grass towards The Summer Barn. He couldn’t see it from here, but he could imagine the scene. From peaceful emptiness it would have changed to noisy chaos. The huge people carrier would be parked as closely as possible to the front door, which would be open. Noise, lurchers and general mess would have spread exponentially across the front garden and into the communal grounds, and his peace would be shattered for the next however many days they stayed. He gave a wry grin. He liked Jade, and her parents were decent enough, if congenitally noisy and untidy, but her brothers were the pits! He gave a deep sigh. The first thing he had to do was go out and close his gate against those damn dogs.

Rosemary was standing in the field below the barns, a carefully folded Ordnance Survey map in her hand, turning it round first one way then the other, her eyes narrowed against the wind. It was cold and her hands were turning blue but she had forgotten her gloves. She looked round again, carefully noting the lie of the land. There was no footpath marked, but there had been one on the old map she was looking at this morning in the library. The field lay diagonally to the river; almost at its centre there was a roughly circular area of scrub, which was fenced off from the rest of the field with rusting barbed wire. On the map the footpath would have gone through the middle of this patch, followed on down the slight hill and debouched onto the lane below the hedge. When you thought about it, it was the logical place for a path to go, otherwise it was necessary to veer left up quite a steep slope towards the gate in the top corner of the field and then walk down the far side of the hedge to join the lane several hundred yards further on. She reached into her pocket for her notebook and folded it open, fighting the increasing wind as the pages flapped wildly for a moment until she smoothed them flat. She drew a quick sketch and began carefully to pace the line of a possible path down towards the scrub. When she reached the barbed wire she paused, staring into the undergrowth. Why had it been fenced off? Squinting, she tried to see if there was a pond or feed bins or maybe a sign that there were pheasant-rearing cages in there. That was always reckoned to be a good enough reason for farmers to close off access. There was nothing that she could see, just a substantial mound of earth, brambles, nettles and several small skimpy trees. She began to circle the wire, sure there would be some means of access on the far side. There wasn’t. After getting badly scratched by brambles and mauled by the wire she gave up and stood, frustrated, staring down towards the river. The wind was rising. She could hear it roaring through the trees and, out of sight, on the moorings she could hear the clap of metal halyards against a metal mast. Briefly she wondered if Zoë and Ken had come back yet. She had seen them walking across the grass early this morning laden with a sail bag and basket, and each with a serviceable-looking day sack on their back.

Turning with her back to the water, she stared up the line of the missing path and saw through her whipping hair that someone was approaching her down the field. It was the farmer, Bill Turtill. She had always found him polite and, if not overfriendly, at least approachable, and she walked towards him with a smile. ‘Bill, how are you?’

‘All right, Mrs Formby. And yourself?’

‘I am well, thank you. Cold in this wind.’ She gave a theatrical shiver to illustrate the point.

‘I’ll be ploughing this field in the next week or two,’ he said after a moment. ‘You would find it easier walking if you stayed on the footpaths.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Her smile froze on her lips. ‘I was just wondering, Bill, why the footpath doesn’t come straight down across the field any more. You do know that it used to come across here?’

He shook his head. ‘The footpath follows the hedge up to the lane.’

‘It does now, yes. But originally it came directly across the field.’

‘I don’t think so. Not in my time or my father’s. It is clearly way-marked, Mrs Formby, and on all the maps, as I’m sure you’ve seen.’ He looked pointedly at her Ordnance Survey map.

She sighed. There was always trouble when anyone suggested to these yokels that a right of way needed to be reinstated. Still, there was no point in putting his back up prematurely. She smiled again. ‘I’m sure you’re right, it just seems strange when it is such an obvious route. Well, never mind. Once you have ploughed the field it will be impassable anyway.’ She sighed as she shoved the map into the pocket of her jacket and tightened her scarf. ‘It was nice to see you, Bill. Do give my love to Penny.’

She set off up the field with the wind behind her, conscious of his eyes on her back as she walked, determined not to hurry or divert from her route. It took her once more up to the wired-off area and once more she paused to gaze into the undergrowth. After a moment she walked on, skirting it as before. Why had he left that area of scrub in the field? It was a complete waste of space, not something the average man of the soil, who round here would plough up every extra centimetre if given the chance, would tolerate for a moment, in her experience. The mound of earth in the centre could easily be bulldozed. She huddled more deeply into her jacket. There were several things to find out before she took her findings to Arthur, who chaired the local walking group’s committee. She considered talking to Leo. He had taken an interest in local history since he had arrived, but then again he had told her that she and her walking group were a load of interfering bored trouble-makers. She hadn’t spoken to him since, and he had never apologised; so not the man to turn to for information. She had to find someone else to ask. But research was what she was good at and confronting Bill Turtill would, she suddenly decided, be an enjoyable experience. It might make him a bit less cocky. She shivered, for real this time, imagining his eyes, still cold and antagonistic, watching her as she made her way across his field.