A Change of Pace (21 page)

In front of her was the lime pit. Enclosed by a barbed wire fence, it was much bigger than she’d envisaged. Quite tall trees grew up from the bottom, and the sides, although in places not particularly steep, were so smothered in rampaging undergrowth, mostly of the prickly variety, as to appear at first sight impassable. Although less overgrown, the far side, bordering on the Manor fields, was a more or less vertical quarry face, and out of the question unless one happened to be an experienced climber. How could Tib possibly have got into such a place? And — supposing he had — how could she follow him?

Come on, Brandon, you can’t give up now; if someone managed to build a cottage down there, there must be a way in. OK, that was years ago, but what about the boys who broke in and found that other dog? Oh God — that other dog ...

Spurred on by the thought of Tib’s sad predecessor, Bet hurried along the perimeter of the pit, searching for a way in. The trouble was that in the dark things tended to merge into each other, and if she didn’t find a place more or less at once, she would have to wait until morning. Then, quite suddenly, there were these two trees, and between them, incredibly, invitingly, a path. One had to admit one couldn’t quite see where the path went, but where else could it go but down? This must be the way Tib came — it simply had to be.

With Tib’s blanket round her waist, Bet, triumphant, squeezed under the wire. There, all it needed was a little effort; plain sailing now. The path even looked as though it was used quite frequently. It got steep, of course, very steep actually, but it would, wouldn’t it. Then, about twenty yards down, without warning, without so much as a by-your-leave, the damn thing fizzled out. One minute it was there, the next it had vanished under a ten-foot wall of blackberry bushes. Like so much else in Bet’s present existence, it had turned out to be a red herring after all.

So this was it then, she was beaten. She sat back on her heels and started to cry, and once started, couldn’t stop. Nothing more she could do now but go home with her tail between her legs — if indeed she could find her way home, which was doubtful. She should have waited for the children, rung Don, used her common sense. Instead of which, she’d behaved like the irresponsible idiot she was; proving once and for all something she’d been aware of for some time now, namely, that Bet Brandon, independent, intelligent, caring housewife and mother, was nothing but a fraud. Take away her props, first Dad, then Miles, and where was she? Where indeed? She was like a canary let out of its cage, not knowing what to do but blunder about and bump into the furniture. Look at me, I can fly — or at least, I’ll be able to just as soon as someone tells me how, and someone else holds my hand while I’m doing it ...

Now she was Bet the loser; eyes shut, cheeks wet, crouching by her wall of blackberries; the lowest of the very low, down for a count of ten, waiting for the bell to ring and tell her it was all over, she didn’t have to bother any more ...

She went on crouching.

Was it the cold, or cramp in her foot that, aeons later, made her open her eyes; or was it the newly risen moon shining on her face? Whatever it was, she opened them, and suddenly, without warning, like a trout leaping high out of the river in its search for evening flies, or a rocket whooshing into the sky trailing behind it a sheaf of coloured stars, a thought popped up from the muddy depths- of Bet’s soul. She was alive! She wanted to be alive, and what was more, she was damned well going to stay alive.

Bet grinned to herself in the darkness. Then, rubbing her poor cramped foot, she decided on one last look for a gap in the wall of bushes in front of her. If there wasn’t one, so be it, she’d call it a day. In any case, the kids would surely have seen her note by now — might have started out to look for her.

But of course there was a gap; there had to be, didn’t there? And there it was, only a few feet from where she’d been crouching. A tiny, prickly gap, just negotiable for a smallish person crawling on her stomach and keeping her eyes shut. The far side of the gap, bright in the moonlight, turned out to be a sloping ledge covered in tussocky grass, trails of old man’s beard and rabbit droppings. Scratched and torn from grasping brambles, Bet, triumphant once again, struggled to her feet and, not forty feet below her, saw the ivy-covered chimney of a cottage.

Then it happened. She stepped forward, caught her foot in a rabbit hole, and started to slide. She reached out for something to catch on to, but there was nothing; only falling stones and the wind in her ears. This was it then, was it? Nothing she could do about it, but what a shame it had to happen just as she had come to her senses.

She went on falling.

*

‘I am cold, Simon, my back aches.’

‘Do you ever stop moaning?’

‘You are cruel and stupid. Alfonso, he is not like this.’

‘Bugger Alfonso!’ Simon and Liza, chilled to the marrow, were lying on a rug on the cold cottage floor, an empty bottle of wine between them. ‘Come on, we’d better make tracks, we must have slept for hours.’

Simon got up stiffly and peered through the filthy windowpane. He longed to be home, seated comfortably by the morning-room fire, a soothing drink in his hand. He must be clean off his trolley, he really must. His body ached all over and it would be worse tomorrow. He’d had these aches and pains lately, he wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t rheumatism — if it wasn’t something worse.

‘Simon, there is something moving in the room through there.’ Liza stood behind him, pointing, her leopard eyes wide with fear.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I do not like this place, I do not want to go back through all those prickles, I —’

‘Shut up a minute.’

Simon could hear it now, a faint whimper and a sort of scrabbling noise — there must be something there after all. Where on earth was the bloody torch? He found it at last at the bottom of the haversack.

‘Do not go in there, Simon, someone may be hiding ... ‘

The door to the back kitchen refused to move, damp had swollen the timbers and the bolt was rusted in. Simon took a run at it and it gave way suddenly, precipitating him down a couple of broken stone steps on to the earth floor below. He got up painfully, rubbing his knee, and shone the torch round the room. In the corner by the old sink, something that looked like a piece of dirty rag moved slightly and whimpered.

‘My God, it’s Tib! It’s poor little old Tib! Quick, hold the torch while I have a look.’ And it was Tib, but only just; a Tib with no more than a thread of life left in him and an ugly gash on his right hind leg. ‘Poor, poor old man, poor little old man.’ Making soothing noises, Simon very gently picked the little dog up and carried him back into the other room, where he laid him down on the rug. ‘I reckon he must have injured that leg in a rock fall and somehow managed to drag himself into the cottage under the back door, then collapsed.’ He touched the ugly, gaping wound with his finger and Tib flinched. ‘We’ll have to try and do some rudimentary repairs to this before we start back. Look, take the torch and a mug, and see if the old rainwater tank is still out at the back.’

But I cannot go alone, Simon, there will be things out there in the dark.’

For heaven’s sake! What a bloody useless woman you are, to be sure! I’ll go, then, and you keep an eye on Tib. There’s a candle somewhere in the haversack, we’ll need all the light we can get.’

Alone, Liza looked down at Tib with distaste. What a fuss about a smelly little dog! The English, they were so absurd. Now the Spanish ...

There was a small area of ragged grass a few feet square at the rear of the cottage, beyond it the almost vertical quarry face. As Simon emerged from the back door, torch in hand, the moon came out from under a cloud, lighting up the whole area with brilliant clarity. The body of a woman lay spread-eagled on the ground at the foot of the cliff; she wore a red anorak and her hair was powdered with lime dust.

It was Bet.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Old Monty Cornwall choked over his toast. ‘Now what’s the matter?’ Kitty, deep in her
Daily
Mail
, disliked talking at breakfast.

‘Cyn Westover’s engaged.’

‘She can’t be.’

‘She is — what’s more, you’ll never guess who to ... ’ But Kitty was already up and reading over his shoulder.

A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Cynthia Penelope Westover, only daughter of the late Colonel and Mrs Bertram Westover of Hopton Manor, Stotleigh, Suffolk, and Simon Angelo Bertram Morris, only son of Mrs Ann Morris (née Westover) of The Riding School, Shrimpton, Surrey.

‘Now there’s a turn up for the books.’ Kitty sat down rather suddenly and reached for the coffee pot. ‘Do you think we’ll be invited to the wedding?’

*

‘Put me through to my husband, will you.’ His secretary buzzed Pete. ‘Fiona, I thought I told you I wasn’t taking any calls.’ ‘It’s your wife, Pete, she says it’s urgent.’

‘Oh, very well then. Hullo, ducky, anything wrong?’

‘Have you seen the
Telegraph
?
’

‘No, I’ve been absolutely flat out since I got in, in fact I can only talk for a minute — ’

‘Cyn Westover’s engaged.’

‘Is she now. Well, I suppose it comes to all of us. She must be fifty if she’s a day.’

‘She’s engaged to Simon Morris.’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘She is — it’s here in front of me.’

‘Are you sure you’ve got it right, ducky? I mean — ’

‘Of course I’ve got it right. How many Simon Angelo Bertram Morrises d’you think there are?’

‘Good Lord, is that the chap’s name?’

‘What does it matter what his name is, it’s Bet I’m worried about. I’m afraid this is going to be a terrible shock; just as she’s getting so much better, too. I had a card this morning from the convalescent home, she says it’s lovely, and one of the doctors is an absolute dream.’

Pete knew, he’d sent Bet a bunch of roses to await her arrival and she’d rung him at the office to thank him. He hadn’t, however, told Pol; she seemed a bit touchy lately, and he’d thought it better not to. ‘I don’t think we need worry too much on that score, ducky, I fancy Bet went right off the chap in the end. I know he saved her life and all that, but it’s quite on the cards she would never have fallen down that damn pit in the first place if she hadn’t met him.’ He paused for thought. ‘I suppose she might have, though. It was the French piece who drove the dog away.’

‘Stop waffling, Pete, I thought you said you were busy. What I want to know is, who’s going to tell. Bet ... ’

*

‘But Aunt Pol, are you are sure? I mean, it seems so odd. If they were going to get married, why on earth not years ago. Why wait until they’re old ... ?’

*

On the terrace of Napton Park Convalescent Home, Bet lay back in her chair — strategically placed to catch the dying sun — and stretched luxuriously. Before her was a silvan landscape of park and lake laid out exactly as Capability Brown intended. Soon it would be supper, and then bed. She watched the gaunt, grey shape of a heron rise slowly from his post by the reeds at the edge of the lake and flap away towards the distant woods. How beautiful it all was. She sipped her sherry — dry amontillado — and reached for Don Stewart’s letter on the table beside her.

Keatings Cottage

Dockleigh

Monday

My dear Bet

Just a line to tell you Tib’s progressing like a house on fire. The vet says he’ll have to keep the pin in his leg for life, but in a few months time he shouldn’t even be lame, and neither he nor anyone else will know it’s there. Meanwhile he’s managing splendidly on three legs, and much to my surprise, as he’s a cantankerous old devil, appears to dote on my terrier, Rex.

I hear from Nell that you too are going on splendidly, which is marvellous news. I shan’t forget the night of your accident in a hurry. I don’t know if anyone has told you, but I was the person Liza flagged down in the road on her way to get help. I was driving back from Stotleigh after delivering some stuff for typing to Jenny — my more than competent typist — that should have been done the previous week; my masters were beginning to get restive, and Jenny very kindly said she’d make an all-out effort to finish it on the Sunday and then it could go off by first post Monday morning. Of course I stayed longer than I’d meant to — Jenny and Brian are old friends and they offered coffee. Thank God I did! Liza was in a wretched state when I came upon her, wandering along the middle of the road, shoeless, weeping like a water-spout. My French is by no means as fluent as it should be, and she was well past conversing in English, but at least I managed to get the gist of what had happened, and she did have a scrawled note from Simon. Apparently he’d told her to take the footpath out of the wood that leads directly to the Manor and get help pronto, but she’d missed the path in the dark, lost her sandals, been chased by a cow, and eventually landed up on the main road where I found her.

I don’t think I’ve ever driven so fast in my life! My cottage was nearer than the Manor, so we went there. I must say, the emergency services were absolutely first class, and everyone else was pretty good too. When I got through to Nell, she said the Redfords weren’t back from their do yet, but Bernie and the two boys had formed a search-party and were already on their way to the wood. As it turned out, they arrived at the lime pit before the ambulance people and were a tremendous help. As to Cyn Westover, after that dreadful night I’ll always regard her as someone I’d like to have beside me in a crisis. The rescue people said that without her detailed knowledge of the terrain, they might well have had to wait until morning to get you and Tib out. By the way, did you know there were hourly bulletins about you both on Radio Stourwick? Fame indeed! Anyway — enough of all that, you’ve no doubt heard most if it before, in any case.

Things at the Rectory seem to be running with commendable smoothness. I’ve taken over nursing Tib — although he’s way beyond that stage now, and as fit as a flea — because what with one thing and another, Nell has quite a lot on her plate. I also pop over now and again to help out with the garden. I don’t think anyone realised just how much work you put into it until you became hors de combat.

I’ve had a card from Diz and JP in the Lakes. They say they’re enjoying themselves, but wonder whether it will ever stop raining. What else?

My book moves slowly. I always hate this part. To add to everything else, my publishers are threatening some sort of pre-publication publicity; I always thought they’d get me sooner or later, ours is a strictly love/hate relationship. Anyway, if in two or three months time you happen to come across me sitting all by myself in a bookshop in Stourwick surrounded by unsold copies of my book — take pity!

Sorry to write at such length, but once started, couldn’t stop. Sorry too I was unable to visit you in hospital, but the powers-that-be decreed otherwise. However, no such embargo on Napton Park. How about three-fifteen next Wednesday —and would flowers do, or would you prefer books??

All my love — please get well very, very soon —

Don

P.S. Tib sends his love too.

Bet carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. What a nice person he was, and what was more, it seemed as though he really was in love with her. Would she marry him? Well, she might; Miles would approve, she was sure of that. But perhaps she would wait just a little while before she made up her mind. At least until she’d learned to cope with her new-found freedom — new indeed, but nonetheless precious; until she’d had a go at some of those things she was sure now were waiting just round the corner for her to have a go at. That she didn’t yet know what the things might be, somehow didn’t matter. She knew they would be exciting and demanding and possibly even fun, and that she would do them. Meanwhile ... well, it was great to have found a friend like Don, and she didn’t deserve him, or such luck. But then, if everyone came by their deserts ...

Funny, though; he’d been around all through the drama; no one had told her that: But then no one had told her anything much about the night of her accident, and to be honest, she hadn’t bothered to ask.

And now for that other letter. The one postmarked Tangier, the one that had come by the second post, and that she hadn’t had the courage to open — until now ...

Villa Backhouse PO Box 20

Tangier

Sunday

My dear Titania

I never write letters and I never apologise, and here I am breaking the habit of a lifetime — you really do have an odd effect on people, don’t you. Cyn tells me you’re on the mend now, and I’m glad. I shan’t forget my last sight of you in a hurry, that’s for sure. Nor shall I forget the sight of your family, every man jack of them in varying stages of hysteria, including that love-sick archaeologist of yours. Marry him, Bet, and put the guy out of his misery — for all our sakes.

Now for the apologies, and I can assure you they don’t come easy. I’m sorry, Titania (I can go on calling you Titania, can’t I, I seem to have got used to it), sorry for the whole damned stupid mess. I could say we met too late, only it sounds so bloody hackneyed. Things moved so fast, I found I was up to my neck before I knew what was happening, and yet I knew all the time (as I have a feeling you did, too) that it was hopeless, that we’d never make a go of it together. It just wasn’t on. Then up comes Mademoiselle Liza Dupont, the perfect let-out. By the way, that girl is absolutely useless in a crisis. I’ll never forget sitting in that bloody cottage with you and Tib, both in what seemed at the time to be the last stages, wondering whether that stupid little bitch had made it to the Manor, or fallen down a pothole and simply given up. What was I saying? Oh yes. Well, that’s how it was and that’s how I am, and I assure you I’m not proud of it.

One more thing. I’d better tell you now, you’re sure to hear pretty soon anyway, as I don’t doubt your sister is a dedicated reader of the Telegraph. When I’ve done here —care-taking for Johnny Backhouse; free food and drink, plus pool, but too many ex-pats around for my liking — Cyn and I are getting married. Don’t be too surprised. In a way I suppose it’s always been on the cards. Cyn was my first woman and she’ll no doubt be my last. We’ve always got on, in our own weird way, and she doesn’t seem too averse to the idea. I have plans, believe it or not, for having a bash at giving poor old Hopton a bit of a face-lift, it needs one badly after years of Cyn in charge; my Dad and I owe it that, at least.

Take care then, Titania. I’ll be lord of the manor yet, and write a best-seller — you see!

Cheers,

Simon

P.S. By the way, did anyone tell you Liza has run off with Alfonso — or is it vice versa? Whichever way round, I reckon they deserve each other.

P.P.S. Now we’re not lovers, let’s be friends, eh??? — S.

Bet sat quite still for a moment, the letter on her knee, looking blindly out across the lake. Then slowly, imperceptibly, like the rainbow that follows the storm, she began to smile and then to laugh outright. Indeed, her laughter became so noisy and unbridled that it disturbed the friendly sparrow perched on the stone balustrade beside her — who, after squirting out a quick message of disapproval, fluffed out his feathers and flew off in a huff. So that was it! Cyn Westover. It was the one thing she’d never thought of, and it had been staring her in the face all the time.

Inside the house a bell rang; she must go in to supper. ‘You look happy, Mrs Brandon.’ It was lovely Dr Roberts, finishing his rounds. Bet, still giggling, got up stiffly from her chair and reached for her stick. ‘It’s nothing. Just something rather funny has happened, that’s all ... ’

*

‘Oh, do stop boring away over those papers, Si, Mr Partridge really does know what he’s doing.’

‘If Partridge knows what he’s doing, then I’m head of the civil service. I’ve never seen such a bloody cock-up in my life! Now what I’m suggesting is, we dump all this stuff in a cardboard box, put it in the car, and drive the whole lot over to that accountant of Pogo Nicholson’s. Pogo says he’s damned good, and that if he can’t make sense of it, no one can. Then, depending on what he says, we can — ’

‘Will you shut up, Si, I’m beginning to wish we’d never got married! You’re becoming an absolute bore about all this.’

‘Nonsense, girl, you love it, you know you do. I can’t think why we didn’t do it before. I might at least have made a push to prevent the place from collapsing round our ears.’

‘Simon Morris, if you don’t belt up I’ll ... I’ll jump on you, and I can promise you you won’t like it. I’m a big girl now — ’ ‘You don’t need to tell me that, my sweet!’

‘I’ll kill you, Si, you see ... Oh Si ... ’

And the dog, Oxford, waiting patiently to be let out, gave up, finished cleaning the mud from his rear end, put his nose on his paws and went to sleep.