Across the Sands of Time (16 page)

‘Dakin, you must have more discretion. Put that jar out of sight. Here, let me.'

He took up the telltale beverage and tucked it away behind
some dusty vessels on a shelf next to the bar. Then, retrieving a fallen stool, he set it down opposite the landlord and sat on it.

‘I've come about Polly. Can you tell me where she is?'

Wallace, frowning for a moment, hiccupped loudly and launched into a maudlin litany on how he hadn't set eyes on his beloved girl in months and what'd he'd give to be able to find her.

‘Her mother's dying. Dying! She calls for Polly day and night and it does no good. Did you know how lovely my Marion was? I hardly recognize her. Wasted away, she is. Can scarcely raise her head and—'

‘Stop this and listen to me!' John would never normally have spoken so out of turn to a customer, even one in his cups, but desperation drove him on.

‘I'll willingly fetch Polly for you, if only you'd give me some clue as to where she is. Anything, no matter how slight. Do you understand what I'm saying? Come on, man, stir yourself! Look at it from Polly's point of view. She'd want to be with her mother at such a time, wouldn't she?'

‘Aye.' Swaying unsteadily on his seat, Wallace raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and let them fall again to his lap. ‘Can't say where she'd be. I've thought and thought but I can't come up with anything. She used to go tripping off now and again. It'd be that Fernlea woman that encouraged it. Stuck-up creature!

‘Never had any time for me, that one. Too high and mighty to be associated with a common tavern keeper, brother-by-marriage or not. It must have vexed her sorely when I won the hand of her sister!'

Wallace let out a titter of remembered glee, stopping abruptly, his eyes narrowing.

‘I wouldn't mind betting she's the one behind Polly's disappearance – always were thick as thieves, those two.'

‘Do I take it we're speaking of Miss Jessica Platt?' John's face sharpened. ‘Well, it's a start. I'd better see what can be done. And landlord, mind what I said. Not a word on certain issues. Understand?'

Without waiting for a reply, deaf to the pleas from the kitchen
where the maid began a panicked shouting for her fish, John rose to his feet and hurriedly left the premises.

Outside the tavern, he paused to breathe in some fresh air and mull over what he had learned. Thinking about it, there could be some substance behind what Dakin had said. There was a marked similarity between Polly and her aunt and he could imagine them getting on well together.

On the one occasion he had met her he had taken to Jessica Platt. Unlike most of her class she had not treated him as an inferior and had seemed genuinely interested in his views and career aspirations. Very much her own woman, she had appeared to him.

Talk was that she and George Rawlinson had been seen out together more than once in the Rawlinson carriage and pair. There was always talk, but maybe Jessica had had her own motives for spiriting Polly away. He'd have to take care how he approached this….

Glancing down at himself, John grimaced. Unwashed, unshaven and stinking of fish, he was hardly in a fit state for calling on a lady, but when needs must.… He smoothed down his thickly waving, wind-tousled hair, brushed off his rugged fisherman's gansey and salt-encrusted trousers and, satisfied that he presented a fairly reasonable appearance, he squared his shoulders and started off for the house in the centre of the village.

A sudden clatter of hoofs from the rear made him look back. Turning into the yard of the Harbour House were two men clad in the unmistakable scarlet and black of officialdom.

John's stomach clenched. So his caution had come too late. He wondered where Polly's brother could be, Edward being more in command of his wits than his sire. There was nothing more he could do – except to convey the news to Miss Platt. But not before he had made his enquiries.

Spurred by the hope of finding his love, John continued on his way, whilst overhead the clouds began to release their cold burden of rain.

Thea woke up to raindrops pattering lightly against the window and the shushing of waves on the shore. She glanced at her travel clock. Not yet six. Late though she had been coming to bed, the habit of early waking was deeply ingrained. Swinging her feet to the floor, she padded across to the refreshments tray provided by the hotel, switching on the kettle.

She'd give herself the luxury of a cup of tea in bed, then shower and get into the snug needlecord trouser suit that had cost the earth and she'd never, until now, had occasion to wear.

In spite of the chilly rain showers it turned out to be a jewel of a day.

‘All serious topics are strictly taboo!' Dominic ordered, ushering her into the car where Trina was already ensconced on the back seat. He got in beside her, fixing the seat-belt, and smiled roguishly.

‘Today's purely for pleasure. Bit of sightseeing, lots of loitering in good eating places – maybe a stroll later on the beach. Have you ever walked with the wind fresh off Newfoundland on your face and the Atlantic breakers at your feet? No? Well, woman, you haven't lived!'

‘Oh, really?' Glancing askance, laughter in her eyes, Thea entered readily into the banter. ‘We've got mudflats! What more could you want?'

‘I'm telling you, once you get acquainted with the coastline here you'll wonder what you ever saw in the sands of Dee. Who was the old gloom-monger who wrote that verse? I never can remember.'

‘Charles Kingsley – I thought you liked the poem.'

‘So I do. I'm just not in the mood right now for ghostly caterwauling. Ready? Off we go, then.…'

The day went by much as Dominic had suggested. Thea couldn't remember when she had last enjoyed herself so much. That evening, wind-blown, bright-eyed and happy, she changed into a long woollen skirt and soft cashmere jumper, and went downstairs to where Dominic was talking to a familiar bunch of musicians.

Richard had his back to her but turned as Dominic looked past him and directed her a smile.

‘Thea!'

‘Richie! Oh, it's so good to see you!'

Brother and sister embraced warmly, and then Tracey was there, a glowing Tracey, proudly displaying a hand on which sparkled an elegant diamond ring.

‘Let's break open the champagne. It's actually happened. We're engaged!'

‘Oh, I wish you every happiness, both of you. It's no great surprise but terrific all the same.'

‘Isn't it just?' Richard put his arm round Tracey, smiling down at her. Happiness shone out of them, as if there had been a magical sprinkling of golden dust.

‘'Course, she's still got to sing for her supper. Did you know she's had offers to go solo?

‘Couldn't have that, could we, you guys? This was the only way I could get her to stay with the band!'

Tracey shook her head helplessly, tut-tutting.

‘Isn't it time you lot got tuned up? Or am I mistaken in believing that the crowd in there have come to be entertained?'

And entertained they were, with a fast and furious floor-thumping sound that went on long after the allocated time and had the audience leaving light of heart, a catchy tune on their lips.

For Thea, it turned out yet another late night. After the performance Richard wanted updating on the home front, which brought a sobering quality to the atmosphere.

‘They're all fine, truly,' Thea said. ‘Let's not spoil a great night with a fit of the mopeses.'

This was a phrase from childhood used by Mae if any of them looked glum, and Richard brightened accordingly.

‘You're right. You will be sure and give Ma my love? Tell her about Trace and me?'

‘I won't forget. Um … Richard?' Thea bit her bottom lip. It was no good. She had to ask.

‘Have you seen anything of Aisling Cleary?'

‘That little stirrer! No, I haven't. Why?'

‘Just curious.'

Dominic had gone to replenish the glasses but Thea kept her voice low all the same.

‘She does the jazz circuit, doesn't she?'

‘The Irish one, yes. Maybe she's realized she's outnumbered and opted out for once. Or else Dominic's given her short shrift. Saying that, she's been amazingly upfront with him over this new light on the doping scandal.'

‘He's told you about that, has he?'

‘Briefly. That's what we were discussing when you came down. Good news, eh?'

‘Very good. You couldn't fault Aisling's hand in resolving it, could you? It's just that … well, is she really as glam as she seems?'

‘Probably. To quote Tracey, “she's the sort of female other women hate on sight”. Oh, come on, Thea. Let's not talk about her.'

‘You're right. Where are you heading for once this tour is over?'

‘France, then Germany. We're due back in England in the early spring. My agent's got us a gig with a London club. Not bad, eh?'

‘That's terrific.' Thea beamed at her brother and the dark moment passed.

On Sunday the weather turned appreciably colder, with a wintry nip that reminded Thea of home and the flight she would take that afternoon. The brisk wind that whipped up flecks of foam to sting their faces and tug Thea's hair from its plait to send it streaming wildly did not stop them from taking another long walk along the shore.

Huddling together, laughing, Thea and Dominic braved the bracing air and declared, back in the warmth of the hotel, hands cupping steaming mugs of frothy chocolate, that winter actually had a great deal going for it!

All too soon she was winging homeward, her mind reeling with images of a joyful time shared. At the airport, Dominic's lips had pressed possessively on hers.

‘See you next weekend? I shan't let you go till you promise!'

‘I promise,' Thea said eagerly.

Now, settled in her seat by the window, she watched the clouds
beneath them and closed her hand over the small white pebble Dominic had picked up on the beach.

‘A keepsake,' he'd said. ‘One day we'll get it polished, shall we?'

It seemed a token for the future – of sorts.

 

Mae, putting out the festive sprigs of holly alongside the trays of cakes and pastries on her stall, paused to place her frozen fingertips to her temple. The headache she had woken with that morning hadn't gone away. She only hoped she wasn't in for one of those debilitating migraines that had dogged her since she was a teenager.

It was early yet but the farmers' market already heaved with shoppers. Some of her home-bakes had sold even before she'd had time to put them on display – all to the better, since with Christmas rapidly approaching and the start of the additional Thursday market, she had come with enough stock to fill two stalls.

About to delve into her shoulder bag for the painkillers, Mae was suddenly confronted with a large queue and her attempt to stave off the discomfort of a throbbing head had to be abandoned.

It was a long morning, not helped by the flurries of snow that swept across the shopping area and the lowering sky that spoke of worse to come. Not helped, either, by the gossip that flew around the stalls.

‘Heard about the new vet? The good-looking Irish guy, you know.'

‘The one that's been struck off because of a doping scandal?'

‘I don't think it's come to that yet, but it could. Freddie Barnes won't want trouble in the ranks. There are plenty of other practices. Customers have the right to switch if they're not satisfied – or don't go along with the type of staff being taken on.'

This last voice, belonging to the wife of Bob Perrit, who was responsible for starting the rumours, rang with vindictive glee.

‘You use the Barnes practice, don't you Mae?' she called across the aisle. ‘What does Chas think of it all?'

‘Not a lot,' Mae replied neutrally. ‘We don't have any stock now so we don't need the services of a vet as much as we used to. My
daughter's had Mr Shane out to one of her ponies. We all liked him very much. Thea was well satisfied with the treatment he gave the mare.'

Her words effectively put an end to some of the talk, but Mae couldn't forget how viciously it had blown up. At around eleven-thirty a lull in trade gave her the opportunity she needed to swallow the tablets in the hope of some relief from the pain which had worsened.

The flask of the coffee she usually relished remained untouched. The thought of the cheese rolls she had hastily put together brought a wave of nausea.

‘Good morning, Mae. Cold, isn't it?'

Mae looked up to see Geoff's mother, Helen Sanders, trim as always in a long green coat over elegant trousers and boots, a fur-trimmed hat on her neatly-coiffed hair. Mae, in thick cords and jumper, heavy jacket and woolly ski cap, felt at an immediate disadvantage.

‘Helen. Good morning. Yes, it's a bleak one, isn't it? Seasonal, though.'