Across the Sands of Time (5 page)

Trina had gone loping off chasing seagulls and Dominic whistled her back. A little way ahead on the promontory, the Harbour House sketched a dark outline against the sky. Builders' materials and a skip full of rubble stood on the frontage.

He was debating on whether to turn back when Thea's car appeared on the track and drew up outside the house. Thea got out and waved to him and the dog immediately went bounding off to greet her. Dominic followed at a more sober pace.

‘Thea. Good evening.'

‘Hi, Dominic. All right, Trina, I've said hello. Now sit. Good dog.'

‘I didn't expect to see you at this hour. It'll soon be dark.'

‘I know. Geoff rang about some measurements he needed. I thought I had them but could I lay hands on them? It was easier to jump in the car and pop down here with the tape measure. How did the move go?'

‘Fine. It didn't take all that long – well, I only brought a few bits and pieces with me from back home. I shall send for the rest once I'm properly settled. It's a nice property. I've struck lucky there.'

‘That's great. There's a lot to be said for going for a place that's in good order.'

Thea directed a wry glance towards her future home. The
Harbour House, in the process of being gutted, was at that trying stage where you wonder if it will ever be finished. She shrugged ruefully, smiling at Dominic.

‘I expect you'll be touring the salerooms now for furniture.'

‘It's a thought. You must call some time. I'll show you round.'

‘That would be lovely, Dominic. Would you like a look at the Harbour House? You'll need to stretch your imagination. At the moment it's shambolic.'

She rooted through her pockets.

‘Now, where's my door key. Ah, got it. Come on in. You too, Trina. You can both help me measure the kitchen.'

Laughing and talking, they unlocked the front door and vanished into the house. Neither of them had noticed the small, watchful figure who stood in the shadows of the derelict boathouse a short distance away.

 

‘You said
what
to Dad?' Richard asked Tracey with dismay.

It was Jazz Club night. The show was over and everyone had left the premises. As always, Richard and Tracey had stopped to tidy up and sit and discuss the gig over a coffee. Tracey spooned sugar into Richard's mug and shunted it across the table to him.

‘It was nothing, Richard. We were talking and I mentioned your passport photo. I don't think your father thought anything of it.'

‘Don't you believe it! Dad picks up on everything. He takes on board a lot more than you think.'

She shot him an accusatory look.

‘Well, you should have put them in the picture about the tour. This is their farm we're talking about, Richard. They're entitled to know what's happening. Your father might have to take on another guy in your place.'

‘I doubt it, not this side of winter, anyway. Everything goes quiet once the corn harvest is over'

‘All the same, they should know the situation. Look, why don't I follow you home now in my car and we'll tell them together?'

‘Why don't you just let me deal with this? Give it a break, Tracey. We've got Manhursts booked for next week.'

This was the firm of agricultural contractors who dealt with the harvests.

‘They're bringing the combines in on Monday. Let's hope this good weather holds. With luck the fields will be cleared by the end of the week. Then I'll tell Dad.'

But Richard's plans were thwarted. The following morning, Saturday, he intended going into town to kit himself up for the tour. Over breakfast, Chas turned to him with the news that he wanted to get on with opening up the fields; a procedure that involved mowing a single track round the outside edge of each field to clear it of weeds and let in the air to the main crop.

Richard gazed at his father in exasperation.

‘We can do that tomorrow. It won't take long if we use both tractors. '

‘I had a look at the cornfields last night,' Chas replied. ‘There's a lot of bracken and other hedgerow stuff this year. Some of it is very high indeed. No, we're better tackling it today. The forecast for the weekend is good. A bit of sun on the crop tomorrow will make all the difference.'

‘But I'm going out, Dad. I've things to do.'

‘Then I'm sorry but it'll have to wait. It's harvest time, Richard. I don't have to spell it out to you. The farm comes first.'

‘Blast the farm!' Richard snapped, the weeks and months of pent-up frustration boiling up inside him. ‘I've said I'll do the fields tomorrow and that's it.'

‘Oh, is it?' Chas said, dangerously quiet. ‘What's so crucial that it can't wait till next weekend, Richard? It wouldn't have anything to do with that new passport, would it?'

Richard's heart sank. So he was right. Tracey should have kept her mouth shut! Mustering calm, he said quite reasonably, ‘Yes, it would actually. Dad, you're not going to like this … I'd meant to hold off until after the corn was in before I brought the subject up. But you may as well know now. I'm leaving the farm.'

‘What, for good?'

‘I'm going professional with the band. I'm sorry to have to spring it on you like this but that's how it is.'

There was a shocked silence in which Chas stared at his son as if unable to take in what he was hearing.

‘We've made an album, Dad,' Richard went on desperately. ‘The guy who's sponsoring us thinks we're good. We've got a tour of Ireland booked.'

‘Oh, have you now!' Chas found his voice at last. ‘And what about Woodhey? The work doesn't come to a stop with the corn harvest. What about the winter wheat? The ploughing and sowing? Had you thought of that?'

‘Dad, I—'

Chas stood up, almost knocking back his chair.

‘I might have known there was something up. And where does that leave your mother and me? In the lurch! Well, Richard, I'm telling you this. You've obviously made up your mind, so you might as well go now!

‘Go on, before I say something I might regret. Get your things together and clear off out of it! That's what you want, isn't it?'

‘I
knew Richard had plans to go off with his band, but I didn't reckon on his leaving under quite such a cloud,' Thea told Geoff ruefully. They were shopping in Chester and had stopped for a coffee.

‘He and Dad had a blazing row. You could hear them all over the farm. Neither would give way – they're a match for each other when it comes to stubbornness.'

‘It's a pity Richard hadn't come clean before now, though. It would've given your dad a chance to get used to the idea,' Geoff suggested.

‘Oh, you know how it is, nothing matters except the farm. There wouldn't have been a moment's peace for any of us.'

‘Perhaps not. How has your mother taken it?'

‘Mum's miserable. She hates confrontation, but I think she'll eventually see this Richard's way. If farming isn't your thing it can be awful. And Richard's got talent. He'd be a fool not to take it further now he's got the chance. Bryony and I are in agreement for once. She really stood up for Richard. Dad did a lot of blustering but I think he took some of what she said on board. If anyone can talk Dad round it's my sister!'

A smile crossed Geoff's affable face.

‘Well, she's a born charmer!'

‘Dad's golden girl.' Thea smiled ruefully. ‘Bryony always could twist him round her little finger.' She gave a little slight laugh. ‘They'll be in Dublin now. The initial plan was to go after the corn
harvest but Richard texted me saying there was nothing to keep them now and they were leaving immediately – or as soon as Tracey could make it. She's a fancy dresser. Lots of packing to do.'

‘Are she and Richard an item?'

‘It looks that way.' Thea poured the last of the coffee. ‘They're well matched. I'm glad for them. Can't wait for their album to come out. The Richie Dene Band and Tracey Kent. Imagine!'

‘Sad it's been the cause of a rift, all the same. What about the farm? How will Chas manage?'

‘We'll have to take on a man in Richard's place. I don't suppose you know of anyone wanting a job?'

‘Not offhand, but Dad might come up with something. Meantime I'll send one of our lads along to help with the ploughing. It needs tackling while the weather's good.'

‘Oh, would you?' Gratitude shone in Thea's eyes. ‘That'll ease a lot of the strain. But lucky Richard … how marvellous to be free to follow your dream.'

Geoff snorted.

‘I call it being downright selfish.'

‘Well, if it was me I'd have done the same thing.'

‘It wouldn't have mattered quite so much though, would it?'

‘I don't see why not. Women run farms these days and make a good job of it, too.' Thea was annoyed by his comments. ‘Anyway, have you finished your coffee? We might as well go. Just the final decision on the kitchen units. Do you want me to see to it?'

‘OK. Let's head back, then. There's something I need to get on with at Roseacre.'

‘Yes, I rather thought there might be,' Thea said wryly.

They were quiet on the journey back, separated by their thoughts. Geoff's face wore a preoccupied expression, his mind evidently was on whatever task awaited him at the big dairy farm.

Thea was disappointed that he had shown such little interest in what she considered a brave move on her brother's part. The fact that they seemed to hold quite opposite views on things these days troubled her.

Geoff dropped her off at Woodhey and sped away to pick up the
Heswell road. Watching until the car had disappeared from view, Thea turned and walked slowly up the track to the farm. Lunchtime was close but she wasn't hungry. Instead of going indoors, she jumped into her car and headed for the Harbour House. She might as well get her kitchen choice done with.

A familiar figure walking his dog on the narrow lane ahead caused her to slow down. She drew to a stop beside him, letting down the window.

‘Hi, Dominic. How's things?'

‘Hello, there, Thea. We're fine, aren't we, Trina?'

The setter laughed up at them joyfully and Thea reached out to stroke her burnished red coat.

‘It's my day off,' Dominic went on. ‘I've been doing some decorating. Just a dab of paint, nothing fancy.

She nodded.

‘We're keeping things simple at our place, too.' Thea paused. ‘Have you heard about Richard?'

‘That he's gone off with the band and the delectable Tracey? Yes, I did hear something of the sort. It's true, then?'

‘Absolutely. I hope you're not going to bang on about shirked responsibilities?'

‘Why should I? Richard's a grown man. Thea. It's up to him how he chooses to live his life.'

‘My sentiments exactly. Geoff can't get his head round how anyone could up and leave without a backward glance.'

‘Quite easily, I should imagine! Music is to a musician what the land and stock are to a farmer. And Richard's got talent. I've heard them play. And Tracey Kent is a natural.'

Try telling Geoff that, Thea thought.

‘When the album comes out I'll get you a signed copy.' She grinned. ‘It might be worth a fortune one day, like my gran's Beatles programmes!'

He laughed, his darkly handsome face becoming suddenly warmer.

‘I'll keep you to that. When do you go back to school?'

‘Monday. This coming term is a hectic one – long too.'

‘So, do you enjoy teaching, Thea?'

‘Well … yes. There's a lot I don't like, such as all the paperwork.' She shrugged. But I suppose there's a downside to every job.'

‘True. My pet hate was a certain type of horse owner at Ferlann. Not all, I might add. And the horses made up for it.'

‘You were at the Ferlann Ridge Bloodstock Sales?' Thea's interest sharpened at the mention of the famous sale. ‘Were you the resident vet there?'

‘One of them. A girl I knew worked on the clerical side. She was a jazz buff, too. Sang at the gigs.'

Then the shutters came down. Dominic brought the dog to heel.

‘Well, I'd better press on. Tell your father I've got that information he wanted about organic farming. Better still, call in for it on your way back. You haven't seen my place yet.'

‘I've been busy. You know how it is.'

‘Sure I do. See you later then, Thea.'

Sending a farewell salute, Thea drove away, his words whirling in her head. Why had Dominic abandoned such a highly-thought-of position for a post with a small country practice like Parkgate? And who was the girl? Was there a broken romance here? Something more…?

It struck Thea, a little wistfully, as she turned in at the drive to her future home, how understanding he had been over Richard.

Inside the house, Thea spread out the kitchen brochures on the wide window seat, trying to decide between the latest fashion in limed wood and an attractive golden oak.

But her heart was not in it. She'd think about it later … her thoughts kept straying to Dominic Shane and the mystery behind his reasons for leaving his homeland.

Thea fished in her bag for a bottle of water and sat down in the sunny window embrasure. She'd go to Birkenhead and hand in her order at the kitchen suppliers, she decided, before school started.

How the holidays had flown! Despite her best mare being out of the ring earlier she had made up for it since, coming home with several first rosettes and a trophy to add to those on the dresser shelf.

At the thought of her ponies her heart warmed. Once she and Geoff were married he'd surely take more interest in them. It would be great to do the shows together, she mused, yawning, her eyes growing heavy in the warmth from the golden September sun….

 

‘I won't beat about the bush, Polly,' Wallace Dakin said to his daughter. ‘George Rawlinson has asked for your hand in marriage and I've given my agreement. It's a good match. He's not short of a penny or two. Big house, his own ferry company, wise investments. You'd not do better. Don't stand there gawping, girl! Say something.'

Polly stared at her father in shocked disbelief. Marry George Rawlinson?

‘But Da, he's old,' she blurted out. ‘And he's fat. He's got a son older than I am.'

‘Rubbish, George is in his prime, and a fine figure of a man. He's been lonely since his wife passed on, what with the son residing in London and nothing but an empty hearth to return to each night.'

‘But I don't love him,' Polly protested chokingly.

Wallace's eyes narrowed.

‘What's that got to do with it? He's a good man who'll look after you, so let that be an end to it.'

Recognising the stubborn note in her father's voice, Polly bit back the argument that trembled on her lips. Mama hated raised voices. She must not be upset. Polly picked up her basket and took her leave. A few moments later she was speeding along the road, passing the row of Coastguard Cottages, heading for her Aunt Jessica's in the centre of the village.

As a rule the Parade would have been crowded; strolling couples admiring the view of the estuary, nannies taking the air with their young charges.

Today, with rain sweeping in from Wales, the road was deserted, and Polly was glad to turn off into Mostyn Place where her aunt's house stood, staunch and welcoming, in its big garden.

Fernlea was the Platts' family house, a stone-built residence with wisteria-clad walls, mullioned windows and tall chimneys.

Jessica Platt must have been watching out, for the front door opened and Polly was enveloped in her aunt's patchouli-scented embrace. Dark where her sister was fair and handsome rather than beautiful, with flashing black eyes and a healthy complexion, Jessica had a manner that brooked no arguments.

‘Polly! Give Agnes your cape and come and sit by the fire, dear. Some tea I think, Agnes.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

The maid bobbed a curtsy and vanished into the nether regions of the house, whilst Polly was ushered into the comfortable parlour of plush-covered chairs and polished surfaces.

‘Now, tell me your news. I vow it is weeks since last we spoke.' Jessica smiled to take the sting out of her words and arranged herself on the sofa with a rustle of silken skirts. ‘First your dear mama. How is she?'

‘Not very well, Aunt Jessica.'

‘Then you must call the doctor. Marion never was robust and she works too hard. I'm surprised your papa doesn't engage some help in the tavern.'

‘I'm sure Da isn't intentionally thoughtless. It's just that Mama has always managed. She's sent you a jar of the strawberry preserve you are so fond of.'

‘Oh la! Give her my thanks.' She studied her niece closely. ‘You look wan, child.'

‘Oh, Aunt! It's Da.' Polly hardly knew where to start. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘I fear he could be in big trouble. He's involved with
smugglers
.'

Aunt Jessica patted her hand.

‘Dear me, is that all? I'm not a whit surprised. A tavern on the harbour couldn't be better placed for a spot of crafty trafficking. Polly, my love, don't look so shaken. You'd be amazed at the number of people – many of them very well respected – with a finger in that particular pie.'

She preened her hair and the collar of her frock.

‘How else do you suppose one obtains the material for one's gowns or the wine for the cellar?'

‘I … I hadn't thought,' Polly stammered. ‘Aunt Jessica, that's not all. Da says I'm to be married – to Mr Rawlinson the ferry owner!'

‘To … to George?' At this Jessica looked stunned. ‘My goodness me!'

The maid entered the room then with the tea-tray, giving Jessica time to restore her scattered wits. Busy with silver teapot and delicate china, she heard Polly out.

‘I won't do it! I cannot marry someone old enough to be my father! Besides, I love another, but I dare not make an issue out of it for fear of upsetting Mama.'

‘There, child. Mayhap it will come to nothing.'

Jessica handed Polly her tea, plied her with cake and, cleverly changing the subject, launched into an entertaining tirade on a dinner party she had attended the previous night.

Mollified by her aunt's bright company, Polly then returned home to more trouble.

‘It's your brother,' Marion wept. ‘The rector has found out that Edward's been secretly courting his daughter and is in a fine fury. Your father's forbidden Edward all further contact with the girl. My poor boy! I know he's high-spirited but he means no harm and he truly loves Susanna.'

‘And she him,' Polly agreed. ‘Hush, Mama. You mustn't distress yourself or you'll be ill again. See what Aunt Jessica has sent you. Some lace trim for a gown and a bottle of cordial she says will help boost your blood. Oh, and there's a new anthology of verse by Mr Browning. Shall I read it you?'

‘That would be splendid. Dearest child, what would I do without you?'

Polly opened the book. She had arranged to meet John Royle at high tide. Now she would be late.

When, eventually, she sped to their trysting place in the lea of the boatshed, John was no longer there. He had left a note. Polly read it feverishly.