An Affair to Remember (12 page)

“
I
forbid
you
Octavia
,
your
father
would
not
wish
it
.
What
will
I
tell
him
?
It
is
I
who
will
be
blamed
.”

“
Peace
,
woman
,
I
am
going
.
My
father
is
far
away
,
and
besides
I
don
’
t
care
.
I
don
’
t
care
,
do
you
hear
me
,
I
don
’
t
care
.”

The words seem to echo round the yard. Beatrice stands quite still waiting, for what she has no idea. Then the rooks start. Something must have woken them. What? She walks slowly across the yard to where a wicket gate at the north end of the barn leads into the small paddock, a corner of which contains the rookery. Carefully placing the now empty bottle of orange on the wall, she lifts the latch, and, closing the gate gently behind her, grass wet with dew brushing the hem of her dressing gown, wanders into the paddock. Ah, this is better, she’ll sleep here alright. Things are beginning to become a little confused, but she knows where she’s going, and makes for the tallest of the trees in the rookery, the one that towers over the barn; and kneeling down beneath it, peers upwards into the twiggy depth above her. “Guardians help me,” she whispers and faints away.

Back at Kimbleford Sam’s talking in his sleep. “For heaven’s sake, Sam, shut up. I have to be up in the morning even if you don’t.” Emmie, maddened by his gibberish, switches on her bedside light. “What on earth’s the matter?”

Sam sits up, looks at his watch. “Christ, Em, it’s three o’clock in the morning, what on earth’s got into you?” Emmie’s wearing her frilly purple nylon nighty, there’s cream on her face; he feels a spasm of distaste.

“Nothing’s got into me, it’s what’s got into you. You were making such a din, I wouldn’t be surprised if next door could hear you, you –”

“What was I saying?” Sam, aware of a sudden rush of excitement, jumps out of bed and going over to the window, pulls back the curtains and lights the inevitable cigarette.

Em looks at him helplessly, “Oh I don’t know, rubbish mostly, I can’t remember.”

“You must remember something. Come on, Em, it may be important.”

“How can it be important? What people say in their sleep never means anything. There was a name, I think, ‘Tavy’, something like that, could be a man or woman I suppose, knowing you, probably a woman.”

“What else? I must have said something else?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know. It was all so jumbled and I was fed up at being kept awake, but you might – and I told you it was rubbish – you might have said something about rooks.”

“Rooks?”

“Yes, rooks.”

“You sure it wasn’t books?”

“No, it wasn’t books, it was rooks, and now I come to think of it you said something about your mum.”

“You see, you do remember. Although I agree it doesn’t make much sense,” Sam puffs his cigarette; he feels both angry and frustrated. Someone’s trying to make a fool of him, he’s sure.

“I did tell you that, dear,” Emmie says patiently, as one talking to a child, “didn’t I. Now why don’t you put that cigarette out and come back to bed. You’ll sleep now, now you’ve had a bit of a break, don’t be such a silly billy – or perhaps we could –”

“Oh cut it out Em. We both of us need some sleep.” Putting on his dressing gown he makes for the door.

“I will one day, ducky,” Emmie switches off the light, leaving him to make his way in darkness, “if you’re not careful, that’s exactly what I will do.”

Far down the valley a cock crows; it’s dawn already.

Chapter 8

“Now, dear, I think it’s time we had a little talk.” Beatrice nods miserably. Seven o’clock in the morning and they’re in Sel’s office, Beatrice after a shower and a cup of tea, only marginally refreshed.

“I just fainted, that’s all.”

“I know you fainted, dear, I was the one who found you, remember? And in a poor state you were too. If I hadn’t gone out to try and hush those infernal rooks up, heaven knows what would have happened. What I’m asking you now is why did you faint, and why did you faint where you did? I mean, to let yourself out of the house in the middle of the night, go straight like a homing pigeon to a particular tree and faint underneath it, is somewhat bizarre behaviour, you must surely see that?” Beatrice, trapped, says she doesn’t know why, she must have been sleep walking. “Are you in the habit of sleep walking?”

“I don’t think so, it was just those voices and of course there were the rooks…”

“Voices, rooks?” Sel’s beginning to sense a story, the old newshound in him, quiescent for more years than he likes to remember, stirs, pricks up its ears. “I do think I deserve an explanation, dear. Things appear to be happening in my house of which I know nothing, and as your employer I feel I have a right to be told what they are.”

“I don’t know,” Beatrice says, “I only wish I did,” and bursts into tears. Sel, now really beginning to get excited, calms her down as best he can – she ends up sobbing into his shoulder – and with little hope that Juan is up yet, rings for coffee. After several tries it’s plain he isn’t – Juan has a habit of over-sleeping – Sel says he’ll make some himself, and after kissing Beatrice gently on her forehead, and telling her to take a few deep breaths, he won’t be long, hurries away to the kitchen.

Beatrice stays where she is, looking blindly out of the window at the valley and the hill beyond, now shimmering in the early morning September sun. It’s going to be another scorching day. There’s a spider’s web glittering with dew strung across a branch of wisteria, escaped from its moorings and hanging down from above the window, a fly encased in its mesh; the scent of late roses wafts into the room. An elderly lady in a blue robe walks across the garden and points towards the distant bridge. Beatrice looks. Down the hill comes a small procession. Hard to see it clearly as it appears to be moving in a cloud of dust, but she can make out a group of people carrying someone in a litter.

‘
Father
,’says the voice inside her head, ‘
Father
?’

“Sorry to be so long, but I couldn’t get the coffee machine to work.” She turns away from the window and there’s Sel in the doorway with a laden tray. She jumps up to make room for the tray on his desk, and when she turns back to the window, as she knows it will have done, the little procession has vanished.

“My dear, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost, surely nothing else has happened?”

“I’m afraid so.” In silence Sel puts down the tray, pours them both a coffee, butters one of Mrs Bogg’s rolls and hands it to her.

“Eat that dear, you look as if you need it.” Having buttered one for himself, he sits down beside her, takes a sip of coffee, makes a face, says: “Now, dear, it’s time, I think, you told me what is going on? It’s something serious I can see, so please don’t leave anything out, it may be important. I want to hear absolutely everything…” And Beatrice tells him, while Sel, his enigmatic eyes following the spider as it hovers on the edge of its spangled web, hears her out in silence.

Clarrie wakes up knowing she’s about to be sick. Out of bed just in time, makes for the bathroom. She returns feeling shaky but marginally better, to find Juan with her breakfast tray. The thought of coffee and orange juice makes her want to throw up again, but she supposes she’d better try some.

“Good morning, Señora. It is a beautiful day again – yes?” Juan places the tray carefully down on her bedside table, while she climbs back into bed.

“Yes.” She feels too ill to enlarge on the subject.

Juan flicks an imaginary crumb away with his napkin, “The Señorita, Beatrice, she is ill in the night. The Señor, he give her brandy.”

“I heard nothing?” Oh God, what was Sel up to now. “But the Señorita Beatrice, she is better now?”

“Yes, better now. I hear the typewriter.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” Clarrie is dismissive.

Juan, however, is determined to have his say: “The Señor, he bring Señorita Beatrice in from the fields,” he says, triumphantly, “and then he give her brandy.”

Clarrie’s head feels as though it’s about to split open, she’s beginning to be queasy again. “Well as long as she’s better now, there seems no need for worry.” Juan, looking disappointed, continues to hover. “That will be all now, Juan, except could you ask Mrs Bogg to come and see me as soon as she arrives.”

“But certainly, Señora,” Juan bows, with dignity makes for the door, shuts it behind him, and Clarries breathes a sigh of relief. About to take a sip of orange juice, she suddenly knows without a doubt she’s going to be sick again. Again makes it to the bathroom just in time. Back in bed she feels a little better. Better enough to take a sip of orange? Perhaps not. She’d wait a little and see what happens next. Could she have eaten something that disagreed with her? Possibly. Was it a bug? And Beatrice had it too. Although to dash into the fields to be sick seemed a bit over the top. Anyway, she’d lie still for a minute or two and try thinking of something else. That might do the trick. Breathing deeply and doing her best to relax, she picks up the
Guardian
newspaper – Juan always brings it with her breakfast tray – and tries to concentrate on the headlines. It’s no good. Apart from everything else the damned rooks are making such a noise, she can’t hear herself think. Something must have disturbed them. Shouldn’t they be out in the fields by now doing whatever rooks are supposed to do?

It’s while she’s pondering on this entirely unimportant point that it comes to her: a bolt out of the blue; hammer blow; flash of inspiration; whatever you like to call it. The reason for her sickness, general up and downness lately, everything. She’s pregnant. She’s bloody pregnant! Clarrie Woodhead, beautiful, warm, caring human being, hostess
par excellence
, has managed to get herself in the family way, and randy, conceited, common as muck Jack Fulton must be the father. But she’d been so careful, always put her diaphragm in before they met – the pill disagreed with her, and Sel having had the chop years before she knew him, on the rare occasions when they had sex they didn’t use anything. Of course nothing was a hundred per cent safe; perhaps she’d not put the damn thing in properly, been in too much of a hurry; doing it in the car probably didn’t help. Who knew?

Then another hammer blow strikes; she remembers she missed her last period. In her case missing a period was not an unusual occurrence, she’d been irregular even as a girl and doctors had always said it was nothing to worry about, she was perfectly OK in that department, so she hadn’t taken much notice, but now…

Miserably she bites into a piece of dry toast, it tastes of ashes and the tears start to fall. “Oh God!”

“My dearest heart, my rose, my queen, what on earth’s the matter?” Sel is in the doorway looking harassed. “No more trouble with Juan and Mrs Bogg, surely?” Clarrie, wiping her eyes on an already sopping handkerchief, shakes her head. “What then?”

“I feel bloody ill, that’s all.”

“All?” He sits down beside her on the bed, takes her hand, feels her forehead. “Have you rung the doctor, or would you rather I get hold of old Poncy Adams and ask him to come down? He owes me a favour and you never know with these country GPs. They –”

“No!” The word comes out somewhere between a wail and a shriek. “I don’t need a bloody doctor. It’s not that.”

“Not what, my love?” He pulls her gently into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. “You must tell me; how else can I be of help?”

Clarrie cuddles up to him, closes her eyes, she never can resist Sel when he’s like this. “I think,” she says in a little girl voice, “I may be pregnant.”

“Ah…”

Silence for a moment. Sel, his eyes far away, absent-mindedly kisses the top of his wife’s head, while his formidable mind weighs up the pros and cons of the situation. He knows something Clarrie doesn’t know; even then it seems unlikely the child is his. At length, turning her face, still blotched with tears, to his, and looking deep into her eyes, he makes his pronouncement. “My darling,” he says, between kisses, “I am so very happy.” Clarrie looks at him doubtfully, she has a nasty feeling she’s going to be sick again.

Downstairs in her office Beatrice sits stoically typing. “Everyone lies about sex,” Sel’s voice says through the earpiece in her ear, “has anyone noticed? If they have had it they say they haven’t, and if they haven’t had it, they say they have. Exclamation mark and dots.”

‘Exclamation mark and dots’, she types mechanically, then realises what she’s done and angrily rips the paper out of her machine. It’s no good, she can’t work this morning. Too much has happened.

She longs for a cigarette; if she has much more of this she’ll have to take up smoking again. So Tavey, presumably Octavia, had a father, then. A father who’d forbidden her to go out, but returned unexpectedly. It surely must have been him they were carrying in the litter, but who was the old woman? Were they ghosts, or just figments of her imagination? “Leave it to me,” Sel had told her following their breakfast session, “we have something very interesting going on here, but I need time to think it through. What I do feel, however, is we need the advice of an expert, possibly several experts. This is, after all, the age of the expert, so someone who can combine a knowledge of the paranormal with that of the period of Roman occupation shouldn’t be too hard to find. Meanwhile, dear, not a word to anyone.” It was all very well for Sel, she thinks miserably, all this isn’t happening to him. The phone buzzes beside her: