Fear in the Sunlight (24 page)

‘But the longer I’m not free, the more I risk . . .’

Marta took Josephine’s face in her hands. ‘What is this business about being free? You’re free now in the way that matters. It’s not about sharing a house or being together all the time, and I’m not going to turn up at Inverness Station with a suitcase asking for directions to Crown Cottage if I don’t see you for a month. It’s what happens when we
are
together that counts, and how we feel when we’re apart. Your absence doesn’t make me doubt you. I don’t get this kind of love from anyone else but you, emotionally or physically, and I don’t try.’ She saw the joy and understanding in Josephine’s eyes, and for a moment the world seemed to shrink to include just the two of them. ‘
We
come first. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘Yes,’ Josephine said. ‘Yes, it is.’

David Franks stood beneath the canopy of a Welsh oak tree and looked down across Portmeirion as if it were a map laid out before him. A stranger to the place, standing at ground level, would never know that there was a path up here at all, but from where he stood he could see the lives of the whole village played out in miniature below: a figure moved across the balcony from Dolphin to Government House, its progress inside marked by the switching on of successive lamps; a car horn sounded cheerfully near Salutation, bidding farewell to an invisible companion before its tail lights disappeared around the sweep of the drive and out of the village; above the garages, in the house they called Neptune, a woman drew the curtains and her silhouette moved slowly over to the bed. David watched, unseen and unsuspected, completing each fragmentary story in his mind as a distraction from the narrative of his own life.

The rain stung his face as he left the shelter of the tree. He walked the short distance to the burnt-out shell of the cottage as quickly as darkness would allow and stopped a few yards away, his hand resting gently on the trunk of an enormous fir. It was a magnificent specimen‚ and, as a child, he had stood here often, looking up through the blue-green needles until its height and the strong scent of pine made him dizzy. The tree must be nearly a hundred years old now; when the camp returned each summer, it had always been one of the first things that David sought out, a treasured symbol of stability in a drifting, rootless life. Reluctantly, he forced his eyes to focus on the shadow in front of him, a sudden, searing reminder of pain. There was no need for daylight here. The image from eighteen years earlier was quite literally emblazoned into his memory, as powerful and intense as if the building’s scorched walls still held their heat: his father’s murder, burnt to death by a brutal lynch mob when David was only fourteen years old.

He remembered how frightened he had been, although ‘remembered’ was the wrong word because the fear had never left him. Hatred and rage had spilled out of their mouths, sharpened by years of suppressed prejudice. He saw their fists clenched tightly around their own anger, heard boots trampling through the undergrowth. Men too old to fight, women, boys even younger than he was – an army of self-appointed heroes, denied a real war but marching to one of their own making. They hurled half-bricks, bottles and stones at the cottage – makeshift missiles, mostly, although some had come prepared, battering at the door with coshes or waving chair legs wrapped in barbed wire. He heard the crash of broken glass and saw his father’s frightened face appear briefly at the damaged window. Their eyes met‚ and, for a moment, David was convinced that his father believed him to be one of the mob, a defector to the settled lifestyle which he had, in his heart, always longed for. The crowd pushed him to the ground, called him a child killer’s son and promised he’d be next. He smelt the smoke before he saw the flames, and realised too late that the odour he had detected on their hands and clothes was petrol.

The fire took hold quickly, and he noticed one or two members of the crowd glance anxiously at one another, wondering if they had gone too far but unable now to stop the rush of blood – in each other, or in themselves. Then he heard his father’s dying screams, echoing his mother’s agony as she had tried to push a dead baby from her body, filling the years of his childhood with one long cry of pain. David had no idea now what had made him mention his father that evening, except a devilment which sometimes overcame him, a need to push his luck, to find out if anything would make him care. Impatiently, he shook off the memory of Alma’s hand on his: it was a sympathy he did not deserve, because his father’s death was his own fault and he had not been able to stop it. He had run away and fled back to the old mansion house – to fetch help, he had told himself, but help from whom? From a frail old woman and a pack of dogs who had been taught to expect only kindness? No, he had run for his own safety. Shut up in that room like a dog himself, while other people decided his future, he had cried and shouted and railed against his own cowardice, almost as if he had absorbed the anger from each and every member of that mob and turned it in on himself.

His mother’s grave was not far from this spot. There was no stone, nothing to indicate to a stranger where she was buried, but everyone who mattered knew where to find her. Even though she had not been of Gypsy blood, his father had insisted that the ancient rites be observed to the letter‚ and, after the funeral, he had packed everything she owned into their wagon, poured in paraffin and set it alight. When the fire had burned itself out, the leftover metal was raked away and buried safe from thieving gorgio hands; her animals were slaughtered, her young dog killed, and David was left with nothing but a bewildering sense of how transient a life could be. Later, when his father died, the ashes from that terrible fire – ashes of bricks and bone and hate – had been buried here too. He turned away from the ruins and headed back to the village, thinking of how ironic it was that his parents should be so rooted now while he wandered from place to place, picking up camp and moving on. Always restless. Always moving on.

Bridget and Archie had managed to tie the tarpaulin tightly to the roof of Salutation so that it hung down to protect the paintwork against the storm, and Bridget took advantage of the shelter it offered to check for any damage to the mural. He watched as she shone the torchlight onto each individual section, gently touching the stone with a cloth to absorb the rain without smudging the image. She had always been completely at one with the building she was working on, as though she possessed an intuitive understanding of its life before the present moment and could sense its nature with her hands, just as she had seemed to sense his joy or his pain through his body whenever they were together. He remembered how he had loved to watch her work, even though he was rarely allowed to see the results until she was satisfied with them. For Bridget, the sharing of that very private world was as trusting and intimate a gesture as the sharing of her bed, and Archie had never taken either for granted.

Eventually she stood back, satisfied. ‘It’s a makeshift job, but it’ll do,’ she said, and he had to strain to hear her over the drumming of rain on canvas at their backs. ‘This storm will have died down long before the morning anyway.’ She hadn’t bothered to bring a coat and her long dark hair, only half-heartedly tied back, hung loose over her bare shoulders. As usual, she was quite unconscious of how beautiful she looked, and he leant forward to kiss her. The moment had been inevitable from their first greeting, and yet it surprised him; he had expected the kiss to be familiar, a return to a known if distant past, but her touch felt new to him‚ and he drew her body into his with all the fear and excitement of a stranger.

‘That’s what I hoped you’d say.’ She laughed softly and put her hand to his cheek, and Archie saw his own uncomplicated happiness reflected in her eyes. ‘I think it’s time we found somewhere more comfortable.’

She gathered up the knife and the rest of the rope that they had used to secure the tarpaulin and they headed back to White Horses. The Piazza seemed to offer more shelter from the storm than any other route, and they hurried across the tennis court, Archie holding Bridget close under an umbrella. It had been designed for a more temperate rain than the deluge that Portmeirion saw fit to offer up‚ and they were soaked again in seconds, but neither of them cared. They cut between Neptune and Mermaid, the pretty blue-and-white cottage which was one of only a handful of buildings not to have sprung from Clough’s imagination, and were about to take the road to the hotel when Archie noticed Leyton Turnbull standing by the small freshwater pool. He had just been joined by David Franks, and their body language suggested that they were having a heated discussion. He paused‚ and Bridget stared at him. ‘What on earth are you playing at, Archie? It’s not the weather for sightseeing.’

There was a handsome iron canopy built onto Mermaid’s southern gable and Archie pulled her in out of the rain. ‘Over there – it’s Leyton Turnbull.’

‘So?’

At any other time, her complete disregard for celebrity would have amused him‚ but he was curious to see what was going on between Turnbull and Franks. The sort of tension he had witnessed earlier in the evening could easily get out of hand‚ and, although he would cheerfully have banged their heads together at dinner, he wasn’t happy to stand by while they did it themselves. ‘It looks like there’s going to be trouble.’

Bridget glanced at the two men. ‘He’s drunk, Archie. What are you going to do? Arrest him for disorderly conduct?’ She took the umbrella from his hand and made him look at her. ‘Do I really have to remind you that you’ve got other things to think about than being a policeman?’

Turnbull chose that moment to lurch drunkenly at Franks, but he missed his footing and stumbled forward into the pool. Franks did his best to haul him out, but he was no match for the indiscriminate strength that comes with too much whisky, and Turnbull stayed on his knees in the shallow water, hurling abuse into the wind.

‘He needs a hand.’

‘But does it have to be yours? David Franks is with him. Let them sort it out between themselves. You’ve got other plans.’

‘It really won’t take a minute. Wait here.’

Bridget sighed and followed him out into the square. As she had predicted, the storm was dying down already, and the rain was considerably less brutal now. ‘Jesus, look at the state of him,’ Archie said. Turnbull’s clothes were dishevelled and soaked through. He was wearing a light mackintosh over his dinner clothes, and the front was covered with mud, as if he had fallen; as they got closer, Archie could see that there was blood on his face which had not been washed away by the rain. ‘You never told me about this,’ he was yelling at Franks. ‘You brought me here for this charade, David, and you didn’t even warn me.’

‘Can I help?’

Franks turned round quickly and looked surprised, then grateful. ‘You certainly can. I don’t seem to be getting very far on my own.’ He smiled at Bridget. ‘Whoever said there’s never a policeman around when you need one?’ Between them, they managed to drag Turnbull to his feet and out of the water. ‘We need to get you cleaned up, old chap,’ Franks said, ‘but the pool’s not really the place for it. Look at you: you’re in a terrible mess.’

‘I’ve been in the woods,’ Turnbull said, as if that explained everything. ‘I wanted to go to the cemetery. It was so dark, though. I lost my way.’ He slumped down onto the low wall and looked up at Franks, and there was a desperation in his eyes which surprised Archie. ‘What have I done, David?’ he said quietly. ‘My God, what have I done?’

He seemed oblivious to anyone else’s presence. ‘What’s he talking about?’ Archie asked.

‘Oh, it’s something to do with Bella. They had a falling out earlier. It’s a long story.’

‘That bitch,’ Turnbull said aggressively. ‘All of this is her fault.’

‘What’s that got to do with the cemetery, though?’

Franks shrugged. ‘Come on, Turnbull, let’s get you back to your room. You’re not making any sense and you need to sober up. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. You’ll never know how hard I’ve worked on Hitch to get you here at all; if you let me down now, we’ll all be for the high jump.’

Wondering what Hitchcock had got planned for the next day, Archie asked‚ ‘Where’s he staying?’

Franks nodded towards the large set of buildings on the other side of the square. ‘Government House.’

‘Come on then. I’ll give you a hand.’

‘It’s all right. I’ll do it.’ Jack Spence had appeared from nowhere, and Archie looked at him in surprise. ‘Leave him to David and me. We’ll see him safely home.’

‘Don’t argue, Archie.’ Bridget smiled gratefully at Spence. ‘Thanks, Jack. I owe you a favour.’

‘I’ll let you know when I need it.’

Archie and Bridget watched while they half carried, half dragged Leyton Turnbull across the square and up the steps to Government House. ‘You recognised David Franks,’ Archie said. ‘How do you know him?’

‘He was at the hotel a couple of weeks ago with Jack. They were having a look at the place for Hitchcock ahead of this weekend, but I’ve seen him here before.’ Archie was furious with himself for succumbing to the same spark of jealousy that he had experienced earlier, when Bridget and Spence returned from the woods together. ‘Jack likes the boys, Archie, just in case you were wondering.’ He attempted a look that said it made no difference to him either way, but it was less than convincing. ‘I know because I threw myself at him when we were at the Slade. It was quite the nicest rejection I’ve ever had, but there was no room for negotiation.’ She pulled him towards her and they kissed. ‘Now is there anyone else you’d like to call in on, or can I take you home?’

Archie smiled, and answered by turning towards White Horses. As he held the gate open for her, he glanced back towards the village and noticed that all the lights were on in the top floor of Government House. Bridget followed his gaze and spotted Leyton Turnbull slouched at his window. ‘There you are,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘No need for a police presence tonight.’

Spence and Franks saw Turnbull, too, as they walked together to the hotel bar, where they would sit and drink into the early hours, and Danny raised a hand to him as he took Astrid back to his room to make love to her. On the lawn in front of the Watch House, Alma Reville found solace in the fresh night air while her husband slept, and looked up just in time to see the butt of the evening’s jokes stumble back into his room. Only one of them felt more than pity, because only one of them knew that Leyton Turnbull would die the following day. And across the water, as the final hours of her husband’s life drifted past in a haze of self-recrimination, Gwyneth Draycott nursed her fear and watched the lights go out one by one in Portmeirion.