Nurse with a Dream (21 page)

No pepper yet! But the next cupboard gave her what she sought. She made toast, finished the eggs and went upstairs.

If Connie was surprised by her appearance she gave no sign, did not ask how her guest had slept.

“I’ve had a terrible night,” she said at once. “Never closed my eyes.”

Jacqueline was used to this gambit, and assumed Connie had been awake about half an hour longer than usual.

“How’s the lumbago? Let me raise you up a bit, then you can eat your breakfast. Gently does it.”

Connie gasped and groaned, but eventually heaved herself into a position to eat. “Tell you what—there’s only one thing ‘nil shift this lot, and that’s the oil owd Michael mixes for the sheep. Uses all sorts o’ herbs and such, in the oil. He understands them things—his mother was half a gypsy. Very clever wi’ cures, his mother was. Could you go to his cottage and fetch me some this morning?”

“Sheep oil? Are you sure—”

“Nay, they wouldn’t use it up at t’hospital. But there’s a sight o’ healing in herbs and natural stuff that doctors reckon nowt of.”

“But there’s poison, too.”

“Who said I was going to drink stuff? I want it to rub into my back. Aye, there’s poison...” She seemed to dwell on the idea, and in the huge bed she looked witchlike and threatening. “But for them as understands the herbs, they’re safe enough. Will you fetch it? No use sending Guy, he laughs at me for believing in Mike’s stuff. He’d as lief chuck it down t’sink.”

“All right. I’ll go.” A walk across the moors would be better than staying indoors on this bright morning. “It’s a lovely day.”

“Bright too early. It’ll thunder later. Shine before seven, rain before eleven’s as true as I lie here. Is this me breakfast?” She looked sourly at the dainty tray. “Oh, well, what won’t fatten ‘ull fill.”

She made Connie as comfortable as possible, listened to muddled directions for reaching the shepherd’s cottage and tidied the bedroom and kitchen. Then she felt free to set off for the shepherd’s oil.

Her heart leapt with excitement when she had shaken off the oppression of the house. It was full spring here in the north, the air spiced and tangy. At home, it would be warm now, and Grand’mère would take her breakfast coffee on to the terrace and sit in the sun with Grand-père reading the paper and shaking his white head over the Government’s latest folly. The scene came back so vividly—perhaps as a treat there would be fresh crisp croissants and a bowl of yellow butter; Grand’mère’s chair would be set under the laburnums. She smiled, remembering a scene of her childhood. She had set out a doll’s tea-service on a sun-warmed stone, and filled the tiny plates with seeds and torn-up leaves. To make her wooden and china guests feel at home, she had nibbled a leaf or two herself, and eaten a couple of seeds when, out of the blue, Lucien the gardener had snatched her up and carried her indoors to old Gabrielle, who had given her salt and water to make her sick; and a very sick and sorry child she had been that day.

Now why, she wondered, do I remember that to-day? I haven’t thought of it for years.

She tramped another half-mile before she remembered; the seeds she ate were laburnum, out of tiny twisted black and silver pods. Gabrielle said they were poison. And the seeds she had held in her hand this morning, the seeds in Connie’s disgusting old dresser, were laburnum seeds, too.

What on earth did Connie keep laburnum seeds in her dresser for? There were no such trees at Timberfold, as far as she knew. Some of old Michael’s concoctions; maybe, a recipe of his gypsy mother’s? Good against the warts, she thought, smiling at the idea of her own errand. A nurse from St. Simon’s—a nurse who’d passed her Prelim.—going to an old man’s cottage for sheep oil faced with mysterious herbs as a cure for lumbago. Lance and Mollie would be amused.

The day which had started so well was deteriorating. A thin veil of white cloud was gradually obscuring the blue sky, and it was colder. Connie had prophesied thunder, and would probably be right. She had lived all her life on the moor, and should know its moods by now.

Jacqueline remembered the storm which had broken when she was out with Guy, and had no wish to be caught again, alone and without a raincoat. She hurried, watching for the fork in the path of which Connie had warned her. When she came to it, she took the right branch, and presently came in sight of the tumbledown hovel where Michael lived.

There was no sign of life, no smoke, not even a dog. Surely a shepherd should have a dog? The longer she looked at the misshapen building the less she liked the idea of bearding its occupant, and toyed with the idea of going back and demanding Guy’s escort. Don’t be a baby,
s
he told herself firmly. He can’t eat you, and maybe he’s out. She crossed her fingers and went on.

A gaunt scarecrow rose up out of the heather almost at her feet; a man, waving his arms and mouthing horribly at her, shouting words which had no meaning. He had a matted white beard, a battered hat, and he lurched drunkenly towards her, shouting.

Jacqueline screeched with all the power of her young lungs, turned and ran like a hare.

When her panic subsided, she was breathless. She dropped in the heather, panting. She felt ashamed of her headlong flight and thankful no one had seen it. But he’d popped up so suddenly, when her nerve had been shaken by the picture episode.

“No excuse, my girl,” she said sternly. “He was only a drunken old man—nothing to be afraid of.”

She consoled herself by thinking Michael had been in no shape to give her the proper oil she wanted, and she was justified in going back empty-handed. Guy must go next time, she could not face that horrible old creature alone.

Although the old man was not in sight, and probably too drunk to run, she could not stop herself hurrying. She arrived at Timberfold in a very short time, thankful to be in reach of shelter as thunder was already rumbling across the hills.

As she entered the kitchen door the first flash of lightning lit up the dark interior for one vivid second. And in that second, Jacqueline saw Connie’s face turned towards her with an expression of hate, astonishment, fear, frozen upon it She was standing by the dresser, her hand on the door of the little cupboard.

Jacqueline moved forward slowly. “So the lumbago was a fake, after all?” She was quite calm, not even angry now. She knew without doubt that Connie meant her harm, but she was on her feet and facing the danger. This was something real, not a mysterious terror in the night.

“It got better,” Connie said defiantly.

“No, it didn’t. Not so suddenly.” She could hear the rain now, drumming on the roof of the porch behind her. “You got me here by a trick. You knew I was coming—you even aired the bed for me.” Suddenly she laughed. Connie had been trained as a servant of the old-fashioned kind. She would air the bed quite automatically, in spite of herself, because she had been taught to do it and couldn’t be false to her hard training. But at the same time she would plan the evil that was in her heart She darted forward and grabbed Connie’s gnarled hand. “What are you holding? I thought so—laburnum seeds. Did Michael give them to you?”

“Nay, no. I paid him for them. A whole bottle of whisky, I paid him. A bottle for that and a bottle for the picture...” She croaked with laughter. “A good soak, old Mike’s had.”

“Did Michael move the picture for you?”

“Eh? What picture?”

“Never mind now. What are you going to do with these seeds?”

“Nothing—nothing. I was looking for some liniment.” They stared at each other, their faces dim in the darkened room. The sky was black with thunder and an occasional flash emphasized the gloom.

“They were for me, weren’t they, Connie? Why do you hate me so much? Did I ever harm you?”

“Harm—
harm?
I saw from the beginning you were one of those—the fair ones. I knew Guy would want you, the minute he saw you. And I tried to save him, that first time. I tried to save him, but you came back again. You always come back.”

“You mean you tried to chase me away? Then it was you who struck me?”

“Nay, nay. I never hit you. I only meant him to frighten you, so you wouldn’t come back.”

“Michael? It was Michael?”

She said almost proudly, “It was me thought of laying you at the bottom of Black Crag, as if you’d fallen-like.”

She’s crazy, the girl thought. She’s utterly mad. Why doesn’t Guy come back?

Aloud, she said, “Did Guy know about it?”

“Him? No. Smitten all of a heap he was with you, the first minute. I sent him away with a message about the sheep. Warn’t nowt wrong wi’
’
em, you know, but he blamed old Mike for that. Said the old chap wanted his brains washing. Mike didn’t care—he had his drink, and that’s all as matters to him now.”

“Did you mean to kill me, Connie?”

The woman backed away, towards the sewing-machine in the window. “Kill? Not at first. But you wouldn’t keep away. I only wanted to fritten you at first.”

“But why? What if I did marry Guy? He wasn’t even your son.”

The old woman muttered to herself for a moment, then she shouted and tossed her arms. “Aye, you’d take Timberfold away from me. You’d be mistress, he said. His wife would be mistress. Think I’m going to lose all I worked for all these long years? First day I come I went to the Well and wished to be mistress. I wanted young Peter—I loved him from the minute I clapped eyes on his bonny young face. But he’d have nowt to do wi’ me. Kitchen cat, he called me; common, mucky, he thought me. He’d pull away if I touched him.”

“You loved my father? But you tormented him.”

“I hated him because he’d have none of me. And I hate you—I can see his eyes looking at me out of your eyes. Saul was the one for my money—he’d have the farm, see. Oh, I wanted Saul. I set me cap at him and he’d ha’ married me. He ought to ha’ married me, but
she
came.”

“She?”

“The fair one. The yellow-haired lass wi’ blue eyes. And Saul was up and away dancing a jig after her before you could say knife.”

“You hated her, too—Saul’s wife?”

“Aye—and she knew it always. But your Grandma wor too much for me. A little woman she was, too, and never liked Saul; but she stuck up for Saul’s wife and protected her. As far as she could.”

Jacqueline whispered, “You didn’t—? Not Saul’s wife?”

The woman understood. “I never touched her. She died of a broken heart and of cold, cold fear.”

As I should, Jacqueline thought. As I shall if I marry Guy.

Then her blood ran cold and she felt goose-prickles in her flesh. Over Connie’s shoulder, out of the dingy, streaming window, she saw a shape in the rain. The shape of a ragged man in a battered hat, waving his arms; over the noise of the rain, the mutter of thunder, she heard his voice, and it was the voice she heard in her nightmares, shouting to a dog.

“Connie,” she said urgently, “Connie, listen.” The woman’s face was so mazed that it seemed impossible to get through to her. “Throw those seeds in the fire. Quick, do you hear? Throw them away.”

To her surprised relief, Connie shuffled to the fire and tossed the handful of seeds into the flames. They flared and crackled briefly. “A good bottle of whisky, I gave.”

“The black-and-white sheep-dog. Mike’s dog.”

“What dog?”

“The black-and-white sheep-dog. Mike’s dog.”

There was a cackle of laughter. “I killed it. He wouldn’t, so I did, with my own hands. I’m not afraid of killing. It’s easy after the first time.” Suddenly she swung round from the fire and there was murder in her face; she held a worn and stubby poker in her upraised hand. “Easy, easy. Curse you and your white skin and your yellow hair.” She lurched across the kitchen, screeching. Jacqueline dodged round the table and made a dash for the door. Michael was somewhere out in the yard, and in another moment she might be trapped between the two of them.

She was outside and tearing across the yard when Michael caught her. He grabbed her arm. “I want you, girl. I’ve been looking for you. She told me—she told me—”

She jerked herself free and ran; kept on running. She had no coat and was soon wet to the skin. She did not know where Guy was, and to her mind he was as much invested with horror as the others. She was no longer reasoning, but running in blind fear from Timberfold and everything in it.

At the edge of the moor she hesitated a moment. Across the heather was a shorter distance, but in this storm she might get lost or run around in circles till she dropped exhausted for Michael to find. She could still smell the horrible stench of dirt and whisky which came from him, feel the contamination of his hand on her bare arm.

The road, then. When she left the lane and came out on the main road there was always the chance of a lift.

She darted for the road. She could hear Michael shouting again, and knew he had come out of the house. Perhaps he was running after her. She stood a moment, listening. The voice came nearer.

“Girl! Hi, you—girl! Come here! I want you. Michael wants—”

She had wasted her resources in the first wild rush. Now she was so breathless she had to stop or her lungs would burst. There was a clump of furze by the side of the road, and she crouched beside it. She was so wet now that it made no difference.