Nurse with a Dream (3 page)

“I do. By the way, do you know a place called Timberfold? My map tells me it’s about four miles from here.”

“Four miles in a straight line across the moor. Six by road. We used to buy turkeys there, until I disagreed sharply with Connie about prices. Don’t tell me this is part of the journey, too? Or—Guy’s a nice boy, isn’t he?” Her kind grey eyes twinkled. She lit a heavy silver candlestick and offered it to Jacqueline. “We have no electricity upstairs. Good for trade, our guests adore it. Mind your head on the beam.”

The girl bent her head obediently as she followed her hostess. “I don’t know anybody at Timberfold. I only want to see the farm. My father lived there as a boy. He hated the family, but he loved the old house and the wood which surrounds it.
Does
a wood surround it?”

“It does. A fir plantation, rather dark and gloomy. The landing floor is uneven, watch your step.” She halted with her hand on the heavy glass knob of a door. “You are not afraid of disappointment?”

“The first step turned out so well, after all, that I have gained a lot of courage for the next. But frankly I am a bit scared of Timberfold. When you bought your turkeys, did Saul Clarke live there? He was my father’s half-brother—a big, dark man. At least, I was never quite clear which was Uncle Saul and which was the Ogre in Jack and the Beanstalk.”

They both laughed, and Mrs. Medway opened the door to a charming room of oak and chintz, with white-painted walls and a light two-poster bed. “Not a pleasant character, your Uncle Saul! I think he must be dead. Connie Clarke—is she your aunt?—is a widow, and Guy must be her son. We’ve only been here three years. I seem to remember hearing Connie’s husband got pneumonia and died during the war. Home Guard duty, I believe.”

Jacqueline shook her head. “That’s wrong somewhere. Connie was the nasty little maidservant who took sides with Saul against Peter—that was Daddy—because he was like his mother, fair and small and more refined. They used to lock him in a cupboard till he yelled himself sick; then let him out and laugh. Saul married May—she was pink and white, like mayblossom, and too delicate for a farm.”

“I don’t wonder you’re not interested in the family, they sound horrid. There’s no May there now, only Connie and Guy; but where they fit in, I can’t tell you. Sure you’ll be all right? Bathroom third on the left, lots of hot water. Breakfast is at nine, cup of tea eight-thirty.”

“Music in my ears. Sorry, I can’t stop yawning. Good night, Mrs. Medway, and thank you.”

Jacqueline examined her room with interest. There was a small casement window set into a thick stone wall. The floor was made of wide polished boards which sloped away to one corner disconcertingly. She tried a pencil on the floor and it rolled away so fast she had almost to plunge under the valanced bed to recover it. Over the chimney-piece there was an embroidered picture of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the Fiery Furnace, the flames very splendidly done in scarlet, yellow and orange, and not much faded. The pillows were softest down, and the bedcover was an intricate patchwork pattern.

I feel like the Queen of Sheba, she thought; the half has not been told me. If Timberfold is half as good as this, I’ll want to cry with happiness. A piping hot bath to-night and early morning tea to-morrow—and I thought it would be like a climbers’ hut! I’ll bath first and unpack afterwards—if the inn is full there may be a run on the bathroom later. Luckily my washing things are on the top.

The candle threw shadows up and down the white walls of the passage; shadows which looked so much like long waving legs that she was unpleasantly reminded of the ghost of the hairy leg reputed to haunt St. Simon’s. She dismissed it, only to remember the inn was three hundred years old and had no doubt sheltered a few unsavoury characters in its time. Had travellers been murdered here—for their money-bags? Were throats slit and duels fought? The big white bath and cheerful chromium taps were a welcoming sight after the shadowy landing. Hot water gushed out in a delightfully twentieth-century way.

On the return journey she was too sleepy to worry about shadows or legends, and opened her bedroom door yawning unashamedly, her imagination already climbing into that deep feather-bed.

There was a man in the room. His shadow ran up the wall and wavered on the ceiling, making him look twelve feet high. He wore a green jerkin of some kind, and looked like someone out of the Middle Ages, with a high crest of black hair and a thin brown face with dark deep-set eyes. Jacqueline swallowed a scream, gulped, and said, “What are you doing in my room?” firmly, as if speaking to a mischievous child.

The man exploded into such an everyday masculine voice that her fear of ghosties and ghoulies vanished at once.

“What the deuce! Sorry, this is
my
room. You’ve made a mistake.” His shadow danced as he moved towards her and stretched out an arm which seemed a mile long. She drew back slightly, but he smiled and took her candlestick out of her hand. “It’s easy to get lost up here. Let me guide you. What is your number?”

She saw now that he was wearing a turtle-neck sweater knitted in thick wool, which had given his silhouette a mediaeval look, but the lean brown hand had square capable fingers and his wrist wore a thin gold watch with a broad leather strap.

She laughed shakily. “Ghosts don’t wear watches, so I suppose you are real. That’s a comfort.”

“What?” Concerned, he brought his own candle close to hers, throwing a better light upon them both. “My poor child, did I frighten you? I’m so often at the Moor Hen, it never occurred to me—but if you’re not used to candles they can be a bit creepy. Come, I’ll take you to your room.”

“You must think me a complete fool. The passage made me think of highwaymen and so on. Oh...” Her hand went to her lips in surprise. “This is my room, after all. There’s my rucksack—and those are my toilet things on the dressing-table.”

Smiling, he shook his head. ‘This room was reserved for me. I always have it. And these”—he swung a hand around the floor—“are
my
things. Sorry, but possession is nine points of the law. I’ll help you move.”

Jacqueline’s temper rose. She grabbed her silver candlestick from his hand and raised it. He was an untidy unpacker. She indicated his strewn possessions with an imperious sweep of the hand holding her pink toilet-bag, which swung on her finger like a weapon. “You must tidy those away. I want to go to bed.” She marched to the wardrobe, which resisted her tug and then swung open disconcertingly, almost knocking her over. “Whose clothes are those? Mine. That’s my brush and comb on the dressing-table, my rucksack in the corner there.” Suddenly her temper vanished and she laughed sunnily. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but you have to sleep on a folding-bed in the sewing-room. You’re Alan—you were late and I’ve been given your room.”

His quick smile transformed a stern face. “I surrender. I should have spoken to Lance or Mollie before coming upstairs, but they were busy in the bar so I grabbed a candle and came up. Sorry I scared you. Give me a minute to pack, and I’ll retreat defeated to the sewing-room.” He knelt, put his candle on the floor, and swept his luggage together, dumping it into a zipped canvas bag without ceremony.

“I’m sorry about the sewing-room.” Jacqueline could afford to be generous now.

“I’m sorry I scared you. And thank you for not making a fuss. Most women would have screeched the place down. You have courage.” He glanced round the empty floor. “All packed now. Good night. Sleep well, and don’t dream of highwaymen or smugglers.”

“I shall sleep like a kitten and not dream at all. I hope you’ll be comfortable in the sewing-room, Alan.”

“Thanks...?” He hesitated questioningly, the dark eyebrows raised.

“Jacqueline. Usually called Jacky.”

“Aye you would be. Waste of a lovely name. I shall call you Jacqueline. Breakfast is at nine.”

The feather-bed was a dream of comfort. Jacqueline snuggled down with a sigh of pleasure. Poor Alan—he looked too tall for a folding-bed. Hope he’s comfortable. I feel a mean beast, but a deliciously cosy beast. It’s a nice name—Alan. He has an obstinate chin—was that a scar or a trick of candlelight? Not disfiguring, anyway. I liked him.

It was a morning when the world seems newly starched and ironed, clean and crisp. There were marigolds in narrow beds under the Moor Hen’s windows; a patch of worn cobbles and a mounting-block. Then a narrow white road and a dry-stone wall. Beyond the wall, the moors, clothed in royal purple and gold.

Alan, coming back to the inn after an early-morning walk with Andy, the Medways’ miniature white poodle pup, saw Jacqueline come out of the door, pause to draw, a deep breath of the sweet air, then cross the road to lean on the stone wall and stare at the purple slopes.

He halted silently, checking the pup. He did not wish to interrupt. He had an absurd feeling that she might vanish if he disturbed her. She felt herself alone, and although he had a vague sense of intrusion, he could not stop looking at her. He knew at once that she was seeing the moors in glory for the first time, and that their beauty had her by the throat, as they still gripped him even after many years. Her oval face was still as a pool, yet it reflected her emotion as a pool reflects the blue sky. He was watching a girl fall in love.

The puppy sprawled at his feet, temporarily exhausted by its scamper. Trained to move quietly, he groped for his pipe and clamped it between his teeth. The moors, even now when the heather was in bloom, were not everybody’s cup of tea; some people liked trees, or rivers, or a pattern of fields and hedges, or maybe mountains. But these treeless, rolling hills, curve upon curve, like a smooth swell on the deep sea under a vast sky—they held the hearts of those who loved them, and for ever called one back.

The breeze, with its tang of heather and thyme, a delicate edge of cold air even on this summer morning, blew her neat golden-tan dress against her, revealing the slim lines of her figure. She was a little older that he had guessed last night—nineteen or twenty, and he had put her down as perhaps sixteen, almost a child. Her red lips were softly parted in delight, and her rounded chin was—he chuckled as he studied that deceptively soft chin. The girl had a will of her own, by golly! He remembered with wry appreciation her swift flare of temper last night. Booted him out of his own room, neck and crop, she had!

The chuckle betrayed him. She flashed round, startled. Her fine hair, boyishly straight, shone under the morning sun, and she put a hand up to tidy it. Her eyes, he decided, must be blue.

She nodded towards the moor. “Why is it beautiful?”

He shrugged. “Can beauty be analysed?”

“But so plain,” she said almost crossly. “No lakes, no trees, just—
that
.”

“You’re disappointed?” Oddly, he was disappointed, too. He had for a moment believed her a moor-addict, like himself.

“No,” she breathed gently. “Oh no! This is the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen.” She looked at him directly, and he thought, I’m right, her eyes are blue, dark as violets.

“They call to their own, these hills. The Swiss mountains for spectacle, they say—the Italian lakes for colour—but the English moors for your soul.”

She nodded, grave with understanding. “This is my first time. All my life I’ve lived in France, but now I am home.”

“Come for a walk with me this morning, and I will introduce you properly.”

“That is kind—but shouldn’t I be in the way? Mrs. Medway said you photograph birds.”

He laughed, scooping up the white puppy which was trying to eat the toe of his boot. “I lose my temper when I take people bird-watching, but as you are new to our moorland, I’ll try to behave.”

She was amused. “That doesn’t sound an over-enthusiastic invitation, but I realise I am honoured. I think you don’t invite many people to bird-watch with you.”

“You’re darned right I don’t.”

“Thank you, then. But I can’t come. I have a purpose in coming here, and not much time. I want to find Timberfold.”

Lance Medway came out and shouted, “Hi, you two—breakfast!”

Alan piloted Jacqueline across the road. “In decent hotels,” he said to Lance, “they use a gong. Jacqueline and I are going bird-watching!”

Lance turned his eyes heavenwards. “My poor girl! Do you know what you are in for?”

Jacqueline shook her head. “I have refused Alan’s invitation—evidently he didn’t hear. I am going to Timberfold.”

“Nonsense,” said her host firmly. “Nobody goes to Timberfold. You will take beef sandwiches and go bird-watching, and may the Lord have mercy on you, for Alan won’t.”

‘Timberfold,” said Jacqueline.

“This girl is stubborn, Lance. She threw me out on my ear last night—my own room, too. And, in passing, I may remark that your folding-bed is eight inches too short and a darned sight too folding. I smell ham.”

“Home-cured, and a pair of eggs apiece. With water-wallops.”

“Whatever are water-wallops?” The girl’s curiosity, and her healthy hunger, overcame her determination to say no more.

Alan grabbed her elbow and hurried her before him into the dining-room. “They are small hot cakes with which one rudely but greedily mops up the dip. And don’t say,” he went on hurriedly, seeing Jacqueline’s lips open, “what is dip, because it is the ham-fat plus gravy, the making of which is Lance’s secret.”

“Now,” he said when they were seated, “I shall tell you my plan. You will spend the morning learning to know your moor, and we’ll eat our sandwiches by Black Crag beck. Then I will leave you on the path for Timberfold. Follow your nose and you’ll be there in five minutes. Will that do?”