Nurse with a Dream (5 page)

He strode on again, dismissing the conversation as if tired of it, and in a moment they came to another stream, wider than the others.

He stepped into the middle of it, not minding at all that the water came over his ankles. He turned and held out
a hand
. “A foot on that stone, the other foot on this one, and you’re over.”

“These are not seven-league boots. I can’t stride so far. Maybe we could find a narrower place.” She glanced up and down the stream irresolutely.

He picked her up in his arms and carried her over, setting her down on the other side before she had time to open her mouth in a shout of protest.

“Air-lift to Timberfold. I said I’d put you across dryshod, and I have.”

For the first time she felt shy with him, conscious of the feel of his powerful arms about her; conscious, too, that his quick action was the result of impatience over her hesitancy, as if he had tired of her company and was anxious to be rid of her.

He led the way up a short slope and pointed. “There is your way. You can’t see the house from here because of that plantation of conifers which gives the place its name. The path goes through the wood. You’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Yes, I see. Thank you.”

He looked at her closely. “Are you sure you want to go to Timberfold? It’s an odd place.”

“Quite sure.”

“Good-bye, then.” He raised a hand in salute and was gone, back towards the stream, which he crossed in two strides. At the other side, he turned, and seeing her still there, waved. She waved in return, then faced towards Timberfold.

A few yards ahead there was a crooked finger-post, silver with age. She tiptoed to read the worn lettering.
To Timberfold.

She sat down at the foot of the post. She was trembling inwardly. She had been on her way to Timberfold for nine—ten—eleven years. She could not remember just when the determination to come here had been born. But she was here. In five minutes, she would see the house.

If she turned back now, she would be taking no chances. She would keep her dream for ever intact. If she went forward, she risked complete disillusionment.

She stared up at the finger-post. It went on saying
To Timberfold,
lurching drunkenly towards the wood. The wind sang a deeper note in the tops of the fir trees, lifted the delicate fingers of the larches which edged the plantation. She heard the kek-kek of grouse in the heather, but none of these things helped. She had to decide for herself.

She tossed a coin, thinking,
heads, I go!
It rolled away and she had to search for it on her knees. She found it almost hidden in a clump of heather.

Tails! Turn back!

She did not know whether she was glad or sorry to be playing safe with her dreams. She kissed her finger-tips in farewell towards the hidden house. As she stooped again, to pick up her coin, she saw that it had come to rest against a sprig of white heather.
White
heather, in all this spread of purple.

Was that the coin’s message? See—here’s luck, go forward! With difficulty, for the stem was tough, she tore off the sprig and pinned it in her coat. With such a symbol of good luck, could anyone hang back? She felt a rising excitement, a rising happiness.

The wood was thick and dark, her feet silent on a carpet of fir needles. No visible life moved; the lower parts of the trees were dry and brown, still, quiet. The wind rocked ‘ and sighed in the green tops high above, till she felt she was walking at the bottom of a brown, scented sea.

Then the wood ended, and she saw Timberfold at last.

CHAPTER TWO

Timberfold
was built of grey stone, squat, thick-walled, with small windows sluttishly curtained. There was a wide, gabled porch, its stone flags worn hollow in the center. A black-and-white sheepdog lay asleep in the porch’s shadow, and a few hens picked about, grumbling in an undertone. Where the sun touched the house walls, the stones glowed in dim heraldic colours, green and gold, slaty-blue or rose-red, stained by lichen and by time.

The yard gate was open. It hung slackly on its hinges as if it had not been moved for years. A rusty bath, once white, stood on claw-feet; it was full of brown water and fed by a leaden pipe coming through the yard wall. There was no sound but the thin drip of water from the pipe into the bath. The doors and windows were wide open, but the house seemed to sleep as soundly as the dog.

Fascinated, Jacqueline moved nearer and nearer. The dog opened an eye, growled. Then it stopped growling and sat up, wagging its tail lazily. A black dog with white feet, a white tip to its tail. A great-grandson of the dogs her father knew! She spoke softly, holding out her hand. “Hallo, Shot! Shot—good boy!”

The dog got up and trotted towards her.

“Why—you darling! I believe your name
is
Shot!”

“The dog’s a bitch, her name is Gypsy,” said a deep, almost mannish voice close behind Jacqueline. “Who are you, coming here and calling her Shot? You haven’t been here before, have you? I don’t remember thee, any road.” A woman had followed Jacqueline into the gate, carrying a load of kindling wood. She was gypsy-like, with a hawk-like nose and deep lines in her leathery skin. She wore a sacking apron, unlaced men’s boots, and a tweed cap on her black hair, skewered by a hatpin.

“No, I haven’t been here before. I saw the farm marked on the map, and wondered if you could sell me a glass of milk.”

“Just passing, like?”

“Yes, just passing. I’m on a walking holiday.”

The woman moved nearer and stared into Jacqueline’s face. “Then how did you know we call our dogs Shot? This one’s Gypsy, but her father was Shot, and so was
his
father. What do you know about us?”

“I heard a little about you at the Moor Hen Inn. I think you are Mrs. Clarke.”

“Aye. And did they tell you the name of our dog’s father, at the Moor Hen? Passing, you say? This road leads to nowhere except Timberfold.”

The girl began to feel angry. “If you haven’t any milk to spare, I’ll be on my way. It really doesn’t matter.” But the woman stood between her and the open gate, and did not move to let her pass.

“You’re very small,” she said disparagingly.

“Well, really!” Jacqueline was exasperated. “I don’t think that concerns you.”

“And fair.” She ruminated a minute, then demanded abruptly, “Are you after our Guy?”

“I am not after anything or anybody. I don’t know your Guy, and I certainly don’t want to. I’m sorry I asked about the milk. Please let me pass, I am going now.”

“Nay, you shan’t go clemmed. If you want milk, come in.” She pushed past the girl, swinging her pile of kindling, and again said over her shoulder, “Come in and sit down.” Jacqueline obeyed, her curiosity getting the better of her annoyance. She wiped her feet carefully on a holey sack by the door, and blinked in the blindness caused by coming in out of the sunshine. There was a bead of fire in the black grate, but the tiny window with its thin cotton curtains let in hardly any light at all, and was further obscured by a shabby treadle sewing-machine which carried a luxuriant geranium in a hideous green pot on a crocheted mat.

“Sit down while I get milk from dairy,” her hostess ordered sharply, opening a latched door into a dim, damp smelling vastness off the kitchen.

This was obviously the head of the table. Down there, humbly at its foot, her father used to sit, staring at the wall-clock which said solemnly
tock
—
tock—tock
and the flour-bin which held a whole sack of flour and was painted to look like a chest-of-drawers. Was it still there? Cautiously, she glanced behind her. Yes, it was! The top was cluttered with untidy rubbish, but there were the painted drawers and knobs.

Mrs. Clarke came back with the milk. She pulled a chair up to Jacqueline’s, planted herself stolidly upon it, and studied the girl closely once more.

“Where d’you come from?”

“Barnbury.”

“And you’re not after our Guy?”

This time Jacqueline laughed. “Of course I’m not after him. I don’t even know him. I’m just on a sort of walking holiday. There’s a signpost up there which says Timberfold, so I came.”

The woman pointed to Jacqueline’s shoes. “Over t’beck? Dryshod like that? You’re a good jumper.”

“I used the stepping-stones. Do you doubt that I came that way? Why are you so suspicious of me?”

She seemed genuinely surprised. “Suspicious? I’m not suspicious. You going back to t’Moor Hen to-night?”

Jacqueline stopped being cross because she had suddenly perceived that the woman’s manner was perfectly natural. She had no intention of being rude, but was suspicious and inquisitive by nature. Visitors to this remote spot must be rare. She sipped her milk and said cheerfully, “It’s pretty round here.”

“I dunno about pretty. It’s hard, life on t’moors. Scratting a living, no more.”

“Yet you wouldn’t change it, I’m sure—not for anything in the world.”

The gypsy face changed. The thin lips narrowed to a pink seam in the dark skin; the eyes were snaky, jewel-bright and expressionless. “I’ve lived at Timberfold since I wor thirteen. Come here with me hair in two plaits, wi’ nowt but a clean cotton dress and a new nightshift in my box. Now I’m mistress here. It’s my table we’re sitting at, my chairs we’re on, my milk you’re supping. Mistress of Timberfold, I am. Nay, I wouldn’t change.”

“It’s a fine place.” Jacqueline put what she hoped was the right amount of admiration in her voice, though she could not help thinking how much finer a place Timberfold could be, with a better type of mistress. “Is Guy your son?”

“No. I brought him up, though—him and his sister. Their mother was a weak little thing like you, and died when t’little lad was a baby. Yes, I brought both Saul’s bairns up for him.”

Poor children, Jacqueline thought. A hard life they’d have of it, with such a stepmother. She finished her milk and paid for it.

“Thank you. I must go now, as I’ve six miles to walk. It will take me until dinner-time, unless I get a lift somewhere.”

“You’ll pick up t’bus for last part, if you can get to Timberfold lane end by five. It only runs that way twice a week, Saturdays and Wednesdays. It’s just over four miles.”

Jacqueline glanced over her shoulder to look at the wall-clock. “It isn’t two’clock yet. I can do it—”

Her hostess’s hand slapped down on the table.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a harsh croak. “You come here calling dog by a name that’s been in this family for generations, but isn’t used now. Looking behind you at a clock you
knew
was there—yet you say you’ve never been in this house afore. Who are you and what do you want with us?”

Jacqueline stood up. “I want nothing, Mrs. Clarke. I thought the dog was friendly and spoke to him in a kindly way, that’s all. And I heard the clock ticking.”

“It’s been stopped five years.”

“But—”

“Aye, quarter to two it says, and quarter to it’s been for five years. Look at clock on chimney-piece. It’s twenty past.”

Jacqueline glanced at her watch. It was absurd to feel frightened, yet her heart was pounding. This was Connie all right, the skinny young servant girl who had tormented her father. She can’t
do
anything to me—I’ll just say I don’t know what she is talking about, and go away. I’ll walk out of the house, across the yard and out of the gate—then I’ll be free again. I can do it. I’m not imprisoned here, as Daddy was.

As she turned to go the kitchen darkened. Jacqueline almost screamed; then she saw that a man had come to the door, cutting off the light because he was tall and broad.

“What’s up, Connie?” He spoke pleasantly, though his accent was broad. “I could hear you screeching like an old hen. Oh, we’ve got a visitor. Who’s this?”

Connie pointed a thin red finger. “Ask her. She’s been here before. One of your fancy young pieces, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You must be Guy Clarke,” Jacqueline said thankfully, recovering her poise. “Do convince your stepmother I haven’t been here before—though it’s no crime if I had, is it?”

“Don’t take any notice of her—she’s half crazy, anyway. She came to Timberfold at thirteen, and has never left it for half a day since. She’s suspicious of strangers, but she’s all right if you take no notice. Connie, you old fool, it wouldn’t matter two hoots if she
had
been here before. But she says she hasn’t, so shut up.”

“She called Gypsy Shot. She looked at the clock to see the time.”

“Good lord, woman, what of it? I do it myself sometimes.”

“Yes, but she knew the clock was there! Yet she says—”

He interrupted. “I know, I know. Who cares, anyway?” He turned to Jacqueline. “She’s got a bee in her bonnet now, that you’ve been here before. I only wish you
had.
I wouldn’t have forgotten you, in a hundred years.” He smiled down at her from his great height, and she was now collected enough to see that he was uncommonly handsome.
A big, black man
—like his father Saul, like his grandfather; but no one told me how handsome they were, these big black men! His dark hair was short and curled crisply, giving him an antique look like a god of legend; his shirt was open nearly to the waist, his skin deeply tanned to smooth gold, his strong neck well set on broad shoulders.

“Come outside,” he said softly. “We can talk in the yard.” He stood back to let the girl pass him, then follower her. “Sorry about old Con. I’m afraid she scared you. Are you making for any special place—can I direct you?”

‘To the Moor Hen Inn, please. Your—er—Mrs. Clarke tells me I can catch a bus part of the way, as this is Saturday.”

“You’d have to step out pretty smartly, and it is a long way. Let me drive you—if you don’t mind my decrepit vehicle.” He grinned cheerfully. “The passenger seat is liable to eject careless passengers out into the road rather suddenly if the door is opened too quickly. And the springs stopped springing years ago—I abuse them by loading up with objects never intended for respectable cars. However, you may find it easier than your two feet.”

“I’m sure I shall. Thank you very much.”

The dog Gypsy pressed between them, pushing her head up into the man’s hand. He looked down at her, puzzled. “I say, though—that was funny about the dog’s name. I must admit you’ve got me guessing. Did you really call her Shot?”

Jacqueline decided she liked this frank, pleasant-faced boy. He looked part of Timberfold, sprung from the heather and the rock. For all three hundred years of the farm’s life, there had been young giants like this to serve it. He fitted as perfectly into his background as the stone house did, and the stone walls, the grey outcrops of rock.

She was open-natured, secrecy went against the grain. She had pictured herself coming to Timberfold and departing unnoticed, a casual walker passing by on a summer’s day, but there was no point in acting a lie.

“I shall have to confess,” she admitted with a smile. “I know about Timberfold, though it’s true I’ve never been here before. My father lived here as a boy, and he told me about Shot and the clock over the flour-bin.”

“Ah—the clock puzzled Con, didn’t it? Did your father work here or something, in Granddad’s day?”

She shook her head. “That was the trouble—he wouldn’t work here. If Saul Clarke was your father, my father was your Uncle Peter—at least, your half-uncle.”

“You’re Peter’s daughter? Peter who ran away and married a French girl?” He seized her hands and shook them heartily. “Why didn’t you say so at once?”

“I didn’t know whether I’d be welcome. Daddy was the black sheep, after all. His letters were never answered, though he wrote often to his mother.”

“We never had any letters. Grandma longed for a letter, poor old soul, before she died. But nary a line.”

They stared at each other, troubled. “How very odd!” Jacqueline murmured. “During the war one would expect it, but he wrote before that. Grand-père told me how he wrote and wrote. Then you don’t know Mummy and Daddy are dead, or about me?”

“There was a message, very brief, to say they were dead. We had that. I’m—I’m very sorry; er—you’ll have to tell me your name.”

“Jacqueline.”

‘Too long. I shall call you Jacky from now on. My Dad died, too. Insisted on going out on Home Guard duty when he was too ill. We didn’t know Peter had a child, because there was only the one note, and it didn’t mention you.”

“I know. They—my grandparents—were afraid the family might claim me, and they knew how unhappy Daddy had been here at Timberfold. So they didn’t mention me in that letter. If there’d been a kind reply, Grand-père intended to write again and tell about me. But there wasn’t any reply at all.”

“By that time there were only Connie, Deborah—that’s my sister—and me. Connie is no hand at writing, and we were young and struggling to manage the farm without Dad. You mustn’t think us heartless.”

“I don’t. I merely can’t understand why Grandma Clarke never received Daddy’s letters. It’s all so long ago, Guy. We weren’t bora when all this began.”

“Let’s forget it, then, and start afresh by being friends.” He held out his hand to her, and she laid hers willingly within it.