Saxon's Bane (9 page)

Her warmth and pleasure at his voice was like a lifeline to a drowning man.

“That offer of a job,” he said, “is it still open?”

“A
RE YOU SURE
this is OK? The job, I mean?” Fergus stood in the office at Ash Farm Stables, competing for Eadlin’s attention with the office phone and the whines of a teenage girl who couldn’t find some piece of tack. He felt pleased with himself; two weeks after he’d thrown away his crutches, he’d walked from the car park to the farmhouse without putting his stick to the ground. He’d limped, for sure, but it hadn’t hurt much. It was just the way his legs worked, these days. A punishing exercise routine was working.

“OK? You’re doing me a favour. The schools have broken up for Easter, I’m swamped by Pony Club children, and half my normal helpers have gone away on holiday with their parents. I’m running ragged.”

“Maybe for a couple of months, until I get myself sorted out?”

Eadlin’s reply was interrupted by another call, and she inhaled before picking up the phone. She handled the enquiry with brittle competence, running her eyes over his clothes as she spoke. As Eadlin replaced the receiver she lifted an eyebrow at his designer jeans and expensive trainers.

“D’you mind getting dirty?”

Fergus shook his head.

“Then let’s get started.” Eadlin looked pointedly at the stick in his hand, and he dropped it with a theatrical flourish into a rack of riding crops by the door. As she came round the desk he crooked his elbow at her, grinning in a way that he hoped was not too flirtatious.

“Sod that. If you can’t walk without a stick you can stay behind the desk until you can. Could you manage a wheelbarrow? Let me introduce you to your new charges, it’s time for their feed.” She was already ahead of him, calling over her shoulder. “So what changed your mind?”

“There’s nothing like a touch of mortality to give you perspective.”

Outside she started stacking a wheelbarrow with rubber feed bowls, each about the size of a small car tyre and filled with an unappetising muesli mess.

“So you resigned?”

“Sort of.” Fergus told her about the row as she led him down a line of stables, dropping a bowl of feed over the door of each one. The wheelbarrow proved easy to manage, almost as if the weight was anchoring him.

“Were you and Kate very close?”

“Just good friends, to use the old cliché. We were comfortable with each other, flirted a bit, nothing more. But if I’d ever needed real help she’d have been the one I’d have called. I think she felt the same.” He found it easy to talk in Eadlin’s company. “You know, I think in a strange way I hadn’t really accepted that she was dead until last week, not at a very deep level. It was as if the crash was only a bad dream and I would wake up and go back to normal life in the office. Kate was still part of normal life.” His voice caught and Eadlin looked back at him as she hefted a feed bowl.

“Keep going. I think you need to talk about it.”

Yes, he needed to talk, but he wished he didn’t feel so emotionally incontinent when he tried. Fergus continued more quietly, ready to stop at the first sign of a crumble. “I cleaned out my car before I went back. There were two long, blonde hairs snagged in the passenger head rest. Sometimes we went to meetings in my car rather than hers. For some reason those hairs broke me up.” His voice caught again. “They’re still there.”

Enough. Down the line of stables, horses’ heads were stretching over their gates, all looking towards them. One or two started kicking their doors impatiently, eager for their feed. Fergus recognised Trooper further down the line, whinnying at them.

“I think Trooper is pleased to see us.” Fergus had never thought his spirits would lift at the sight of a horse.

“Sorry to disillusion you, but he’s pleased to see food. You won’t get any sense out of any of them until their bowls are empty.” Trooper proved her point by dropping his head into the feed, showing no sign of recognition. “So why did you come back here?”

Fergus watched Eadlin’s jodhpur-covered rump as she bent, lifted, and dropped a food tray over a stable door. Some of his reasons could stay private.

“Well, I looked up your dead Saxon on the internet. There are pictures of the tattoo on his face. I know this sounds weird but I’m sure I saw him in the wreck. It’s left a few loose ends in my mind that I want to explore, even if I don’t know where to start.”

Eadlin turned towards him with another feed bowl in her hands and a look of surprising intensity on her face.

“I think there are some things we’ll never understand, but where we might get hurt trying to find out. I’d let that drop if I were you.” The steel in her warning surprised Fergus. He opened his mouth to ask a question but she spoke over him. “Remember what I said about you being between the worlds, about being vulnerable. There are some doors you, of all people, shouldn’t try to open.”

Eadlin moved on briskly to the next stall. The set of her shoulders dissuaded him from voicing his scepticism about her palm-reading predictions.

“Actually, there
was
something else.” Truth time. Fergus parked the wheelbarrow and hooked his elbows over Trooper’s stable door, glad of an excuse to rest his legs. The horse looked up briefly before dropping his head to chase the remaining feed around the bowl. Fergus did not know quite how to put his next thought into words. Eadlin rested with him, giving him time to come to the heart of his answer.

“I had a glimpse of something, here. Something peaceful.” His words were coming out slowly, spoken softly towards the horse. “Last time I was here, all I wanted to do was to get back to my old life, as if I could wipe away the crash and the hospital months. Then when I went back I kept on thinking about a moment in the sand school, with you and Trooper. I sensed something there, just for a moment. An instant of calm that was so powerful that it frightened me and I dropped it.” The silence was comfortable between them, until Eadlin touched his arm in encouragement. “But back in the office, surrounded by all those egos, all that frantic pressure, finding a way back to that point of calm felt more important than any sales target could ever be. Am I talking complete drivel?”

Eadlin lifted her hand and laid it on his back. “You’re probably talking more sense than your office mates will ever know.” She smiled at him warmly, as if he had said something profound, and again he glimpsed wisdom behind her eyes. They reminded him of a Buddhist monk he had met on his gap year travels, a man whose serenity had seemed ageless, and before whom all the stresses of the world were but the petty squabbles of children. Then her smile became a grin and she was once again a freckle-faced young woman with her hand resting on his back, and he was sorry when she straightened and let it fall.

“This is good. You’re asking good questions. You’re like someone tuning in one of those old dial-faced radios, hunting for a signal. At least you’re hunting, and when you find it you’ll be receptive.”

Eadlin started to move away but Fergus stayed, staring at the way the horse was snuffling and licking at the scraps in his bowl. Trooper had given no sign of recognition, no indication that for an instant, once, they had connected at an almost primal level.

“But my mind is all over the place.” His truths were surfacing. “I swing from crying in public to childish euphoria over a pint of beer. I’ve just chucked in a good career in a spectacular flash of temper that I never knew I had, and I’m even starting to believe in some mental communion with a horse. I’m afraid I’m going gaga, that some of the damage to my skull has changed me.”

Eadlin turned to look back at him, and he hoped his face did not look as lost as he felt. Outside in the yard, the repeater bell for the office telephone started to ring, but she ignored it.

“Has anyone mentioned Post-Traumatic Stress to you?”

Fergus shook his head. No, but he’d wondered about that.

“Because I think you’ve got it. And whatever label a shrink would put on you, you’re going to feel a bit screwed up after that kind of experience. It’s bound to change you, but not all change is bad. Come on; let me show you the office routines. How’s your telephone manner?”

In the yard it was turning into the kind of spring afternoon when sunshine is a surprise and delight at an hour that used to be dusk. When the phone stopped ringing the silence was deeper, inspiring Fergus to stop and breathe. Beside him, Eadlin squinted at the sun, lifting her face to its rays.

“It’ll be the equinox tomorrow.” She sounded happy at the thought. “Ostara, it used to be called. It’s the day when people celebrated the end of winter and prayed for fertility for their crops. It’s always been a happy time.”

“Prayed as in went to church?”

Eadlin giggled at the thought. “Nah, no way! Ostara’s much older than that. Before the Christians came, Ostara was the festival of rebirth in the cycle of the year.” Fergus stared at her. She had spoken as if the arrival of Christianity was still part of folk memory. Now she lifted her chin towards the car park, where Fergus’s sporty Audi gleamed amidst the decrepit collection of yard workers’ cars. His mountain bike was strapped to the roof rack. “Is that yours?”

“The car belongs to my ex-employer, so it’ll have to go back in a couple of months, when my notice expires. I bought the bike to help me build up my legs, and it’s working. I can manage a couple of miles, now, on the flat.” For a moment Fergus wondered if he was doing the right thing to move away from the business world. He’d miss that car.

“D’you have somewhere to stay?” She interrupted his reverie.

“There’s a woman in the village who lets out rooms. Mary Baxter. I got her number from the local tourist board, but apparently I met her that night with the choir. D’you know her?”

Eadlin nodded. “Nice woman, and it’ll do her good to have you around the place.” Behind her the telephone rang again, interrupting any further conversation as Eadlin ran to the office. Fergus bent to grip the wheelbarrow and grimaced as he lifted, enjoying the physical challenge, even relishing the complaints from his muscles. Some pain must be sought out so that horizons can expand. Tomorrow he’d cycle here from Allingley.

M
ARY
B
AXTER’S HOUSE
was in a terrace of brick-and-flint cottages on the edge of the village. Each had a tiny, walled front garden scattered with spring flowers, like a line of slightly neglected old ladies holding out tea trays. Behind them their back gardens rose in narrow strips to the edge of the woods, a landscape filled with a productive litter of garden sheds and vegetable plots. Beyond the cottages, away from the village, the land between the lane and the woods widened into a broad common where children were playing a noisy game of football as Fergus arrived. He stood on Mary’s doorstep and turned to watch the way the sun lit the underside of the clouds, feeling the satisfied exhaustion of physical activity even though he’d spent most of the day in Eadlin’s office. He hadn’t touched his stick all day. More progress.

Mary Baxter answered the door in a floral housecoat and fluffy slippers, wiping her hands on a tea towel, smiling in a way that was kindly but distant. Without the animation of the choir around her, her face looked too drawn for the homely bulk below. The smudges under her eyes were a similar colour to her hair, gunmetal streaked with grey.

“I’ve only two rooms that I let,” Mary led the way into the house. “The large one at the back is already taken by Doctor Harvey from the dig.” She spoke as if he’d know who Doctor Harvey was. “This one’s free, though.” She showed him a small room over the front door. It had recently been redecorated, and the framed prints on the walls seemed to be there to cover up the bare paint rather than being a natural part of their surroundings. “It were my son’s room when he were a boy,” she added in the same soft, teashop accent as Eadlin. The carpet was old and still had ink stains under the small desk. In the confined space her nose wrinkled slightly. “There’s a bathroom at the back,” she hinted. It was strange how quickly he’d become used to the smell of horses.

Mary brightened and began to show him the rest of the house. She found going downstairs a challenge, rolling from side to side and grunting with the effort.

“It’s me knees,” she explained, looking over her shoulder to where Fergus side-stepped after her, grasping the bannister. “A right pair we make, don’t we?” Fergus had explained his situation on the phone.

A cramped front room “for all the guests to use” was dominated by an old upright piano, crowned by a photograph of a soldier who grinned at the camera from under the maroon beret and winged insignia of the Parachute Regiment.

“Is that your son?” Fergus asked, picking up the photograph. She lifted the frame out of his hands tenderly, and polished his fingerprints off the glass.

“Yes, this is my boy.” Mary replaced the photograph onto the piano like a priest placing a chalice on the altar. “He was killed in Afghanistan last year.” The words fell from her mouth the way porcelain falls from a shelf.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know...” Already she had turned away, waving her arm behind her to sweep away his condolences.

“Well now you know. You needed to know if you’re going to stay here. So why aren’t you going home for Easter?” she asked, leading him into a tiny kitchen designed for one to cook or two to eat in. A Formicatopped table with two bentwood chairs huddled against the wall opposite an old, enamel cooking range. “A young man like you should be with his family at Easter.”

“My parents emigrated to New Zealand when my father retired, to be closer to my sister and her children.”

Mary let out a maternal
tut
. “So you’re going to work at Eadlin Stodman’s place?” she asked rhetorically, as she showed him where to find mugs and milk.

“More like a working holiday. I’m taking a career break and getting fit at the same time.”

“Eadlin’s a good girl. Her family have been here for ever. She’s what my dear mother would have called an ‘old soul’.”

Fergus smiled encouragingly. He thought he understood, but he wanted Mary to say more.

“Sort of wise, if you know what I mean. Fey.” Mary had found another word. “Her mother and grandmother had the same gift. They knew about herbs and things. Healers, like.”

Later, as Fergus was unpacking his suitcase, he heard the front door open and footsteps climb the stairs, treading with the light step and energy of a younger woman. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door. The woman outside was bespectacled, elfin, and familiar in a way that eluded Fergus for a moment. Then she held out her hand, smiling a little after the shake, and he recognised the woman who had offered him coffee on the day he had chased the illusion of Kate to the Mill House.

“Hello, I’m Clare Harvey, I gather we’re housemates. Oh it’s you! Hello, you’re looking better. No crutches now?”

Clare stayed in the doorway while Fergus explained his return. He sat, as he spoke, in the single upright chair by the desk, resting his legs and feeling guilty at taking the only seat. Clare recognised his description of Eadlin as the red-haired woman who sometimes rode a chestnut horse past her dig.

“How’s the dig going?”

Clare grimaced. “Disappointing. We’ve found nothing that you wouldn’t expect to find at the bottom of a pond that’s been filling up for a thousand years, mainly interesting scraps of very old rubbish. No more bodies, yet. The owners are happy because they’ll get a nice clean pond for free, but I’ve got to keep a bunch of students motivated. They were mad keen to work on a site like this for their Easter vacation, but so far it’s archaeologically tedious.” As Clare spoke she looked idly at the clutter of Fergus’s mementoes dumped on top of the chest of drawers.

“What’s the photograph?” Clare picked up a framed, group photograph of a business team cheering at the camera. They were bunched together, several with one arm raised in a display of triumph. “And why are you looking all wilted while the others are cheering?”

“I brought that to remind me of what I’m leaving behind.” Something in Fergus’s tone announced that there was a story behind the photograph, and Clare looked up expectantly. “That was the sales team I worked with last year, taken on the day the financial results were announced. We came second, out of many, in the global sales league.”

“Sounds good, but I still don’t understand why you’re the only one not cheering.”

“Two weeks before the financial year end I broke a couple of ribs diving to catch a cricket ball. I missed an important customer meeting and we lost a deal. If we’d have won that deal the team would have topped the league.”

“So?”

“The guy next to me in the photograph was my boss. He’s a very focused guy, all deals, targets and testosterone. He insisted we went into that huddle for the camera, and put one arm around my back. As we cheered for the picture he squeezed my ribs. Have you ever had broken ribs?”

“No.”

“It smarts a bit. Especially if someone gives you a bear hug. The camera caught me as my knees buckled.”

“Nice guy.”

“A Class ‘A’ shit, if you’ll pardon the expression. We’ve just had a bit of a row, which is why I’ve resigned.”

Clare looked back at the photograph and tensed. For some reason she had paled and was staring at the picture like a rabbit in the headlights.

“That woman the other side of you.” She swallowed. “The one with the long blonde hair. Who is she?”

“That’s Kate. She and I used to work together.”

“She looks familiar, like I know her.”

“Well you won’t have met her recently.” Fergus spoke quietly, his mouth dry. “Kate died in the car crash when I was injured.”

There was a loud click as Clare let the frame drop back onto the chest of drawers, then turned away and left without another word. As Fergus struggled to rise, he heard her bedroom door shut in an emphatic way that said she did not want to be disturbed. Puzzled, he looked across the landing at her door then picked up the photograph. Kate smiled back at him, shoulders braced back, pelvis forward in a raunchy pose with both hands held at waist level in the thumbs-up gesture of success. God, she’d been lovely.