In the doorway of the shed she stopped. The spade was lying across the threshold. Stooping she picked it up. There were clods of wet muddy sand attached to the shoulders of the blade. Someone had used that spade recently certainly since she had come out to the shed last night. She surveyed the woods but as far as she could see they were silent and still. Even the rabbits had gone.
Shrugging her shoulders, she gathered up another armful of logs and, this time spotting the pile of neatly stacked kindling in the corner of the shed, filled her pockets with twigs and small slivers of wood to help light the fire.
Hot coffee and a blazing furnace in the woodburner did much to restore her optimism as did the discovery that there was an electric immersion heater in a cupboard in the bathroom as a backup to the more esoteric uncertainties of hot water from logs. She ate a bowl of cereal and then set about unpacking in earnest.
Several times as she glanced through the windows she noticed that the day was clearing. The mist was thinning and the sun had gained a little in strength. By the time her bags and boxes were empty and she was storing them in the spare bedroom, the sea was a brilliant blue to match the sky.
Turning from the curtainless window her eye was caught by a stack of canvasses behind the door which she hadnt noticed earlier. They stood, face to the wall, in a patch of deep shadow. Curious, she turned one towards her. The painting was of the sea a strangely surrealist, nightmare sea. With a grimace she pulled out another canvas. It repeated the theme as did the next and the next. Then came two more, scenes of the cottage itself, one in the autumn where a bland chocolate-box house was surrounded by a curtain of flame, the other a representation of the house as it would look beneath the nightmare sea. She stared at the latter for a long time and then with a shudder she stacked it back against the wall. They were all painted by the same hand, and a hand which commanded a great deal of talent and power, but she did not like them. They were cruel; twisted in their conception.
Closing the door with a shiver she ran down the stairs and back into the sun-filled living room where her books and papers were laid out on the table ready to start work. Putting the paintings firmly out of her mind she stood looking down at the table.
The book was there, in her head, ready to start and it was going to be even better than Jane. Kate smiled as she pulled her notepad towards her and switched on her word processor.
Closing the door with a shiver she ran down the stairs and back into the sun-filled living room where her books and papers were laid out on the table ready to start work. Putting the paintings firmly out of her mind she stood looking down at the table.
The book was there, in her head, ready to start and it was going to be even better than Jane. Kate smiled as she pulled her notepad towards her and switched on her word processor.
The knock on the front door two hours later took her by surprise. She had completely forgotten Bill.
Hi! He grinned at her as she led the way into the living room. How are you? Ready for lunch?
She stared at him, miles away, reluctant to lose the mood, aching to go on writing.
Bill was watching her. Penny for them, he said softly. You didnt hear a word I said, did you? Ive boobed. Ive intruded on the writer with her muse.
Oh, Bill, Im sorry. Of course I heard you. Kate dragged herself back to the present and gave herself a little shake. Blow the muse; she can go back in her box for a few hours. And yes, thats a super idea. Id love lunch.
The walk through the wood was thoroughly enjoyable and eagerly she looked around, noting the crisp air, the soft muddy track, the whispering fragrant pines, the winter-dead oak, and birch and hazel bright with young catkins, as she plodded beside him, her hands in her pockets, throwing off her preoccupation with the background of the poets father, mad Jack Byron, in order to recount her adventures of the night before.
Thats typical of Greg, Im afraid, not to tell you about the fire or leave you any logs, Bill said, shaking his head. Theres a petty streak to him. Hes angry about having to give up the cottage for you. He kicked out at a rotten branch which lay half across the track.
I didnt realise he lived there.
Oh yes. Greg is a brilliant painter. He dropped out of university about six years ago, halfway through getting a Fine Art degree, came home here and more or less squatted. That was before Roger had to give up work I dont know if you realise, but hes got cancer. He paused for a moment. Anyway, the Lindseys indulged Greg disgracefully, there is no other word for it, and I think Roger gave him some sort of allowance, but when he had to stop work himself there were a few heavy hints that Greg might get off his backside and get a job to help the family coffers. He was impervious to them all, I gather. He has lofty views on the sacredness of talent and the fact that the rest of the world owes him a living so he can indulge that talent. Poor Diana, I dont know how shes coped until now. The idea of renting the cottage did not go down well with old Leonardo, as you can imagine. I gather he was dragged out kicking and screaming. So, dont take his animosity personally. But dont expect him to come calling with bunches of flowers either.
Kate frowned. You might have told me all this before, Bill.
Why? Would you have changed your mind about coming?
She shook her head. No, but it explains a lot. She paused. I found some paintings in the bedroom. He must have forgotten them.
I doubt it. If he left them there, he left them there for a reason. Which means he wanted you to see them. Bill glanced at her. His paintings are pretty grim, to my mind.
She nodded. I didnt like them. There was one which showed the cottage under the sea. It was - she hesitated, trying to find the right word - morbid threatening.
Take no notice. Well ask Diana to take them away.
It seems wimpish to make a fuss.
Not at all. Youre as much of an artist as he is, remember. A better one, because you are disciplined. And you are entitled to feel as sensitive and touchy as he is. He grinned. Are you feeling sensitive and touchy?
Not in the least. Hungry covers it rather better.
Good. In that case, lets find your car and go eat.
The farmhouse was empty. After a cursory glance through the windows to convince themselves that there really was no one at home they turned their attention to the barn. Kates Peugeot was there, neatly parked next to an old Volvo estate.
Dianas, Bill said. They cant have gone far if they are all packed into that fiendish Land Rover, not if they value their teeth.
By the time they had reached the end of the track and gained the metalled road, Kate was beginning to think he was right and that perhaps when her next royalty cheque came she should sacrifice a few teeth in the interest of her cars springs and buy an ancient four-wheel drive of her own for the duration of her stay.
They ordered curry at The Black Swan, a delightful long, low, pink-painted pub a mile or two from the lane, and sat down pleasantly near to a huge inglenook fireplace with a gentle smouldering log which filled the room with the scent of spicy apple. Save for the smiling pink-cheeked girl behind the bar they were the only people there. So. Are you going to like it at Redall? Bill sat down on the high backed settle, and sticking his legs out towards the fire he gave a great sigh of contentment. He raised his pint glass and drank deeply and appreciatively.
Kate nodded. Its the perfect place to work.
The loneliness doesnt worry you?
She shook her head. I must say it was a bit quiet last night. Just the sea. But Ill get used to it. It will be wonderful for writing. Picking up her own glass she had opted for a Scotch and water she looked at Bill for a moment. In a thick brown cable-knit sweater and open-necked shirt he reminded her faintly of a rumpled sheepdog. Did you speak to Jon at all before he left, Bill?
He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. Only once. He rang to ask me if I knew where you were going.
Did you tell him? She looked away, not wanting him to see how much she wanted him to say yes.
No. There was a thoughtful pause as he sipped his lager. We had a few words on various themes related to male chauvinism his and misplaced chivalry mine and professional jealousy all of us and at that point I told him to bugger off to America and let you get on with your life. Did I do wrong?
No. She didnt sound very certain.
She was thinking of their last meeting. Jon had been about to leave for the airport. The taxi was at the door, his cases stacked nearby and she, not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to see him again before he went in case her resolution wavered, had arrived back at the flat thinking he had already gone. For a moment she had been tempted to turn and run but he had seen her and they were after all both grownups. For a moment they had looked at each other, then she had smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. Take care. Have a wonderful time. I hope its all a great success. For a moment she had thought he would turn away without a word. Then he had smiled at her awkwardly. You take care too, Kate, my love. Dont get too wrapped up in old George. And remember to look after yourself. They were both hurting; miserable; stiff-necked. And that was it. Picking up his cases he had walked out to the cab and climbed in without a word or a backward glance. There was no way that she could know that there were tears in his eyes.
I had an Irish grandmother, Kate, Bill said after a moments sympathetic silence. She was always full of useful aphorisms. One of her favourites was: if it is meant to be it will be. I think it just about fits the case.
Kate laughed. Youre right. We need a break from each other at the moment. She glanced up as a waitress appeared with their knives and forks, wrapped in sugar-pink napkins, a huge bowl of mango chutney and large pepper and salt sellers contrived to look like a pair of old boots. But if he phones again, perhaps you might tell him where I am this time. She caught Bills eye and they both smiled comfortably.
I had an Irish grandmother, Kate, Bill said after a moments sympathetic silence. She was always full of useful aphorisms. One of her favourites was: if it is meant to be it will be. I think it just about fits the case.