Island-in-Waiting (18 page)

“Good evening, Chloe. I hear your efforts at the bazaar were greatly appreciated.” And with a vague, dismissive smile he piloted Pam away.

I stood fighting back helpless tears and at my side Ray said softly, “Well, well! Quite a change from the passionate embrace, wasn't it?”

I spun to face him and something in my expression jolted him into sudden awareness. “And it really matters, doesn't it?” he added flatly. “Blast his eyes!”

I said rapidly, “Can you attach yourself to someone else for a while?” and, seeing a door across the room, quickly made my way towards it before he could reply.

A dimly lit corridor stretched away in the direction of some classrooms. On my left a small door was marked ‘Cloakroom' and beneath it a temporary notice, presumably just for this evening, added ‘Ladies'. I hesitated, wondering if a splash of cold water would cool my burning cheeks, and as I stood there a door lower down opened and Neil came out, stopping abruptly as he caught sight of me.

“I didn't follow you,” I said dully.

“My dear Chloe, it never occurred to me that –”

“But since you're here, could you spare me a moment?”

“Certainly. Shall we go back inside?”

“No.” Firmly I stood my ground. “It's easier to talk here, without interruptions.”

“Very well.”

“Neil, I'm sorry about that phone call.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yesterday, you mean? Why?”

“I didn't mean to brush you aside like that, but I was in such a panic –”

He moved impatiently. “I think I'm the one who should apologize. I was so intent on ‘saving' you from Ray that it never struck me you might not want saving.”

I shook my head. “Please try to understand. It was that horrible telepathy again.” I paused but he made no attempt to help me. “I had a kind of vision of a huge lorry rushing straight at me and I couldn't get out of the way.” It sounded unconvincing, even to myself. “I passed out,” I added expressionlessly. He frowned but made no comment. “When I came round I was sure it was happening to Ray.”

I searched his face for a sign that there was still something left between us, but he was feeling in his pocket for cigarettes.

“Well, since he's quite safe you can relax, can't you? There was no need to explain; it's none of my business, after all.”

“I'm sorry,” I said tightly, “I thought it was.” I braced myself to meet his eyes. “For the record,” I added in a rush, “it was Ray's uncle who was run over yesterday morning.” And I turned blindly into the dubious haven of the ladies' cloakroom. I think that as I closed the door I heard him say, “Chloe!” but I can't be sure. I stood with my hands gripping the sides of the basin willing myself not to break down completely. Quite obviously I was more trouble than I was worth and Ray was welcome to me. My attempt at an apology had only made things worse.

After a minute or two I straightened and studied my reflection in the mirror. Apart from heightened colour, attributable anyway to the heat in the crowded room, I looked remarkably normal. Which was as well, for at that moment the door was pushed open and two girls came in, chattering gaily. I gave them a bright, unseeing smile and made my way back to the party.

Fortunately I found Martha almost at once. “Sherry, for the love of Allah!” I said in an undertone. Surprised, she handed me her own glass and I drained it at a gulp and helped us both to another from a passing tray.

“It's Neil, isn't it?” she said shrewdly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I answered, “Nothing at all.”

She took my arm and led me firmly to the nearest group.

“I don't think you know Claudine Bouchet ...”

The evening ground on. A buffet was served but my throat was closed and it was useless to try to eat. Ray reappeared. Faces swam in and out of focus, voices jabbered meaninglessly, but I kept my smile fixed and no-one suspected my disorientation. At last the ordeal was over. We said our good-byes – to Vivian and Nicholas, to the Fentons, to the headmaster and his deputy, and as I climbed with infinite weariness into the back of Hugo's car I remembered the hopes with which I had left it. I had been so sure everything would be all right once I'd explained to Neil, and I had been so abysmally wrong.

That night I experienced another of my time-switches and this time there was one important difference: I was recognized.

It was Laa'll Katrina, St Catherine's Eve, at Colby Fair. This much I somehow knew, but even in this uncertain past my present-day troubles had followed me and I was miserable, confused and afraid. I stood on the outskirts of the crowd watching with no flicker of curiosity as a procession of boys marched round the fairground carrying what appeared to be a dead hen. After a while they sat down on the ground and embarked on a ritual plucking ceremony and everyone surged forward, seemingly intent on securing one of the black feathers. There was much good-humoured jostling and after a moment one or two young men broke away and ran off in the direction of the inn, waving feathers as though these were tokens enabling them to free drinks.

The girls, however, seemed to put a more romantic significance on acquiring a feather and my eyes were full of tears of self-pity as I watched them laughing and dodging about. Suddenly one of them spun round with a cry of triumph, holding aloft a handful of feathers, and, pursued by her companions, came running towards me. By this time I no longer expected anyone to notice me during my invasions of the past, and although the girl was running straight towards me I made no attempt to move. To my surprise, however, she skidded to a halt, gazing directly at me with widening eyes.

Her pursuing friends caught up and surrounded her. “What is it then, Bridie? What are you looking at? Give us some of your feathers, now! Isn't one husband enough for you?”

But Bridie remained transfixed staring at me and I stared back, aware of a niggling pinprick of familiarity about the bright black eyes. Then with a jolt memory sickeningly asserted itself, etching wrinkles in the smooth olive skin, drying and fading the vibrant black hair, and I realized with a sense of disbelief that I was looking at the Granny Clegg of sixty years ago – and that she recognized me! For the first time in my visits to the half-world of the past I had been seen and known for myself.

“Bridie!” The girls were becoming impatient. “Are you after seeing a ghost, then? Ah, leave her be, Joaney, her wits are addled!” and they turned after more interesting game. I waited, motionless, and slowly, moving as though strings jerked at her limbs, she came towards me until only a few feet separated us. Then, with a singularly sweet smile in which I could read both sympathy and encouragement, she held out to me one of her precious black feathers.

Seconds later on my return to Hugo's guest-room I searched for it diligently and was almost surprised not to find it.

The loss of that feather from another dimension assumed a morbid significance from which I could not free myself. Had I been able to hold on to it, all would have come right between Neil and myself. As it was, there was probably no hope.

In the meantime I had committed myself to the sitting with Ray, and though I hoped that wet weather might release me from it, the day dawned uncaringly brilliant, blue and gold with frost on the grass and wraiths of mist disappearing over the hills. There was to be no reprieve; I should have to suppress my uneasiness and sit again for Ray.

“I'm sorry about last night,” he said as he started up the car.

“What in particular?” I didn't want to think about last night.

“I gather that bastard Sheppard slapped you down. He's got one hell of a temper, hasn't he? We nearly came to blows later.”

I drew a deep breath. “Ray, what exactly are you trying to say?”

“I didn't realize you'd had a word with him yourself, but I saw he'd upset you so I tackled him about it.”

I wasn't surprised Neil had lost his temper. He was hardly likely to submit to being taken to task by Ray. He must be wishing most heartily that he had never set eyes on me.

“Promise me something?” I said after a moment.

“What?”

“Not to mention Neil Sheppard for the rest of the day.”

“With the greatest of pleasure.”

We drove to the spot where we had parked before and climbed the hill with our accoutrements. Ray was quieter than usual and I was incapable of small talk. Within minutes I had settled myself on the canvas stool, the stole draped round my shoulders and my face turned resolutely to the sea. I hoped he would not be working on my eyes; they were not at their best that day.

The coast of Ireland was obscured by a gauzy haze, but nearer at hand several small boats bobbed on the blue water and, as ever, the gulls circled and wheeled, circled and wheeled, their haunting cries floating back to earth like the lament of lost souls.

“You're very subdued today,” I remarked during our coffee break. “What's the matter?”

He glanced up, then away and out to sea. “I've been indulging in a bout of self-analysis and it's not all that edifying.”

“It doesn't sound like one of your pastimes.”

“You forced me into it, with some of the home truths you were handing out yesterday.”

“And what conclusions did you reach?”

He smiled briefly. “Chiefly, that if I'm to get anywhere at all with you I'll have to take myself in hand.”

“Ray –”

“Yes, I know: Neil Sheppard's the light of your life at the moment but I don't hold out much hope in that direction. He's as stubborn as a mule and if I didn't get through to him last night, nothing will. So all being equal you may yet settle for me if I change my spots in time. And if you did, I wouldn't need to be so bitter and twisted anyway.” He stood up and tipped the dregs of his coffee on to the grass. “But enough of this philosophizing! Back to work!”

We took up our positions again and another couple of hours passed. By way of a mental censorship I was concentrating on planning a series of exotic dishes for my first week at the Viking.

“I'll have to start looking for somewhere to live,” I said aloud.

“Digs, you mean?”

“I'd rather buy a cottage if I can find something suitable.”

“It'll be pricey. Property's expensive over here.”

“So I believe.” I shifted my position slightly. “My back's stiff. Isn't it time for lunch?”

“We can stop now if you like.”

We ate in an almost companionable silence. Despite my misgivings and against all odds, we seemed to be back on a more or less firm footing.

“You can take a few more minutes if you like,” he remarked as I prepared to return to my stool. “I'm not satisfied with the coastline so I'll be working on that for a while. Go and stretch your legs while you have the chance. I'll call when I need you.”

Glad of the extended respite I walked over the uneven ground and stood for a minute or two watching the boats far out to sea. At my feet a sheep-track ambled away down the seaward side of the hill and I started to follow it aimlessly, the wind lessening as I dropped below the level of the hill. Eventually the track petered out on a small grass-covered ledge.

I sat down cautiously, resting my back against the warm rock. The hill behind protected me from the strong offshore wind and there was still warmth in the late October sun. The incandescence of sun and water hurt my tender eyes and I closed them. I had not slept well the night before and almost without realizing it, drifted into a deliciously soothing doze punctuated by the mewling gulls until one cry, louder than the rest, brought me fully awake. Ahead of me the sun still danced on the water. I leaned my head back, looking up the slope of the hill behind me – and my heart seemed to freeze. While I'd slept the wind had dropped and a curtain of mist had descended, draping itself over the top of the hill while the lower slopes remained bathed in sunshine. Mist on the hill!

I scrambled to my feet, my heart suddenly clattering at the base of my throat. Why hadn't Ray called me? He surely couldn't be painting in this! And in that moment I knew that he had called, that the cry which had jolted me awake had come neither from the gulls nor over the shrouded hilltop but from inside my own head.

A cold sickness gripped me as I started back at a stumbling run up the sheeptrack, frightened out of all proportion by the sudden descent of the mist. Within a few feet the sunlight disappeared and the drifting barrier came down to enfold me, clogging eyes and mouth with its smothering grey moisture.

“Ray? Where are you?” My voice met only walls of whiteness which blocked it, closing it in. Surely if I continued along this track I should come to the painting site; but I remembered vaguely that on the way down the track had forked and I couldn't in my panic recall which direction I had taken. The ground was beginning to level under my feet. He couldn't be far away.

“Please answer, Ray!” I plunged forward and at once stumbled and nearly fell. At my feet was the stool I had been sitting on that morning, my handbag still propped against its foot. I retrieved the bag and with hands outstretched like a sleepwalker moved on until my recoiling fingers touched the framework of the easel. Edging my way round it, the breath tearing at my lungs, I was confronted by my own face, hair blowing, eyes dreaming. A loaded paintbrush rested on the palette at my feet and half hidden beneath it, dulled by a bloom of moisture, lay a small cigarette lighter. I picked it up and slipped it into the deep pocket of my skirt.

He couldn't have gone without me, surely? Perhaps he had set out to look for me and become lost as I had in the mist. My skirt brushed against his stool and I sank weakly on to it, but there was latent disadvantage in being below normal height in this floating blindness and I stood up quickly. I drew breath to call again but the mist thrust cotton-wool fingers down my throat stifling the unborn cry and in the same moment I realized I was no longer alone. Someone, as in my dream, was waiting there in the mist. For me?