Precious Time (51 page)

morning and confront her.

It would be interesting to see how she would justify her actions.

While she was hanging out a basket of washing in the warm

sunshine, Clara congratulated herself on feeling better than ever that morning. She felt so good she was even humming a little tune, slightly off key. She stopped, though, when she heard a car approaching. She continued to peg a row of Gabriel’s shirts on the line, until the car turned into the courtyard and she saw it was Jonah.

In view of what she had admitted to Louise on the phone last night, she felt awkward suddenly at the prospect of talking to him.

She watched him shut his car door and walk towards her. He was dressed, as he so often was, in jeans with a loose-fitting cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up. But there was something unusually purposeful about his step, which was curiously at odds with his appearance: it made Clara think he had come here with a specific task to complete.

Or perhaps he was just in a hurry.

‘Hi,’ she said, ‘long time no see. We’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve been busy. How are you feeling?’

She pegged the last of the washing on the line - Murphy’s law dictated it was a pair of her knickers - and said, ‘Much better, thanks to you and your father cosseting me and—’

‘Good,’ he cut in. ‘Are you up to a walk?’

Something jarred with her in his unfamiliar clipped tone, and it occurred to her that maybe he was nervous. Was it possible that he had reached the same conclusion about her as she had of him? ‘I ‘

should think so. I’ll go and get Ned.’

‘I thought we could go on our own.’

She bent down to pick up the empty washing basket and allowed herself a small smile that had a hint of Yesss! tucked into it. It was to be a romantic stroll, just the two of them. ‘Okay, then, I’m game if you are. Shall we go inside and see if your father will agree to look after Ned?’

Gabriel greeted the suggestion with such enthusiasm that Clara was prepared to put money on it that he was in on the whole thing.

Perhaps, and in view of their new-found relationship, Jonah had confided in his father.

‘Quite all right by me,’ Gabriel said, putting an arm around Ned and ruffling his hair. ‘You go off and enjoy yourselves. Ned and I will be fine, won’t we, lad?’ And then to Jonah, ‘But be careful mind you don’t go too far and tire her out.’

After she had swapped her slip-on shoes for a pair of trainers, they set off in an easterly direction across the fields. They climbed over a wooden stile that had been built into the drystone wall and soon Mermaid House was far behind them. They were alone, surrounded by a patchwork of lush green slopes. Filled with a lightness of heart she hadn’t felt in a long while, Clara felt sorry for anyone who didn’t have the opportunity to experience such a golden summer’s day. It was what her mother would call a Grateful Day - a day to be glad one was alive. In the distance sheep bleated and overhead she heard the call of a bird she didn’t recognise.

‘What’s that, Jonah?’ she asked.

‘It’s a skylark,’ he responded, without interest. Puzzled at his terseness, she decided that he was one of those people who preferred to take his nature walks in peace and quiet.

They walked on, the path rising steeply, the sun warm on their backs. She tried not to steal too many sideways glances at him, but found her gaze drawn irresistibly to his face: it was set as if he was deep in thought. There was no sign of a smile, or that he was enjoying himself. They crossed a tumbling stream, and in front of them, Clara saw a gathering of large rocks. She opened her mouth to suggest that they rest awhile, but before she could speak Jonah said, ‘I expect you’re tired. Let’s sit here.’

Glad of the opportunity to catch her breath, and grateful for his intuitive consideration, she chose a comfortable-looking stone on which to sit, one that was large enough to accommodate the two of them. But he remained standing, his back to her, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets as he stared at the view. A soft breeze blew at his hair, rippled his shirt, and Clara had to fight back the urge to reach out and touch him. Irrationally, she wanted him to turn and kiss her. ‘I used to come up here on my own when I was a child,’ he said, turning slowly to face her. “in fact, it’s one of my favourite places, where I like to come and think.’

His expression was serious and made her want to touch him even more. Kiss me, she willed him. One kiss to make me feel young and wild again. One divinely long-drawn-out kiss and I’ll never trouble you again. How about it?

‘But you know that, don’t you?’

She stared at his sexy mouth, not listening to his words, but taking in the soft curve of his lips and how they might feel pressed against hers.

‘Like you know that this is where my brother clinched matters with Emily. Just as you know all about my family.’

Suddenly she saw that the beguiling softness was gone from his mouth, and a feeling of sick dread swept through her.

‘Jonah, what is it?’ But she knew what was wrong. Knew it with painful and shameful clarity.

He stared down at her, his eyes dark and hard. ‘I’m talking about Val’s diaries. I found them among your things in your campervan when I was looking for your mobile.’

There was no point in denying it. ‘I - I was going to put them back,’ she confessed, accepting that while she had to give him the truth, it would not lessen the seriousness of her crime. She lowered her gaze. She had nearly made a fool of herself. Jonah hadn’t brought her up here for a passionate smooch, as she had hoped, but to take her to task. Oh, how stupid and misguided she had been!

‘So you admit you took them?’ He was towering over her,

blocking out the sun and everything around her - everything but his simmering contempt.

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. It was awful of me, I know. But it was when I was sorting through Val’s things. I started reading them and was fascinated by what she—’

‘You took them and read them,’ he said sharply, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Despite their intensely private nature, you felt you had a right to read them. What Val wrote was private. She never intended a stranger to read them. A lying stranger at that. They were meant for my father. No one else.’ His voice was cold and stinging, utterly condemning. He was every inch the tough adversary she had imagined him to be if sufficiently provoked. But he hadn’t finished.

‘What gave you the right to do that?’ he persisted.

‘It was wrong of me,’ she murmured, ‘and I’m sorry. But it was why I came back to Mermaid House. I forgot I still had them, and wanted to give them to your father … I’ve been waiting for the right time.@

He turned away from her. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if you hadn’t come back.’

She let this last comment sink in then realised she couldn’t let it go and, with her humiliation and meekness subsiding, she said, ‘If I hadn’t come back when I did, your father might have gone through with what he’d intended to do down in the copse.’

He swung round. ‘If you’re going to take that line of argument I could say that if you had never come here in the first place my father would never have got so depressed.’

Clara was getting angry. She didn’t like illogical arguments, and this one was heading that way. ‘Oh, please, enough of the self righteous fest, Jonah! If it wasn’t for me, you and your father would still be carrying on like a couple of bickering children.’ She saw she’d hit home. And, oh, boy, he looked as mad as hell now.

‘Don’t you dare denigrate what my father and I have been through in so offhand a manner!’ he thundered.

She leaped to her feet, stood just inches from him. ‘Time to bring the truth trolley round! What bothers you most about me reading those diaries? Could it be something to do with the fact that I know more about you than any other living person? That I know your weaknesses as well as your strengths. That you ran away from school all those times because you were so desperately unhappy. That you’ve never stood up to your brother because, deep down, you’re scared of him. Oh, I think it’s all of that and more, but what probably irks you most is what we both know, that if you had kicked Caspar into touch years ago, you would have married the woman you loved and be standing with her here. Instead you’re stuck with me, a “lying stranger”. Which begs the question, who do you despise more? Me or yourself?’

Ś For a moment she thought she had gone too far. His face turned white and his eyes took on a wild, shining darkness that made her Ś step back from him. His body was taut with barely concealed rage.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have—’ But she got no further. He stepped in close, pulled her to him and kissed her. She resisted at first, Ś unnerved by the rough suddenness of what he was doing, but then the desire she’d felt for him earlier came flooding back and she relaxed into him and let herself be kissed. And before long, the Ś dreamy, knee-buckling kiss she had fantasised about was a thrilling reality. His arms held her tightly and she pressed her hands into his shoulders, wanting to feel the warmth and strength of his body through the soft fabric of his shirt, wanting to absorb every bit of him.

But, annoyingly, the need to cough got the better of her desire. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, releasing herself from his embrace. ‘I hope I’m no longer infectious.’

He waited for her to finish coughing, then circling her waist with his hands, drew her gently back to him. ‘What you said a moment ago about Emily, you’re wrong. I’d much rather be standing here with you.’ He smiled hesitantly, his handsome face now devoid of all animosity. ‘May I kiss you again but this time without the threat of world war breaking out? And when I’ve done that, it might be a good idea for us to talk.’

The mail at Rosewood Manor was delivered by van, usually at around ten o’clock, and after someone had carried it up the long drive from the postbox by the gate, it was sorted and placed in the appropriate pigeonholes in the purpose-built shelving unit in the dining room. Damson’s was brought up to her by one of Roland Hall’s acolytes, a frumpy earth-mother type in sandals. That morning Caspar decided he would check Damson’s pigeonhole himself.

It was Monday and he had been at Rosewood Manor for over a week, and while the place and its creepy inhabitants continued to get on his nerves - had him wanting to nuke all of the brain-dead idiots its isolated location and day-to-day routine made him focus on what was important. Being with Damson was all that mattered now. The rest of the world could go hang, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t know how much longer he would stay, that depended on his sister, but he didn’t care. It was a relief to have escaped his problems at home.

When he had arrived, he’d been worried sick about the loss of his business - the money he owed, and the humiliation. Previous business ventures that had gone belly-up on him had involved other partners and backers so the fallout had been shared. This time the buck had stopped with him and there had been no one to bail him out. But stuck here in the middle of nowhere, he was experiencing a strange, unexpected sense of freedom. It was as if he was in exile, buffered from the raging storm the Inland Revenue and his creditors had whipped up, and he felt absurdly safe.

It was weird and he had told Damson about it, just as he had told her everything since his arrival. She had smiled - especially when he confessed to having thrown away his mobile phone so he could be doubly sure that no one would track him down. He had driven into the nearest town for some items of clothing to tide him over - some new shirts, underwear and socks, paid for by Damson - and on the way back he had stopped the car and hurled the phone into the air.

Hearing it crack open against a drystone wall and smash to a thousand pieces had been surprisingly satisfying.

Damson had made no comment on what he had just told her, but had asked if he would do something for her. They were sitting in a secluded spot in the garden, the afternoon sun was shining down from a clear sky, but despite its warmth, Damson needed a rug over her legs. On the other side of a wall, they could hear the irritating chatter of a group of inmates who were working on the vegetable plot: they were discussing the most humane way to deal with the army of slugs that, overnight, had invaded their organically grown crops. ‘What is it?’ he had asked, his heart bursting with the need to make her well again, to have her as she’d once been.

‘I want you to accept that what we did as children, and continued to do as adults, was wrong.’ Her voice was faint and he had to strain to catch her words. ‘We held Jonah responsible for destroying our family, for taking our mother away, and for making Dad so

unhappy. But we both know the truth, have known it since the day we first blamed him.’ She paused, as if stocking up on air and energy.

‘We both held on to that anger in the misguided hope that it would protect us from the pain. But, Caspar, it caused us so much more. It still is, for you, isn’t it?’ Covering his hand with hers, she had held his gaze steadily. ‘We turned ourselves into victims, when really we’re survivors. Remember that, Caspar. And here’s a little Rosewood Manor truism for you, one that will make you shudder with

cynicism, but I want you to think about it. For every sixty seconds of anger you experience, you deny yourself a minute of happiness.’

From nowhere a smile had appeared on her face, and suddenly the real Damson was there beside him, the beautiful, bright-eyed twin sister who had comforted and empowered him, and meant everything to him.

There was just one letter in Damson’s pigeonhole and Caspar instantly recognised the handwriting on the envelope. Climbing the stairs, and ignoring the moronic greetings of passers-by, he gripped it and felt that his haven was under attack. The outside world was never far away, no matter how much he kidded himself.

Damson was sitting in her wheelchair by the window when he tapped on her door and stepped inside. She was combing her cropped hair. When he had asked her why she had had it cut, she had said, ‘It seemed frivolous in the circumstances. You don’t like it, do you?’