The Healing Stream (14 page)

‘If I could get my hands on that sod, I’d beat the living daylights out of him. She’s just a kid; she would have trusted him, that’s what is so beastly.’

‘Perhaps she’s right, darling: she’s not a stupid girl. Come on, let’s go outside and get the place put to bed.’

Even when Tessa had been on holiday they had never gone to bed with the sinking sun. The last long rays streaming through the bedroom window heightened their anticipation. Through all the years of their marriage, sex had been important to both of them. Young and with abundant energy they had loved each other so completely that every avenue of eroticism had been explored; as the years had melted gently into the happy and complete relationship where nothing they desired was out of bounds to them, scarcely a day ended without the act of love-making. Seldom could it be described as erotic, rather it was a silent and loving way of sharing the last minutes of each day.

But, on that late July evening, the scene at the meal table had something to do with the emotion that drove them. It wasn’t gentle love they needed, it was something wilder, something that would drive away the shadow of what they both feared and leave no room in their thoughts for anything except themselves and each other. This would be no tender affirmation of their abiding love; their bodies were as familiar to each other as to themselves, but dull habit had no place as they brought each other to the limits of desire. They wanted it to last for hours even while they raced towards the climax that neither of them could hold back.

‘We’re so lucky,’ she breathed, still holding him fast, ‘so blessed.’

‘Blessed . . . thankful.’

‘There aren’t any words.’

‘We don’t need words, you and me.’

Short sentences, spoken in whispers, as if any sound would break the spell that held them. Then he rolled off her and she heard a change in him. He had been breathless, indeed they both had, but the unnatural gasp broke through her euphoria.

‘Richard?’ She wasn’t even sure if he heard her. Frightened, she reached to turn on the bedside light. ‘Is it that pain again? We ought to keep something in the house, something for indigestion. I’ll go and get the brandy – that helped earlier.’

She slipped her feet into her slippers and put on her dressing gown, then as she reached the door turned to look at him expecting to be met with a silent message that somehow would combine the moment with what had gone before. But she might as well not have been there; he was staring unseeingly at the ceiling, his face contorted with pain. Forgetting her mission for the brandy she went back to the bed and dropped to her knees by his side.

‘Try and sit up a bit, darling. If I rub your back it might help.’

‘Arms . . . shoulders . . .’ It was hard to be sure, but she thought that was what he said. His fists were clenched and his face was contorted with pain.

‘I’m going to ring for the doctor,’ she said, as much to herself as to Richard. It was only as she ran down the stairs that she realized with surprise and fright that he hadn’t attempted to stop her. A glance at the hall clock told her it was not quite half past ten. At any other time she would have worried that Tessa was still out on her bike even though it had been dark for some time, but her thoughts didn’t go as far as Tessa, nor did she feel sympathy for poor Dr Harding who was just on the way up his stairs to go to bed at the end of a busy day when the phone rang. But, true to his profession, after hearing what she told him he said he would come immediately.

Then he took her by surprise and rocked the foundations of her world when he added, ‘I shall call for an ambulance to come out from Deremouth. You go back to your husband, Mrs Pilbeam, and I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

It couldn’t be happening! In all their years together she had never known Richard have even a day in bed. Hospital? No, he’d hate it. Even if he needed care, somehow she would manage to look after him and the farm too. Just like the pain had eased earlier, perhaps she would find he was recovering already.

Back in the bedroom her first reaction was a flood of relief; the colour of his face was heightened, but at least the expression of pain was gone.

‘The doctor will be here in a minute,’ she said, forcing her voice to sound positive so that he wouldn’t know how frightened and out of her depth she felt.

‘It’s dying down,’ he whispered, frightened to breathe deeply. ‘Oughtn’t to bring him out – it’s late – I’ll be all right . . . minute.’

‘He’ll give you something. We ought to keep a better medical chest.’

She moved to the window to watch for the light of Dr Harding’s car. No need to mention the ambulance, for now that Richard was starting to feel better the doctor would be certain to send it away.

But he didn’t. The next half hour was like a living nightmare. An involuntary cry from Richard just as the doctor was examining him; the arrival of the ambulance with three attendants and a stretcher, then the sight of Richard, his naked body covered with a sheet, being lifted to the stretcher and carefully carried down the stairs. He didn’t look at her, he didn’t even seem to realize she was there or what was happening; his world went no further than the pain that filled his chest, his arms, his shoulders and his jaw. A pain that seemed to be squeezing the life out of him.

As they carried him out of the house Naomi tore off her dressing gown and dragged her clothes on, taking no heed of appearance. She moved so fast that before he was safely in the ambulance and the men ready to set off for Deremouth she was in the car ready to follow. It was only as the cavalcade moved slowly down the narrow, potholed lane that she remembered she hadn’t left a note for Tessa.

There was a storm brewing. The still air had suddenly whipped itself into a frenzy and in the distance Tessa heard thunder. With the back tyre of her bicycle completely flat she had already been pushing it for nearly four miles, hurrying as fast as she could and knowing that at home they would be worrying about her. The scene at the meal table had receded into the back of her mind, pushed into insignificance by those few minutes at the cottage.

She was almost home. As she came to the turn into the lane she could see the lights from the farmhouse. It must be well after eleven o’clock, past Richard and Naomi’s usual bedtime that was based on his early milking time in the morning. They must have gone to bed and left the downstairs lights on to welcome her home. The thought gave her a feeling of comfort, and right on cue she remembered the words in Gran’s letter telling her that it was a house filled with love. There was no logic in her certainty that when Richard got over the hurt that she had lied to them about her holiday he would give his consent to her marriage, but logic had nothing to do with the welcome she saw shining in the lights from the house.

Then her rambling thoughts were brought to a halt by the sound of a vehicle coming towards her down the narrow lane. She stood right back, pushing her bike against the prickly hawthorn hedge as it came near. When she recognized that it was an ambulance she felt a stab of fear. Of course it wasn’t from the farm; there were two or three more properties further along. But even before she could start to hope, she recognized the van following behind.

Naomi saw her pushed against the hedge and pulled up, leaving the engine running. Opening the door she called, ‘They’re taking Richard to hospital. But he seemed better. Heart attack, they said. Silly taking him. He would have been better in bed. I forgot to lock up. I’ll be back as soon as they let him come home. We both will.’ Her short, disconnected sentences were so out of character, as out of character as forgetting to turn off some of the lights and lock the door.

‘I’ll leave my bike here in the hedge and come with—’

‘Look after things.’ And taking her foot off the clutch pedal Naomi started forward with a jolt, then put her foot down, determined to catch up with the ambulance.

There could be nothing more certain to take Tessa’s mind off her own affairs than this. She imagined the scene at the dinner table: Richard’s anger, her own anger, Richard going outside for air – and she had imagined that there alone he would have been starting to understand about Giles and her. If he were ill, was she the cause of it? No, he’d said that he’d had indigestion during the day. She tried to believe that when he got to the hospital they would examine him and find there was nothing wrong with his heart and it had been indigestion all the time. She tried to concentrate her mind on formulating a plan of action for the morning. She would have to phone Mr Masters tomorrow morning and explain that she couldn’t come to Fiddlers’ Green – but even then she would be left with the animals to care for. The dairy work she understood, but she didn’t even know how much food any of the animals had and, as for milking a cow, she’d never even watched as Richard attached the milking machine to a cow’s udder, and equipment like separators and coolers were an unknown world to her.

Knowing tomorrow demanded an early start she went straight to bed, setting the alarm clock for half past six. But how could she sleep when she could see Richard so clearly . . . Richard . . . Naomi . . . the disruption to their lives . . . guilt at her own part in what had happened? Running Chagleigh Farm demanded all his health and strength, something that they had all taken for granted. She remembered how Naomi had talked to her of the life she and Richard shared, her fears for him during the Great War and her thankfulness when he came home unscathed. Thankfulness she felt every day of her life, then and now, too. Please help them, Tessa begged silently. I didn’t realize until now how dear they are to me. I know I was cross with him earlier but deep down I really love him, I love both of them. Please help me find out how to do things and be really helpful.

The night seemed endless and the dawn chorus was already in full song when she had an inspiration. Adjoining Chagleigh was Wendover, a mixed farm owned by Geoffrey Huntley. She had never met him and perhaps it was like Chagleigh, run by just him, or him and his wife. She had seldom heard him mentioned at Chagleigh, but that he was there at the back of her mind gave her comfort enough to help her drift into sleep.

Whatever the circumstances, Tessa had never let care for her appearance slip. So just after half past six she ran her bath, making a mental note that she must remember to see to the fire. That was another job that had never concerned her; Naomi looked after it and hot water was always on tap as if by magic.

By five to seven, with her make-up and hair ready to face the day, she was collecting the eggs so that they would be in the basket on the bench in the dairy ready for Deirdre to get to work on later in the morning. Next came the pigs; she had no idea how much food to give them or even what they were used to eating. Somehow she
must
manage, she would beg for help from wherever she could find it, she would work from morning till night herself, anything rather than let Naomi and Richard down.

Looking out across the lower field that rose towards High Meadow she was faced with the hardest task of all. It was well past the hour when Richard would have driven them down to the milking shed. The thought of milking them, one by one, she felt she could master, not with the machine but by hand. A long and laborious task, but once she got the hang of it she would manage. But the milk from the pail didn’t get poured straight into the churns that were collected from the gate and so she would have to fathom out how to use the cooler and the separator. She looked around as if by magic some inspiration would appear. Suppose the cows wouldn’t come in a herd like they did for Richard, suppose they wandered in all directions. Yet she knew simply by looking at their heavy udders that they were overdue for milking.

Taking her courage in both hands she went through the gate and started up the field. The cows looked at her balefully but made no attempt to form a group and walk down the slope as they did for Richard. She had never felt so helpless, helpless and useless. On the rare occasions when Richard couldn’t be there for milking she had seen Naomi usher them down through the gate and into the shed. The milking machine wasn’t for her either; it was the memory of seeing her sitting on the three-legged stool, her head against the cow’s flank, her hands working steadily and purposefully, that made Tessa feel she could do it too. But first she had to bring them in from the field.

Glancing at her watch she saw it was still only half past eight. Too early to telephone the unknown Geoffrey Hunter and throw herself on his mercy for help or, at least, for advice.

I’ll leave the cows until I’ve explained to Mr Masters why I can’t come to work, she thought. Somehow the idea of sharing her problem helped her as she hurried back indoors and dialled the number.

‘Hello.’ Miss Sherwin’s voice seemed to tell her that to disturb a household so early was either bad manners or bad news.

‘Miss Sherwin, it’s me, Tessa. I know it’s early but I want to speak to Mr Masters.’

‘I don’t know if he’ll come to the phone at this hour of the day.’ Then, curiosity making her relent a little, ‘Is something wrong? Are you ringing to say you can’t come to Deirdre?’

‘Yes, my uncle has been taken to hospital. My aunt is with him. I have to look after the farm.’

‘Oh, my dear, what a to-do. He’s coming into the hall now; I’ll give him the phone and you tell him all about it. It’s Tessa. She’s in trouble there at the farm.’

On any other occasion Tessa might have been surprised and touched by the unexpected concern, but the pressing demand of the cows was too near the front of her mind.

‘Trouble at the farm?’ Julian Masters’ voice was like a lifeline to cling to. So Tessa poured out the story, or as much of it as she knew. She explained how she’d been late home from her bike ride because of a puncture and had just seen the ambulance disappear with Naomi following.

‘I wanted to go with her. He’s never ill. It must have frightened her terribly. But she said for me to stay at home and look after things. She said they might let her bring him home today, but after a heart attack they won’t do that, will they? I wish I’d learnt to drive the cows in – I went in the field and tried but they just stood there looking at me. It’s way past their milking time. I must go and try again—’