Torn (25 page)

‘Here we are, I've made some hot chocolate,' Gilda said, looking as fresh as if it were six hours earlier. ‘In the circumstances I thought you would need something more comforting than coffee or tea. James is bringing the spirit.' She put the tray down on a small table and sat down. ‘What a to-do! Why do people get so worked up?'

‘Tell me about it!' said her son, as he entered the room with a bottle and four small tumblers. ‘We've only got this.' He waved the bottle of Rémy Martin. Only? Jess thought.

‘But I thought we could dispense with balloon glasses, particularly if you want to put the cognac in your chocolate.'

A suggestion Gilda approved of. ‘What a good idea, James.'

Was Jess the only one who found this situation bizarre; sitting around a roaring fire, about to imbibe cognac and hot chocolate like a group of close friends, après-ski? ‘Um, I ought to tell you, Gilda, we weren't all on the same side at the meeting. Both Danny and I spoke against James.' She glanced up and caught the man's eye as she made this admission.

‘Good heavens, I'm sure he has broad enough shoulders. And he knew very well Daniel was against him but still gave him a lift there!'

‘You know Nigel Stockley turned up late. If Dan hadn't helped me with the ewes we'd both have missed the start of the meeting! I could hardly deny him the chance to get showered and shaved, and then insist he biked it into town.'

Gilda turned to Jessica confidentially. ‘I've already told you I'm bored to the back teeth with the subject. James, however, has strong opinions, but he's not a man to deny others the right to express their opposition. That is correct, isn't it, my dear?' she confirmed with the man she'd been talking about as if he were not there. James, the only person standing in a room with three armchairs, shrugged, but Jess could almost imagine he was suppressing a smile.

‘It depends,' he said. ‘A difference of opinion is one thing. But it's a pity that some people can't separate their emotions from their logic. That's presupposing they've got any logical capability.'

‘Present company excluded, I take it?' Gilda said.

He nodded sagely. ‘They were both cool rationality personified.'

Jessica held her breath. He could so easily have qualified the remark by telling his mother that her new friend had publicly insulted him.

‘You know I was a keen supporter of the meeting as part of the democratic process, a chance for all views to be aired. But look what happened! Swift descent into chaos! One of the main culprits was that idiot Bill Bryant, who owns the ironmongers in town. It was Bryant who laid into Dan, accused him of wanting to send him bankrupt.'

‘Daniel? But he's against a new road.' Gilda looked thoroughly perplexed and turned to Danny. ‘You're against a new road.' To Jessica Danny looked almost asleep, eyelids heavy and the side he'd been punched beginning to puff and discolour.

‘I know that. You know that,' James continued, not waiting for Danny's confirmation. ‘Think it was Dan's idea for weight restrictions and road humps in the High Street he objected to. Even so, I swear the man's heading for a nervous breakdown. It's not a by-pass that'll send him bankrupt. It's the half-arsed way he runs his shop!'

‘But the notion that a forum to air opposing views is anything to do with the democratic process is utterly specious!' Jessica said abruptly, interrupting what seemed a discussion solely between the man and his mother. ‘For one thing there is no way the opposing views can be reconciled, and for another it's obvious that the decision has already been made. The whole thing was a farce from beginning to end. It's a cynical ploy to whip up dissent. While the people affected argue amongst themselves, the powers that be will put the road wherever they first intended to put it!'

‘And you think I'm a part of this conspiracy to hoodwink the public?'

‘You were on the platform.'

‘Had I known the meeting was just a smoke-screen, that a by-pass and its route had already been decided on, I wouldn't have taken part in tonight's fiasco.'

‘If that's true I apologise.' James' eyes narrowed, but Jessica continued talking. ‘But even if the promised referendum is held, how fair will that be? It puts the residents of Northwell at a huge disadvantage.'

‘That's democracy for you.'

‘Dictatorship by the majority! I'm sorry.' Jess stood. ‘Gilda, you've … both been so kind to me. I'm not being a very conciliatory guest, but do you mind if I go to bed?'

‘Of course dear, you must be tired. I'll show you your room.' Everyone was on their feet now, except Danny. ‘And I don't think it's necessary for any of us to rise early tomorrow. It won't hurt the children to have a morning off from nursery.'

‘Sounds tempting, but there's no peace for this evil, mendacious violator of our green and pleasant land. I'll need to relieve Nigel first thing.'

‘James?' It was the first time Jessica had addressed the man by his given name. ‘I did mean it when I said I was sorry.'

‘I am not in the habit of telling lies,' he said flatly.

‘I'm sorry. I get ratty when I'm tired.'

His eyes were sceptical but he nodded, rubbing his hand across his mouth.

‘And,' she added, ‘I think Danny needs to get to bed too.' As she spoke James Warwick was looking at her face and suddenly she was aware of a slight shift in focus. The scarf, which had been twisted around her neck, was long gone, probably trampled on the floor at the cinema. Jess guessed he had noticed the fading bruise on her neck. No longer caring what he, or anyone thought, she raised her chin. Their gaze held for a moment before he looked towards his employee. Danny's head had drooped down onto his hand, his eyes were firmly closed.

‘Yes, of course,' James said, his expression softening. ‘Poor old Sideshow. He's had quite a day of it!'

It took several moments to remember where she was. At first she was struck by the unnatural light. Even with the curtains left open at home she awoke to a room of shadows. Then she heard the voices of the children and saw with a shock that it was gone nine; the sun was already above the trees in the cerulean blue sky.

The window looked down on the large garden, a part of which was walled and cultivated. Beyond the wall, in the gnarled spreading branches of a leafless fruit tree, an elaborate tree-house had been constructed and a swing hung below. On the ground, spread as far as the tree canopy, was the minced-up rubber surface used in playgrounds. The two dark-haired children climbed up the ladder, entered the house, emerged the other end, and slid down a slide. They raced around from slide to ladder to repeat the process.

In the brilliant February sunshine a large white rabbit lolloped on the grass, then snuffled at, and possibly ate, some of the budding daffodils and crocuses. From time to time Sasha ran over, reprimanded the animal, then carried it away from the flowerbeds and put it back in the middle of the lawn.

Beyond the boundary was a meadow with more fruit trees and, at the far fence, a white slatted beehive. The meadow was also inhabited by a ram and a donkey; chickens and ducks pecked at the ground. Here, too, was the large hutch to which Rory had taken her to admire the new laid eggs. That afternoon in January it had already been dark, and without this bird's eye view she would have been hard pressed to say exactly where the hutch was situated, amongst the complex of house, barns, and stone walls. What a lucky little girl, Jessica thought.

As ever Gilda looked bright eyed and well groomed when Jess found her way down to the kitchen.

‘I feel so guilty!'

‘Nonsense. No one expected you to be up first thing. You had a nasty shock last night. I offered to have Rory to stay, which included getting him to Cherubs. As it is I haven't entirely fulfilled my side of the bargain. Now, breakfast?'

‘You didn't expect to be entertaining me as well!'

‘But it's a pleasure.'

As she ate – a new-laid egg, followed by a slice of toast spread with the farm's own honey – Jessica described to Gilda how her shock at the previous evening's events had been heightened by her experiences with Sean. It was a deliberate misdirection, but there was no way she could justify her attachment to their farm worker. Until last night, she had only ever heard Gilda refer to him as ‘the lad', with that unconscious and utterly self-confident assumption of superiority she would certainly have denied if challenged. James' attitude to Danny was less cut and dried.

‘Where is James?' she asked, voicing the thought.

‘He will have been up since six or earlier. I had to clean the mess he'd made in here filling the thermoses. Coffee does stain so, doesn't it? He could reappear any time to have something to eat. It depends what is going on with the lambing. But that will be finished in a day or so, thank the Lord. It's been so much worse this year than last.'

‘Why so?'

‘More sheep, of course.'

‘Of course.'

‘Everyone's been getting so tired.'

Jessica wondered whether she included herself in ‘everyone'. The idea that Gilda might turn out in the middle of the night to lend a hand with a difficult lambing was unimaginable.

‘And though James accepts it as part and parcel of being a farmer he'd so much prefer to be doing other things.'

‘What other things?'

‘Well, there's his carpentry, at which he is so skilled, and sometimes makes money … and there's his writing which, of course, doesn't make any money.'

‘He's a writer?'

‘Oh, he makes a bit from articles and so on. He has a regular column in the local paper, Confessions of an Accidental Farmer. You know the kind of thing … making fun of himself. Playing up his ignorance, the fact he's a stupid, blundering townie. It's quite clever really, even though I say so myself. He's managed to enlist the help and support of locals, even if they're laughing at him at the same time, when he could so easily have put noses out of joint. No. Writing the novel is his one big obsession. Every few weeks he'll send several letters, along with the first few chapters and synopsis, to various literary agents. But back it all comes … and sometimes, my dear, they can be so rude. It is so disheartening. I tell him to stop doing it. It only makes him depressed. But he says he would become more depressed if he didn't do it. So, there you are, it's a vicious circle.'

Any worries Jessica had entertained over Rory's ability to spend a night away in a strange house were dispelled by the estimable Edie Dowdeswell. If he had woken in the night he'd evidently gone back to sleep again without fuss or disturbance. Then this morning there'd been no outward display of homesickness. He and Sasha had got themselves up, been given breakfast, then happily gone outside to play. Now, he took in his stride his mother's sudden appearance in the garden, and insisted she immediately witness all the fun things he'd been doing since he last saw her. She praised his prowess climbing into the tree then sliding down again. Then she was rushed to see the chickens to check if they'd made any more eggs. She shared in his wonder to find one, still warm, lying amongst the straw in the hutch. Then Rory introduced her to the ram – which, he informed her, should be called a tup – whose name was Roland. Jess then made the acquaintance of the donkey.

‘His name is Eeyore!' Rory said, amazed that anyone, apart from him, would know the Christopher Robin stories. Finally she was introduced to the bees. Rory raised his finger to his lips. ‘Sshhh! They're still asleep,' he solemnly advised her. ‘If we wake them up they might get cross and fly out and sting us!'

Leaving the children to play she walked around the farmhouse, past the dog's enclosure. Kit barked and ran to the fence excitedly, wagging her tail. Soppy thing, Jessica thought. She remembered with a wry smile how she'd accused Kit of being a Rottweiler. Some bleating still emanated from the barn, but the nearest of the fields which ran down to the river was now full of sheep and their lambs. Jessica tried to imagine a dual carriageway between here and the river. One of the speakers at the meeting – probably the surveyor or civil engineer – had said that even though there was an existing lane on the far side of the river, there was insufficient space to site the by-pass there, not unless the river was moved and canalised or half the hill was cut away; an engineering project which would add to both cost and time projections. OK, but surely the planning of route X, going through fields of livestock, between the house and the river, would have to accommodate the needs of the farmer? Wouldn't a bridge or underpass be incorporated as part of the construction? Even so, she could well see why James did not want the road here. Who would?

A couple of mallards were wandering about in the yard. The handsome drake followed the dowdy female with a view to doing what ducks do in the spring. For the moment the female was un-seduced by his head bobbing persistence. She soon took flight, soaring up over the complex of stone buildings towards the river. One of the large doors to the barn opened. Jessica had only a drake for moral support. Nowhere to run. Stupid! Why did she want to run?

James Warwick closed the barn door deliberately then walked slowly over. The drake, just a few feet from Jessica, kept his head tipped and one beady eye on her. As if suddenly aware he was about to be trapped in a pincer movement he too took wing and swooping around in a wide arc, followed his girlfriend.

What to say? As she watched the flight of the mallard Jess prayed for inspiration. Something more original than another apology for seeming to doubt James' truthfulness the previous night would be a start. But he spoke first.

‘Why don't ducks fly upside down?' After a moment he prompted, ‘Give up?' Another pause. ‘They'd quack up!' A pause. ‘I admit I'd hoped for something a tad more responsive than a stare of wide-eyed horror. It's the best I could come up with at short notice. It always makes Sash laugh!'