Chapter Four
It was fortunate that Daniel was too busy to return to the cottage that weekend, because as it turned out, Susan was too busy to have had time to look after him.
He had communicated this in a brief, rather self-important sounding letter which had arrived in the early post on Friday morning. Susan was a little disconcerted to discover that her first emotion on reading it was relief rather than disappointment. She set it aside with a small sigh, before turning her attention to her morning's task, which was the baking of two dozen shortbread biscuits to be sold with cups of tea at the weekend's jumble sale.
She had volunteered for this at the Mothers' Union meeting when she realised that she was one of the few members unencumbered by a husband or children to demand her attention, and that in the eyes of the others, she was probably possessed of an extraordinary amount of leisure time. Nobody had said as much, of course, and she was rather touched by everyone's heartfelt-sounding gratitude.
"I'll make some buns if Mrs. Hamilton does the biscuits," a tall young woman had offered. "I'm not much of a cook, though, so I can't promise they'll turn out well."
"You'll just have to hide the burned bits with jam," the President said, firmly. "Thank you, Mrs. Benjamin. Is there anything else before we have the closing prayer?"
Mrs. Benjamin, whose name turned out to be Josie, had caught hold of Susan's coat sleeve as they were leaving.
"Do you need any help?" she had asked. "I could come over if you want some company."
Susan had shaken her head without thinking.
"Oh no, thank you," she had replied. "It's very kind, but I'm sure I shall manage."
Now she wished she had accepted. She had become accustomed, in the long months of solitude, to avoiding other people. She had quickly discovered that her company, carrying with it the great, aching void of her loss, brought an instant, painful silence to any gathering. She knew that nobody felt they could continue to laugh, or to carry on with chatter about trivial matters, as soon as she entered a room, and it had become her habit simply to spare everybody the embarrassment.
She realised now that very probably Josie Benjamin had known nothing of her history, and that she had rejected an offer not just of assistance, but of friendship.
Susan pushed the thought to the back of her mind, and turned her attention to the biscuits.
In all of the professor's extensive library, she had been unable to find a single book of biscuit recipes, and she had resorted to asking Margaret, who had responded with a yellowing page once torn from Woman and Home magazine, and now stained with several greasy marks.
"I'd be glad if you could let me have it back," Margaret had explained. "It's the one I use, only I don't use so much ground rice. I use an extra spoon of flour instead. Try it and see what you think."
Susan considered the recipe.
Heat your oven to 350, it began, and oil two baking trays.
Susan looked at the battered range which filled almost half of the kitchen wall. So far, apart from feeding firewood into it several times daily, and filling the ancient kettle which perched on its hob, she had not thought very much about its baking function. There was a dial on the front, and she tried to make out its current temperature, which seemed to be somewhere around two hundred degrees.
She would need more firewood.
She picked up the empty basket and made her way outside, pausing on her way to stroke the cat, who was fast asleep on the back doorstep. It had refused Susan's encouragements to come into the house, preferring the shelter of the doorway, where it seemed perfectly content to remain, rubbing itself amiably around Susan's ankles whenever she passed.
The dry firewood was kept under the eaves at the back of the house. Mr. Lefay had visited twice now, splitting and sawing his way through the untidy timber pile in the field behind the cottage, and neatly stacking the range-sized chunks at the gable end, gradually rebuilding the slowly diminishing store. It would dry there for a year before it was fit to use in the house.
There was enough firewood for a year, Susan thought, with a twinge of gratitude to the methodical professor. Of course she would be back in London soon, and it would probably be somebody else who used it. Still it was good to see, an insurance against the cold winter ahead.
Back in the kitchen she piled some dry twigs and two stout beech logs on the little fire and opened the damper. The twigs flared with a burst of heat, and she closed the door.
Gently warm the butter until soft, continued the recipe authoritatively, then beat with the sugar until the mixture is white.
Susan realised she had forgotten to bring the butter out of the pantry, and it was cold. She set a piece on a plate on the top of the stove, and turned back to the recipe.
Add vanilla and ground rice, continued the recipe, and a little dried egg if you have any spare.
Vanilla. A quick hunt through the cupboards did not produce any, and Susan sighed inwardly.
At least it wasn't raining.
She pulled on her coat and hat and went to find her bicycle. Margaret had been absolutely right, and the shed at the back held not only the professor's rather heavy bicycle, but a smaller, lighter one, clearly intended for a woman. It was oiled and clean, and Susan found it suited her needs perfectly.
The morning was cool and clear, and a lark was singing somewhere above the newly-ploughed field on the other side of the little lane. Susan breathed in the acid, early-autumn scent of earth and dry, exhausted leaves, and pedalled off to the village.
It was a short journey into the village, and Susan remembered half a dozen other things whilst she was there, filling her basket with eggs and sugar and tea, and, as an afterthought, a box of laundry soap. She ought to do some washing this afternoon. There would be hot water after the baking.
The return journey was slower, uphill and encumbered as she was, and she was quite breathless by the time she pushed her bike through the front gate. The sound of a saw close by told her that Mr. Lefay had arrived during her absence and was working on her woodpile.
The kitchen had grown very warm in her absence. Susan realised even as she set her purchases on the kitchen table that something had leaked on to the top of the stove. It took her a moment before she saw that it was the now-melted butter. The plate on which it had rested had brimmed over, and the oily yellow liquid had dribbled into a puddle, resulting in a greasy stream down the front of the range, ending in a sticky pool on the floor.
Susan gave a gasp of horror. She caught the plate, splashing butter all over her skirt in her haste, and carried it to the sink.
The kettle was still warm. She soaked a cloth and set about trying to clean the now-cooled hob.
The butter seemed to have found every crevice, and had set hard in places. After she had filled the washing-bowl a second time, she refilled the kettle and set it back on the top of the stove, only to realise that the fire had now gone out. It had burned up hot and fast when she opened the damper, and merely the ashes remained.
The ash pan was full. Susan tugged it out, scattering ashes over the oily floor, and took it to the compost heap to empty it. A little breeze swirled as she opened the back door, filling her eyes with ash-dust, and she coughed and wiped a grimy smear across her face.
Once she had returned the pan to its place, she looked around for some firelighting materials. A box in the hearth provided paper and a few dry sticks, but when Susan picked up the matchbox it was silent.
There were no matches.
Biting her lip, Susan went to look in the little sitting room, but there were none in the hearth there either. The pantry yielded nothing, nor did the kitchen drawers.
Susan would have liked to sit down in the chair and cry, but she clenched her teeth. Fighting a pain in her throat that might, if unchecked, become a sob, she pulled on her coat and went to find her bicycle.
As she took hold of its handlebars, the sound of a saw from the back of the house reminded her that she was not alone. She hesitated for a moment before setting her bicycle against the wall and going to look.
Mr. Lefay was hard at work. He had a small trestle set up in the little cobbled area behind the cottage, and was in his shirt sleeves, determinedly working a savage-looking bow saw through a piece of beechwood.
He straightened up at Susan's approach, and took his cap off with a crooked smile.
"Morning, ma'am," he said, although his voice sounded as if he were surprised to see her. "Can I do something for you?"
"I'm sorry to trouble you," Susan said. "It's just that - do you have any matches? Or perhaps you know where the professor kept them. The fire's gone out and I can't seem to find any. It's no trouble if you haven't, I can always go to the village, but I just wondered…"
Her voice trailed off. Mr. Lefay had picked up his jacket and was rummaging through the pockets. Then he paused for a moment, and looked at her.
"Happen I do," he said. "Shall I come in and light it for you?"
"Oh no, no, I can manage," Susan protested. "I just need a match, that's all, if you have one."
Mr. Lefay produced a matchbox, which he shook. It gave a satisfactory rattle.
Susan held her hand out gratefully, but he did not give it to her. Instead he straightened up and smiled.
"I'll come and do it," he said. "Can I come in?"
Susan hesitated.
"I don't think - that is - my husband wouldn't - " she started to say. Mr. Lefay's smile broadened.
"Your husband told me I'd to keep an eye on you," he said, slipping the matchbox into the pocket of his waistcoat. "I can't be leaving you in the cold, now. Let me come and get it going for you.
Susan gave in.
"If you like," she admitted. "Really, I'd rather manage by myself, but if you think…"
She followed him around the side of the house to the back door. He stepped back to allow her to pass.
"After you," he said, with an expansive gesture.
Susan stepped indoors. The little cat, which had been asleep on the step, glanced up at them. It saw Mr. Lefay and rose up, hissing.
"It's all right," Susan said to it, reassuringly. "He's only coming to light the fire."
The cat arched its back and spat. Mr. Lefay grinned at it.
"Never been one for cats," he said. "Nasty, smelly creatures. Let me past, now, I'm an invited guest."
The cat bristled, and made a growling noise in the back of its throat. Susan smiled, and reached down to stroke it. It side-stepped her hand and hissed again.
"Don't be silly," Susan said. "It's quite all right."
Mr. Lefay lent down to speak to the cat.
"You clear off now, you varmint," he said, slowly and clearly, and Susan thought his voice had an edge of triumph to it. "The lady of the house invited me in, and you can't do nothing about it."
The cat's rumbling growl suddenly became a screech. It hurled itself in a sudden dive for his leg, spiking with all its claws and trying frantically to bite. Mr. Lefay yelled, and tried to kick it off, shaking his leg and reaching down to grab the scruff of its neck. Susan gasped and caught hold of it.
"I'm so sorry," she said, desperately, tugging it free and trying to calm the little animal. "It isn't even my cat. I think it might have belonged to the professor. It isn't usually like this. I'm sorry. Please come in."
Mr. Lefay looked at the cat.
"There's an invitation," he said, softly. "Can't mistake that, now."
He stepped inside.
The cat made a strangled sound, half shriek, half yowl, and leaped from Susan's arms. It disappeared around the corner of the house, its fur standing on end as if it had been bitten.
Mr. Lefay followed Susan along the little passage to the kitchen, where he took in the scene at a glance.
"Oh dear," he said, looking at the spoiled butter. "Maybe better get that off before you re-light 'un. You don't want that burned all over it. You won't ever get it off."
"I know," Susan admitted, miserably, "only I don't have any hot water."
"It'll scrape off easy enough," her visitor said, amicably. "You get me a knife and sit down there for a minute."
Humming a tune through his teeth, Mr. Lefay proceeded to scrape the now-cold butter off the front of the range, wiping the surface with a rag and collecting the chips in a piece of newspaper.
"That'll get your fire going nicely," he said conversationally, twisting the little shards into a bundle.
He set the bundle in the fireplace and lit a match. It flared into life immediately, and he began unhurriedly to lay sticks on it, one at a time. After a moment he withdrew his hand and closed the door. Instantly there was a roar as the twigs caught light and began to crackle.
He opened the door again and added a few larger pieces of wood, piling them around the little blaze until they began to spit in their turn. Then he closed the doors and slid the damper back.
"We'll not close it down right away, we'll let it get going first," he said. "Good job it didn't set the chimney on fire. Didn't you have a proper wood stove in your London place, then?"
Susan shook her head.
"We have coal, and gas," she explained. "Thank you. I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Lefay."
She expected that her visitor would depart immediately, but he did not. Instead, he slid one of the chairs out from under the table and sat down, putting his cap on the tablecloth beside him. Susan noticed that its inside was shiny with grease. He looked about him, appraisingly.
"I'd have a cup of tea, if there's one going," he said.
"I'm afraid the kettle's cold," Susan apologised. "It might take some time."
"I'll wait," he said, comfortably. He sat back in his chair and gazed around the little room.
"Fine place, the old chap kept," he said, as Susan set the kettle on the hob and surreptitiously tugged the damper open a little more, hoping to hasten its boiling.
"Yes, indeed," she agreed. "It's rather old-fashioned, but my husband thinks it could be improved with a little work.
Mr. Lefay was not listening. He was gazing around the room with an intense interest, studying the shelves and the cupboards curiously, his head tilted to one side as though he were listening for something. He glanced back at Susan.
"Don't suppose he left much of value behind him," he said. "Have you thrown out any of his things yet?"
"Only his clothes," Susan explained, "and I haven't really thrown those away. They've gone to the Mothers' Union jumble sale for the children's Christmas party on Saturday. I'm so sorry, I should have asked first if there was anything you wanted."
"I'd have liked the chance," said Mr. Lefay, in what sounded like an aggrieved tone. He scowled for a moment, and then seemed to recover himself. "Saturday, you say? I might go and have a look. Was there anything else? Besides clothes?"
"Mostly books," Susan said, "and Oxford University is sending a van for those next week. The house will seem very empty when they've all gone."
Mr. Lefay nodded without much interest.
"But nothing else?" he pressed. "Nothing - nothing you might wonder about. Nothing - out of the ordinary."
"I'm not sure what you mean," said Susan, feeling a little uncomfortable. "Just the usual sort of things, I suppose. Why do you ask?"
"Well, he was an odd sort of chap, wasn't he?" said Mr. Lefay, glancing at her. "Had some funny interests. Folk talked about him round here at times. Said he wasn't quite the thing. It wouldn't surprise me if he had all sorts tucked away in here."
"If he had, I haven't found it," Susan said, spooning tea into the teapot. "I'm afraid I can't sit and talk for very long, Mr. Lefay. I have a lot to do this morning. Thank you for starting the fire."
"I'd like to have a look if there's things you're wanting to throw out," Mr. Lefay persisted. "A keepsake, like. Something to remember him by. The old man was good to me."
Susan swallowed a growing sense of unease. She held her voice steady as she replied.
"I am sure that he was. He was a kind and generous man," she said. "I will ask Margaret to arrange that you can choose something from his clothes before the sale, perhaps a jacket. I am sure that would be quite all right."
Mr. Lefay was quiet for a moment, his head tilted sideways. He was listening, Susan realised. She held her breath, but apart from the crackling of the fire, now roaring satisfactorily in the flue, and the persistent trilling of the robin outside the kitchen window, there was nothing.
He turned his head to look at her.
"I don't want no dead man's old jacket," he said, slowly. "You aren't getting rid of me that easy."
Susan swallowed. The longing for him to leave was growing so powerful that her hands were beginning to shake and her breath was coming in small, short gasps. She picked up the kettle, which had barely begun to simmer, and filled the teapot.
"I don't quite understand what you are asking, Mr. Lefay," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "Your tea will be ready in a moment. Perhaps you could take it back outside with you. I am quite busy."
"Oh, I think you do understand," Mr. Lefay said softly. "I think you knows only too well what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the return of what's mine. Of things as shouldn't never have come in here in the first place."
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
"Where is it?" he demanded. "It's here somewhere. It has to be."
Susan stared at him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered. "I don't understand."
He took a step towards her.
"You understand well enough," he said. He lifted his hand, and for a terrible moment Susan thought he might be about to hit her. She shrank back, but instead he made a curious spiralling gesture, twisting his long fingers as if he were drawing a shape in the air. They seemed to bend and rotate in impossible ways, and fascinated, she gazed at them, captivated by their odd, liquid movement.
"Now, missy," he breathed, stepping a little closer. "I don't think you wants to argue any more, do you. Nice and gentle, that's a good girl. You sit down quietly here at the table. That's it. You look at me. Slowly, now. Nice and calm. There. That's better, isn't it? Now, you're going to sit here, like a good little missy, while I has a look around. I won't do no damage, you don't need to be frightened. I'm going to take my things and then I'll be gone. You're going to sit very still in that chair and not make a single sound, that's the best thing for both of us, isn't it?"
Susan felt herself nodding. She gazed dreamily up at him.
"Of course," she said, absently. "I'd like that, I think."
Behind her there was a sudden crash, a high-pitched shriek, and a clatter. Before Susan had even had time to glance up she felt an agonising burning sensation in her shoulder and left arm, and she screamed.
Mr. Lefay yelled as well, and jumped backwards.
The teapot lay in fragments on the floor. Both Susan and Mr. Lefay had been showered with the boiling tea.
The cat, yowling and screeching, bolted for the open door, and disappeared.
Mr. Lefay stood still for a moment, glaring at Susan. Then without another word, he grabbed his cap and rushed after the cat.
Chapter Five
It must have jumped in through the open window and landed on the hot stove-top. Susan looked in horror at the shattered teapot and the steaming pool of tea, and after a moment, mechanically began to pick up the pieces.
It took her a few moments. She swept the smallest shards into the hearth-shovel and wrapped the whole lot in an old newspaper, which she took outside to the dustbin.
There was no sign of Mr. Lefay. His jacket and bow saw had disappeared from the wood pile and a beech log lay half-sawn on the trestle. Susan dropped the parcel of china into the dustbin and turned to go back into the house.
The cat was on the doorstep, curled into a tight furry ball, its nose tucked tightly under its tail.
It did not resist when Susan picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. She put it carefully on the table and began to examine its burned paws.
She could not see any blisters, but its pads were pink, and tender to the touch, and the cat was reluctant to allow her to touch them. Susan brought a bowl of cool water and began to sponge them as gently as she could, making what she hoped were reassuringly soothing noises. The cat allowed this for some time, flexing its paws and shuddering occasionally, before eventually seemed to recollect where it was, and struggled to its feet.
It jumped off the table with a small squeak of pain, and limped off towards the back door.
Susan watched it go.
She stood up to empty the bowl of water, and as an afterthought, reached up to pull the window closed. She had thought it had been latched on the narrowest setting, leaving only the smallest of gaps. The cat could not possibly have squeezed through it, it must have come undone.
She gazed thoughtfully out at the back garden, frowning a little, trying to recall what Mr. Lefay had been telling her. To her discomfort, she found she could not quite remember what he had said. There was a vague feeling that the professor had - had given him something. Or maybe promised something, and now she needed to give it to him.
Susan thought hard. She couldn't exactly remember what it was. There was a shape in her mind - something - something…
She blinked and shook her head. What might it have been? Of course he wanted it if the professor had given it to him, if it was properly his, that was perfectly right. But - but what had it been?
She hesitated in confusion, before a distant jangling noise startled her out of her reverie.
It was the doorbell. Perhaps it would be Mr. Lefay come to explain. Then he could come in and take whatever it was he wanted, and go away again. She felt quite strongly that she wanted him to go away, although she could not have explained exactly why.
When she tugged the front door open, it was not Mr. Lefay, but a beaming Josie Benjamin. She had leaned her bicycle against the wall and was standing on the step with a large basket.
"Hello, I do hope you don't mind," she said, cheerfully. "I thought we might do the baking together. I've brought everything I think I'm going to need, and even some extra butter. My family has the farm at Knott End across the valley, you know, and we always have plenty. I know you said not to, but I saw Margaret yesterday, and she said she thought you might just be being polite. Well, there's no need for that round here, you know."
Susan hesitated for a moment. Then, almost unbidden, a small smile crept across her face.
She stood back to allow Josie to pass.
"I'm so glad to see you," she confessed, almost to her own surprise. "I haven't ever made shortbread before, and I'm not used to the oven. Thank you. I'd be very pleased for some company."
* * *
The morning of the jumble sale was slightly damp and a soft autumn drizzle hung in the air. The shortbread biscuits had been packed into tins, but Susan was taking no chances, and wrapped them tightly in an old oilskin of the professor's before setting them in her bicycle basket and pedalling along the lane in the direction of the church hall.
The church hall, much like the squat church beside it, had wide, arched windows and a heavy oak door. It was ringed about with yew trees, which also lined the narrow path leading around the building in the direction the neatly trimmed graveyard. Tendrils of ivy crawled up its drainpipes and were just beginning to creep across the gutters on to the low slate roof. Both the church and its hall had been built of the local yellow stone, and in the summer they seemed to glow golden in the dappled evening sunlight.
They did not glow today. Susan shook raindrops from her hair and pushed past the unlatched door.
The hall was already busy, and noisy with chattering voices and the clatter of feet on its polished floorboards. A warm scent of tea wafted from the already-steaming urn beside the kitchen at the far end, and clutches of women hustled about the overloaded tables, folding garments and laying them in neat piles, arranging books and china to their best effect.
Susan hesitated for a moment and scanned the room. The President saw her and bustled across.
"Ah, Mrs. Hamilton, you've come to help with the teas?" she asked, in the way that suggested to Susan that contradiction would be unthought-of. She waved Susan through to the little kitchen, where Josie was enveloped in an enormous apron, lifting unsteady-looking stacks of cups and saucers out of cupboards.
"Oh good, you're here," she greeted Susan. "Can you start putting these on trays for me? Did you bring the biscuits? You can hang your coat up in the corner over there, see. Have you got an apron? There are a few behind the door, better grab one quickly before they all go."
Susan had become used to Josie's chatter the day before. Indeed, she found it restful, relieving her of the effort of trying to think of, and sustain conversation, for it appeared that to listen and to murmur agreement would more than suffice. It turned out that Josie was greatly amused by the tragedy of the stove misfortune, and encouraged by her companion's relentless cheerfulness, after a little while Susan had managed a rueful smile, and acknowledged that she was unpractised in household management.
"You'll get used to it," Josie assured her, unpacking her basket onto the table. "When that husband of yours gets back he won't recognise you. You'll have your sleeves rolled up and a pie in the oven and everything gleaming. There must be another teapot somewhere, have you looked in all of the cupboards? And I do think you ought to wash your face. I didn't know where to look when you opened the door, you've got ash smeared all over it. I brought a dozen eggs, but we won't need that many, if I leave them you could make egg custard for when your husband comes home. Have you ever made custards? They're quite easy if you can get the oven hot enough."
There had indeed been another teapot, and fortified with tea, the two women set to, taking it in turns to beat the mixture until their arms ached. Josie sang whilst she worked, in rather a fine alto, a medley of militant-sounding hymns which she said put her in the right frame of mind to do battle with eggs.
Susan could not quite bring herself to join in, but she had been soothed by the stirring sentiments of Fight The Good Fight, and Onward Christian Soldiers. She had gone to bed that evening feeling encouraged, and hopeful for the week to come, even without Daniel's company.
Now she wrapped herself in a large striped twill apron and set to laying cups and saucers in rows on trays, and shortly afterwards, to washing them as they were returned, sticky and with crumbs in their saucers, to the kitchen.
Indeed, it seemed that the morning flashed past in a noisy blur, from which she was mercifully sheltered in the kitchen. From the moment the big hall doors were opened, the flow of teacups seemed to be endless. The hall was filled with a hubbub of chatter, and women hurried in and out of the kitchen, filling and refilling the urns, tipping slops into the bucket and carrying trays of newly-cleaned cups back to the tea-table again. Susan washed and rinsed and wiped, and laid out cups until she felt quite sure that the whole village must have drunk at least four cups of tea each. Eventually, the flood slowed to a trickle and finally dried up, and the President came bustling into the kitchen to tell them that they should come out and have a cup of tea themselves.
The hall looked as though a whirlwind had swept through.
The neatly-laid tables were almost emptied, save for a few small piles of crumpled clothes, with books and a handful of odd cups and plates strewn amongst them here and there. The doors had been closed, and the few women that remained were sitting together at the end of the hall, counting piles of pennies and sixpences and drinking cups of tea.
"Well done, everybody," the President announced, in a pleased tone. "Thank you all very much indeed for your help. Come and sit down, Mrs. Hamilton and Mrs. Benjamin, you've done a fine job. There isn't a single biscuit left, I'm afraid, not even a bun, but there's a fresh pot of tea. Come and take the weight off your feet."
Susan was suddenly relieved to sit down. Margaret pushed cups of milky tea towards them, but Josie sprang up again straight away.
"I almost forgot," she said, and rushed across the hall to rummage underneath a pile of coats. She returned with a pretty china teapot with a pattern of cornflowers.
"I asked Mrs. Edwards to save it for me," she said, triumphantly. "Isn't it lovely? It's much nicer than that old one, you can put it back in the cupboard for emergencies now."
Susan felt herself growing pink. She opened her mouth, but no words would come out.
"Thank you," she said, eventually, taking the teapot. "It's so kind of you. Thank you. Let me - let me give you the money."
"Oh, it was only fourpence," Josie said, airily, brushing the offer aside. "I saw it and thought of you straight away. Didn't you have a good look round before you started? That's the best bit, you know, getting first choice before the crowds turn up. I bought a new headscarf and a bell for my bike as well. Didn't you want to buy anything?"
Susan shook her head.
"I really don't need anything at the moment," she explained. "I'm trying to get rid of things. I'm not sure where we're going to be living and I don't want lots of things to worry about."
"But you're going to stay here, surely, aren't you?" asked Josie. "I mean, I know your husband wants to stay in London, but you could talk him round easily enough. He'll be so pleased that you're happy."
Susan could not think of a reply. It occurred to her that she did not know whether Daniel would consider her happiness to be an important factor in the decision about where they would live. She would not have been able to explain what might make her happy, or even, she suddenly realised, with a feeling a little like panic, what happiness might feel like.
She stared at her hands, silenced for a moment, but Josie was not paying attention. She had jumped to her feet again, and was rushing off to greet a small, elderly gentleman who had slipped quietly through the hall door, and who was standing, surveying the small company with interest.
"Grandpa!" Josie cried, and threw her arms around him. "We've done ever so well, come and see."
The elderly gentleman hugged her back and patted her hair.
"I'm pleased to hear it," he said, pulling up a chair beside Josie's and settling himself at the table.
The President beamed at him.
"It's going to be a splendid Christmas this year, Mr. Gregory," she said, pouring him a cup of tea. "I don't believe a single stall made less than five pounds, and some of them made even more. It has been the most marvellous success."
"Grandpa, this is my friend Susan," said Josie, patting his arm. "She's just come to the village, she's inherited the old cottage on Orchard Lane from the professor, do you remember him?"
The old man turned to smile at Susan. His nut-brown eyes sparkled.
"I knew him quite well," he said, kindly. "I am sorry, my dear, we all miss him, but I am glad to have you among us. It's always a pleasure to have young people around."
Susan beamed back at him.
"Josie said you farm here," she said. "She brought me some of your eggs."
"My daughter does most of it now," the old man said, nodding pleasantly. "She'd hoped Josie here would want to take it over one day, but they just aren't interested. Maybe when we have some great-grandchildren."
Josie laughed.
"Too many cold mornings, Grandpa," she said. "Susan, it's Grandpa who's going to be Father Christmas at the children's party. He's ever so good at it. He's done it every Christmas for the whole of my life, and even long before that. When I was little I didn't recognise him at all. I believed he was the real one for years and years, until I was quite grown up."
Mr. Gregory laughed.
"I told her, a part of me had become the real one, and the real one was a little part of me," he said, "come to bring Christmas to those children. A fellow can't be everywhere at once, I said. He needs some help, and I'll have you know he chooses us very carefully. We have to have a drop of his Christmas spirit inside us, that's the thing."
"In the end I thought he was better than having the real thing," Josie said. "A bit of magic to keep all the year."
Susan gazed at the old man until she realised that somehow her vision had blurred. She blinked hard, and bit her lip.
"I'm sure that's right," she said.
Chapter Six
The sun was just beginning to sink towards the horizon when Suzan cycled into the village to use the public telephone on Wednesday evening.
Daniel's mother answered, and Susan heard dogs barking and somebody shouting at children before eventually Daniel picked up the phone.
"Darling," he said, sounding pleased. "What a lovely surprise. How are you, how is everything? I'm so glad you called. I was going to write to you this evening. What have you been up to? Are you keeping yourself busy?"
"I'm quite all right," Susan said. "Everything is fine. I just called to see - to see how the new job is going."
"Oh, marvellous," said Daniel, enthusiastically, and he launched into a description of what old Lehman had said, and how pleased the younger Clarkson had been, and how he was going to be moved into a new office on the first floor any day now, and he had been given his own secretary, well, to share with Barraclough. He had been terrifically busy, he explained, which was why he hadn't written more often, ploughing through all the company's books until all hours, sometimes not getting back home until the middle of the night.
"Between you and me," he added, "they're in a bit of a mess, although nothing we can't fix with some careful work. It's an exciting project, certainly."
"That sounds marvellous," agreed Susan. "I'm so glad. It sounds perfect for you. Are you all right at your mother's house?"
Daniel laughed.
"Well, I've never left, really, only for those few days. It wasn't as if my old room had changed. I've just walked straight back in, business as usual, you know. But you'll be home soon, won't you? How long until Oxford University can send a van for those books?"
"I don't know," said Susan, untruthfully, thrown by the question. "There's - there's quite a bit more to do. I haven't really done anything much yet."
"Quite a bit to do?" said Daniel. "What on earth is there to do? I mean, once his books and clothes are gone then that's it, isn't it, really. We can either ship the furniture off to a sale room or sell the place with everything in for all I care. You need to be coming home. I'm going to need you. I mean, it's all very well, being here at Mother's house, but it doesn't look very good, does it? I can't ask anyone to dinner here. I need you, Susie. There'll be evenings I have to attend quite soon, dinners and drinks, and people are going to start wondering where you are. I can hardly say you're somewhere miles away in the wilderness, can I? You ought to be at home, with me."
"Yes," said Susan. "I'm sorry. But while you're so busy it isn't as if - "
"Really it would be a terrific help if you were here," Daniel explained. "We could engage someone to help you at home if you think it's all going to be a bit much. Put an advertisement in the paper, nothing too flashy, we can't afford anybody expensive, but we can manage a few shillings, get a girl in and you could train her up. Why don't you do that, and then she can start when you get home. I don't want my wife working her fingers to the bone, and things are looking up for me now."
"I don't think it's going to be too much," Susan said, slowly. "It's very kind of you, Daniel. Only - only - I think it's doing me some good being here. I don't want to rush back just yet. Couldn't I stay just a little while longer?"
"Country air helping the blues, is it?" Daniel said, not unkindly. There was a pause. "Well, maybe another week or so. You've been in such a glum state for so long, I suppose anything that picks you up a bit couldn't do any harm. Not too long, though. You'll cheer up all right once you're back in London. There's a couple of new films coming out, I could get us tickets. And I thought we could go dancing again, maybe to the Tottenham. You always liked that."
"Yes," said Susan, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness. "I suppose so. Just - just give me a little more time."
"All right," agreed Daniel. "Anything to make you a bit more lively again. I do miss you, you know, Suzie."
"I miss you too," Susan said. "Will you be coming down here this weekend?"
"Oh, I couldn't tell you," Daniel said. "Maybe. I'm terrifically busy. Perhaps you could come here, get a bus into town and catch the train. Or no, I forgot. Not the train. I'll try and get down there if I can, but don't expect me. I've got a lot to do before the end of the month."
They were interrupted by the pips, and the operator's voice asking if they needed more time. Susan had no more coins, and said that she didn't. Daniel called that he loved her, and the line went dead.
She pedalled slowly up the lane, thinking of Daniel, and listening to the rooks, squabbling in the coppiced woodland. She almost turned her bicycle in the direction of Josie's house, but decided not to. Josie's husband would be at home, and although she felt sure they would be more than courteous and welcoming, Susan did not at all want to make polite conversation with a stranger.
She had cut the last of the fading lavender and hung it above the stove to dry that morning, and its pleasant scent mingled with the smell of the cut beech logs to greet her when she pushed open the cottage door. The fire in the stove had burned low, and she refilled it and opened the damper to get the flames going. The kettle was still warm on the hob, and she had saved some slices of cold mutton which she thought she might fry with a few potatoes for her dinner.
It did not take long before the fire was going nicely, and the kettle simmering. Susan filled the pretty teapot and settled in her chair by the fire. She would not light the parlour fire this evening, it was perfectly warm and comfortable in the kitchen. She wondered how many evenings the professor had sat like this, warming his feet on the little stool by the stove, with perhaps a book to read. It seemed like a contented existence.
With a pang, she thought how much she would have liked Daniel to be sitting on the other side of the table, perhaps telling her stories about his new job. He was so pleased with it, she thought, fondly, it was so good to hear the pride in his voice. If only he were nearer.
She should go back to London, she thought. Really, she ought to. And yet the thought of leaving the cottage dark and empty, ready to be occupied by strangers, seemed too bleak to be borne. How lovely it would have been, she thought, adding milk to her tea, to have her sister come to visit, to sit in the other chair and giggle, as they used to when they were young, to roll her eyes and tell droll stories about the geography mistress, the one with the wig, and the rolling Glaswegian accent.
She stopped, abruptly, as if a light had been abruptly switched off, and a sudden chill had crawled into the room. Her sister would never come now, would never sit in the empty chair. There was no one now to share Susan's memories of Mrs. MacFarlane. They were Susan's alone.
Of course, if her brothers and sister had still been here, she could not have been, she remembered drearily. It would not have been her cottage, nor even her London house. She would have been somewhere in Fulham, perhaps, sharing a bedsitting flat with two shrieking girls, trying to stretch a secretary's wages to make ends meet and drying blouses for work on hangers over the bath.
She shivered. Would she have married Daniel, really, if it had not been for the accident? Would she have even loved him?
There was no sound in the room apart from the quiet hissing of the kettle on the stove and the soft spitting of the fire in the stove. Susan stared, unseeing, into the last gleams of the twilight beyond the window, and thought of her sister and brothers on their last journey.
Death had been instant, the coroner had said, kindly, looking at Susan's white face with professional sympathy. They would not have known a thing. Probably not even realised anything was wrong.
On a sudden thought, she rose to her feet. She had not returned to the professor's room for several days, and had almost completely forgotten about their returned things. Perhaps there would be something there, anything that might tell her why they had all been together. The yearning haunted her dreams, the endless longing to know the things they could never now tell her. Where had they been going? What had they been doing.
Suddenly it seemed that she could not bear not knowing for another minute. She pushed her cup of tea aside.
The professor's room was dark, and she fumbled for the lamp. She had never thought to close the curtains, but on an impulse now she crossed the room and tugged them together before turning back to the jumble of things on the bed.
Carefully, she began to sort through them, digging into pockets and running her fingers through the corners of bags. There were pens and handkerchiefs, a mother-of-pearl penknife and a small handful of change. Her eldest brother's wallet contained a pound and a ten shilling note. Susan put these aside drearily, knowing that she could spend them if she wished, and also that she probably never would. She would give them to Margaret for the Mothers' Union Christmas fund, she thought, with a brief lightening of spirit.
There was nothing. No notes, no telephone numbers, no letters, nothing that might even hint at the reason for their journey. Susan sat down wearily on the bed and gazed at the detritus from so many vanished lives, and wished she could weep. Tears might relieve the tight clenching of her throat and the endless ache behind her eyes.
She was drawn back to the present by the faint humming sound. Crystal clear and high-pitched, it was as though someone was singing, too far away for words to be heard, almost bell-like in its tone.
The rings still lay where she had left them, wrapped in their tiny bundle on top of the professor's worn Bible.
Gently, Susan unfolded their flannel wrapping once again, to see the four rings, two green and two gold, pinned to the soft grey cloth.
Even in the dim lamplight they gleamed brightly, as if they had a tiny glow all of their own. They seemed to quiver nervously in the cool evening air, as if they were excited to be exposed.
Susan stared at them.
She had no idea why her brother might have been carrying rings. Could he - one of them - have been going to ask somebody to marry him? But if so, why four rings? Could they have been intended as a present for somebody - for four people? But if so, who? And why? And why would her brother choose rings? Such beautiful, unusual jewellery could hardly have been a casual present.
She reached out a finger and gently stroked a shining, green ring. She imagined it jumped at her touch. Then, on an impulse, she unpinned the safety pin which held it captive, and lifted it free.
It was surprisingly warm. She looked at it for a moment, and then eased it on to her middle finger, beside the narrow gold band Daniel had given her such a short time ago.
It slipped on comfortably, and fitted perfectly. The wedding ring looked dull and lustreless by comparison. Susan held her hand up and looked at it. For whom had her brother intended such a beautiful ring? She could not imagine.
She had intended to remove it straight away, but once it was there, fitting so snugly, she realised she had no wish to take it off. It made her hand look more elegant, her fingers slender and white.
She twisted it on her finger. She would wear it, and remember her brother. Perhaps eventually she would find out why he had been carrying it. In the meantime it would be hers.
She wrapped the other rings up, trying not to think that they looked incomplete without their fourth companion. She set the bundle back on the top of the Bible, beside the professor's spectacles, and switched out the lamp.
The next morning dawned bright and fresh. Falling leaves were beginning to mingle with the damp soil, and the first acid scents of autumn were beginning to rise on the cool breeze. Susan breathed in the morning air and wondered if she might cycle across the valley to visit Josie. Not for the first time, she thought how very useful it would be to have a telephone in the house. She must ask Daniel, she thought, before remembering that Daniel was planning for her return to London, and very soon she must take up her duties as an accountant's wife.
It was still too early to visit Josie, but looking out across the swirls of early-morning mist rising from the fields beyond the lane, Susan thought it would be a good morning to go and hunt for the first mushrooms in the little copse that covered the bottom of the hill. If she found enough, she could take a basket across to Josie's house, in exchange for the eggs.
She had not picked mushrooms since her childhood, when their mother had taken them on some half-forgotten holidays to their country grandparents, and their grandmother had shown them how to tell a mushroom from a toadstool. They had gone each year until boarding school had begun to whisk them away every autumn, at eight for the boys, eleven for the girls.
She found a basket in the cupboard underneath the stairs, and put on her hat and coat.
The cat, curled up asleep on the front step, glanced up as the door opened. It rose to its feet and stretched, yawning drowsily as it did so. Susan reached down to stroke it, but as she buried her fingers in the silky fur it jumped as though it had been bitten, and turned its head to stare at her.
Susan laughed.
"Have you been dreaming, sleepy?" she asked, crouching down to coax the cat back to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
Slowly, reluctantly, the cat approached her again, its tail held high and the pupils of its eyes narrowed to slits, staring at her outstretched hand.
It avoided the hand and came straight to her, rubbing itself against her knees and making a small, throaty mewing sound. Susan set the basket down and stroked it, and it leaped on to her knee.
It had not been so affectionate before. Pleased, she rose to her feet, cradling it in her arms and stroking it. Its bright green eyes fixed on hers, and it rubbed its head against her chin. Then it mewed, sharply, and jumped down.
Susan picked up her basket and set off down the path, but this seemed to drive the little cat into a frenzy of anxiety. It raced after her, mewing frantically, rushing back and forth across her path as though it were trying to trip her up.
Susan stopped.
"Are you hungry?" she asked it. "All right. I'll see what I can find."
She went back into the house and returned with a saucer of milk and a plate of leftover scraps from the mutton. She placed them down on the step, but the cat ignored them. It continued to rub itself around her ankles, making odd little chirruping noises and occasionally glancing up at her out of wide, emerald eyes.
Susan laughed.
"I'm going out. I won't be long," she promised. "You're a funny little thing."
She had not gone very far along the lane before she realised that the cat was following her. It was still making its little mewing sound, and was dashing cautiously from one clump of grasses to another, as though it was trying not to be seen. Susan turned and stared at it.
"You'll get lost, or a fox will find you," she warned. "Go back home."
The cat took no notice of her. It sat very still in the long grass at the roadside and gazed into the distance.
She sighed, and considered for a moment whether or not she ought to pick it up and take it back to the cottage, but decided that there would be no point. If it was determined to follow her, then no doubt it would do so again. Perhaps it would only come a little way and then go back.
It did not. As Susan reached the little coppice, she saw a small, tabby shadow slipping between the trees, stepping delicately over the piles of leaves and giving a disdainful shake of each paw as it lifted it up. She smiled.
It was pleasant to have the company, and the mushrooms were perfect, shining white against the last tawny stalks of the bracken and the fallen leaves. Susan filled her basket to the brim. There would be enough for her, and for Josie and Margaret as well.
Feeling unexpectedly elated at the morning's success, she set off back across the field. The cat prowled back and forth in her shadow, circling her and nudging her heels as if it were trying to drive her back in a hurry.
They had just reached the lane when Susan saw a battered blue van chugging along in the distance.
"I think that's Mr. Lefay's van," she said, to the cat. "I don't think you like him very much. Let's try and get home quickly.
They increased their speed, but they had barely reached the lane before Susan heard the distinctive rattle of an engine, and the van rounded the corner towards them.