9

They had lingered through dinner and when at last it was over had moved into the sitting room where Hal served coffee. He was enjoying Alison’s company. She had a bright, warm personality and nice sense of humour. Furthermore she possessed a down-to-earth common sense that was both welcome and refreshing—qualities, he suddenly realized, that he had missed since coming to Moorstone. In addition, the fact that she herself was a relative newcomer to the village was also a mark in her favour. He was pleased, very pleased, that Rowan had found in her a friend. He looked over at Rowan as she sat stirring her coffee. She looked happy and relaxed.

Now, to increase his pleasure in the evening, he discovered that Alison shared, to a degree, his own love of music of the forties. Having set down her own cup she was carefully browsing through his collection of old seventy-eights.

‘One of Hal’s passions,’ Rowan told her.

Alison smiled. ‘I approve of such passions.’ Turning to Hal she asked: ‘Please—play me something, will you?’

He was delighted to comply. Most of the records in his collection had been made before he was born—the rest before he had been aware of any musical sense. He had started gathering them by stumbling on a couple of rare items whilst still in his teens; and the bug had bitten. By this time, after many years, his collection had grown considerably; now it took up three four-foot-long shelves. All those heavy old singles, coming from a time when each one had been something of an event possessed—in their romance, their specialness—a charm for him that today’s records, turned out in their millions, could never have.

I get along without you very well,

Of course I do . . .

While the plaintive voice of Billie Holiday filled the room he lit a cigarette and stood gazing out onto the darkened garden. When the record came to an end he took it off and, fingertips brushing the polished wood of the cabinet, said, ‘This is the perfect machine for these old records.’ To Alison he added: ‘We got it with the house. We were lucky there.’

‘We were lucky with everything,’ Rowan said. ‘This house and this village.’ Turning, smiling, toward Alison she asked, ‘Don’t you just love it here?’

To Hal’s ears Alison’s answer of ‘Yes . . .’ didn’t sound too convincing. ‘You don’t seem that sure,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s all right, I suppose. But it’s—well, it’s not really my cup of tea.’

Rowan looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you serious? What is it about it that you’re not keen on? I mean—it’s got everything that a small English village should have. This place is story-book stuff. Loads of charm, beautiful scenery, a sense of community—and the people couldn’t be nicer.’

‘Ah, yes, the people,’ Alison said. ‘Sometimes I think they’re a little too nice.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Rowan. There was a touch of dismay in her expression. ‘The people here are pleasant—but surely it’s typical of the difference between people in the country and in the city.’ She gave a defiant little laugh. ‘Believe me, after London I find it a very refreshing change. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Alison looked at her for a moment, nodded, then said: ‘Yes, maybe you’re right. After all, why shouldn’t people be nice to each other? Yes, I suppose that when you come to think about it it’s less an indictment of the people here in the village than of those outside it.’

‘What made you choose Moorstone in the first place?’ Hal asked. ‘How did you find it?’

‘I answered an ad in The Times. After Geoff went off I got to feeling very much at a loose end; I was between jobs and I just—just wanted to get away somewhere. So, as I say, I answered the ad—Miss Carroll’s—came down to meet her—and got the job.’ She grinned. ‘Sometimes when I think of the competition there was for it I can’t understand why she came to choose me. I mean, let’s be honest—my typing’s okay, but it’s not about to win me any medals. And I didn’t get beyond lesson three in my shorthand course. Not like some of those other women who applied. I came across some of the letters from them—applying for the job. My God, some of them sounded absolutely brilliant. Still,’ she shrugged, ‘I’ve managed all right, and there haven’t been any complaints—so far.’

Hal asked her then whether she found the work interesting. ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered, ‘but there—the business of creative writing has always fascinated me.’

‘Do you write, yourself?’

‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve no talent whatsoever in that direction. It’s as much as I can manage to write a letter. No—I just have a great respect for those who can do it—and can do it well. But I know at the same time that I could never do it myself. And I don’t have the slightest desire to try, either.’ She smiled. ‘It’s funny; Miss Carroll’s often suggested to me that I try my hand at writing something. Maybe a short story—something like that. It’s no good, though. I just tell her politely that she’s wasting her breath.’

While Rowan poured more coffee Hal offered Alison a cigarette. When it was alight she said, ‘That’s the only thing I have against Miss Carroll as my employer: she won’t let me smoke—except in my room. And I know she only tolerates that with the greatest difficulty. I suppose she puts up with it to keep me happy. She absolutely hates it. Still—’ she shrugged, ‘—I suppose we’re none of us perfect. But even Ralph Collins isn’t allowed to smoke in her presence. And she idolizes him—though God knows why.’

Hal grinned. ‘Collins—from the library. He’s your admirer, isn’t he? Rowan was telling me something about it . . .’

‘I’m sorry I mentioned his name.’ Alison gave a mock shudder. ‘Please—let’s not spoil a lovely evening talking about that loathsome creature. Let’s talk about other things . . .’

They did, and the talk went on until almost eleven-thirty, at which time Alison said she really would have to get going. As she got up Hal said he’d take her back in the car. No, she said, thanking him, it was kind of him but it was no distance. ‘. . . and besides,’ she added, ‘I’d quite like to walk.’

‘Then I’ll walk back with you,’ he said, to which Rowan added, ‘Take your bike—then you can ride it home. I’ll get cleared up while you’re gone.’

When the two girls had fondly said their goodnights to one another Hal and Alison stepped out into the cool, moonlit night. Looking up, Hal saw that the sky was clear; all the stars were there. ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ he said. He took his bicycle from the garage and, pushing it beside him, walked with Alison onto the road. Their steps sounded sharp in the stillness. Alison said, ‘I had a really nice time, Hal. Thank you so much.’

‘Oh, it was our pleasure.’ He meant it.

After a few moments had gone by he said: ‘What did you mean about the people here being too nice?’

‘Oh, that. Take no notice. That’s just my big mouth. I’m sorry I said it.’

‘Why be sorry?’

‘Well—I shall be leaving Moorstone eventually, whereas you’re staying. It just wasn’t—tactful of me to be—negative about it. Particularly when Rowan’s so obviously in love with the place.’

‘Oh, she’s sold on it, all right. Completely.’

On either side of them the fields, trees and hedgerows were touched with silver. Up ahead only the occasional lighted windows showed in the clustered houses of the village. ‘Anyway, she’s right,’ Alison said. ‘It’s a very beautiful little place.’

‘It’s not everything, though, is it? Beauty . . .’ He was looking at her as he spoke and she turned briefly to glance at him. ‘A place has got to do more than look good,’ he added. She said nothing. After a moment he went on: ‘I’m interested; I’d really like to know: why isn’t this place your cup of tea—as you put it?’

‘Is it yours?’ she asked.

Her question silenced him for a second, then he said: ‘Is it the people here? Rowan thinks they’re just about perfect.’

‘Oh, they’re perfect, all right,’ she said quickly. ‘They’re too damn perfect.’

‘Go on. . . .’

She paused, then said thoughtfully: ‘Well, I think that’s it. That’s what’s wrong—for me, anyway—or one of the things. I find the villagers—to all outward appearances—to be just too nice. It reminds me a bit of those freaky Californian religions where everyone goes around being loving and understanding and non-aggressive—and manage to give the impression that they’re boiling inside.’

‘And is that how you see the people here?’

‘Well, not quite like that, but—well, I just don’t think it’s natural to be that warm and friendly and welcoming. That’s the way it strikes me, anyway.’ She hesitated for a moment then went on: ‘Take last Saturday, for example. I went into the stationer’s to get a few things for Miss Carroll and there were two women already there, waiting to be served. And what happens but they stand aside and insist that I go first. I found it rather—embarrassing. Dammit, it’s not natural to be so bloody . . . sweet. And if one more person asks me whether I’m happy in Moorstone I swear I’ll hit him.’ She laughed. ‘It’s almost as if they’re afraid that I’m going to get up and leave.’

Hal nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve found that with us, too. Folks being concerned as to whether we’re happy here and are settling in all right.’

‘And are you? Are you happy here? Are you settling in all right?’

‘Rowan is.’

‘Yes, I gathered that. What about you?’

‘It’s all so new for me,’ he said non-committally. ‘I’m not used to living in the country. I suppose I’ll get used to it in time. Anyway, the important thing right now is that Ro’s happy. And she is happy here. It’s made such a difference to her—coming here, having this house . . .’

‘Oh, your house is gorgeous.’

‘Yes, we love it. And we certainly were lucky there—not only in finding it, but getting it at the price we did.’

‘You got a bargain, did you?’

‘Yes, I’m sure we did. Mind you, perhaps that’s because there was no one else after it. Which, I must say, surprised us . . .’

In the pale light he saw her frown.

‘When did you buy it?’ she asked.

‘Towards the end of February. Why . . . ?’

‘Well, it just seems . . . a little odd . . .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, soon after I got here—before you and Rowan arrived—I got to talking to an elderly couple in The Coffee Shop. They were wanting to move to Moorstone, they told me, and had come that day to look at a house that they’d seen empty. Not that they got it. Anyway, they told me that they’d been disappointed before. Over your house.’

‘Oh . . . ?’

‘Yes. They’d come to see it back in January, they said.’

‘And the price was too high for them, was it?’

‘No, apparently not. They told me that the price had been very high but even though they’d been prepared to pay it they’d still been turned down. I felt quite sorry for them. They’d obviously had their hearts set on it, poor old things. Well, it is a lovely place. Mind you, it ought to be for that kind of money.’

Slightly puzzled, Hal said: ‘You make it sound as if the price was astronomical. It didn’t cost very much. Not by today’s standards.’

‘It depends on what you mean by not very much . . .’

When he told her what he had paid for the house she whistled and said, ‘You’re joking! Are you serious?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, that wasn’t the price quoted to the old couple I talked to. They’d been asked a price way above that. It was at least twenty thousand more. And they’d been prepared to pay it, too.’

Hal was silent for a moment, then he said: ‘Yes, that is strange, isn’t it?’ Then he smiled and shrugged. ‘Ah, well, unlucky for them and lucky for us.’

‘Your house,’ she said after a while, ‘it belonged to that character Lewis Childs, didn’t it?’

‘Oh, you know about him?’

‘He’s famous. Or infamous. He’s often being mentioned in the more salacious gossip columns.’

‘I didn’t realize he was that well known.’

‘You obviously read the wrong papers—or the right ones—whichever way you look at it.’

‘Apparently he’s in a hospital somewhere on the Continent right now—so Paul Cassen was saying.’

‘Yes. Miss Carroll mentioned something about it to me. He’s not expected to live, so she said. So he won’t be coming back here for his retirement.’ When Hal turned to her in surprise she added: ‘Haven’t they told you that? None of the Moorstone people leaves the village forever. Those who go always return eventually.’

Hal laughed. ‘Yes, we’ve been told the same thing. It’s funny—the villagers do seem to have a rather—inordinate degree of loyalty to the place—and pride in it.’

‘I’ll say they do.’

Going by way of the now silent High Street and School Lane they had walked to the other side of the village. Since starting out they’d seen no sign of anyone else. Now, turning left onto Moorstone Road, Hal saw just a few yards along a large, white-painted Victorian house. ‘Well, this is it,’ Alison said as they walked towards it. ‘The Laurels. My temporary home.’

They came to a stop at the front gate. The upper windows were all dark, but there was a light burning in the hall. ‘For my benefit,’ Alison whispered. ‘They’ll have gone to bed ages ago.’

‘They?’ He kept his own voice very low.

‘Yes, there’s the housekeeper as well. Miss Allardice.’ She paused and then, smiling warmly, added, ‘Thanks for walking with me, Hal. I hope I haven’t made you late.’

‘Oh, no.’ He patted the saddle of his bicycle. ‘I shall get back in no time at all.’

‘Is it new?’ she said, ‘the bike? It looks it.’

‘Yes. We each got one just after we moved in.’

‘You’re really entering into the spirit of country living.’

He shrugged. ‘Making the effort, anyway. Rowan’s the one, though. Now she’s talking about helping out with jumble sales and joining the village dramatic society. . . .’

‘Rather her than me.’

‘She believes it’s a good way of getting to know the villagers. I’m sure she’s right.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she is. There certainly isn’t much to do here, is there? And one can get tired of looking at pretty views. Of course you could just visit the neighbours, I suppose.’

‘Is that what you do?’

‘Oh, no. There’s nobody here I’d want to call on—until now, that is.’ She smiled. ‘I had a really super evening, Hal.’

‘Good. So did we. And I hope you’ll feel like calling on us—often.’

‘Thank you. I shall.’ Her smile became a wide grin. ‘How about that . . . already I feel less . . . isolated.’

Hal frowned. ‘Have you felt isolated? That’s not so good.’

‘It’s not, is it? I never considered that when I came here. It never entered my mind. I suppose it’s just that I feel rather—tied to the place; for one thing, not having a car here—and I’m not allowed to use Miss Carroll’s.’

‘But you must have made friends here . . .’

She hesitated before answering. ‘I did at the beginning—but I don’t know what happened. Still, that’s in the past. Now, having met you two, if I can just hold out till Geoff gets back maybe I won’t be going to Primrose House after all.’

‘Primrose House? What’s that?’

Dropping her whispered voice even lower she said, ‘Primrose House is the village nuthouse. Didn’t you know that?’

‘You mean—a mental home . . . ?’

‘If you want to be polite, yes, a mental home.’

‘Here? In Moorstone?’

‘They refer to it as The Old Folks’ Home. But I think that’s somewhat euphemistic.’

‘There’s a mental home in a place this size?’

She nodded. ‘You obviously don’t know your village as well as you thought.’

‘So it seems.’

She put out her hand then, clasped his, and then quickly stretched up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you again,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’ Then she was opening the gate, closing it carefully behind her and tiptoeing up the path to the front door.

Hal waited until she had unlocked the door and gone inside. Then, mounting his bicycle, he rode away.

As he pedalled back through the silent village he thought back to several of the things that she had said. She’d given him quite a lot to think about. And nothing that she had said had given him any contentment.

To his surprise he found that Rowan was waiting for him by the gate.

‘I thought you’d be in bed by now,’ he said as he wheeled his bicycle into the drive.

She closed the gate behind him and stayed there, leaning on it. ‘I wanted to wait for you,’ she said.

He propped his bicycle against the gatepost and went to stand beside her. He felt unsettled from his conversation with Alison.

‘It was a really good evening,’ Rowan said.

‘Yes, it was.’

‘And what a beautiful night now . . .’

As she spoke she looked up at the sky and he felt the brush of her shoulder against his upper arm. He followed her glance upwards to where the Milky Way sprawled in its great curving arc. ‘The night has a thousand eyes,’ he said, echoing the words she had spoken on the night of their very first meeting. On that night, after leaving the restaurant, they had stood at the gate of her little cottage, and she had looked up at the stars. ‘The night has a thousand eyes . . .’ she’d said, and he’d asked her, ‘What does that line come from? I’ve often heard it over the years.’

‘From a poem—by Bourdillon,’ she’d answered. ‘I learnt it years ago—after discovering it in some book. I was at a very impressionable age then. I remember I used to recite it—for my own pleasure only, you understand. It was lovely to wallow in such—romanticism.’ Then, when he’d asked her to, she’d recited the poem for him.

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

Earlier that past day he’d hoped for nothing more than to spend the night in her bed. And although he’d still wanted that, very much, there had come the sudden, almost unconscious, realization that there was more to be gained. So much more. So: so much for his half-formed hopes; he’d ended the evening by kissing her on the cheek and shaking her hand. . . .

Funny, he thought now, how easily one’s aim could be deflected. And by such a simple thing. It was her reciting of the poem that had done it—that, coming after their time together in the restaurant. The whole course of his life had been changed.

Now, looking back to that night he thought, briefly, of the things that had happened in between: their years in London together, the success of Spectre. Adam . . . And now here they were once more in the country; just the two of them again; and, as before, standing by a gate and looking up at the sky. They’d come full circle.

The memory of Adam brought back to him the thought of how much he would love to have another child. Another son. And how much Rowan wanted it too. But would they ever get what they wanted? They’d never once throughout their five years of marriage used any form of birth control. And yet Rowan had conceived only the once. Yet, the doctors had said, there was no reason why she shouldn’t again. . . . At the school where he’d taught he’d watched the children of some parents appear year after year, like clones, one after another, with sickening regularity; as one had left for a higher grade so he’d be replaced by a younger one coming up. There was no fairness.

Maybe here, though, in Moorstone, things would be different. If the doctors were right then this place could be the answer. Rowan, with the tension of city life behind her, was growing happier and more relaxed each day. So who could tell?—perhaps in time . . .

‘Come on,’ he said. Taking hold of his bicycle he put his other arm around her shoulder and briefly hugged her to him. ‘Come on, it’s time to go in.’

Inside the house they turned off the lights, went upstairs and got undressed. Rowan was first in and out of the bathroom and when Hal emerged from it a few minutes afterwards he found her sitting in her dressing-gown on top of the bed-clothes, supported by the pillows that she had propped against the headboard. As he sat on the edge of the bed she smiled at him, then reached out and switched off the lamp.

‘Now I can’t see a damn thing,’ he said.

‘You will—in a minute or two. The moon’s so bright.’

He felt her fingers touch the back of his hand, and rest there. Then, gradually, in the pale light that flooded in from the night sky she took shape before him. Squeezing his hand, she said: ‘It was a lovely evening, wasn’t it?’

‘Very nice.’

‘And I think Alison enjoyed it too.’

‘I’m sure she did.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘Very much.’

‘Not too much, though, I hope.’ She smiled as she said this. He grinned back at her.

‘What d’you want me to say?’

‘Oh—everything—nothing . . .’

He moved closer to her, bent forward and kissed her softly on the mouth. She kissed him back and then moved lower in the bed so that she lay flat, he leaning above her, gazing down. In the dimness she looked about nineteen.

He wore nothing beneath his bathrobe and he lowered his body to hers and pressed his rampant hardness against her.

‘I love you, Ro. So much.’

He pulled off his bathrobe, undid the loose cord about her waist and found that she too, under her dressing-gown, was naked. He spread its folds on either side of her, like wings, on the bed. Resting on his knees he straddled her waist. He felt her hand brush his thigh, then touch his rigid flesh and grasp it. Arching his back he pressed forward into the circle of her hand, his own fingers reaching down behind him, finding her moist and ready. For long, ecstatic moments he revelled in the sensations that came from her fingers and the moving of his own, and then, when another second would surely have brought about his climax, he changed his position, knelt beside her and covered her face with kisses.

With all the time in the world he moved his mouth from her forehead to her toes; lips lingering, tongue probing and exploring, while beneath him she moaned her joy, wild hands clutching at his hair, his shoulders. ‘Hal . . . Hal . . . Hal . . .’ He would have entered her then, but she breathed, ‘Not yet, not yet,’ and urged him onto his back beside her. And then the initiative was taken by her, and as her hands, her mouth began their tour he spread wide, wide his legs and arms and gave himself up completely to the almost unbearable pleasure of her touch.

At last she lay beside him again. And then beneath him.

Moving gently—as if he would restrain his passion—he guided his sex slowly into her until he was deep inside. Then, all restraint vanishing, taken by the overpowering sensation, he began to move faster within her—long, rhythmic thrusts—and so deep—as if he would sheath his whole body within her own. On and on, together, their bodies moved—his pounding against her; hers rising up to meet the violence of his thrusts as if she would never get enough of him.

At the very peak, as she gasped and cried beneath him in the climax of her ecstasy he heard the groans torn from his own mouth as, shuddering, he filled her with his seed.

Afterwards they lay beside one another, her head against his sweat-drenched shoulder, their breathing slowing, growing more regular. After a time he eased himself free, raised himself on one elbow and peered down at her. Gently he brushed aside a lock of damp hair that lay plastered to her forehead. She opened her eyes then and gazed up at him. ‘My Hal,’ she said.

‘You bet your life.’

His feeling for her now was all tenderness, added to which was his realization that he had never before known her to be so uninhibited in their love-making. Tonight she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her—and she had demonstrated that wanting, so clearly, taking from his body a pleasure that, in her desire, was both new and totally overwhelming.

How had such a difference come about, he asked himself—knowing the answer all the time. The answer was clear. It was obvious. It was this place; it was Moorstone that had given her her peace and set her free.

For a moment there came to him a memory of the disquieting thoughts and questions that his conversation with Alison had planted in his mind. With a mental, sweeping gesture he pushed it all away from him. So Moorstone wasn’t perfect. So what? What place was? The important thing was that it was the place for them—Rowan and him. He looked again into her smiling eyes. Yes—Moorstone might not be ideal—but it would do.