1

Hal glanced briefly at Rowan in the seat beside him to see whether she too was aware of their nearness to the village. She was. Ten minutes ago her eyes had been closed; secured by her seat belt she had slept, knees bent sideways, heavy dark hair falling unchecked across her cheek. Now she was sitting upright, blue eyes bright and looking eagerly ahead. He could guess at her emotions, the thoughts that were going through her mind. Some of her own excitement had communicated itself to him. They would soon be there. . . . They were starting new lives, the two of them. New. It was all going to be new. And better.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked her, and she turned to smile at him. ‘Fine, just fine . . .’

He nodded, looked at his watch. Just coming up to two o’clock. They had overtaken the removal van somewhere south of Reading, ages ago. London now was far, far behind. Far too, now, seemed Exeter, where they had stopped briefly for coffee and a sandwich, afterwards travelling along the eastern edge of Dartmoor, and then striking west, driving deeper into the moor’s heart. In the village of Dartmeet they had crossed over the river and turned south. And now there was nothing to see but the moor, stretching out on either side of them in endless stretches of green rolling hills and rambling woodland where the trees stood poised for spring. It was hard to believe that in England’s narrow, overpopulated confines such space, such peace and quiet, could still be found.

Behind him in the back seat the older woman was silent.

‘So what do you think of it, Mrs Prescot?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I think it’s beautiful,’ her soft cockney voice came in his ear, ‘—just beautiful.’

Adjusting his view he glanced at her reflection in the driving mirror above his head. She sat gazing from the window. Her brown hat had gone slightly askew, and her grey hair— which had also been carefully put in place at the beginning of the journey—was similarly, now, in need of attention.

‘You’re probably about ready to stretch your legs a bit, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Oh, I’m fine, Mr Graham,’ she answered. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’

The way continued on, becoming more winding with every mile.

He had grown so accustomed to finding the road almost deserted that the figure coming suddenly into view around a bend gave him a terrifying start.

She was walking in the middle of the road. Rowan screamed and covered her face while he violently swung the wheel, hearing as he did so the hedgerow’s trailing brambles lash the car’s offside wing. ‘Idiot!’ he blurted out. ‘What the bloody hell’s she playing at!’

When the car was on a straight course again a few seconds later he looked into the driving mirror. The woman had gone from his sight now, hidden by the curve of the hedge. After only a moment’s hesitation he braked and pulled the car over to the side.

‘My God,’ Rowan said, ‘but that was close. That stupid woman!’ She looked as if she were about to cry.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He was unbuckling his seat belt.

She nodded. ‘It was just—such a shock. I didn’t see how you were going to avoid her.’ She breathed a deep sigh of relief, put one hand to her heart and gave a forced-looking smile. ‘I shall be okay now.’ Then, as he started to get out of the car, she asked: ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’d—I’d just like to make sure that she’s all right . . .’

Rowan shrugged, then nodded. ‘Fine—and while you’re at it tell her she almost gave us heart attacks.’

Slamming the door behind him he moved back along the road in the direction from which they had come. It wasn’t only the near-miss that had disturbed him—though that had been bad enough—it had been the sight of the woman herself. For one thing, there had been something about her expression, added to which she had appeared to be totally oblivious of the car’s presence and any possible danger from it. Those things apart, though, there was something else. He was sure that he knew her face.

When he turned the bend in the road he found she was nowhere in sight. He came to a stop, looking about him. The air was so still; only the sound of birdsong broke the quiet. He began to feel foolish. What was he doing wandering along a country road in pursuit of some old woman? Because he had recognized her? Because there had been something disturbing about her appearance? Well, even so, it was none of his business. Forget it; go back to the car . . .

Then, just as he was about to turn he saw something lying in the road. A shoe. Her shoe, it must be. He stooped and picked it up. A plain little shoe in brown leather, looking to his untutored eye somewhat old-fashioned in pattern. He placed it on the grass at the side and moved forward again.

To his left a few yards further on he came to a gap in the hedge. Peering through he saw the woman walking away across the open ground. She had taken off her coat, he saw, and now it hung from her right hand, trailing carelessly over the grass.

For a moment he just stood there, then, stepping through the hedge, he called out to her:

‘Excuse me—’

He waited, but she kept going, merely faltering in her stride and half turning her head for a second. He called again.

‘Excuse me . . . Wait . . . just a minute . . .’

At his second call she came to halt, turning and facing in his direction. Then she was moving away again and continuing on, climbing the slope that cut off his view of the landscape immediately beyond. He noticed that both her feet were bare.

As she disappeared from his sight on the other side of the slope he went hurrying in pursuit of her once more. Reaching the top of the incline he saw that she had come to a stop some little distance away from him. There just beyond her bare feet he saw the gaping space of a wide pit, a chalkpit. She was standing with her back to him, looking out over the drop. She said, without turning, ‘Please—’ her voice was flat, ‘—don’t come any closer.’

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Then at last, trying to sound casual, he said:

‘I thought I recognized you—going past you in the car. I thought I recognized your face.’

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were as dull and flat as her voice had been. He knew, though, that he hadn’t been mistaken. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said.

‘You? No, I don’t remember you.’

‘Yes, a few weeks ago. We met by the Moorstone post office. We talked for a minute or two. Don’t you remember?’

This time she answered with only a little shake of her head. She looked to be in her late sixties. She seemed thinner than in his memory of her. Her hair, too, was different. Then she had worn it tight to her head. Now it hung loose and uncombed and straggling to her unbuttoned collar. She had let fall the coat, he saw; it lay between them on the grass. Moving forward a couple of steps he picked it up and held it out to her.

‘Your coat,’ he said, ‘why don’t you put it on . . . ?’

Another shake of the head. ‘No. No, thank you.’ She paused and added, ‘I don’t like it. And it’s not mine, anyway.’

He let this pass. ‘I didn’t expect to see you out here, so far from the village,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ She barely murmured it, at the same time giving a little shrug as if to say what did it matter anyway? Apart from her unkempt and rather wild appearance he could see misery in her face. And something else—bewilderment? ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘—what are you doing here?’

‘Minding my own business.’

A little taken aback he hesitated, forced a smile and then said awkwardly:

‘My name is Hal. Hal Graham.’

She inclined her head slightly at this. ‘Hello, Hal Graham,’ she said. She paused briefly, then went on; ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry.’ Turning slightly away from him she gazed out over the moorland hills. ‘I came here before on several occasions—to paint and sketch. I painted this chalkpit. And those trees there . . .’ She pointed off to the right where a line of silver birches rose up on the skyline. ‘I painted those too, in different lights, different moods . . .’

Silence again.

‘Come back with me,’ he said. ‘My car is just down the road. Let me take you back home.’

‘Oh, that would take too long. My home is a long way from here.’ Her sudden little smile was all sadness.

Puzzled, he said: ‘Come with me. We’ll go back to the village.’

‘No, not there.’

Helpless, impotent in the face of her cool, reasonable manner, he shook his head and looked at her pleadingly. ‘Please . . .’

‘It isn’t fair,’ she said, ‘to you, I mean—having this happen. It’s not fair. I’m sorry.’ Standing shoeless on the edge of the pit she looked like a lost, aging child.

‘Come back with me,’ he said. ‘We can talk. We can relax.’ He took a step towards her, then a step further, another and another. She looked down at his moving feet, and he came to a halt again, only a few yards away from her and very afraid.

‘It won’t do any good,’ she said.

‘Yes. I can help you. I want to help you.’

‘It’s too late. Go on back to your car. I’m sorry about all this.’

Slowly, slowly, he reached out his hand, at the same time taking another slow step towards her. For a second she shrank from him and his heart pounded as in his mind’s eye he saw her body going over the edge. But then the next moment his hand had touched hers. Gently he held it. There were tears on her cheek. She looked at him imploringly and he could feel his tight throat growing even more constricted, feel his own tears streaming from his eyes.

‘Oh, don’t cry,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t.’

‘Then please—’ he fought to control himself, ‘—please don’t—’

Slowly she allowed him to draw her closer towards him. She was moving further and further away from the edge. Then, with her hand in his he was turning, leading her away and up the gentle incline. When they were at the top she stopped and he turned to look at her. Withdrawing her hand from his she said,

‘You think I’m off my head, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you must think that. I’m not, though.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come with me. Your friends—they’ll be anxious about you.’

She didn’t move, and there was a look in her eyes he couldn’t fathom.

‘Please . . .’ His voice trailed off. Moments went by and neither stirred nor spoke. All the while she seemed to be studying him. Then at last she gave a slow nod and, as if reaching a decision, said:

‘All right—I’ll come with you. But you’ve got to let me talk to you. You must listen to me.’

‘Of course.’ Gently he took the coat in both hands and held it out to her. ‘Here—why don’t you put this on?’

She looked at the coat as if she had forgotten its existence, almost as if she were seeing it for the first time. Then the next moment she had turned and was running back down the slope.

Even as he ran forward in a desperate attempt to catch her she had reached the edge of the pit. Her movements freezing in his brain like a slow-motion action replay he saw her stretch out her arms above her head, fingers pointing upwards to the sun. Then, like a swimmer taking the plunge feet first she leapt up and out and fell like a stone.