When the rain fell it made a timpani on the scullery roof, a sound which Mr Golightly had yet to discover whether he found enchanting or distracting. A rickety fence, with a wicket gate let into it, which led through to the garden, ran beside the scullery. But this morning Mr Golightly was troubled by none of those things: he stood listening to the sound of the rushing brook, which ran through the lower meadows, and noting how the hills formed a gentle cleavage through which the River Dart found its way to the sea.
Grazing in the field, to which the untidy garden sloped, was a stocky brown horse with a white flash down its nose. Beyond, bounded by a beech hedge, where the leaves independently maintained their autumnal rust, lay further fields, where young spring wheat was forming a green glaze over the soil.
A batch of rooks was already out scouring the earth for food, while a band of their less diligent kin sat in the bare-fanned branches of an ash tree, making clean silhouettes against the gathering light. As Mr Golightly watched, a pair of magpies swooped gleaming down, balancing with their long tails and settling among the rooks to add a touch of Old Master cachet to the scene.
‘One for sorrow, two for joy.’
Mr Golightly spoke the words aloud. It was an ancient saying, old as any of the works of man, and he could not now recall when he had first heard it. But, like many country-bred people, he did not let reason oust superstition: the sight of the swaggering piebald birds gave an added fillip to his spirits.
And now, as if to add fuel to this fire, a sliver of sun appeared above one of the breast-like hills, a mere slice of orange which rapidly grew to an incandescent globe. Rifts of glowing red infiltrated the green-grey sky which began to take on further intimations of light.
‘Be praised!’ said Mr Golightly.
He did not speak aloud, but as if to a beloved intimate whose understanding had no need of outward hearing.
Samson, the horse, perhaps catching the drift of the unspoken words, made its way up to the wire which formed a boundary to Spring Cottage’s garden. ‘Hello, old boy.’ Mr Golightly ran a finger down the long plush nose and wished he had thought to bring sugar lumps. The cardboard box he had brought was packed with some of the items he might have difficulty finding in the average English village shop: tins of anchovies, jars of pickled walnuts, Marmite, a pot of moist Stilton, chillies, pine kernels, a French sausage, Frank Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, sugared almonds – but despite these latter items Mr Golightly did not, in general, have a sweet tooth. He had not been raised on sugar and consequently it did not form part of his regular diet.
‘Sorry, old chap.’ He spoke regretfully: he liked to indulge animals who rarely bore resentment if one failed to do as they wished.
As if in response to his apology, a ribald cackling made itself heard and Mr Golightly turned away from Samson and towards the direction of the noise. The next-door garden was fenced by heavy barbed wire. Through the wire Mr Golightly could see a female figure among white geese with glistening orange bills and some farmyard ducks.
Mr Golightly was naturally courteous; but he was concerned, too, to establish peace with his neighbours so that there should be no threat to his tranquillity. His work had too often been a battle; he had no wish for his holiday to be marred by warfare. War between neighbours, he knew from long experience, is often of the most disruptive kind.
‘Hello,’ he said, and offered his hand across the barbed-wire fence.
The other said nothing but only stared. It was the kind of stare which might have perturbed anyone with an uneasy conscience; but if Mr Golightly’s conscience was uneasy he didn’t betray the fact. He held the gaze steadily till the woman relaxed and held out a hand.
‘Watch the spikes on the fence.’
‘Good fences make good neighbours.’
Mr Golightly could not have explained why he had made this remark. He was not in the modern habit of constantly enquiring into the workings of his own mind but tended to say whatever came into his head.
‘Ellen Thomas,’ said his neighbour, apparently ignoring his comment, and turned away.
‘Golightly,’ said Mr Golightly, looking after her; the grey eyes of Ellen Thomas were those of a creature in pain.
Back in the cottage, he unpacked the box of provisions and arranged these tidily in the Formica cupboards. He looked about for a kettle which he eventually found in the cupboard under the sink. No plug. Better make a shopping list, he decided.
Up in the bedroom he completed his unpacking. His possessions were simple: a couple of nightshirts, a pair of slippers, some woollies, a number of warm shirts, wool socks, underwear. His zip-up sponge bag, rather the worse for wear, was already in the avocado bathroom. No tie – this was a holiday. Among the other items there was a small travelling photograph holder which framed the picture of a young man with a piteous face.
Mr Golightly looked at the face as he placed the picture beside the bed. Love is the price of love, he thought, as, observing the warning on a note tacked up by Nicky Pope, he minded his head down the steep stairs to the parlour where he prepared to do combat with a book of instructions lying beside the Norwegian woodstove.
Books of instructions were things with which Mr Golightly had little patience. He opened the booklet entitled ‘Norpine Stoves: the extra modern way to be old-fashioned’ and read: The flue towards the left-handed side of the upper orifice is to be unclosed while the material fires is being laid down.
What the hell did all that mean?
ELLEN THOMAS LAY ON HER SOFA LOOKING across to where the sheep stood making enigmatic runes on the hillside. She was reflecting that if she could read these runes she might become wise.
No living soul knew this but, shortly after her husband, Robert, died, Ellen had had a strange encounter with a gorse bush. She had been walking her dog, Wilfred, across the moor and, as usual when she walked in the days after Robert’s death, she had been crying. Although she had no inhibition about crying over Robert, the tears only seemed to come when she was mobile. While she was stationary they stayed dammed up inside her, causing unbearable pressure around the heart.
There was something about striding across the tough moorland grasses, through the plashy bogs and past the pale lichen-coated brakes of thorn, which made a breach in her constraining inner structures; so that when she had climbed to the stony outcrop of the tor she was able to stand against the wind on the spine of the skyline and howl like a banshee.
She was returning from just such a venting early one afternoon, a time when most people were eating lunch, when Wilfred began to sniff and whine round a patch of gorse. Supposing voles or rabbits, Ellen had put Wilfred on his lead and tried to drag the dog past the bush. But he pulled so hard the lead slipped from her grasp, and Wilfred, barking frantically, bolted for home.
Ellen, about to hurry after him, was arrested by a strong sense that the gorse concealed more than a vole or a rabbit. A violent burning sensation leapt like a ravaging tiger at her heart and a voice, sweet and terrible, spoke from the golden bush.
‘I am love,’ it said.
Ellen was not of a religious disposition. If asked, she would have said she was an atheist, an agnostic at best, so these words startled her and at first she believed there must have been some mistake.
‘I am Ellen Thomas,’ she had offered, diffidently, in return, and waited, expecting to be dismissed. But the dismissal came in the form of a further surprise.
‘Tell them.’
‘What?’ Ellen asked.
‘Tell them!’ said the voice again in its tender, commanding tone.
Ellen waited