‘And shovelling six feet of snow from her back door to the wood shed! Have you been behaving yourself, Cassie?’
‘Of course I have! I’m well out of temptation’s way there.’
‘Not that kind of trouble! You know what I mean. No ghost hunting, or anything?’
‘Positively not!’ I met her eyes briefly and was glad to be able to tell the truth. ‘What really interests me, though, is the family who lived at Beth’s place in the war and got emptied out by the RAF. I’d have been spitting feathers if they’d done it to me.’
‘Me too. But I believe it was different then. There was a war on, so no one made too much fuss. It wouldn’t have been patriotic to complain. I remember talking to Bill Jarvis – lives in the village – once about the war. You wouldn’t believe what people put up with, according to him.’
‘Probably he was romancing a bit,’ I said carefully. ‘He’ll be getting on a bit now?’
‘Told me he’s nearer eighty than seventy, but he’s as bright as a button for all that.’
‘And he’s always lived in Acton Carey?’ Again the casual approach.
‘In the Glebe Cottages, by the church. I once spent an interesting couple of hours with him. He opens up after a few pints.’
‘Ale-talk,’ I said, making a note that Bill Jarvis lived near the church and liked his beer. ‘Not far to go now. Think I’m hungry too. I’m going to enjoy this weekend, y’know. Will you be able to make it next week?’
‘I most certainly will! Get some decent air into my lungs and a bit of peace and quiet. Don’t wake me in the morning, there’s a good girl – not even with a cup of tea.’
I said I wouldn’t, then concentrated on the road ahead – both sides of it – because we had just passed the clump of oaks.
We reached Deer’s Leap, though, without incident or encounter, and I can’t say I was all that disappointed. Already I had pinned my hopes on tomorrow, if I could get out alone.
‘Why don’t you sleep in, tomorrow morning?’ I said, sort of offhand. ‘I’m going down to the village anyway. There’s a post office I hope?’
‘Yes. Next door but one to the pub. What do you want with a post office?’
‘Phone cards,’ I said promptly. ‘I’m not using Beth’s phone to ring home. Is there a phone box, too?’
‘Outside the post office.’
‘Fine.’ I didn’t press the point. ‘Be a love and open the gate, will you?’
I felt very pleased with myself. I’d hit on an alibi for tomorrow morning and discovered a World War Two veteran ready and able to talk. Or he would be, once I’d established I was from Deer’s Leap and had bought him a pint!
We sat on the terrace long after the sun had gone down, me with a glass of sherry beside me, Jeannie with a gin and tonic. We had piled the dishes in the sink and left them. Evenings such as this were not to be wasted on things banal. It was almost dark, but still warm. A softly shaded lamp in the room behind us lit us rosily as distant outlines had blurred and turned from purple to deepest grey.
Somewhere below us, the headlights of a car briefly lit trees as it passed them. Someone was making for the village, I supposed, which was a scatter of pinprick lights far over to our left.
The birds had stopped singing. Tommy’s loud purring was almost hypnotic; Hector snuffled and yawned. He was lying across my feet and to shift him would be to break the spell. Lotus, a night owl, had long ago disappeared over the paddock wall.
‘If there’s a heaven, Jeannie,’ I said softly, ‘I want it to be like this.’
‘Mm.’ She tilted her glass, draining it. ‘Look – I’m feeling cold, all of a sudden. Tired, I suppose. Would you mind if I shoved off to bed?’
‘Of course not.’ I got to my feet and the dog awoke with a surprised snuffle. ‘I’ll see to the animals and do the rounds of the house.’
‘Bless you. Night, love.’ She kissed my cheek, then patted the dog. ‘D’you know, I haven’t unpacked, yet …?’
‘Tomorrow is another day. And I won’t wake you in the morning – when I go to the village, I mean.’
‘Don’t dare!’
She climbed the stairs slowly, followed by Tommy, who had already, I supposed, decided to spend the night on her bed.
Beth had found him at the side of the lane with a bleeding paw and fed him. By the time it was healed, he had purred his way into the family’s affections. He followed people around, grateful for his new, cushy lifestyle. Jeannie’s bedroom door closed with a thud and I wondered if the animal had managed to slip in behind her.
Reluctantly I locked and bolted the French windows and removed the key. I’d already decided to wash the supper things because I didn’t want to go to bed yet. Even washing up here was a joy. I squirted liquid into the bowl and idly swished it into suds.
I was happy; indecently happy. It was as if I was establishing a rapport with the house so it would stay unoccupied until I could afford it.
‘Grow up, Cassie!’ Until fishes flew and forests walked again! In my dreams! I would never get Deer’s Leap. Some rich bitch would snap it up as a summer retreat. All at once I was glad I was a bit psychic and wondered if people like me could ill-wish. An awful sadness washed me from nose to toes and I wished that I’d never seen the place. I wanted to weep with frustration, then thought about tomorrow instead.
And about the airman.
The post office at Acton Carey was well stocked and I bought two phone cards, postcards of local views, stamps, a bag of toffees and a bottle of sherry. I shoved it all in the boot, then rang Mum from the phone box. Almost the first thing she asked was if anyone had called – as in visited.
‘Jeannie arrived last night. I left her still sleeping. She plans to come next Friday too.’
I could almost hear Mum’s sigh of relief.
‘Has Piers phoned, Cassie? He rang here to see if you’d got off all right. He said you’d forgotten to give him your phone number, so I let him have it.’
‘I’ll ring him tomorrow maybe. How’s Dad?’
‘Same as always. He says that if we come up to see you it’ll probably be midweek. The traffic, you see …’
‘Fine by me.’ Dad has a thing about weekend drivers. ‘Just as long as you come. I’d love you to see the place. Tell Dad the natives are friendly!’
We chatted comfortably on about things in general and nothing in particular – you know the way it is when you phone your mum – until the card began to run out. I said I’d ring in the week and sent my love to Dad. She told me to look after myself and be sure to check the doors at night.
I called, ‘Bye, Mum. Love you!’ just as the line went dead.
Then I looked up at the church clock and realized I had half an hour to kill. If I left at about ten forty-five, I’d figured, I should be at The Place a little before eleven. I decided to walk the length of the village and back, gawping at the pub and the village green as if I were a tourist.
The pub was called the Red Rose, which figured. It looked old and, from the outside, friendly. The village green was ordinary, but the grass was cut