Paul had taken Casta for a walk across the fields. The grass was white with dew and a thick mist still clung amongst the trees; it was cold. Hands in pockets, he strode down the lane and up the edge of a field, watching with only half an eye as the dog ran back and forth, plumed tail wagging, flushing rabbits and partridge out of the hedgerow. He was still seething with anger. The drive back to Bucksters, always agonisingly slow on a Friday evening, the realisation that he should have brought Clare back for the party – David and Gillian would raise their eyebrows when he turned up without her – and the continuing nagging worry about the money, all had contributed towards a sleepless night and a king-size headache. He was well aware that he was being unfair to Clare, but he could no longer think about things rationally. He kicked at a stone which lay in his path. Across the fields a tractor was slowly pulling a plough parallel with the hedge away from him, a cloud of gulls following it, hovering excitedly as the dull dead stubble turned methodically into huge scoops of shining clay.
She had to be persuaded to sell; it was imperative that she be made to see the sense of whatever offer was being made.
He drew off his boots in the back porch and walked into the kitchen at Bucksters. Sarah Collins was rolling out some pastry at the table, her hands covered in flour. She glanced up as he walked in.
‘The post and papers have come, Mr Royland. They’re there, on the side.’ She smiled at him distractedly. ‘I’ll make you some coffee, shall I, as soon as this pie is in the oven?’
Paul’s answering nod was automatic as he picked up the two newspapers and the pile of letters before heading for the drawing room.
One of the envelopes was addressed to Clare – typed, with an Edinburgh postmark. Thoughtfully he turned it over, then with sudden attention he ripped it open. He read the contents twice, carefully, standing with his back to the fire, then throwing the letter down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa he went to the french doors to stare across the garden. At last the mist was lifting and the sun was coming out. Slowly Paul smiled.
‘I sure like the house.’ Zak leaned back on the Victorian chair and stretched his long legs out before him.
Clare smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘I’m really glad you came.’ Her face was troubled.
Zak gave her a quick appraising glance. ‘Did you speak to your doctor yet, about the results?’
She shook her head. ‘I tried ringing once or twice, then I realised I didn’t want to speak to him. I can’t face it. I just want to put everything out of my mind for a while. I want to know that when I close my eyes at night I can forget about Paul and babies and doctors and tests and just sink into peaceful sleep. Without nightmares. Perhaps I should take sleeping tablets, I don’t know.’
Zak shook his head slowly. ‘That’s not the answer, Clare, and you know it or you wouldn’t have rung me.’ He was studying her face.
‘I’ve been doing the yoga,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘And that is good. I enjoy it and it makes me feel marvellous. At least it always has until yesterday. But the meditation exercises are different. They are all good for me, I suppose, when I can do them, but some of them are so boring.’ She glanced at him with a half smile. ‘All except the one – the visualisation one.’
He waited, his eyes not moving from her face.
‘It’s the one you told me to do yesterday. The one where I think myself into a special place; where I’m supposed to find myself at peace somewhere I’ve been happy.’ Her voice had dropped so low he had to strain to hear it.
Once more there was a long silence; Zak waited easily, not pushing her.
‘I managed to do it again after I spoke to you, but I don’t think I’m doing it right. Suddenly there is no peace in the scenes I see.’
This time he sat up, straightening slowly in the chair, resting his wrists loosely on his knees. He frowned.
‘Tell me what you see.’
‘Scenes. From the past. Very vivid and sometimes quite horrible.’
‘Scenes?’
‘Scenes; like a film. People come and go; they talk; they fight. They are real.’ She hesitated and then gave an apologetic smile. ‘I told my sister-in-law it was as if I was conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She shrugged painfully. ‘That is what it feels like, Zak.’
Zak shook his head slowly. ‘First lesson, Clare, never tell other people what you are doing. So few understand.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘There may be a thousand books on meditation in the shops, and every newspaper and magazine may recommend it for everything from business stress to shop-lifting, but it still takes courage to admit you take it seriously. Yoga, yes; yoga serves the body beautiful. Meditation, no way.’ He was almost talking to himself. ‘I know a lot of people who won’t accept it or take it seriously. People who should know better.’
Clare caught the sadness of the tone and she remembered suddenly the athletic young man she had met at Zak’s side once in Cambridge. Rude health had oozed from him, but he had not been one who would cultivate the spiritual, that much had been obvious. ‘But is what I am doing right?’ Unobtrusively she brought his attention back to herself. ‘Is that what is supposed to happen?’
He pulled himself together visibly. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. Tell me some more of what happens. Or, better still, why don’t we meditate together? I can see how you prepare and what you do.’
She nodded, doubtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it will work in front of anyone else.’
‘Work?’ He looked puzzled. ‘What’s to work? You mean I might distract you? If that is the case you are not putting your full concentration into it. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘Can we do it here? Are we likely to be interrupted?’
She glanced at the front window, remembering Henry. ‘I’ll draw the curtains and lock the door. I’m not expecting anyone.’
She looked down at herself uncertainly after she had closed the curtains. She was wearing grey slacks and a cotton sweater. ‘I know you said one should bathe and wear something loose –’
‘And then relax body and mind with a session of yoga exercises.’ He nodded easily. ‘I guess we can skip that, OK? What you’re wearing is fine. Show me what you do next.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll fetch a candle.’
The box of candles was upstairs in the bedroom at the back of a drawer. Extracting one, she kicked off her shoes and ran downstairs, barefoot.
Zak was sitting cross-legged on her Persian rug. He too had removed his shoes. His hands rested on his knees; his eyes were closed. He opened them as Clare appeared. ‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘Do you always use a candle?’
She nodded. ‘It seems to help me concentrate.’
‘Fine. That’s OK.’ He closed his eyes again.
Clare set the candle down on the rug in front of him and lit it. Then she hesitated. She wasn’t sure where to sit – beside him or facing him. Suddenly she felt rather foolish.
Zak spoke, his eyes still closed, his tone soft and preoccupied. ‘When you’re ready. Take your time. Do what you usually do. Whatever feels right. Take no notice of me. I’m not even here.’
The room was intensely silent. Even the noise of the traffic outside in the street seemed to die away.
Slowly Clare sank to her knees and raised her arms before the candle, parting her hands as if opening a curtain, then gracefully she slipped into the cross-legged position and closed her eyes.
Surreptitiously Zak opened his own. His relaxed posture did not change, but every sense was alert as he watched Clare’s face and he knew the moment she had slipped away, out of the quiet Campden Hill house, and into the past.