Ordinary People: Part Iv

© Copyright 2014 Phil Boast.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2348-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2350-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2349-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900168

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Contents

Chapter 1     Coming Home

Chapter 2     Something to Talk About

Chapter 3     A tangled web

Chapter 4     An Extra Day

Chapter 5     The Sleeper

Chapter 6     Correspondence and Conversation

Chapter 7    The Impala

Chapter 8     The Revelation of a Sex Goddess

Chapter 9     Sunday Lunch

Chapter 10   Ahed’s Tale

Chapter 11   The Meeting

Chapter 12   Men at Work

Chapter 13   The City of Love

Chapter 14   The Faithless and the Faithful

Chapter 15   Anonymity

Chapter 16   In Which Victoria has a Hangover

Chapter 17   A Soft Lie, and Hard Truths

Chapter 18   A Guardian Angel

Chapter 19   Resignation

Chapter 20   The Abduction

Chapter 21   The Execution

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

COMING HOME

It can happen over the course of a single day. The sun, which has been steadily rising a little higher in the sky each morning, making each day a few minutes longer than its’ predecessor, reaches a critical point in its’ yearly cycle. The light intensity and warmth become just enough, and a stark, dead winter landscape turns young green, and life and growth can begin again. The chemical processes thus made possible by photosynthesis, and which will, in time, mean flower, fruit, seed and reproduction, are understood well enough. What cannot be so well understood is the effect on the human soul when people witness the transformation. Perhaps it will be a casual glance across the fields from the usual motorway queue on the drive home from work, or a quick look out at the garden from the kitchen when preparing vegetables for the evening meal. And however it happens, it is not perhaps much thought of in a busy day; perhaps just a few seconds of contemplation, after all it has all been seen before, and it doesn’t feel any warmer; the queue of cars is no less frustrating and the potatoes still have to be peeled. But these few seconds can begin different processes which travel deep into the subconscious. The cold and often depressing months are over; the days will get warmer, eventually. Officially spring may perhaps have begun some weeks ago, but this is the real spring; this is what really makes the difference, and a corner is turned in people’s minds whether consciously or not. Usually there will be no ceremony; no official celebration to mark this most important of days. But perhaps the radio will be tuned from the news to a music channel, and the volume will be increased, or the person cutting the onions will begin humming gently to themselves without realizing that they have done so. The idea will come into somebody’s head that they should ‘phone a friend that they have not seen all winter. Perhaps nothing much happens at the surface, but the deep undercurrents are moving, and the collective and individual soul is smiling quietly to itself. This is the way of English people, and so it was on this day in the small, English village called Middlewapping.

The oak tree which has stood sentinel over the village Green for some two hundred years, a young remnant of a much more ancient forest, will not hurry into new growth; the world around it will turn a verdant green long before its’ leaf-buds will burst; the old, gnarled tree amongst impatient young saplings will bide its’ time, but its’ time will come now, soon enough; the laws of nature will be obeyed by all.

And on this morning a young man whose name is Basil leans against the oak tree. He doesn’t know why he came or what he is doing there, not really; young people can behave in an inappropriate manner, it is their right to do so; propriety takes a hold on their lives soon enough. And here at least he can feel close to her. Perhaps the tree, which has witnessed so much; new life, old death, happy summer parties and long, isolated winter nights, will impart some of its’ ancient wisdom to help him make some sense of his young feelings. He knows that this is not so; his mother, Meadow, has talked often of the spirituality of things, but he doesn’t really get it; sometimes he wonders what on earth she is talking about, but he knows equally well that it is to her that he will turn, when the moment feels right, or even if it does not. People as much as trees must obey the laws of nature.

But for now at least we must leave this young man to his contemplations, and leave this day, important though it is in the yearly cycle of dormancy and rebirth, for there are new things in the lives of the people who reside for now in the old houses around the village Green; new residents have moved in at number two, and the two women at number one, who had thus far only for a short time lived there together, are back once more, and we must learn how these things came to be.

On the evening that Percival had collected Rebecca from Queenswood railway station, he was late arriving there by about half an hour. In large part this was due to his being unable to locate the keys to Sally’s Mini Cooper, which he eventually located in her jacket pocket. He had oft times considered buying a car of his own; money was not really the issue, he could well afford to pay cash for a decent, middle-range automobile without difficulty, but in truth he had absolutely no interest in cars, and considered owning one as something of an encumbrance, what with all the necessary insurance, road-tests and maintenance requirements, and had only for short periods in his life hitherto owned a motor vehicle.

It was such an ordinary thing; drive to the railway station, pick her up, and drive her home. And yet the last meeting of these two was a moment of such intensity that there was bound to be some anticipation about the matter by both parties. At their last meeting, both of them thought that it may indeed be their last, although the words had not been spoken. Percival, after all, had expressed his intention to go face to face with Rebecca’s tormentor, and lie to him. Whether or not the lie was accepted, what Rebecca knew of this man made her believe that it was quite possible that he would have had Percival killed in any case, and she had told Percival so. Percival for his part had at their meeting gained some idea as to her state of mind; she had committed mass murder, and then killed again. When they had met at the dead of night on the bridge, at his instigation, she had seemed defeated; her sanity hanging in fine balance, and she could perhaps have fallen to the side of total ruin regardless of the outcome of his visit to the West Country. In the event neither had happened, both were still at least alive, but neither, and particularly Percival, knew what might follow. There had been times, even since his safe return to the village, when during his darkest moments he wondered whether he should perhaps have let the matter be and let there be an end to her tragic life, if that indeed would otherwise have been the outcome. But now he was to meet her again, and even now as he drove into the station car park his feelings were mixed.

She was waiting for him outside the entrance to the railway station; a young woman leaning against a wall with her head and face enveloped in the hood of her coat against the cold, and on first seeing her as he walked from the car, his heart went out to her once more, and he knew before they had even spoken that he had, after all, done the right thing, or at least had taken the only course of action open to him. He would rather have her life on his conscience than her death, whatever might follow. To have done nothing when he could have done something, however desperate and foolish that thing may have been, would have been a burden that he would have carried like a dead weight on his soul.

What should his first words to her be? How would they follow such an extraordinary parting with such an ordinary meeting, at a railway station concourse in broad daylight on a cold winters’ evening? Indeed it was true to say that almost all of their previous encounters had been extraordinary, since the time that she had knocked on the side door of his cottage and they had had their first and defining conversation. But perhaps because of this, they had in the short time that they had spent in each others’ company come to know each other better than two people perhaps had the right to do. Both had looked deep into the soul of the other, and found a mutual place and a mutual understanding, and so in the end, no deep words were needed; only ordinary words.

‘Hi’

‘Hello Rebecca; shall we?’

They walked together to the car and Percival drove them out onto the main road for the half hour or so of their journey; they would catch some of the commuter traffic.

‘So; where is she?’

‘She’s at the Manor House; I take it you don’t want to go straight there.’

‘Does she know I’m coming?’

‘Nobody knows you’re coming. You’ll have some explaining to do; I don’t know where you’ve been and I’m happy to keep it that way.’

‘Fine; the village then’

And of course this would be her next difficulty. She had no idea how she would meet Victoria again, or what reception she would receive when she did so. Even assuming that they were to be together after all that had happened, she could scarce walk up the long drive to the Manor House and knock on the huge wooden doors; something which Percival had understood. If there was to be a reunion, and if, eventually, they could live on the village Green again, this time with the full knowledge of her mother and father, then this would have to happen on Victoria’s terms, and in her own time; Rebecca owed her that. In any event she asked Percival to make a brief halt to their journey, so that she might acquire something which might make their reunion a little easier.

‘Percival; how much does she know?’

Did she know about the massacre at the temple? Did she even know that Percival had met her, and had sent her away before he did whatever he had done? These and a hundred other questions Rebecca had been asking the four winds during her long period in hiding; now at least she might begin to get some answers.

‘She knows you’re alive and coming back sometime; she knows it was probably you who killed the guy on the bridge; that much she worked out for herself. As to the rest of it; probably not; certainly it hasn’t come up in conversation between us’

Rebecca smiled despite the circumstances; Percival had saved her life, twice; Percival knew her dark and terrible secrets, and this was his way; to make light of everything; to make profound and important statements as if he were discussing the weather.

‘Well then . . .’

‘Well then indeed.’

‘And what about you . . . ?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you okay with everything?’

‘I’m getting by. Look; everything that only I know stays that way; as far as I am concerned it was only probably you who killed the red-head. We have both made it through this far and for that we should be thankful, but . . .’

‘But you can do no more; yes, I understand that.’

‘Then we have an understanding.’

For most of the rest of the journey they were silent, each attending to their own thoughts, and both quietly and in their own way taking solace from the presence of the other. She was alive, and perhaps no longer hunted; hard bridges still lay ahead for her to cross, but she was alive. And he had brought her back; an ordinary car journey with a young woman; the culmination of all that he had put himself through. There had been a moment, in the confessional at a church, where he thought that it was all over for both of them; when the panic which he had been holding in tight restraint by means of narcotics and willpower had broken free and found its’ way into his thoughts, and his innate and instinctive will to live had berated his own stupidity. He had always known that the odds against this moment ever happening had been long; very long, and he understood this better now in retrospect than he had at the time. But the odds had paid off; the ace had been turned over; they had bought the story, at least at the time, and here they were jumping traffic lights together. As to what Rebecca had been through since their last meeting, and how she now saw the world, that conversation if it had to occur at all needed alcohol and cigarettes. He took one from the pack and lit up, offered it to her and she refused; he took a deep draw, looked out of the side window of the car, and allowed himself at least a few moments of satisfaction.

Throughout the late winter months Victoria Tillington remained in a state of limbo as regards Rebecca. She knew that she had gone into hiding, and that Percival had been to ‘take care’ as he had put it, of certain matters pertaining to Rebecca and the people from the West Country. She knew that in all likelihood Rebecca had killed a man who had been sent to look for her, but otherwise she knew nothing, other than that Percival would inform her when Rebecca returned. During the only twice that she had met him since Rebecca’s disappearance, he had been, to say the least, reticent regarding the business; he knew more than he was telling her, she was sure, but really how much more did she wish to know? She had seen for herself the place where Rebecca had lived, she had seen the burned-out building and the destroyed workshop; she had glimpsed the life that Rebecca had led; it was not a real life, it was the life out of a novel, or a film, and she wished to travel no further and for no longer into that nightmare, lest she uncover still darker elements to its’ nature. And she had made up her mind beside the fire when she had burned Rebecca’s notebook that she would look backwards into their lives no more; that whatever Rebecca had done, she would support her now to the end, whatever that end might be. The future was now everything, and if Rebecca would forgive her for her misplaced and obsessive curiosity, and would come back to her, then that would be enough.

She could still not find it in herself to tell her parents of Rebecca’s return into her life; the first drawings and specifications regarding the conversion of the Manor House had been rejected by the planning authorities and she had that to contend with and bring to a conclusion; new drawings must be prepared and approved. Her dear brother’s marriage was breaking up, and the dissolution of her fathers’ business was still in progress. This at least seemed to be nearing an end, and her father was so far coping well enough with the matter, but he needed no further drama in his life; not yet.

No; she must wait a little longer; perhaps in the spring when the world was green again; a time for new hope and warmer days; she would tell them then.

‘Will you come in with me? I don’t want to go in alone.’

‘What? Why the hell not . . . ?’

Percival and Rebecca had negotiated the traffic and each other’s company successfully on the journey home, and at around seven thirty Percival pulled the car up on the track beside the village Green, killed the engine, and waited. And now Percival was having difficulty processing what he was hearing; this was a woman who had lived an isolated, solitary life for years; a woman who had… . and now she couldn’t walk alone into an empty house. He never could decipher a woman’s psyche, a fact true of this woman in particular, it seemed.

‘I just… I don’t know.’

She had that lost expression on her face; one that Percival had seen before.

‘Oh hell; sure; whatever’

Rebecca found the front door key under the stone, and they went in together. Rebecca made straight for the kitchen, made sure that there was coffee, put the kettle on to boil and offered some to Percival.

‘Yeah; it’ll have to be quick, I’m meeting Sally.’

‘Look; I know this sounds ridiculous, but could you just come upstairs with me? Just for the first time, you know?’

She took him by the hand; he could not recall their having any kind of physical contact before, anyway certainly nothing like this. What the hell was going on; had they suddenly become intimate friends without his noticing the fact? She led him upstairs and checked in all of the rooms, looking for what he had no idea; Victoria was clearly not at home, that had been obvious since they had walked through the front door.

The last room to be thus inspected was the bedroom where she slept with Victoria, overlooking the Green, and Percival was unsure in retrospect what had happened next. Or rather what had happened was clear enough, what was less clear was how it started. She would have to sew buttons back on her shirt, somehow she had undone his with somewhat more dexterity, but in any case they removed each others’ clothing with some kind of frenzied, primal urgency, and Percival could remember well enough pushing her hard onto the bed as she removed the last of her clothing. It wasn’t making love; there was no love here, not anything which would be worthy of the name; this was something more basic; more fundamental to the animal instinct. So much had happened between them, so much tension had been building, and they were man and woman. Perhaps it was a celebration of their mutual escape from death, perhaps this was her way of saying thank you; neither of them were of a mind to analyze their actions or those of the other party; it was something like rape, and something like seduction, so perhaps it was neither of these things or both at once, but in any case it was over in a few moments.

Percival got dressed, and without further ceremony left the house; neither had spoken again. Percival could find no expression suitable for the moment of their parting, she lay on the bed, and she was smiling at him. Deciphering that smile would be something that Percival would have to work at.

‘. . . ust do something about your curtains.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I was saying; you really have to do something about your curtains.’

‘Curtains… right.’

Percival had picked Sally up as they had arranged, and had only been a little later than he had intended; he blamed the fact that he couldn’t find her keys, which was true, up to a point. They now sat in a restaurant in town, one bottle of wine down and waiting for the main course. Percival had walked out of number one into the cool of the evening, and into the searing heat of emotional confusion. What was going on; where the hell had that come from? As far as he could recall he had never thought about Rebecca in that way; she was gay for Christ’s sake, I mean not butch-gay; neither she or Victoria were that, and having seen her naked, she had a body which was the stuff of male fantasy; strange that he had never really noticed or considered that fact before. Momentary a thought flashed through his mind that she had gone witchy on him, and he smiled to himself and despite himself at the thought; that excuse must have been used a few times over the centuries; ‘It wasn’t me, I was bewitched; she’s a witch, burn her.’ But it hadn’t been like that; all he had seen in her dark eyes was a kind of helpless yearning, mixed with a bit of ‘come on then; what the fuck are you waiting for…’ and he had been a somewhat more than willing participant in the proceedings. He went home, threw cold water on his face, and went to pick up Sally.

‘I mean I bet they’re the same curtains that you inherited with the house, aren’t they.’

‘Yeah; they’re the same curtains.’

‘And how many times have you had them washed?’

‘Well now let me think; that would be none.’

‘Jesus Perc, they must be filthy; think of all the smoke… Perc, are you okay; you’ve been distracted all evening.’

‘What? Oh yeah I’m fine; just, you know; thinking about a piece of work.’

He smiled to himself again at the two possible ways that that statement could be interpreted. The main course arrived just in time to save the moment.

After Percival had left, Rebecca had gone downstairs and finished making herself coffee; Percival had not after all partaken of the refreshing and stimulating beverage which had been offered; he had had something else instead, and a very different kind of stimulus. She made herself a simple repast from tins from the cupboard and that which she found in the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator. She then unpacked her rucksack; this was the same rucksack that Percival had left for her at the bridge; then it had contained food which had sustained her for three or four days, now it contained the few clothes and other items that she had accumulated during her time away. She would wash her clothes tomorrow, and return Percival’s rucksack in due course. She showered, which was for the first time in more than three months; at her small highland retreat she had had to content herself with throwing freezing-cold water over herself from a bucket, which she filled each day from the well in the garden. She shaved her entire body save her head, and allowed herself the indulgence of eau de toilette, wrapped herself in her dressing gown and lay down on her bed to soak in the feeling of warm cleanliness, and consider what had just occurred; she had not been expecting that, and thought perhaps that Percival had not been either. If he had then he had somehow got past her radar, and reading people and their intentions was something which she had learned to do very well. No, she decided, he had not been expecting it either, and the thought of that made her smile to herself.

It was still early evening but she would soon drift into sleep; she was tired, at a deep level, and the relative luxury of linen sheets and soft pillows would do the rest. In any case she would have to rise early tomorrow morning to do what she had to do.

Whilst Victoria and Rebecca were moving closer in time and eventually in space to their expected if as yet unspecified reunion, other forces, of a legal and contractual nature, were moving towards there being other new residents by the village Green. Once the legal niceties regarding the last will and testament of a certain Captain Caruthers had been completed, Holly, his only sibling, had been declared and confirmed as sole beneficiary of his estate, and other government departments had given the green light, she became the legal owner of number two, The Green, Middlewapping. She removed from the house certain items of furniture and effects which she considered to be of sentimental value or for which she or her children had a use, removed her brothers’ clothes and other personal items to the municipal refuse dump or to the charity shop, had the house professionally cleaned, bought new mattresses and other household items as she deemed fit, made sure that the property and its’ contents were appropriately insured, and placed it in the hands of local letting agents. Period property of this nature was easy to let, and within a day of the houses’ inclusion in the ‘Properties available’ page of the website, a young couple in their twenties had secured a short-term tenancy. These were Jeremy and Clara, who were apparently professionals working respectively in banking and the film and entertainment industry in London; refugees from the urban lifestyle in search of the good life; home-grown vegetables, good beer, wholesome air, somewhere to impress their similarly urban friends, and a one and a half hour commute to the office, five days a week or sometimes more. Jeremy tended to work fixed and regular days and hours, Clara was working freelance and her working time depended upon the stage of development of any given production; she would often work for two or three weeks without a break, during which time she would work long days which often necessitated her staying in town anyway, and she would take an extended rest period once her part in the production had been completed. These were not their true names, but the cover story to which they had both agreed was at least partially true, which would aid them to some degree in their subterfuge, and in their covering of the real reason that they had seized the opportunity, and Clara, as she would for the moment be called, in particular.

Victoria Tillington was wont to rise early. Her life could, of late, hardly have been described as routine; she was still at this time officially working full-time at the gallery, having on her own instigation extended her working contract beyond its’ originally intended end, but she was shortly to finally resign her post and begin part-time working, and with days owed to her in annual leave she was travelling to London only three or four days of the week. Otherwise she had meetings with the architects, was involved with preliminary discussions with building contractors, and seemed for the most part to keep herself busy with family and other matters. The rejection by the planning authorities of the first set of drawings and specifications for the Manor House conversion had set her immediate plans back by a few weeks, but she was preparing herself for their eventual acceptance, and the responsibilities which this would entail. Each morning, if she was not travelling to London, she would take Prince and Bathsheba for a walk through the estate lands, and often out onto the public pathways, otherwise she would leave early for the railway station.

One part of her day, however, which was more or less routine, was her taking her morning coffee out onto the front steps of the Manor House, where she would sit on her stone and smoke her first cigarette of the day. She still for the most part complied with her parents’ wish that she not smoke within the house, and this was her time for quiet thought and for planning her day. Her parents were at a loss to make sense of the fact that she had returned to living at what they still regarded as her home, and no longer resided at her house on the village Green. Apparently she had intentions to move back there soon, perhaps when her father’s commercial affairs were nearer to their conclusion, but would say no more on the subject, so further enquiry was for the moment fruitless.

On this particular morning she scanned the horizon, as was her way, focusing her still sleepy eyes and thoughts, before turning her attention to her more immediate environment. And on this particular morning a small, white flower had been placed on the bottom step, directly in front of where she sat. It had clearly been placed there very recently, probably within the last hour or so; it was still fresh in the cold and rather foggy morning air. Her heart skipped a couple of beats before her conscious mind took control of the situation. It had not been prearranged; nothing had been said between them, but she knew with certainty what this meant; so it had not been Percival who would tell her after all. It meant that her long, heart-breaking wait was over; that soon, perhaps even today, her life could begin again. Something had happened which Percival had told her would be so, so many weeks ago; she knew not where she had been, there had been no contact between them at all, and how she was now and what would become of them she could not even guess, but for now, this was all, and this was everything that she wished for. Her days of emptiness were over at last, new hope rose once more in her soul and inwardly she cried out with the deepest joy that she could ever recall. Rebecca had been here; Rebecca had returned.

‘It’s a nice house, isn’t it?’

‘It’s perfect in all respects; I can live here for a while; I still can scarce believe how lucky I was that this was available; she is most pleased.’

‘Yes; we were fortunate.’

‘Well look, you unpack some of the bags, I’ll go take a look around the village; there’s a delicatessen on the Green; I’ll start there.’

‘Sure, well then Clara, see you in a while.’

Victoria put out her cigarette and walked to the side door which led from the kitchen. Prince and Bathy greeted her with their usual, slightly dopy enthusiasm, she clicked on their leads, and she controlled the two dogs as best she could down the driveway, through the gate, and on towards the woods. She was going to the old, ruined summerhouse, a place that she had avoided going to recently. It was too full of her and Rebecca; it was here that they had met for the first time in so many years; where they had cried and laughed together in secret, when they had been teenagers and younger, and now, again, when they were older. No; she could not bring herself to go here, not until she was sure that Rebecca would return; not until this morning. She had promised her mother that she would go into town on her behalf; she was entertaining at the weekend and needed a few items from the supermarket. Molly would have picked them up for her, but Victoria had been going into town anyway. She would have to wait a little longer before she went back to the village, and home, and Rebecca.

Meadow was leaning on the counter in the delicatessen. She was thinking in a distracted way, as she often was, about her children. In particular this morning she was thinking about Basil; he hadn’t been his usual dry, witty self lately; he was not a boy who smiled easily, but now she thought about it she could scarce remember the last time she had seen him do so. He was about to celebrate his sixteenth birthday; this was a difficult age for boys, the transition to manhood could be a painful metamorphosis. She had heard it said often enough that girls mature earlier than boys, but thought that perhaps this was to make an unfair comparison; they matured into such different things, after all. Her muse was interrupted by her next customer; a quite tall, slim, severe looking woman in her mid-twenties, Meadow assumed; shortish dyed-blondish hair, too much makeup but dressed for the countryside; too dressed for the countryside, as though she had made an effort and hadn’t quite pulled it off, or had perhaps pulled it off too well. All she needed was a pair of expensive green wellington boots to complete the ensemble. Don’t be a bitch, Meadow; what had she so often told the children; never judge people, and certainly not before you knew them. Smile, greet and see what happens.

‘Good morning’

‘Oh, hi; good morning’

‘Anything in particular I can help you with?’

‘Oh I don’t know; some cheese certainly.’

‘Cheese we have.’

‘Yes, so I see; you keep a good selection for a small shop.’

‘We do our best.’ (‘Bloody cheek; pseudo-posh accent; I don’t think I particularly like you, Ms Condescension’).

The young lady perused the shelves, selecting some jars and other items; Meadow cut her some cheese as directed. She then rang the purchases into the till, deciding against further friendly banter, or any banter at all, come to that. The young lady perhaps thought that she should say something; Meadow thought that perhaps the young lady should say something too.

‘I’m umm; I’ve just moved into number two, actually, with my partner; Jeremy. My name’s Clara.’

‘Oh I see; well in that case welcome to our small village; you’ll find us quite a friendly community, I believe.’

‘We’ve moved here from London, actually.’

(Yeah; that fits) ‘So; quite a change then, well I hope you settle in okay.’

‘Thanks. Well, umm, thanks then; see you next time.’

‘Indeed; nice to have met you; my name’s Meadow, by the way.’

‘Oh right, well, see you then.’

‘Sure’

Okay back-track Meadow; maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. Clara, however, had not quite finished, it seemed.

‘I work in films, mostly. Films and shows, you know? On the production side’

‘That must be very interesting.’

‘Well one does work with some interesting people; the other day I met Tom Green.’

This was said in conspiratorial manner; Meadow thought she had better be impressed.

‘Did you indeed; well I’m sure that must have been . . . .’

‘Interesting? Anyway; better get back, Jeremy will be wondering where to put things; he’s bound to get everything wrong.’

Clara left the shop; Meadow was left to wonder whether there was a right place to put things, and she had a moment of sympathy for Jeremy before she had even met him. Keith had often said of Meadow that she could see through people like glass, and if this was so and Meadow had seen this person right, there was something off. She had been pleasant enough in the end; a bit London-pretentious but pleasant enough, and trying, at least. But there was something off, and who on earth was Tom Green?

It was late in the afternoon before Victoria put her key in the door of number one, the Green. She had been longer than she had anticipated in town, and Susan had made late lunch by the time she had arrived back at the Manor House, which she felt bound to eat with her mother. Finally she had made her excuses and left, saying that she would probably be staying in the village that night.

‘Oh, I see; will we see you tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know, mummy; I’m in London tomorrow and I may stay away for a few days; I’ll see you soon.’

‘Yes, of course. Victoria is everything alright?’

‘Yes mummy; everything’s fine; very fine, in fact; don’t worry.’

‘No; very well dear, but you will tell, me, won’t you . . .

‘Yes; of course I will.’

The question had been carefully worded and left open, and Victoria had replied; it had been half a question, which had received half an answer, which had at least for both parties brought the matter to half of its’ resolution. There was something that her daughter wanted very much to tell her, she was sure, and Victoria knew that her mother was aware of the fact, but it couldn’t be yet; not quite yet.

The house was empty. Rebecca had been there; there was a bag which Victoria didn’t recognize in the bedroom, and she had used the bed and left clothes around in typically messy fashion; Victoria was not overly tidy herself, but Rebecca was less so by several degrees. She had used the bathroom, and cooked herself a meal. Rebecca, however, was no longer there.

Victoria made coffee, showered and changed into clothes that she had left in the house. Thus she kept herself busy for an hour or so, but in the end, all she could do was to wait. She settled as best she could to reading a book, but felt so distracted that eventually she walked into the garden to take the cold evening air. She glanced at the incinerator in which she had discovered Rebecca’s diary, and then indoors to the table at which she had sat through the night and read the secret journal; that would always now have a special significance for her. It had been a defining night of her life. It was a little after eight o’clock when Rebecca crashed through the front door, laden with plastic bags from the supermarket, and crashed back into her life. Lady came through a close second, but overtook her mistress and greeted Victoria with even more than her usual enthusiasm; a long-lost friend. Victoria had tried to imagine her first words with Rebecca; she had imagined that perhaps they would be of great moment, or of profound significance, but then, Rebecca was Rebecca.

‘Christ it’s getting cold out there; what the hell have you got the back door open for?’

Victoria said nothing; she took in her beloved with her eyes; her hair was longer, she had lost weight, and she looked tired. Then she took her into her soul, where she would forever remain.

‘There’s no bloody food in the house; I’ve been living off thin air.’

‘I haven’t bloody been here; you told me not to be here, remember?’

‘Where the hell have you been, anyway? I’ve been here for a day.’

‘So what; you expect me to drop everything because you come back? I have a life too, you know?’

‘Well you might have done some shopping; I had to borrow cash from Percival’

‘Jesus Bex; you knew I’d come back; I’ve been here nearly all afternoon.’

‘It’s okay, he kind of owed me one.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I fucked him yesterday.’

‘What? Why on earth did you do that?’

‘God knows; why does anybody do anything?’

‘You mean like why did I wait more than three months for you? With no word as to how or even where you were? That kind of ‘why does anybody do anything’?’

‘No; no that’s not what I mean.’

Rebecca gently put her arms around Victoria; and for the first time since Rebecca had left her note for Victoria and departed on her desperate quest to save herself and to protect Victoria, they melted into each other, and into each other’s love.

‘I’m done waiting, Vics; I feel as though I’ve been waiting all my life. It’s you and me now, right? Whatever happens?’

‘Whatever happens’ Said Victoria, and in the small kitchen of number one, the Green, they held each other for the longest time.

And now it is midnight; the village Green is quiet, and no lights show in the windows of the old houses; no sound penetrates into the cold, English air; everyone is asleep, and this small part of the world waits for a new day. And this day is to be a very important day, for today is the day when the sun will rise just high enough in the sky, and England’s green and pleasant land will turn green once more; whether it will be pleasant is a matter for conjecture; open to subjective feeling and objective analysis.

Chapter 2

SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT

It had been something akin to trench warfare; both sides had dug in, checked and fortified the defenses, and prepared for a long battle. In the end it raged for ten days. From the one side had come volleys of caution and common sense; from the other a bombardment of young ambition and the wish to realize a dream. And in the end, of course, there had to be resolution, and since no side would raise the white flag of surrender, there had to be compromise.

Sam and Vanessa Cleves would release sufficient of the money that they had put aside to allow Emily to buy the land at Jacobs Field, their logic, of which they had just about convinced themselves, being that land could always be resold, and therefore could be seen as an investment. They knew, as they had told their daughter on more than one occasion during the conflict, that they were discussing the only substantial amount of money that she would see from them during their lifetime, and it would be insufficient to build anything of substance on the land. The argument that Emily had put forward that a half or even a part of a house would be better than nothing cut no ice with them, and on this they would give no ground. She could buy the land, but unless and until she could contribute money herself towards the building costs, then no further money would be forthcoming. Will and Emily could get by on Will’s wages from the garden centre, just about, but if they were to build, then Emily must begin earning herself, and commit that which she earned to the matter of constructing their home. This money would be put away and sensibly invested, and then, and only then, would her parents match her contribution pound for pound, until the cash ran out; after that she would be on her own.

In the end and with a little help from Will, Emily had seen the sense in this, and in any case realized that her beloved parents would give no further in the matter, and so she had agreed the terms. The two sides abandoned their respective entrenchments and met on no-man’s land, and whilst no formal agreement would be drawn up they had reached an understanding, and a permanent ceasefire was achieved.

‘Well that’s a result then, don’t you think?’

Will had assumed a position of interested neutrality during the battle; he could see the argument from both sides, and knew how persuasive Emily could be when she had all guns firing. He knew also, however, that if she pushed too hard in an attempt to gain total victory then she would be defeated, good will would be withdrawn and she would end up with nothing until her sensible parents deemed that she had come up with a sensible means of using the money; he therefore tried to be a modifying force during their private discussions.

‘Yes; I suppose so. It’ll take years though, even when I start earning money.’

‘We’ve got years, Em. I can go on like this as long as I know there’s an end in sight somewhere. Anyway, you know, they’re right in a way, and we would feel guilty about, like, taking holidays and such if they gave us all the money.’

‘Okay Captain Sensible; I will, as you suggest, take the longer view for once in my life.’

‘Anyway it will give us more time to ponder the finer points of raising livestock. We’ll be expert goat-herders before we even get going.’

And so that most vital piece of the equation at least was put in place, and on another front altogether Victoria Tillington had been involved in a small skirmish herself, on Emily and Will’s behalf, albeit one requiring somewhat more tact and diplomacy. For although agricultural land during these industrial and technological times sold quite cheaply, agricultural land with planning consent to build was less so; Victoria was keen to broker the best deal that she could for her friends, and her father, with whom she would be negotiating, was a businessman, and despite his current difficulties he was nobody’s fool.

She was handicapped somewhat by the fact that she could not tell her parents why she was working thus on behalf of Will and Emily. One day the truth would out regarding Rebecca’s return into her life, but that was not Will and Emily’s concern, and in any case the knowledge that