"... and the sprouts ... yes, that's it." Bridget finished checking through the box of fruit and veg assembled to her order on the counter. "That's brilliant, Sheila. What do I owe you?"
The small dark-haired shopkeeper tallied the bill while I struggled to get a good hold on the turkey. It was fresh and enormous and kept slipping out of my hands.
"Having company, are you?" the shopkeeper asked.
Bridget smiled. "No, I just adore food."
' 'Well now, Elen from over your way came this morning to pick up her turkey, and I thought she said you were having a party."
"Oh right, yes, tonight. Just a few people over for drinks and things, really, before we go out to the Christmas Eve service."
The shopkeeper nodded approval. "Very nice of your man to ask Elen, I thought. She doesn't get out much, poor thing."
I couldn't resist throwing Bridget a smug look as we edged out the narrow shop door with our purchases, but sticking to her guns she shook her head.
"She won't come. She never wants to socialize when Gareth isn't there."
"Gareth's not coming?" I said that too quickly, but Bridget, absorbed in herself, didn't notice.
"Apparently not. He said thanks very much, but he likes to stay in Christmas Eve, on his own."
"Oh."
Misinterpreting my tone, she nodded. "Yes, I thought you'd be happy to hear that. I know you don't like him."
I hefted the turkey and followed her across the street to the green-painted gate leading into the playground, my gaze drifting sideways to the low grey stone wall with its bright sprays of cotoneaster, and the quiet pink cottage behind, nestled up to the trees. The gate clanged behind us, disturbing the crows in the branches above so they rose in a black flapping whirl, hurling insults.
"Doesn't look like he's home," Bridget said, with a glance at the cottage. "I don't see his car."
I turned my head deliberately, taking the positive view. "Well, at least I won't have to worry tonight, then, about how to keep James distracted."
"Has it been such a worry? I'm sorry. I never do think, do I? Here you are, meant to be having a holiday ..."
"At least you're feeding me," I said, and hugged the turkey with a smile. "I can't complain."
"I do owe you a break, though. Tonight," she vowed bravely, "I shan't flirt with anyone. Not even James."
I laughed, I couldn't help it. "Now, there's an empty promise if I've ever heard one."
"You don't think I can do it?"
"Well, maybe if you were unconscious ..."
"All right then," she told me. "I'll bet you ten pounds."
"That you go a whole night without flirting? You're on."
Indignant, she wedged herself, box and all, into the kissing gate. "I could go a whole week if I wanted to."
She very nearly lost her bet when Christopher came out to meet us at the bottom of the drive, his hands outstretched. "Here, let me take that. It looks far too heavy."
As she handed him the vegetables her mouth began to form the wide and slightly breathless smile she only showed to men, but in time she remembered and caught herself. "Thanks," she said simply.
"You're welcome to take this one, too, if you like," I told Christopher, offering my turkey. It was meant as a test of his chivalry, really—I didn't think he'd take it. But he rose to the challenge.
"Right." He extended the box. "Chuck it in."
"Only if it doesn't crush the veg," instructed Bridget.
"You can't crush sprouts," he said. "They're hard as bullets."
She took his word and led us up the drive, past the grassy spot where the Merc should have been. "Where's James?''
"He's gone into town."
"What, again? He'll be wearing great grooves in the road," Bridget said. "What on earth was he after this time?"
"More champagne and smoked salmon."
"Oh, God." Her eyes rolled. "You'd think the Queen was coming."
I flexed my strained arms, massaging the quivering muscles. "Who is coming?"
' 'Owen and Dilys, of course, and a bunch of local people you don't know." She named them anyway, and she was right—the names meant nothing.
"And Elen," I added, straight-faced.
But Christopher shook his head. "No, she's not coming."
Trying my best to ignore Bridget's gloating expression, I asked him why not.
"She said she wasn't feeling well—a touch of this 'flu that's been going around, maybe. It wouldn't surprise me, she doesn't take care of herself." I thought I detected a note of complaint in his voice, and that struck me as odd, but it had vanished by the time we reached the back door. "Mind you," he added, "I don't think she'll miss much. I can think of half a dozen ways I'd rather spend my Christmas Eve."
"Oh, I don't know," said Bridget. "I rather like a good party."
"So do I." His tone was dry. "But it's my brother throwing this one, don't forget. That spells disaster."
Inside the back passage, the whine of the Hoover drowned everything, prim and industrious. It seemed strange to see Dilys here, doing the cleaning—I'd have thought that cleaning house for someone else would be beneath her. But James had assured me that wasn't the case.' 'No, no," he'd told me, earlier,' 'she always does this, honestly. It's a matter of pride with her, having the place looking spotless. She doesn't bother when it's only Christopher and me, but if we dare to entertain ..." HeM rolled his eyes, expressively. "She won't have anybody saying Owen doesn't take good care of Castle Farm, while Uncle Ralph's away. She was in here scrubbing floors, you know, the day before you came."
She didn't look like any cleaner I'd ever met. In fact, I decided, the way she looked now must be quite like the way she had looked in her Sister Casualty days. Bustling round in her floral-print pinafore, carefully lipsticked and smelling of hand cream, she made me feel wet and incompetent.
"Now mind you wipe your feet," she said, switching off the Hoover as we tramped in. "I've done this bit already; I'm not keen to do it over."
Bridget defiantly shrugged off her jacket and shook out the damp before tossing it anyhow into the comer. "I'm off to have a bath," she announced.
Christopher stepped through to set his box down in the kitchen. "Just shout if you need me to come scrub your back."
I saw what it cost her to let that line pass without making some equally flirty reply, but she'd taken our wager to heart and she didn't like losing. Her gaze flicked towards me, to make sure that I'd noticed, before she tossed her head and walked away.
Dilys bent to pick up Bridget's jacket, lips compressed in disapproval. "She'll make a proper pair with lames— they'll have to have somebody living in to clean up after them. I've never seen such a mess as that room that he writes in."
Christopher, who'd gone through to the kitchen, poked his head back round the door. "You didn't clean it, did you?''
"Well, of course I did. You never know where guests are going to look," she said. And looping the Hoover's cord over the handle, she rolled off to see to the dining-room.
Christopher watched her go, shaking his head, and then slid his gaze sideways to me. "Just a word to the wise: When my brother gets home, keep your head down—he's bound to explode."
But James, quite surprisingly, took the invasion of his writing-room in stride. "Oh, well," was his only comment, after seeing his papers and books stacked with knife-edge precision on the gleaming rosewood table. And then he turned and closed the door and went upstairs to wash.
He came down whistling, riding the crest of a good mood that lasted through supper and left Bridget mystified.
"Maybe you've caught Elen's 'flu," she said, feeling his forehead.
"I do wish you'd stop that. I've told you I'm fine." Smiling, he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Shall I help with the dishes?"
"You see? There you go again," Bridget accused him. "It's like one of those films, where an alien takes over somebody's body..."
He laughed. "I'm no alien."
&nb
sp; "That," said his brother, "is open to argument. What time is this party supposed to begin?"
James shrugged. "I said nine-thirtyish."
"Well, I'd better get dressed, then."
"I'll check to see everything's organized," James said, and pushed back his own chair to rise.
Bridget frowned. "It won't help you, you know."
"What won't?"
"Running away. I won't rest till I know what you're up to."
"Who says I'm up to anything?" He smiled and bent to kiss her. "It's Christmas, darling."
As he left us, Bridget looked across at me, one eyebrow arched. "God bless us, every one."
*-*-*-*-*
The dining-room looked different with the table pushed against the longer wall, beneath the windows, and the high-backed chairs turned round to face the room for extra seating. At one end the Christmas tree, gracefully sparkling, soared to the ceiling, while at the other end the sideboard had been heaped with heat-and-serve treats.
The party appeared to be constantly swelling, a mingled confusion of laughter and talk and new faces, all friendly, and in their midst James moving round with the skill of a chef, stirring people together. Bridget, in her element, played hostess—though I noticed she never strayed far from the sideboard. She was into my smoked salmon roll-ups again when I came to refill my champagne glass.
I searched through the platters. "What happened to all of those cheese things?''
"Mwuf," Bridget said, with an innocent shrug.
"You're impossible."
Smiling, she poured my champagne. "So, do the tights fit all right?"
"Mm. That just goes to show you, I'm not nearly as organized as my mother. She would never have forgotten to pack an extra pair of tights."
"At least you remembered the little black dress," she pointed out. "And very fetching it looks, too."
"Thanks."
"Having fun?"
"Yes, I am, rather." I picked up a bowl that was empty except for a few scattered crumbs. ' 'Did you eat the crisps, too?"
"There are more in the kitchen."
"I'll get them. Here, hold this." I gave her my glass. "And for heaven's sake don't finish anything else while I'm gone."
In the kitchen I found Christopher, standing by the corner cupboard.looking at something he held in his hands. He glanced up quickly as I came in, and my eyebrows came down in suspicion. I'd been trying to keep him in my sights all evening. Having decided that he was most likely the person who'd been bothering Elen, I had wanted to be sure he didn't get a chance to spoil her Christmas Eve.
He must have sensed the change in me. His smile tried too hard. "Enjoying the party?"
"Very much. We need more crisps," I said, holding out the empty bowl as evidence.
"Oh right. I think they're by the toaster, there."
"I see them." Shaking out the bag, I stole a sideways look to see what he was doing. "Are you after food, as well?"
"What? No," he said, smiling, and hung something up on a hook in the cupboard. He swung the door shut. "No, just poking about."
"Well, if you're going back in, could you carry these,
please? I should heat up some more of those cheese things."
"Sure." Taking the bowl of crisps from me he scooped up a rattling handful and sauntered off into the passage. I waited till his footsteps had been swallowed by the general party din before I crossed the kitchen floor to check the cupboard.
He'd been looking at a ring of keys—a large, old-fashioned ring with keys of every shape and size slung round it, crowded tight together.
Lifting my head, I looked towards the door, the way that Christopher had gone, and frowned again. I couldn't be sure that he'd taken a key from the ring, but I rather suspected he had. And I thought I knew, too, just which key it would be. Well, if he meant to play another trick on Elen, I thought stoutly, he would have to come through me.
Damping down my anger, I went back to join the party.
Bridget was still by the sideboard. ' 'I thought you were bringing more cheese things," she said, as she handed me back my champagne.
"I couldn't find them." Which was an outright lie—I hadn't looked. But my mind was occupied with other things. My gaze wandered over the clusters of heads, touching briefly on James's dark blond one before settling in on its true target, Christopher, standing at the far end of the room beside the Christmas tree.
Owen stepped in front of me and blocked my line of vision, cheerful in his bright red reindeer pullover. "You can't be a wallflower, lovely—especially not in that frock. Go and mingle."
I assured him I'd been mingling. "I just thought I'd better get some food, before it disappeared."
He glanced at Bridget, grinning. "I was thinking the same thing myself," he said, taking two plates from the stack at the end of the sideboard. "Weren't there cheesy things here just a minute ago?"
Bridget smoothly deflected the question. 'Two plates, Owen?"
"Well, I thought I'd make one up for Elen. A shame that she couldn't be here."
"Mm," said Bridget, keeping a critical eye on his choices. "I don't think she's keen on smoked salmon."
"Who, Elen? She loves the stuff." Owen forked a third slice on to the plate, added lemon, and turned. "Now, I'll just run this over ..."
"I'll take it," I offered, my gaze still fixed on Christopher.
"That's nice of you, lovely. I'm sure she'd rather see your face than mine."
"Don't be daft. I just want to see she's all right, that's all." Setting my empty glass down on the sideboard, I took the plate. "I won't be long."
Seen from outside, through the long narrow windows, the party looked strangely surreal, bright and glittering, laughing white faces that floated about in their own private world behind glass. With the wind blowing bitterly cold up my skirts and my elbows hugged close to my sides, I chattered past in my high heels, wishing that I'd thought to wear my jacket.
Elen didn't answer when I knocked—she likely couldn't hear me for the wind, I reasoned—and after a minute of waiting I let myself into the porch and then, when she still didn't answer, I opened the inner door, poking my head round. The hall was in darkness, but just round the corner I saw light spill out from the sitting-room. "Elen?"
I waited. It didn't feel right, going in uninvited, but then I remembered she hadn't been well and concern overrode any qualms about manners.
"Elen?" I called again, coming right in this time, swinging the door shut behind me. Stepping out of my shoes, so as not to leave marks on the polished wood floors, I went to look in through the sitting-room door. She was curled on the sofa, half-sitting, one hand tucked beneath her pale cheek like a child's. The remnants of her supper tray still littered the low table in front of her—a soup bowl, two browned apple slices, biscuit crumbs, a teapot. As I came into the room, her lashes fluttered, lifted, fell again.
"Didn't you hear me?" I asked.
"Too sleepy."
"I've brought you some food from the party."
She murmured and tried to sit up.
"No, don't bother. I'll just put it down on the table."
She mumbled again, and I leaned closer. "What?"
"Knew you'd come. Margaret said... Margaret told me ..." Her voice trailed away as her head sank again to the cushions. Her breathing came deeply—too even and deep for a woman who'd just been awake. Either she was very ill, I thought, or she had taken some sort of medication. Leaning over, I joggled her shoulder.
She didn't respond.
As I looked round, trying to decide what I should do, my gaze fell on the homemade crib set out across the mantelpiece—the stubby little walnut sheep, the Magi made from pinecones wrapped in moss, the painted pebble Christ Child in his manger. The child ...
A knot of apprehension twisted slowly in my breast. A cold draught gusted down the empty chimney and it seemed to breathe the warning of the old man at St. Govan's: Take you care of the boy . ..
"Stevie." I took the stairs two
at a time, but I needn't have panicked. The nursery was filled with his smell and the sound of him sleeping, curled snug in his cot. Relieved, I stood and watched him for a moment, then I lightly, very lightly, stroked my hand across his curls and tucked the blankets in around him, as I'd never had the chance to do with Justin.
My hand was still holding the blankets when I heard the first scrape of the key in the lock.
The sound brought my head up and sharply around to stare, transfixed, at the cupboard built into the comer, and as I stared the doorknob started turning.
What I did next went well beyond reason, beyond conscious thought. Reacting from instinct much older than memory, I picked up the baby and ran.
XXXI
And through back wayes, that none might them espy,
Covered with secret cloud of silent night,
Themselves they forth convayd.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene
I really don't know why I chose the back door. Maybe because I'd come in that way, and like an animal whose path had brought it face to face with danger I'd blindly doubled back upon my tracks and made a bolt for safety.
I'd have gone right round the back of the houses again if I hadn't seen the shadow slanting suddenly in front of me, and then the flash of dark blond hair above it. I didn't stop to reason that the devil couldn't be behind me and before me all at once—I turned and darted up the ankle-breaking flight of steps behind the shed, my stockinged feet making no noise on the stone, gathering Stevie against me and ducking my head as the gnarled branches of the fig tree scrabbled and clawed at us. One caught my hair but I tugged myself free and pushed on, up the hill to the shed.
The padlock hung loose from its hook—Elen never did shut it properly, Owen had said. Grateful for her carelessness, I jiggled the lock free and pulled the door open, then jumped as the wind grabbed it, flinging it hard to the side so it banged on its hinges. I stopped. Held my breath. Looked at Stevie.
He slept like a stone. He hadn't moved once since I'd lifted him into my arms, but the sound of his breathing came rapid and soft and the warmth of it brushed on my fingertips as I folded the trailing corner of his blanket over him to shield him from the cold, to keep him quiet.