At first Alex thought she was hiding. He hunted for her, laughing while the tea grew cold. Then he sat down on the bottom step of the staircase and put his head in his hands. His initial emotions – puzzlement, curiosity, even bewildered anger, had been replaced by just one. Fear.
He glanced at his watch. At last it was growing light.
It took only three minutes to put on his shoes and find his car keys. At least, touring the streets, he would be doing something. Supposing she was sleepwalking? The front door was locked, their keys still there on the sideboard, but supposing she had somehow found a spare front door key, opened the door, relocked it? Supposing she had walked out into the moonlight barefoot – her slippers were still where she had kicked them the night before, under the bed. Supposing she had walked, still fast asleep, down the road, silent and empty in the pre-dawn dark, through the village and out into the network of lanes between the moors and the sea.
He turned out of their road and into the next, putting the lights on full beam, scanning the hedgerows with their strange irregular shadows.
‘She’s gone, Francis!’ The voice was in the car with him.
Alex slammed on the brakes. The engine stalled and in the sudden silence Alex found himself holding his breath as he stared ahead at the deserted road. He groped for the ignition.
‘Look! There. In the sea!’
Icy perspiration drenched his shoulders as Alex’s hand fell away from the key.
‘Quickly man, if you love her!’
The sea? How could Rachel have reached the sea? It was three, four, miles away. Almost in a daze he groped in the glove pocket and reached for the mobile. Rachel’s friend Susie lived by the sea. On the esplanade, in a small pink cottage, idyllic in summer, in winter soused in spray and reverberating to icy winds.
‘Yes, I know what time it is!’ The line crackled; the battery was very low. ‘Please, Susie, go and look. I beg you. I’m on my way.’ He was sobbing as the connection went dead.
‘Maddy!’ The voice was lost in the rush of wind and tide. ‘Maddy, come back!’
The instinct to swim was too strong. She flailed out wildly with her arms and legs, feeling the entangling skirts pulling her down.
‘Francis!’ The water was in her mouth, her eyes, her nose. ‘Francis –’ A wave caught her and lifted her, sucking her back towards the beach, closing over her head as she felt the sudden rasp of sharp stones beneath her feet. She scrabbled frantically for a hold and lost it again and then her head was above the water and she saw them near her, both of them, her husband and his brother, struggling through the waves towards her.
‘Maddy! Hold on! Hold on, my love.’ It was Ralph. He was close to her now. She could see his head on the smooth green pillow of water. She could see his hand stretched out towards her, so close she could almost touch him. Beyond him, further out in the tide race she could see Francis. He was swimming desperately.
‘Francis!’ Her scream was cut short by the wave. She felt it close over her and pull her down. In the green depths it was quiet, strangely peaceful. She could see Francis now, near her. He was smiling, holding out his arms …
‘Rachel! For Christ’s sake, Rachel, breathe!’
Someone was thumping her back. She felt herself slither on the pebbles and suddenly she was bitterly cold. Retching frantically she managed a breath, then another as she pulled herself onto her elbows.
‘Thank God!’ There was a blanket round her now, and arms, hugging, shaking. ‘Rachel, what on earth were you doing?’
It was Susie, a raincoat over her nightdress, her bare feet pushed into heavy shoes, her long hair loose and wet, strung over her shoulders. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. I couldn’t.’ She was pulling at her. ‘Come on, up. You’ve got to stand. You’ve got to come inside.’ The beach was deserted, lit by a cold light reflecting on the clouds from the sun still below the horizon. ‘Come on!’
Rachel staggered to her feet and somehow Susie managed to lead her up the beach across the narrow road and into the cottage. Out of the wind it was eerily quiet.
‘Save the explanations. Strip off those clothes and put on my dressing gown.’ Susie pushed her onto the sofa and heaped rugs and cushions round her.
‘What happened?’ Rachel took the proffered hot water bottle and hugged it to her. Her teeth were chattering.
‘Don’t ask me. You were the one in the sea!’ Susie threw driftwood from a basket onto fire lighters and watched it blaze up. ‘Where’s Alex? He rang me then we were cut off.’
‘Alex’s in bed. We were both in bed –’ Rachel was crying suddenly. ‘Susie – ’
‘I think I’d better phone for an ambulance – ’
‘No! No, don’t do that. I’m fine. I want Alex.’ Tears were streaming down Rachel’s face. ‘I don’t understand. It was a dream.’
‘A dream?’ Susie echoed. ‘That’s what you said before. A man on a beach.’
‘Francis.’ Rachel nodded slowly in confusion. ‘He was called Francis. And the sea took him.’ Her voice broke. ‘His brother Ralph was there. He tried to follow Francis. He tried to catch hold of him but he had gone.’ She sat up, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. ‘He was very kind. He let them think the child was his,’ she went on urgently, suddenly clutching at Susie’s hand. ‘He raised her. He loved her as his own. No one ever knew. But he never forgave Maddy. Never.’
Behind them the door opened and Alex peered in. They hadn’t heard his car draw up outside for the roar of the fire in the chimney. In two strides he was on his knees by the sofa. ‘What happened? You’re all wet! For God’s sake! What happened, Susie?’
‘You tell me.’ Susie shrugged. ‘You rang, Alex. You told me what to do.’
Rachel stared at him. She freed her hand from the cocoon of blankets and reached out to touch his face. ‘How did you know where I was, Alex?’
‘There was a voice – in the car.’ Alex shook his head uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed. ‘It said you were in the sea.’
Quickly man, if you love her!
Rachel was frowning. ‘I remember you getting up. You went downstairs to get tea, then suddenly I was in the water –’ She pulled one of the cushions to her and hugged it desperately. ‘I must be going mad.’
‘If you are, Rachel, so are the rest of us,’ Susie put in gently. There was a long silence. She was frowning. ‘I think Rachel has had a glimpse into the past.’ She looked at them both and shrugged. ‘It breaks all the rules of time and space that you and I were taught at school, but it doesn’t mean we’re mad. I think we are privileged.’
Scrambling to her feet she turned back to the fire. ‘It occurs to me,’ she said, looking down into the flames, ‘from what you said, Rachel, that this is really all about a baby.’ She paused and turned round. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
The question had come out of the blue. Alex gasped. He turned to his wife, scanning her face.
She bit her lip. ‘I haven’t had a test, but I’ve been wondering – ’
‘Rachel’ Alex leaned forward and hugged her. ‘Oh my darling, that’s wonderful!’
‘But we hadn’t planned – ’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but that you’re safe.’
‘You mean it, Alex?’ Rachel clutched his hand. ‘You really don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. Sweetheart, we’ll manage. We always have.’ He leaned forward and kissed her then he turned to Susie. ‘How did you know?’
Susie smiled and shrugged. ‘I guessed.’ There was a short silence, then she broke suddenly into giggles. ‘Sorry, but if we look for a rational explanation for any of this we won’t find it. You know my philosophy of life. I’ve always thought that we question too much. You can’t spend the rest of your lives worrying about something you will never ever be able to explain.’ She bent to throw some driftwood onto the fire. ‘Time for a hot drink. Then later I suggest Rachel goes to see the doctor so that at least you know that for sure.’
/>
‘If I am pregnant and it’s a girl I want to call her Maddy.’ Rachel lay back frowning. She was staring into the distance. ‘You know what I think? I think this is my opportunity to put the past right. I – we’ve been given a second chance. But why?’ She turned to look at Susie by the fire. ‘Why me? Why Alex?’
Susie shook her head. ‘Why not? All that matters is that the three of us know that in our very ordinary lives in our very ordinary world a small miracle has happened and that you are happy about it.’
Rachel squeezed Alex’s hand. ‘OK?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘OK. When I think how I nearly lost you –’ He shuddered.
‘But you didn’t.’ Rachel smiled.
‘I think you’ve found each other,’ Susie put in quietly. ‘I think you’ve found each other after what is possibly a very long time!’
The Footpath
It was Doreen Oldfield who first realised there was a problem. A group of strangers was standing the other side of her garden fence staring along it towards the field. One of them held a map in his hand. He spotted her as she limped across her back garden towards them.
‘Excuse me,’ he called. ‘Where is the path?’
‘It’s up on the far side of the post office.’ Doreen stared beadily at them. She didn’t smile. She didn’t know them.
‘No.’ The man stabbed at the map with his forefinger. ‘It’s here. I’m standing on it.’
‘Why ask then?’ She glared at him.
‘Because it’s too overgrown to use, and I can’t see where it goes from here. According to the map it should go straight across the field.’
Doreen sighed. ‘Maps!’ she said in disgust. ‘You don’t want to pay any attention to them things. No one uses that path nowadays. It’s moved. It goes along the edge over there.’ She waved her arm vaguely. ‘Has done since they had the hedges out after the war. This one doesn’t exist any more.’
They did not listen. Before her outraged eyes the group set off. Forcing their way through the undergrowth, they headed out into the middle of the field, beating a way through the lush corn with their walking sticks.
It was the first hint of the war to come.
The footpath did indeed in theory run between Doreen’s cottage and the side garden at Copthorne’s. Bordered on one side by a magnificent laurel hedge and on the other by Doreen’s rickety picket fence with several slats missing it was now overgrown with brambles and nettles. Unpopular with people in the village and seldom if ever used by any but the local boys on their mountain bikes and the occasional horse rider, it had all but disappeared because of the broad pleasant track everyone liked much better a hundred yards up the road. That path was a popular route into the fields and woods. Dog walkers used it, and local people going for an afternoon stroll, and kids wanting to sneak into the old farm buildings behind Osbecks. Over the years the path had moved. It was as simple as that.
Joe Middleton was sitting at his breakfast spooning his cornflakes into his mouth several days later with his own copy of the very same map that the strangers had used spread out on the table in front of him. ‘The inspectors are right. The path has been deliberately blocked, here and here and here.’ He put down his spoon and reached for his fluorescent marker.
His wife Maureen sighed. ‘I think it’s a lovely walk just as it is, Joe. It hasn’t been blocked at all. One can walk the whole length of that path. It is just that it has been rerouted once or twice. But that’s nicer. One can see the birds and flowers in the hedges …’ She broke off almost guiltily as her husband gave an exasperated sigh.
‘We do not go for walks to see birds and flowers,’ he said firmly. ‘You know that. That is the whole point of joining the Association. We walk to make sure that rights of way are not being abused.’
‘Boring!’ She said it under her breath. There was no point in arguing with him. She knew that from long experience. No point at all.
As she expected once he had finished his breakfast he headed for the phone. ‘Footpath 29,’ he said urgently, into the mouthpiece. It was like a code word, signalling the start of the D-Day landings. ‘Your inspectors were right. I checked yesterday. There are four deliberate obstructions, two fields with unsprayed, unmarked paths, a great deal of untidiness and a village of yokels who couldn’t care less!’ There was a pause. Whoever was the other end of the line at headquarters in London was rustling a reciprocal map, trying to fold it open without spilling his cup of coffee or getting jam from his doughnut onto the paper. ‘Saturday? OK. Perfect. I’ll contact everyone on my list and you bring your team. And by the time you come I will have checked every path in the parish.’
Maureen could hear the eagerness in his voice and the excitement and, she had to admit this, the spite.
Slowly she began collecting the dishes and carrying them over to the sink. She knew exactly what would happen next. The group would descend on the selected footpath, they would walk it slowly and determinedly. They would scatter little yellow arrows, hammering them on other people’s gates and telegraph poles and trees, they would rip off private signs, destroy all keep out notices and no trespassing signs they came across, whether or not they actually referred to parts of the right of way, all the time maintaining expressions of self-righteous zeal worthy of seventeenth-century Levellers. Then, exhausted and much empowered by their day in the country, they would all return home to compose letters which would flood down onto the doormats of local councils – county, district and parish – and landowners, and finally, the press, local and better still, national, and then sit back to watch the chosen community tear itself to pieces. It was a sport to people like Joe and she hated it. Even more so now because for the first time this was a footpath on their own doorstep.
He was worried about that too. Embarrassed. ‘I have been too busy with other projects, Mo.’ He kept looking at the map and shaking his head. ‘How could I have missed it? This is my own village! Right on my patch. What must the Association think of me? I won’t be able to hold up my head when they come over.’ He sighed mournfully. Then he glanced at her. ‘You’ll be coming too, won’t you, Mo?’ He walked over to the sink to begin brushing his hiking boots even though he knew she hated him doing it over her cooking space. ‘I thought we could have cheese and pickle sandwiches this time. There isn’t a pub round here that I can recommend to the members. Not the sort of thing they’re used to, anyway.’
‘There’s a lovely pub, Joe.’ Maureen was indignant. ‘For goodness’ sake. These people are supposed to be coming out to enjoy the country, not replicate their posh London bistros!’ She knew it was a pointless comment. She had learned by now that enjoying the country was not actually on these people’s agenda at all. She heaved another deep sigh. ‘I’m not sure if I can come. I might go over and see the kids. I promised our Primrose I would.’ That would take her safely out of the loop for the whole day with a bit of luck. She glared down at the sink, now covered in a fine dust of dry earth. What she had said was tantamount to treason and she knew it, but she had also known for a long time that she was going to have to put her foot down one day and today was as good as any to start. One did not mess in one’s own village. What Joe was about to get involved in was going to have repercussions.
It wasn’t until three days later that it began to dawn on the inhabitants of Winchmoor that they were the target of a well-orchestrated, nationally-advertised invasion. It was Doreen who saw the first sign. Someone had ripped out several of the sagging pickets of her fence and tossed them into her garden. The rambling rose whose weight had caused it to collapse had been viciously hacked back and someone had nailed a small bright yellow arrow to her gate post pointing down the footpath, which from being a gentle rose-scented overgrown lane had turned since mid-morning into a broad, naked track. On the other side to her own garden Colonel Wright’s beautiful laurels had also been sliced back into a hideous torn caricature of a hedge through which she could now see clearly right into his garden.
‘Oh my lor!’ She stared round, her heart thudding with fear and anger. ‘We’ve been vandalised.’ She picked up a piece of her fence. It had been lying out across the path and she had meant to fix it sometime, but no one had ever made a fuss about it, not even the kids on their mountain bikes, so she never thought anyone minded. And now. She surveyed the wreck of her roses in dismay and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Colonel Wright did not cry. He contacted the police. They agreed with Doreen that it must have been vandals. Neither the local constable, nor Bill Cartright, chairman of the parish council, had noticed the small yellow arrow and if they had they would not have realised that it was a declaration of war. No one did until the letters began to arrive – from all over England! It appeared, to the amazement of the inhabitants of the village, that members of the Association had been coming on a regular basis from every corner of the country to this particular spot and that they had regularly, if unnoticed, been walking this beautiful and important track, a vital link in the national footpath highway, and had suddenly found it unacceptably and deliberately blocked.
Stung by the attack the various council departments went into action, now fully and indeed painfully aware that they had been remiss in the maintenance of several rights of way in the Winchmoor district. First they contacted Ted Ames, the farmer. He must spray off the crossfield paths immediately or face heavy fines. No, they wouldn’t wait for the few short weeks until the harvest. No they wouldn’t agree that as the villagers had walked around the field for fifty years instead of across it the path had been changed by custom. No one had applied for a proper diversion according to the bylaws. And that was that. An ugly brown gash appeared across the field as the crops died. Poison was what the enemy wanted. Now. Poison was what they got.