Harbinger of Spring (6 page)

She whipped out the grill pan, reduced the heat and watched it more carefully until the steak was grilling quietly, then her thoughts wandered again.

What a contrast there was between the man wearing the floppy hat, duffle coat and waders and the well
-
dressed one who had come to her assistance this evening. The suit he had been wearing had that well-cut look which only comes from a good tailor. As to his car
—
that was super. Not flashy, more sober—but very expensive-looking.
’
Was he really a professional bird
-
man? Or more likely a business tycoon following his hobby. Perhaps he didn
’
t even live in Norfolk. Very likely he was having dinner at this very moment in some comfortable, expensive country hotel.

Sara sat down to her own meal. She was hungry and she enjoyed it, but was very conscious of the silence and the lack of company. At the moment a glass of wine, a companion and good conversation were very desirable. She sighed as she rose from the table and began to wash her dishes. Thirteen weeks, and she was not yet halfway through the first of them. How was she going to stick it?

She slept late the following morning and woke to the sound of the bulldozer, but when she went to her window she could see nothing
but a spiral of exhaust gas dis
appointingly far off. She breakfasted and afterwards scurried around, tidying rooms which beyond a faint
film
of dust on polished surface, were already tidy. She stopped in her tracks.

All this fuss for a man whose name she didn
’
t even know—anyone would think she was expecting royalty! After all, he was only a man who had been kind enough to help her, and who had lent her his torch. There was more than an hour before he could be expected. She put on her quilted jacket over the dress she had decided to wear for his benefit and went into the garden at the back of the house. The sun was shining and in the shelter from the wind provided by the house and the surrounding jungle, she found it surprisingly warm. She walked along a moss-grown brick path and looked at the decayed growth in the flower beds without much enthusiasm. To her, plants were something you bought in pots in the early spring. Flowers came by the dozen in neat bunches and were quite expensive. She supposed this unkempt, wizened-looking mass
might
possibly produce something. Or even if it was only dug up or sheared off, it would at least look neater.

There was a shed close to the Mill tower. She went to it and looked inside. An array of garden tools hung from the walls and there was also a wheelbarrow and a lawn
-
mower. She trundled out the wheelbarrow and put a big pair of shears into it. Back on the path she clipped at everything within reach and put the clippings into the barrow. Then she stepped back and was surprised what a difference she had made. Things looked more cared for—at least, as far as she had gone. But she had barely started on the job.

She went on working, then looked at her watch. A quarter to eleven and she hadn
’
t even put the coffee percolator on! From being too soon, she would now be late. She rushed indoors and set that matter right.
While she was doing it she saw the state of her once well
-
manicured hands and made haste to repair the damage, but before she had done so the door bell chimed.

She opened the door and asked him in, leading the way to the sitting room.
‘
I won
’
t keep you a moment. I was in the garden and didn
’
t notice the time.
’

But they had barely entered the sitting room when he lifted up his head and gave a sniff.

‘
Is something boiling over?
’

‘
Good heavens, the coffee
!’

She rushed into the kitchen, but he was even quicker and had whipped the percolator off the stove in a flash.

‘
Just in the nick of time,
’
he said.
‘
And I don
’
t think you
’
ve lost much. I
’
ll turn the heat down, shall I—er—
’

‘
Sara,
’
she said in a frantic tone.
‘
What an absolute idiot you must think me.
’

‘
Not at all. I
’
ve been known to let coffee boil over myself. It
’
s just one of those things. Sara—what?
’
he asked suddenly.

‘
Seymour.
’
She laughed.
‘
You
’
re ahead of me now. What am I to call you?
’

‘
Hugh. Hugh Cornish.
’

‘
Well—Hugh, if you
’
ll make yourself comfortable in the sitting room I
’
ll bring in the coffee in a few minutes.
’
As he went into the hall she wiped the top of the stove and set milk to heat, keeping a very sharp eye on the milk while she put out biscuits and cheese. She wondered vaguely what he
did
think of her. A young incompetent
?
Not that it mattered very much. It would soon be a case of
‘
Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing.
’

She carried in the tray and set it down.
‘
Black or white?
’

‘
A sort of dark brown, please.
’

‘
What a friend of mine calls khaki.
’

‘
That
’
s just the right word. And two lumps, please.
’

She sat opposite to him.
‘
I take it you
’
re here on holiday?
’

‘
Holiday? No. I
’
m doing a book.
’

‘
Doing? Oh, you mean writing one? How exciting. It should be marvellous background for a thriller.
’

‘
I don
’
t write fiction. This will be an illustrated handbook of British birds.
’

Sara thought his tone sounded superior, as if the writing of fiction were beneath his dignity.

‘
I like a good thriller myself,
’
she said, unconsciously on the defensive for those who did write them.
‘
Of course I like other kinds of books as well. Arnold Bennett, Hemingway, Daphne du Maurier
...’

‘
I don
’
t read much fiction these days. Fact is interesting and entertaining enough for me.
’

‘
But surely good fiction has a place in education as well as being a form of relaxation,
’
she argued.

‘
I don
’
t think I can agree with you there. If more people read facts instead of fancies there would be far less trouble in the world.
’

‘
Perhaps. But it was books like
Uncle Tom
’
s Cabin
and
Oliver Twist
that set public opinion against slavery and workhouses, although the facts were there for anyone to see, let alone read.
’

‘
I still think well presented facts exert the major effect. Fiction is all too often exaggerated or biased.
’

She could have retorted that so-called documentaries were often biased, too, but she knew what his answer to that would be. His accent had been on
well
presented.
‘
More coffee?
’
she asked.

He appeared to hesitate.
‘
Thank you, I will. You make an excellent brew. Do you mind if I ask a personal question?
’

‘
Of course not.
’

‘
Will your stay here be short or long
?’

‘
Sort of in-between. My aunt, or I should say my great-aunt, bequeathed this place to me, but I couldn
’
t possibly live here permanently.
’

‘
Why not
?
I know it must look a dreary and inhospitable area to you now, but in the spring and summer it
’
s really beautiful. You should at least arrange to be here in the warmer weather.
’

‘
I shall probably still be here in the early part of May. But there are other reasons why I can
’
t make this my permanent home.
’
She did not think she should disclose legal business to a man she scarcely knew.

He gave her an odd look.
‘
I see. Well, perhaps later on I might ask a favour of you.
’

‘
Why not now? No time like the present.
’

‘
Very well. I
’
d like your permission to take some photographs from the top of the Mill tower.
’

‘
Of course. I
’
ll leave the key handy for you somewhere.
’

‘
You should never do that. Leaving keys is an open invitation to thieves.
’

‘
I suppose you
’
re right—but in a place like this
—
besides, there
’
s nothing in the Mill to steal.
’

‘
It
’
s the principle of the thing.
’
He glanced at his watch.
‘
I must be
off.
I have work to do. Thank you for the coffee.
’

She went with him to the door, then gave an exclamation.
‘
Good heavens, we
’
re forgetting your torch! The very thing you came for.
’

She darted into the kitchen and brought the torch to him, then watched him get into his dinghy and row away with even and precise strokes. He wasn
’
t bad, she concluded, but he
was
inclined to be stuffy. That business of the Mill key, for instance. Suppose she did leave it under the proverbial doormat. Who was there to find it
?
And if someone did, what was there to steal
?
Hereabouts there couldn
’
t even be a tramp seeking shelter. Somehow the thought of her isolated position reminded her of the fact that the car still had a punctured tyre for a spare. Suppose someone from the yard should take the vehicle out
?

She hurried into the hall and dialled the boatyard number. Ted Barker answered her and laughed when she told him her fears.

‘
That
’
s all right. No one would have used the car without ringing you first to see if you wanted it. Anyway, I
’
ll get young Peter to take it to the garage and have it fixed.
’

‘
I ought to do that. Please. I do have the time, oceans of it. I
’
ll be along in a few minutes.
’

When Sara stepped on to the boatyard quay she saw Peter stepping aboard a big cruiser with an armful of blankets. She called to him jokingly:

‘
Feeling the cold?
’

‘
These clients might do tonight.
’

‘
You don
’
t mean to say you
’
ve actually got holiday people at this time of the year
?’

Ted stepped out of the cabin at that moment.
‘
Hello, Sara. Come aboard if you have the time.
’
He spoke to Peter.
‘
Lifejackets and the T.V. set next.
’

Sara climbed on to the after-deck, then down into the well, and looked past Ted into the saloon.