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Grace left the kitchen. Had she stopped Andrew from having a good farm and plenty of dibs and getting into the county set? No, she wouldn't hold herself responsible for that. He could have plenty of dibs now, her dibs, if it was dibs he wanted, and as for the county fringe! She couldn't see Andrew in that set. Unlike Mrs. Blenkinsop, she didn't look upon the Tooles as being of the county fringe. But nevertheless she felt sorry for Adelaide Toole. She liked Adelaide, the little she had seen of her.

What would Andrew say when she told him about the baby? It was a week since she had seen him, a week since she had been held in his arms.

Why hadn't she told him then? What would Donald say when she told him about the baby? She felt sick on this thought, and her mind felt dizzy and muddled, yet even so one thought remained clear. They would both have to be told.

As she crossed the hall there came a ring at the door bell, and when she opened it there stood Dr. Cooper, and on the first sight of him she knew a sense of relief. Here was someone she could tell.

"Well, how are you this morning?"

She smiled at him, and as she closed the door she said enigmatically,

"Different."

"Different?" His thick eyebrows moved upwards.

"Now what do you mean by that?"

"Come in here, into the morning-room I've lit a fire. It's a bit chilly this morning, isn't it?"

"Yes, there's a nip coming. But never mind about fires or nips, tell me what is this mysterious difference?"

She turned and faced him, her face looked sad, "I'm going to have a baby."

"You are?" His voice was level.

"That's good news, very good news. Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Oh well, that's done me out of a job. What does Donald say to this stupendous news? Is he overwhelmed?"

"I haven't told him ... not yet."

His eyebrows moved upwards again and he nodded his head.

"And when may we expect the arrival?"

"I'm about five weeks." She did not say six. What was a week, anyway?

But she asked herself: was she already using the alibi?

David Cooper looked at her. Here was a young girl going to have her first baby and talking flatly and unemotionally about it, as if it was her fifth or even her seventh. The doctor went back on his thoughts as he said to himself: young girl? She was no longer a girl, and whatever had happened to her and he didn't lay the change down to her pregnancy it had changed her into a woman, and not a very happy one either.

Something was wrong here and he couldn't get to the bottom of it. It had been all over the village a few weeks ago that she had dashed off in a car early one morning and left the vicar. It was over the business of Ben and the garden. If it hadn't been that the whole place was agog waiting for a war to start that incident would have raised much more gossip than it did. And so she was going to have a baby? If this had happened in the first year it would doubtless have smoothed things over, but now he wasn't sure. He wished she would talk.

"Can I tell Renee?"

"I'd rather you didn't, not yet."

"Just as you say ... I suppose I'll have to look you over. What about tomorrow afternoon? And stay and have a cup of tea, Renee's always delighted to see you ... I won't tell her, she'll think it's just a check up."

"Thanks, I'll come down."

"Well, I must be off."

"Won't you stay and have a coffee?"

"No, no thanks, I'm off to the Parleys. Papa Parley's got rheumatism we used to call it gout. Do you know that Bertrand Parley has joined up ... the army? I saw him in his uniform yesterday; it does something for him. I won't say he doesn't need it." He gave Grace a dig with his thumb, and she laughed. They laughed together, and as they crossed the hall her laughter rose much louder than the joke had warranted.

She was still laughing when she returned to the breakfast-room, but when she stood before the fire with her foot on the fender and her hand on the mantelpiece her laughter stopped abruptly and with her teeth clamping down on her lip she began to cry painfully slow tears.

It was Andrew, after all, whom she told first. Not from within the security of his arms under the shelter of the rock wall in the quarry, but on the open road outside an empty cottage at Culbert's Cut. She had come once

again to look at this place, wondering whether she would buy it, and having done so would it then be easier to persuade Ben to accept it?

It was going for three hundred pounds. That was quite a bit for this type of property, but what was three hundred pounds compared with Ben's idle hands? The cottage stood alone, about a quarter of a mile from the village, and the land around it was flat and open.

When she stepped from the garden gate on to the road and saw the lorry coming towards her she did not look at it twice, until its stopping drew her attention. And then she saw Andrew. He got out of the cab and stood beside the door, and she stood by the bonnet of the lorry.

There was four or more feet between them, and this space held the village and any covert stroller like Mr. Blenkinsop.

"Hello, darling'." The soft low burr of his voice gave the words a deepened caress, and her heart was warmed and eased by the endearment.

"You look whitish; are you all right?"

She did not answer for a long moment as she hesitated in her mind whether to tell him or not. She had imagined giving him her news with her face resting against his, but it might be a week, even two, before they would get the chance to meet again, and so she said, "I'm going to have a baby, Andrew."

No muscle of his face moved, but his eyes darkened. And then he asked softly, "Are you glad?"

"Yes, yes, Andrew, I'm glad ... are you?"

"Yes, yes. But it's you, if you're happy about it, that's all that matters."

"Oh, Andrew."

Their bodies were taut and still and their glances were held fast links of a chain.

"The only thing I'm worried about is later on." Her voice was trembling.

"I won't be able to go up to ... to the quarry."

"Don't worry about that, we'll work something out...."

They were still staring at each other. The danger was imminent; she knew that in a moment she would fall against him. She said quickly, "I must go."

"Yes ... Grace." His hand was lifting towards her when swiftly he changed its direction and swung himself up into the cab. As the door banged she stepped away from the bonnet and now she was below him. He had his hand on the wheel but did not start the engine; he looked down into her eyes and said, "I love you, lass. You're ... you're the most beautiful thing on earth.... An'... an' I worship you."

The gears were rammed in and he left his deep glance on her as the lorry moved away.

He said things at odd times like that, things that brought fire to her heart. His verbal love-making was jerky yet in a way profound and beautifying . If only . if only . She turned round and walked down the road towards the village and Ben's cottage. If only they could be together, live together, mellow together. It was strange but in this moment she did not think of him as he was now, but her mind was filled with the desire that they should be old together.

Andrew had his eyes on the road as he drove the lorry but he was not seeing it. He avoided the potholes by instinct, for between him and the road were his thoughts which seemed to be written large on the windscreen, and nowhere among them was one of elation at the news Grace had given him. One thought stood out from the rest: it said, "Leave the damn place. Take her far away. You can't expect her to put up with it." There was no answer to this on the windscreen, for deep within his

bones was the pull of the woman in the windswept stone house on the fell. He had felt this pull and her need of him even from the age of three. They were so close that it seemed at times as if the cord had never been cut between them. She had said to him the other day, "I'm not asking why you left Toole, you'll tell me in your own time, but I had to tell your father something so I said you had a row about your wage he would understand that." He had looked at her drawn face and said, "Stop worrying, I'll tell you some time." But as close as they were, could he tell her, tell her he was fathering a child to the parson's wife? If he did he knew it would bring his release but he couldn't do it not even for Grace. Not even for Grace.

Almost two more weeks elapsed before Grace could bring herself to tell Donald. She had done a great deal of thinking during this particular time, and it revolved mainly around whether she should go away or stay here. There were two things against her going away. First, she would see less of Andrew than she did now; second, and this was the point that was having more bearing with her as each day of her pregnancy advanced, if she went away the child would be born illegitimate, whereas if she stayed it would be sheltered by Donald's name, for she knew him well enough to be sure that he would do anything rather than suffer the public indignity of her lapse. These two things became bands as strong as steel, hawsers holding her in place. Yet the more she now saw of Donald, the stronger became the desire to get away from him.

During the past few weeks Donald had developed a sullenness. He might be relieved that he was sleeping alone, but the fact that he was not the instigator of this arrangement was apparently having a delayed action. He no longer made any pretence of playing the lover; there was no kissing and petting and dear-little-girling now. Often there was not even a good night between them. He also had an added irritation to bear . the garden. It was the time of year for cutting, and clearing, and there were great patches of browning Michaelmas daisies, phlox and other perennials giving striking evidence of neglect. Peter Golding, the man who had followed Ben, had left over a week ago, the job, as he said, being too much for any one man. And he had added, he wasn't serving his time to be a Ben Fairfoot.

Grace knew that Donald had been furious over this, and she had heard him say to Mrs. Blenkinsop, "Lazy blighter. I'll do it myself in my spare time. A couple of hours a day will keep it well under." But apparently he hadn't had any spare time, for the garden had not been touched. As Ben had said, Donald knew nowt about gardening. Moreover, she knew that he didn't like work not that kind of work, anyway.

And now came the day when they got the spare time gardener, the day when a new era of her life began. It happened that she had been sick.

She was slightly sick in the mornings, but on this day there had been fish for lunch, cod, and the oil must have upset her stomach, for in the middle of the afternoon she felt ill, and she had no ease until she vomited. She lay down for a while until the desire for a cup of tea took her downstairs. It was as she stepped into the hall that Donald let himself in through the front door, and on the sight of her he came towards her, asking quietly, "What is the matter? Are you ill?"

She shook her head and turned in the direction of the kitchen, and when he followed her and repeated his question she placed her hands flat on the kitchen table, her weight on them, and, looking downwards, she said quietly, "I'm pregnant."

He was silent so long that she was forced to turn and look at him, and when she saw his face some understanding of his inner plight came to her and pity welled in her for him. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and blank amazement, but over all there was a look of wonder.

"You mean ... ?" He wet one lip against the other, then, moving his head slowly from side to side, he brought out, "Oh, Grace!" Then on a higher note, "Oh, Grace!" She could imagine him going up the scale chanting her name until he burst into song. It was pitiable. Then like a great benevolent figure he flung his arms out wide. He was forgiving her for being a silly hysterical girl. He was forgiving her for being a demanding wife. He was forgiving her for her unpredictable conduct on the particular night some weeks ago when she had struggled like a wildcat, and necessity demanded he put his hand over her mouth in case his uncle should hear her protests. Definitely he was forgiving her this last, for look what he imagined it had achieved.

"No, no, don't touch me, leave me alone." She sprang back from the enfolding arms and he stopped nonplussed for a moment. Then, smiling gently, he said, "All right, all right." And after a great intake of breath he asked, "But tell me, are you happy about this?"

She could look at him and say quite truthfully, "Yes, yes, I am very happy."

"You'll feel differently now. Grace. Things will be different." He was standing close to her, looking down on her bent head.

"I told you, didn't I, that things shouldn't be rushed. There comes a time--' " Stop it! Stop that talk. " She moved away but turned her eyes full on him.

"I've listened to too much of that kind of talk. I want to hear no more of it."

His face had taken on a pinkish tinge, and he remained quiet for a moment but still looking at her. Then he said,

"Very well. All right, don't let us argue." His manner was placating and his voice was like warm oil; he was soothing the mother-to-be.

"Go and sit down and I'll bring you a cup of tea."

Slowly, almost mechanically, she walked into the drawing-room, saying to herself over and over again, "I can't bear it, I can't. I won't be able to stand it, I won't. I must tell him, and now, today, this minute, now."

When he brought in the tray of tea his step was almost tripping, and if there had been a laugh anywhere in her she would have laughed, he looked so comic. She was momentarily relieved when he did not sit on the couch beside her but walked with his cup slowly to the window and stood there looking out into the garden. It would be easier to tell him over the distance. On this thought there returned to her the spasm of pity, for she could almost see him thinking. She could almost feel his pride, his sense of achievement. He imagined he had accomplished what he never expected to accomplish: he had proved himself to be a man. His back was straight and his shoulders spread wide with the glory of it. And then he turned to her and, as was his wont when deeply concerned with one thing, he talked about another, and so she did not tell him that he was suffering from self-delusion, for his words set the pattern of her future.