Cold in the Earth (30 page)

At the brightness of her tone, the dog’s ears pricked and she jumped up, running across the kitchen with her tail flailing in greeting. Marjory fussed her, pulling the silky ears, patting the smooth head, dodging the ecstatic licks. ‘Yes, yes, good girl! That’s a good dog. Poor Meggie – did you miss me?’

The dog gave a volley of little, excited barks, then rushed to fetch a half-bald tennis ball and dropped it at Marjory’s feet. She laughed, throwing it across the kitchen floor; Meg was off after it at once, her feet skittering on the tiles. Just as they always had, when things were normal.

Bill was leaning forward in the chair now, his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead. What was he thinking? In the same tone of voice as she had used to the dog, Marjory said lightly, ‘And have you missed me too?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He spoke flatly, as if the words he had said and their meaning had no connection.

She bit her lip. The dog came back with the ball and Marjory threw it again, looking round meanwhile at the state of her kitchen. There was a film of dust over all the surfaces but there was no pile of dishes in the sink, as she had thought there might be; indeed, there was no evidence that the kitchen had recently been used at all. On the scrubbed pine table three bags of groceries hadn’t been unpacked, though someone must have picked them up from the bottom of the road. Had he been eating at all, these last few days?

At least the Aga ran on oil and was still putting out its comforting heat. She went over to it, lifted one of the shiny lids and pulled across the big aluminium kettle. ‘What I need is a cup of tea. Is there anything left from the Tin?’

‘Yes – somewhere.’ Bill gestured vaguely towards the table; a Dundee cake, lovingly baked by Janet, stood on a plate with a wedge taken out of it, but judging from the staleness of the exposed crumb, a couple of days earlier. Marjory turned it round and cut into the other side, then brought over the fresh slices, setting one on a plate beside Bill. He looked at it but made no move to pick it up.

Meg had returned to the rug in front of the Aga and lay down with her head on her master’s foot. Marjory glanced down. ‘Poor Meg! She gets so depressed when she isn’t working.’

‘Yes. Well . . .’ He left the obvious response unstated, his voice trailing away as if speaking was a pointless activity.

The kettle was boiling. Marjory brewed tea, trying not to show her alarm. She fetched the mug that said ‘World’s Best Dad’, a Father’s Day present, filled it then handed it to him so that he had no option but to take it. He had a sip, then another, then said, ‘That’s good.’

‘Have some cake. If I tell my mother you haven’t finished it she’ll be convinced she’s lost her touch and go into a decline.’

He picked it up and bit into it obediently as if he had needed to be told to do it, then finished it hungrily.

‘I’ll get you another slice.’ Marjory tried to sound casual. How long was it since he’d eaten? And Meg – Meg, who wasn’t usually a cadger, was showing an unusual interest in the crumbs. Had he been forgetting to feed her, too?

She picked up the empty dog-bowl from the floor and filled it from a packet of dry dog food.

When she put down the bowl the dog, normally a delicate feeder, ate ravenously. Marjory had to turn away; as nothing else had, this brought the tears to her eyes. That Bill –
Bill!
– should neglect his dog!

The only way to stifle her rising horror was to be very, very practical. Talking to him, trying to get him to tell her what he had been through to reduce him to this state, wasn’t going to work. He had responded to her instructions to eat; perhaps what was best now was to find him things to do, normal, everyday things.

‘Bill, I’ve left my cases and things in the car. Be a dear and bring them in for me, will you? Take them up to the bedroom and I’ll sort things out later.’

‘Yes.’ He got up, moving like an old man, almost shuffling in his slippers. He was on the point of going out into the snow still wearing them; Marjory hurried after him. ‘Don’t forget to change into your boots!’

She watched him from the kitchen window while he took out the cases with painstaking slowness – her energetic, impatient husband! – then carry them in and on upstairs. He hadn’t changed back to his slippers but she’d rather clean up afterwards than say anything about it now.

Firm ground seemed to be rocking under her feet. She’d been prepared for arguments, recriminations, had come ready to defend herself and hopeful that once they had talked through the difficulties face to face they would weld themselves into a unit again, ready to take whatever the fates had in store together. She couldn’t have imagined any other outcome.

She had found instead a monosyllabic stranger, incapable of looking after himself or his dog. What, she wondered, stricken, would have happened if she hadn’t come home for another few days?

He was depressed, obviously. It was the most natural thing in the world to be depressed about something so terrible, but – this! Marjory didn’t know much about the psychological side of depression, didn’t really know much about the psychological side of anything. In fact, she’d always been distinctly scornful of therapies and ‘isms’ – after all, before Freud people had managed to muddle along talking over their problems with friends and family, then just pulling themselves together and getting on with life. Now, confronted with this, she wasn’t so sure. She certainly felt out of her depth.

Bill returned and took his seat again beside the Aga. He’d forgotten to finish his tea; it was cold now with a pale, filmy skin on top. She took it over to the sink and emptied it out.

‘You’ve let that get cold,’ she scolded gently, refilled it and once more put it into his hand and stood there till he started to drink. ‘Now, what is there for supper?’ She didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one.

In the larder she found some vegetables for soup, and there was a stew in the deep freeze which could come to gently in the Aga. Bill had always liked stew. And baked potatoes; she scrubbed them and popped them in too. As she bustled round him he sat silent, unnoticing, totally withdrawn.

The comparison struck her suddenly. Here, too, was a victim of locked-in syndrome; though his disability was mental not physical he was at the moment as surely locked in by his total despair.

She had no idea what to do about it. The only consolation was that the murder case was, rightly or wrongly, all but over. Tomorrow night Donald Bailey would declare that Jake Mason was the sole suspect and at that point she could tell him about Bill and ask for – no, demand – compassionate leave. With the case wound up, he couldn’t refuse.

Laura wasn’t sure what had wakened her. It was cold, certainly, and she had a feeling that she had half-wakened several times to pull the covers more closely about her, but it was the noise outside that made her open her eyes.

She had heard it before, her first night at the Glen Inn – the repeated bellowing of a cow or a bull which sounded in distress or angry, even, though she was no expert. It seemed very loud and quite close at hand, distinct above the noise of the wind which was blowing hard now.

Frowning, she sat up to listen. Surely all the cattle around here had been culled? Conrad had said there wasn’t one left, the length and breadth of the Glen. Only a couple of flocks of sheep had been spared, but a sheep would never make a noise like that. It made her uneasy, somehow, though she knew that was foolish. What harm could a suffering animal outside possibly do to her?

Then her brow cleared. She really was a townie! It would be a stag, of course. She’d seen a documentary about it, stags bellowing challenges at one another during the rutting season. But even so, it was strange, surely. It certainly wasn’t the rutting season now and she remembered quite clearly that the programme had shown deer feeding in the daytime; why would one be wandering round issuing challenges in the middle of a wild, snowy night? She was cosy in bed and the room was chilly but at last curiosity got the better of her. Without switching on the light, she padded across to the window and lifted the curtain to peer out.

It was pitch dark outside. There was snow being blown against the window, piling up in the corners of the panes, and beyond it she could see nothing at all. She heard the sound again; it seemed to be moving away from her and perhaps it was only her fancy that made her think it had a despairing tone. She waited, but after that there was silence and she was beginning to shiver.

Bending to turn up the radiator below the window, she hopped back into bed to warm up. Foolishly she had left the covers back and the snug nest she had left had cooled down. The hot-water bottle she had taken to bed had fallen out on to the floor; it was stone cold now too and despite some energetic
frottage
her feet obstinately refused to warm up.

She’d never get back to sleep like this! She might just as well resign herself to getting up and refilling her hottie. She could make a cup of tea at the same time. This was where curiosity got you! Heaving herself up with a sigh, she switched on the light – well, pressed the switch, anyway, but nothing happened. She sighed again. Did light bulbs have a special in-built programme that ensured they always went at the most inconvenient possible time?

This time she was wise enough to grope for her dressing-gown and slippers before she embarked on the adventure of finding the light-switch by the door so that at least her toes were protected when she blundered into the chest-of-drawers.

It was only when this switch, too, didn’t respond that she understood. Snow, high winds – there must be a power-line down somewhere. Stories appeared every year in the papers about the snowbound countryside and people without electricity for days on end. You shook your head sympathetically when you read them but it didn’t prepare you for the reality of being alone in a snowbound cottage without light or heat.

No cup of tea, then, and no comforting hot-water bottle either. But no light! All at once the darkness seemed so thick as to be positively oppressive. She couldn’t even see what time it was, to know how long it would be before daylight came.

There must, surely, be candles or a torch somewhere. But how could she find them, when she didn’t know where to look and would get colder and colder as she searched? No, however uncomfortable it might be, the most sensible thing to do was find a pair of socks and another sweater and get back into bed. Perhaps, by morning, the power would have been restored and she could feel in control again instead of like a child, frightened of the dark.

18

Laura had lain awake for a long time but when she fell asleep at last she slept deeply, only waking when the sun came through the curtains, shining with unusual brilliance. Groggily, she fumbled for her watch and blinked to focus on it. Half-past nine – that was a surprise! She’d been sure she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep at all.

The room, which had seemed chilly last night, was now icy cold. She could see her breath forming on the air, which didn’t bode well for the power problem, and sure enough, when she clicked the bedside light experimentally nothing happened.

Pulling on her dressing-gown on top of the jersey she had been wearing in bed, she went to the window again and opened the curtains. The white light hit her like a blow, making her eyes water.

It was a clear blue day and the snow had drifted, whipped up by the wind. In the reflected sunlight it was dusted with diamond sparkles and there were long blue shadows from the fence-posts and the low trees which darkened to violet in the deeper shade of the house, while the distant pine trees were stark black against the white backcloth. It looked like a Whistler
Nocturne
and when Laura’s eyes had adjusted to the intensity of the light, she gasped at the beauty of it all.

With the darkness, her mood of last night had vanished. Looking out this morning, the lack of electricity felt like a bit of a joke, an adventure. There should still be enough warm water in the tank for washing and if she had to have bread instead of toast and orange juice instead of tea for breakfast, it wasn’t exactly a serious hardship. She could search the cupboards for candles; there might even be lamps and a primus stove for just such emergencies.

But there didn’t seem to be. And it really was very, very cold; she’d have sold her soul for a cup of tea. She began to feel indignant; surely someone who lived here should know what could happen! Certainly, Mrs MacNab had said she didn’t usually have bookings before Easter, but even so . . . It was nearly ten o’clock; you’d have thought at least she’d have come along to see how her tenant was faring by now.

She couldn’t even work on her article. She’d tried, briefly, even taking it over to the window in the sunshine where it was a little warmer, but her fingers were so cold she couldn’t type properly and anyway the battery would probably run out before she could finish. Even if it didn’t, she’d have to get out to find a terminal since there was no phone-line to the cottage; she’d a couple of facts to check on the Internet and she’d promised to e-mail the article to Nick Dalton at the
Sunday Tribune
within the next couple of days too and it wouldn’t be clever to let him down. It was all very frustrating, particularly when you had no idea how long this might go on.

There certainly wasn’t a lot to be gained by sitting here with nothing to do except get colder and colder. Mrs MacNab had said she didn’t live far away and Laura had taken the precaution yesterday of buying some sturdy walking-boots; the exercise would do her good and warm her up and perhaps there was an open fire at the other end. Or an Aga, with scones baking . . .

She put on another couple of layers, then her raincoat on top, and looking like the Michelin man set off. The wind had scoured the garden, stripping the snow almost bare in some places and piling it up to two or three feet against the walls and in the ditches. The little hump-backed bridge was fairly clear but below it the snow had accumulated between the banks of the burn and only the merest trickle of running water was visible.