Man of the Trees (7 page)

‘Going to paint the boys at work, are you?’ he asked with a grin.

‘That’s the general idea. All right?’

‘Certainly, Miss Medway.’

One of the men called the ganger’s name, and looking in that direction, Ruth could have groaned aloud. Ross Hamilton had appeared. With a muttered ‘excuse me’, Bill went towards him.

Her pulse beginning to beat erratically in anticipation of trouble, Ruth put on a calm face and began to erect her easel. As she expected, after a few words with Bill, Ross Hamilton strode up to her, his face dark.

Without even the courtesy of a ‘good morning’ he said brusquely: ‘You can’t paint here.’

She continued setting out her materials. ‘Oh, I can, I assure you.’

‘I’m telling you, you can’t.’

‘Why not?’ she asked, her heart thudding ridiculously against her ribs.

‘Because I say so.’

She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by him, though he was certainly doing his best to do so.

‘I’m afraid that just isn’t a good enough reason,’ she retorted, wishing that her anger whenever he was near had not somehow deserted her.

He put his hands on his slim hips and looked at her through narrowed eyes. There was no quirk of his lips now, she noted, neither sarcastically or otherwise.

‘Do I
have
to spell it out for you?’ he asked heavily, eyeing her up and down suggestively.

‘Yes, you do,’ she answered, though she fully realised what he was driving at.

He took a deep breath and then expelled it in the manner of one trying to be patient.

‘To say the least, you’ll distract the men from their work,’ he said pointedly. ‘Or is that what you want?’

Her grip on one of her brushes tightened, then she relaxed and grinned up at him mischievously from her stool.

‘Maybe.’

She had the satisfaction of seeing his jaws tighten with anger.

‘As far as I’m concerned they can do as they like with you—the lot of them, but I will not have my work force distracted either by you or anyone else.’

She laughed, feeling that, for once, she had the upper hand.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know them all—or most of them. And they know me. They’re used to me.’

‘Very likely. I heard the shouts as I came along—which apparently greeted your arrival on the scene. I also heard some of the things they called out to you.’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, that! They didn’t mean anything. And they’ll soon settle down, if your precious output is all you’re worried about. In five minutes from now, they’ll have forgotten I’m here.’

‘Oh yes?’ he queried in obvious disbelief.

‘Yes,’ she echoed firmly.

Having set up her easel she began to sketch the scene before her, outlining the men at work—a group of men of all ages and in different stances, trimming and peeling the thinnings of Scots pines for pit props. Later they would be stacking them. This was going to be the first of many action paintings. Whether they would sell or not, Ruth thought, she must do them. In her preoccupation with her work and with the excitement of inspiration beginning to course through her veins, she almost forgot the intimidating Forester towering over her. Almost, but not quite. She knew he was angry. It was in the atmosphere all around, and she could almost feel his eyes boring through her head, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his long, lean legs.

‘Are you going to pack up those things and get out of here,’ he demanded, ‘or am I going to have to remove you forcibly?’

She swung round to him impatiently, hovering between anger at being interrupted in her work, and amusement at the picture of his forcibly removing her.

‘That
would
give the men a treat—and something to talk about in the Club later—wouldn’t it? Because I can assure you, I won’t go quietly. I shall kick and scream—and how I can scream! The men might even be under the impression that you’re carrying me off to—well, you know—’

She was highly exaggerating. Even if he did try to carry out his threat and she did kick and scream, they wouldn’t think what she was implying. It was all highly improbable. But she shrank inwardly from the expression of near-hatred in his eyes. Her moment of triumph at having the upper hand somehow evaporated.

‘Mr. Hamilton—’ she forced a pleading note into her voice now. ‘Please let me stay. It’s my profession, my living. See—’ she directed a look in the direction of the forestry workers, “the men have already forgotten me. They’re hard at it.’

‘That, no doubt, is because I’m here,’ he said. Then: ‘All right, as you plead your case so well, I’ll be lenient and allow you to stay.’ At this she hid a smile. ‘But I warn you,’ he went on pointing a stern finger at her, ‘I’ll be back when you’re least expecting me, and if I find you within yards of any of the men, still less chatting them up, you’ll be out of here before you can say “Jack Robinson”—and I shan’t care if they hear you screaming from here to the Isle of Wight.’

He turned and strode over to Bill Rogers again, quite confident, no doubt, thought Ruth, that he had had the last word in the truest possible sense. She gave an amused smile. She couldn’t let him climb down too far. She had had to let him think he had won.

Then she pulled herself up sharply. What on earth was she thinking of? She should have called his bluff and let him try to force her to leave the clearing. She was an idiot. If she wasn’t very careful she’d be falling for him. Far better to keep her anger going than start placating him. She would defy him and go and talk to the men later on and hope that he would come on the scene and catch her. See what he would do then!

She found it fascinating drawing the men in the different poses. There was something special about the men who worked among trees. They had a dignity and quietness, a contentment about them. She sketched rough outlines of the men at their various tasks, two stacks of pit props she knew would be there somewhere by the end of the day, and then began filling in the background of pines. The sun was shining, giving wonderful light and shade effects, and she worked swiftly. Now and then the men glanced at her, but it was not until they had their lunch break that any of them came to look at what she was doing.

‘Hey, that’s great,’ one of the younger ones said. ‘Can I call the others to see?’

Ruth nodded, arching her back which was beginning to ache from the intense concentration. ‘Hi, fellers, come and look at this!’ he shouted.

Some half a dozen of them crowded round to inspect the painting.

‘Fancy anybody wanting to paint us!’ one of them said in a mixture of awe and amusement.

‘Yeah, but it’s good, in’t it? You oughter have that hung in the Royal Academy or wherever it is they hang the best pictures.’

Ruth laughed, but she was pleased with their praise. ‘Hold it, boys. It’s not even finished yet.’

‘Well, there you are, then. If it’s good now, what will it be when it’s finished?’

‘Who knows? A birthday card—a Forestry Commission recruitment ad. showing what an easy life you forest workers lead?’ she teased.

There was uproarious and sceptical laughter, and Ross Hamilton chose that moment to appear again.

‘Oh, oh—’ Ruth murmured. ‘Here comes the boss.’

He stood some distance away, watching them, his feet planted apart, his hands on his hips. All he needed was a whip, was the fleeting thought which passed through Ruth’s mind.

A couple of the men glanced in his direction and sobered, but they made no move.

‘So what?’ one of them said. ‘It’s our lunch hour.’

Ruth did not suppose this would make an atom of difference to Ross Hamilton. He called out to Bill Rogers, who had joined the group of men admiring her painting. Bill had no option but to go over to the Forester. The two men talked for a minute or two, then Bill called out to the men to come to him.

‘Now what’s the matter?’ one of them said in a disgruntled tone. ‘I suppose we’d better go and see.’

‘Nearly time we were getting back, anyway,’ said another.

‘Rubbish—we’ve got another five minutes or so yet’

Nevertheless, they straggled one by one to where the other two men were standing. Would they all get a ticking off? Ruth wondered. But for what? And would Ross Hamilton carry out his threat to move her? She would like to see him try, she decided, with a mixture of amusement and defiance.

The men had had their lunch break at midday, but Ruth still had to have hers. With an air of waiting for something to happen, she took out her lunch box and unscrewed the top of her flask. If he wanted to move her forcibly—and he would have to pick her up and carry her—he would have to wait until she had eaten her lunch.

She watched the group, and it looked as though there was some kind of argument going on from the various gestures, raised voices and general attitudes. One of them kicked at a loose piece of wood on the ground in a gesture of defiance, and Ruth could only guess that they were being told not to talk to her. Of course, with so much unemployment at the present time, he had a certain hold over the men, she thought. Naturally, they belonged to a trade union. How would he feel if he had a strike on his hands?

As she munched her sandwich the men began to saunter back to their work, and one or two of them gave her a wave in obvious defiance of their boss. As Ruth expected, he began to walk in her direction. She felt her stomach lurch and thought, how ridiculous. It certainly wasn’t out of fear. She didn’t care two hoots about him. Anticipation, then, of a battle that was sure to come? But that didn’t worry her, either. And she wouldn’t let him win again if she could help it.

‘I thought I told you not to talk to the men?’ he demanded in an authoritative voice.

She looked up at him and bit into her sandwich before answering. That would show him how much she was afraid of him, she thought.

She shrugged. ‘They came to talk to
me.
How could I stop them? And it
was
their lunch hour. Now it’s mine,’ she went on, deliberately seeing how far she could go with him, ‘and I would appreciate being left to enjoy it in peace. Er—sorry I’ve only got one drinking cup,’ she added.

He drew an angry breath. ‘For two pins I’d put you across my knee and give you a jolly good spanking!’

She gave him a startled look. ‘You wouldn’t dare! I’d sue you!’

‘It would be worth it, but don’t worry. I’d want to do it with your pants down, and that
would
distract the men with a vengeance.’ Before she could think of a suitable retort to that outrageous statement he glanced at her canvas. ‘And how long is it going to take you to complete that?’

‘I—I’m not sure,’ she answered, still taken aback by his scandalous suggestion.

‘Well, make it snappy. I don’t want you around my men when they’re working.’

He strode off, and if her flask top hadn’t been full she would have thrown it at his back. And that she told herself, would have been a waste of good coffee.

For a little while she sat and fumed as she finished her lunch. It was a long time before she could get rid of the mental picture of herself across his knee with her pants down being given a spanking. One minute she wanted to giggle at the idea, the next she fumed and wished there was some way she could get the better of him. She had managed it once. Her lips curved in amusement. She would defy him. He wouldn’t like that. Now that she had had this one idea—and why it hadn’t occurred to her before, she couldn’t think—of painting men at work in the Forest, she was gripped by it. She would go to other areas where work was being done by a group. Gareth would supply her with the information of where they were likely to be and what they would be doing. That was what she would do—defy him.

CHAPTER FOUR

After a cold, wet and windy early spring, at last there seemed to be a dry spell. Fired with enthusiasm for her new idea of painting men at work in the Forest, Ruth was out with her painting apparatus most mornings for the next couple of weeks. Each morning she expected to see Ross, but she was disappointed. It was Gareth she saw, visiting the site to make sure that the work was proceeding as it should. And, naturally, he raised no objections to her being on the scene.

She mentioned casually one morning to Gareth how Ross Hamilton had been annoyed at her presence when the men were working.

‘But I haven’t seen him for the last week,’ she said.

He grimaced. ‘You won’t. He spends most of his time in the office—much more than your father ever did.’

This disappointed her somehow. ‘Oh dear,’ she answered, not knowing quite what else to say.

Gareth nodded. ‘I understand he’s a stickler for tidiness and order.’

Ruth wanted to say ‘oh dear’ again, recalling the look on Ross Hamilton’s face when he had surveyed her untidy living room.

She laughed shortly. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have called father a stickler for tidiness exactly.’

‘Maybe not,’ defended Gareth. ‘But he always knew where to lay his hands on things all the same. It
would be
better if Hamilton spent more time going on the rounds as your father did.’

Ruth looked up from her painting. In one sense, she wished Gareth would go away. He was a distraction, but there was a certain note in his voice which alerted her senses.

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

He affected a shrug. ‘It might be nothing to do with anything, of course, and they’re only small things, but—’ he paused as if reluctant to go on.

‘But what?’ Ruth prompted him. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, gaps are appearing in the fences—one of the plantations has been overrun with rabbits.’

‘But surely that’s the job of the Warrenders?’

‘True, but these things never happened in your father’s time. All kinds of things are happening that never happened in your father’s time. Gates left open—and they seem to
stay
open. Not only that, but something really serious happened the other day. There was wholesale damage to an area of seedlings. Vaporising oil was used for post-emergence spraying instead of white spirit.’

‘And are you blaming Ross Hamilton?’

‘What I’m saying is, such things never happened in your father’s day. He got out and about more. He had the knack of seeming to be in a dozen places at once. If there was a gate left open he was always the first to spot it—before the commoner’s cattle and ponies strayed in to do damage. The same with holes in fences.’

‘And the vaporising oil?’

Gareth nodded. ‘He would have somehow sniffed that out, too. Anyway, enough talk of Hamilton. What about coming to the Club this weekend? Somebody’s got a birthday—a fellow on another beat, and there’s to be a group playing country Western music.’

Ruth hesitated, then smiled up at him. She hated to admit it, but Saturday evenings spent exclusively in Gareth’s company were beginning to pall. Unless she let Gareth make a kind of love to her, they seemed not to have much in common to talk about.

‘All right,’ she told him. ‘But I’ll make my own way there. There’s no need to take you out of your way—the price of petrol being what it is and all.’

He protested, but she remained firm. If he called for her, that would mean him also bringing her home, which in turn would lead to her feeling she had to invite him in for a night cap, and she did not want that.

When he had gone and left her to her work she found herself wondering why she was trying to avoid being too much alone with Gareth. It never used to worry her and she still liked him. She dismissed the problem and wondered whether Ross Hamilton would be there at the Club. Then she shrugged. He would be in the company of the glamorous Linda anyway, she supposed. She gave a peculiar laugh to herself. Life seemed extraordinarily tame when he was not around. She was missing their sparring. Then she frowned. Was there anything in what Gareth had been saying about him? If so, things did not sound too good for the new Forester.

When Saturday came Ruth found herself feeling one or two thrills of excitement at the thought of possibly seeing Ross Hamilton. He was bound, somehow, to have something to say to her. Looking through her wardrobe, she shifted the red dress along the rail in distaste. She didn’t think she’d ever wear that again. In fact just about everything she possessed seemed too young for her. It was high time, she thought, that she either bought or made herself some new clothes.

In the end she chose a plain, midnight blue skirt which she had thought a little dull but which her father had liked because of the way the skirt hung, and topped it with a fine white sweater with a polo neck and long sleeves. Her hair she washed and let it hang loose. Would her appearance be sober enough for Mr. Hamilton? she wondered, then pulled herself up sharply. She was not dressing for Ross Hamilton. The fact that he had said white suited her had no bearing on anything at all, certainly not on her choice of the white sweater. The blue skirt swirled around her ankles beautifully, and the white looked well with it. If he thought she always wore gaudy, gypsy-type clothes, then he was mistaken!

Jill and Hugh, along with Gareth, had arrived at the Club early and had saved a seat for Ruth. With the added attraction of the country Western group it looked as though the place was going to be crowded even more than usual. It was still quite early and already there were few empty places.

But looking all around, Ruth could see no sign of Ross. She gave herself a mental shake. What was all this? She was positively hankering after the man. And why? So that she could cross swords with him? It was ridiculous. In any case, the man was insufferable. She positively disliked him.

‘You’re looking very demure tonight,’ Gareth said when she joined them.

‘Do you approve?’ she asked him lightly.

‘Darling, I love you in anything. To me, you always look beautiful,’ he said extravagantly.

Jill laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Hugh?’ she demanded of her husband. ‘Why don’t you ever say those kind of things to me?’

‘If I did you’d think I was drunk or after something,’ he answered.

Somehow, tonight, Ruth found the usual banter between Jill and Hugh somewhat banal, and she began to wish she had not come. Gareth asked her to dance, and normally she enjoyed dancing with him, but nothing seemed right.

‘Hey, Ruthie, come on, loosen up there,’ Gareth said at last when she stiffened as he tried to dance cheek to cheek in an old-fashioned waltz. ‘What’s the matter with you these days?’

‘Nothing’s the matter. Why should there be?’

But she knew she was feeling restless and out of sorts, without knowing why.

Then suddenly she felt her whole system lighten as she caught sight of Ross Hamilton in the doorway, and tonight he did not have Linda with him.

‘Well, that’ll please the girls,’ remarked Jill when they all returned to their table at the end of the dance number and it was seen that Ross Hamilton was alone.

Ruth sniffed. ‘Well, he needn’t come and ask me to dance, because I want nothing to do with him.’

Jill laughed shortly. ‘There’ll be plenty who do. But I wonder what’s happened to Linda? I thought it was wedding bells for those two.’

‘You’re always hearing wedding bells,’ her husband teased her.

‘I wasn’t the only one,’ Jill retorted. ‘He’s been seeing her pretty exclusively. But maybe she’s just broken a leg or something.’

‘Wishful thinking?’ queried Hugh, ‘or are you hopeful of a more permanent rift?’

Ruth was only half listening. She was watching Ross as he stood in the doorway looking around the room. For some peculiar reason she wanted to go up to him and put her arm in his, walk down the room with him as though she had a right to. It was ridiculous. She struggled to rid herself of the desire, of the mental picture of doing just that. Where was her pride, her dislike of him?

‘Perhaps they’ve had a lovers’ tiff,’ suggested Gareth sarcastically. ‘What do you think, Ruth?’

At this she rounded on him swiftly. ‘I think we should all mind our own business about
h
is private life!’

This was received with very surprised looks from the other three.

‘Well, well, and what’s got into you?’ asked Jill huffily.

‘The girl’s right,’ said Hugh.

‘Maybe, but—’

Gareth simply looked at her. Ruth coloured, wishing she had not been so sharp and wondering, as Jill had queried, what had got into her. The music started again, and Ruth watched Ross as he walked in that loose-limbed way of his down the room.

It seemed to her that he was heading straight towards her. She watched his progress, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs in a most absurd fashion. But he wasn’t coming to her, after all. He stopped at a table just before he reached the one where Ruth was sitting, and the girl Ruth recognised as his secretary rose to her feet.

Gareth’s hand touched her arm. ‘Dance, Ruthie?’

She stood up, and all her former anger against Ross Hamilton was resurrected. She could have strangled him!

To Ruth’s utter chagrin Ross Hamilton did not once ask her to dance throughout the whole evening. Even Jill noticed the fact, with whom he had danced twice.

‘Well, it looks as though you’re not going to get the chance to refuse him,’ she couldn’t resist saying when the band began to play the customary last waltz.

It was Gareth who came to Ruth’s rescue. ‘He knew better while I’m around.’

‘Maybe, but last time—’ Jill began.

She winced suddenly, and Ruth guessed Hugh had kicked her under the table.

‘Don’t look so murderous,’ Gareth whispered in her ear as they danced. ‘It’s not important I wouldn’t have let him dance with you.’

Almost at boiling point inside, Ruth bit back a retort. The sooner this evening was over the better.

Gareth waited to make sure that Ruth’s car would start all right, grumbling that she should have let him pick her up so that he could have driven her home. But she drew little satisfaction from his concern, only gratitude. She thanked him and said goodnight, her mind still occupied with a feeling of having been deliberately slighted by Ross Hamilton, and a general fury in her heart against him.

She was driving along one of the lonely Forest roads when she became aware that the engine was not responding to her touch on the accelerator. She uttered a mild swear word as the car came to a gradual stop, then the engine cut out altogether. She switched off, then after a second or two turned the key again. Fortunately, the engine started and she put the car into gear and moved slowly forward. But again there was no response when she tried to accelerate. She looked at the petrol gauge. The level was pretty low, but there should be enough petrol to get her home. She sighed. The only thing it could be was the petrol pump, and that she could do nothing about at the moment. The only thing she could do was walk the rest of the way home—a matter of four miles.

She locked up the car and set off, not altogether resignedly. Fuming against Ross Hamilton, a wasted evening and finally this disastrous ending, all helped her to make a good pace. To add to everything it began to rain.

This is all I need!’ she muttered angrily to herself, railing against poor harmless, innocent Gareth for persuading her to come out this evening.

The rain poured down and she had no headcovering, only her velvet jacket. She could take off her jacket, she supposed, and cover her head and shoulders. The lower part of her skirt was already wet, anyway.

She did this, and it was then she heard a car coming, its beams cutting shafts of brilliant light along the roadway and the trees on either side. It was past midnight. Should she signal for a lift? It could be someone local, on the other hand it could be some lecherous male who in return for a lift would want to make violent love. And that would be the last straw. She would rather continue walking. She could hardly get more soaked than she was already.

However, the car drove past her, then stopped without her making any signal at all. She walked towards it. If it was someone she knew—

The window on the driver’s side was wound down and a man’s voice from inside said briefly: ‘Get in.’

She peered closer. It was Ross Hamilton. This certainly
was
the last straw!

‘No, thanks, I’d rather walk.’

She pulled her white velvet coat more closely around her head and marched on. In a flash he was out of the car and had caught up with her.

‘Get into the car, you little fool. You’re soaked already. You’ll be absolutely drenched before you get home.’

‘I don’t care. Leave me alone!’

‘Of all the stupid, obstinate—’ he began.

She stopped and rounded on him, but before she could say anything he picked her up and carried her as though she was a child to the passenger side of his car. Dumping her down, but still keeping a tight hold on her, he opened the door.

‘Now get in, otherwise I swear I’ll render you senseless in a way you’re not already. Go on—’ he said, as she hesitated, trying to say something sufficiently scathing to him.

Truth to tell, she had been rendered temporarily speechless by his incredible suggestion that if she didn’t he would have no compunction about knocking her unconscious. He had her trapped. She couldn’t move, and even if she yelled her head off there was no one within miles to hear her. Chalking up another mental score against him, she got into the car and he shut the door on her.