Still Waters (42 page)

But they didn’t see her.

By six o’clock that evening Tess had put Cherie to bed with a comforting hot water bottle and a drink of cocoa and was sitting at the kitchen table with her own hot drink beside her, wondering how she would ever sleep. Cherie had been remarkably good and sensible but it was easy to see the strain was telling on her. The child’s face had been wan, her eyes red-rimmed, and she had insisted that Tess sat by her beside until she fell asleep. None of their searching and enquiries had helped at all. No one had seen hide nor hair of Marianne, she had disappeared completely.

‘I’m trying to be sensible but I’m afraid,’ Cherie said humbly, clutching Tess’s hand as the older girl perched on the side of her bed. ‘I know Maman isn’t always very nice to you, Tess, but I do love her, and I want her very, very much.’

‘She’ll be back in the morning; bound to be,’ Tess said soothingly. She was both angry with Marianne and frightened for her – what on earth had caused her stepmother simply to fly out of the house in the way she apparently had, leaving them all in disarray?

But now Cherie was in bed and asleep, so Tess had come downstairs to make her own hot drink and get herself a sandwich. She’d not eaten all day and suddenly realised she was ravenously hungry. If she did not eat she would never sleep, so she found a loaf, cut two slices, added cheese and pickle and was sitting down at the kitchen table, eating, when someone knocked at the door and then came in. It was Mr Thrower, with Podge beside him looking extremely uneasy.

Mr Thrower looked at her, then cleared his throat. He was dressed in his outdoor things including his great marsh boots and his brown, seamed face was creased with worry.

‘No sign yet, gal?’ he said gruffly.

‘Nothing.’

‘Right. I’d been havin’ a word wi’ Mrs Thrower and we both think Mrs Delamere may have gone down to Portsmouth. Gawd alone know how she got a lift outa all this here snow, but we reckon she may well have done just that. So I’m agoin’ to take old Piggot and my cart and go into Hoveton, see if I can find a telephone what’s workin’, so I can ring your dad’s place at Portsmouth. Only I don’t know the number. Can you give it me, gal Tess?’

‘Ye-es. But I’d rather ring myself, Mr Thrower. It – it’s all a bit complicated and if Daddy hears it from anyone but me he’s going to get in an awful state. Would you mind awfully if I came with you?’ She smiled at Podge. ‘I’m lighter than you, Podge, so Piggot won’t object,’ she added.

Mr Thrower smiled and Tess realised that he had been hoping she would offer. It would have been desperately hard for a man of so few words to have told the story, she realised.

‘Well, I did wonder . . . Piggot’s a sturdy little mule but the less weight the better, an’ Podge here will stay with the littl’un. In bed, is she?’

‘Yes, and asleep. Are you sure you don’t mind, Podge?’

Podge shook his head. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said gruffly. ‘Warmer here than down at Staithe Cottage, an’ all. If the young’un’s asleep, can I borrow a book to read?’

‘Sure, as many as you like,’ Tess said. ‘It’s a good long way to Hoveton, though, Mr Thrower. Are you sure Piggot won’t founder and land us in a snowdrift?’

‘Naw! Mules are tough old birds. Wrap up warm, though. That’s a wicked old night.’

Jogging along the snow-covered roads, now getting out to lead the mule, now climbing back into the cart and having a ride, Tess thought she would never forget that journey. By the time they set out the storm had cleared and stars twinkled frostily in the great black arch of the sky, whilst a round-faced moon lit up the smooth blanket of snow which covered the countryside as brightly as though it were day.

‘Good job there in’t no wind,’ Mr Thrower said, when Tess remarked on how beautiful the fields looked in the moonlight. ‘That ’ud finish us an’ no error. Snow’s so dry, see, an’ the air’s so blooda cold, that a wind could pick up the lot an’ put it down anywhere, just about.’

‘Well, we’re making good time,’ Tess said, consulting her wrist-watch. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said that – we’re stuck again.’

It was the wheels of the trap, caught in a hidden dip, but they dug themselves out and slogged on, with Piggot really putting his back into his work and pulling like a carthorse.

‘Bin eatin’ his head orf in the lean-to,’ Mr Thrower said when Tess told Piggot that he was an excellent animal and worth his weight in gold. ‘He need the exercise, an’ he like it, an’ all. Oh ah, there’s wuss animals than mules.’

It took time, but they reached Hoveton at last. It was quite late by now, but Mr Thrower drove them straight to the public call box. Tess jumped down, went into the box, lifted the receiver and held it to her ear and was overjoyed to hear a comforting burr and not the dreadful silence of a disconnected line.

As soon as she had given the operator the number, Tess opened the door and poked her head round it, addressing Mr Thrower, who was standing at Piggot’s head. ‘It’s working, I’ve laid my money out and it’s ringing in Portsmouth. I can’t wait to tell Daddy and hear what he has to say – I’m hoping he’ll come home if she isn’t in Portsmouth with him, and help us to run her to earth.’

‘Course he will,’ Mr Thrower said stoutly. ‘But I reckon she’ll be there be now, tuckin’ into some supper, I dare say.’

But although she got through to the number she had been given, it transpired that there was no one present who could give her any information at all and because the line was so bad the impersonal voice at the other end advised her to try again the following morning, and whilst she was trying to explain that this might well be impossible, the connection was cut.

Crestfallen, Tess opened the door of the box, letting in a blast of the icy cold, and told Mr Thrower what had been said.

‘What’ll I do?’ she asked helplessly. ‘It’s taken us such ages to get here, it seems awfully feeble simply to turn round and go home.’

‘Ring your uncle,’ Mr Thrower suggested. ‘Tell him what’s bin a-goin’ on. Can’t do no harm.’

‘Good idea,’ Tess said. She returned to the box and rang her aunt and uncle, who were horrified to hear that Marianne had disappeared, leaving her daughters cut off by the snow.

‘I’ll get in touch with your father’s commanding officer tomorrow and see what can be done there,’ Uncle Phil said, his voice sounding strong and very like her father’s over the telephone. ‘You go back home now and have a good night’s sleep; Auntie May and I will be over first thing in the morning, if we have to walk every mile of the way. And don’t worry, we’ll find Marianne and get in touch with Peter and you’ll be laughing at this in a day or two.’

Tess was grateful for his warm good sense and she and Mr Thrower drove home quite cheerfully, even though it took them almost twice as long as the drive out had done.

‘Snow’s stickier. Thaw’s comin’,’ Mr Thrower said as they turned into Deeping Lane at last. ‘You’re a good’un, gal Tess. Wouldn’t mind havin’ you wi’ me in a tight spot.’

‘Ditto,’ Tess said, immensely touched by his words. ‘And thanks a million, Mr Thrower. No one could have been kinder. You and Mrs Thrower are the best friends anyone could have. Now come in for a nightcap whilst I check on Cherie.’

Mr Thrower agreed that a nightcap wouldn’t come amiss and got stiffly down out of the cart, so she ushered him into the kitchen, greeted Podge, and poured Mr Thrower a stiff whisky and ginger wine, which he drank down enthusiastically, agreeing to have a second to ‘keep the cold out’, as he put it.

Tess, meanwhile, tiptoed up to take a look at Cherie, then went downstairs again and allowed Mr Thrower to add a spoonful of her father’s brandy to her hot cocoa.

‘That ’on’t harm,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sleep well, an’ tomorrer come an’ tell us when you’ve spoke to your dad.’

Tess promised to do so, drank her drink, thanked Podge for his help, waved the two men off and went up to bed. She stood in her bedroom window for a moment, lazily taking off her damp clothes, for perspiration had popped from every conceivable pore as she and Mr Thrower had laboured to get the mule and cart – and themselves – back to Deeping Lane, and gazed out at the moonlit Broad. It looked extraordinarily beautiful, she thought, with the reeds and trees silvered by frost, the snow lying thick even on the ice, and the stars twinkling above.

She was so tired, in fact, that moving seemed far too difficult a task. She could have stood there for ever, gazing out at the drama of the Broad in the snow, but she forced herself to go back into the room, put on her pyjamas and climbed between the sheets. She lay for a while, too tired to sleep, but then she found herself sliding helplessly into slumber.

The Broad was black in her dream, black in the shadow of the reedbeds and white with snow elsewhere. She was rowing a little boat across the ice – it was easy, it slid along beautifully – with Andy in the bows. He was young again, because she had never known him any age other than twelve or thirteen, and he was laughing at her, teasing her.

‘You never see what’s under your nose, do you, Tess?’ he asked at one point. ‘You’re hunting for that wretched stepmother of yours but you haven’t looked in the most obvious place.’

‘What’s that?’ Tess said idly. She had stopped rowing now, the oars had disappeared as they do in dreams, and she was leaning out of the boat, trying to gather some sweet rushes which grew just out of reach. The scent of them was summery and evocative and a tortoiseshell butterfly had perched amongst them. It was sunning itself, its wings at rest, quivering slightly as her fingers brushed against its perch.

‘Why, under your nose – didn’t you hear me?’

He pointed at the reeds and she glanced towards them . . . then froze. In the dark depths, something moved, something greenish-white and sinister . . . it looked like a hand . . . it was a hand!

She woke with a muffled shriek which was more terrifying than a full-blooded scream and lay for a moment, heart thumping, whilst perspiration trickled down between her breasts and the bed became, not a place of refuge, but a nest in which horrors might leap on her the moment she relaxed and closed her eyes. Accordingly, she sat up. Moonlight streamed through the window, so she probably hadn’t been asleep for long.

What should she do? She could light her candle and read for a bit. Or she could prowl downstairs through the moonlit house and poke the Aga into life and make herself another hot drink. Only it was awfully chilly for night-walks. Perhaps if she cuddled down . . .

But the minute she did she remembered the dream, and Andy’s voice sounded once more in her ears.
You never see what’s under your nose, do you, Tess?

She sat up and swung her legs out of bed. All right, Andy, she said tiredly, only there’s no point in it, because we looked everywhere, this morning, and Cherie’s been here with Podge ever since.

She pulled a jumper over her head, shoved her feet into slippers, and made for the landing.

You never see what’s under your nose, do you, Tess?

With an impatient sigh, she crossed the landing and opened the door of her parents’ room.

Marianne lay, curled up on one side, the covers cuddled well up. She was fast asleep, and from her slightly open mouth came a small, purring snore.

‘She was in the
wardrobe
,’ Cherie said. ‘Curled up small, right at the back. I woke up, you see, and wondered whether she might have changed from her light stuff into a thick wool suit, so I went to the wardrobe and there she was. I was so surprised and scared when I saw her that I screamed, and it woke her up. She made whimpering noises and sort of snuffled and cried a bit, and said I was a bad girl to startle her so. I began to say she had been pretty bad herself, that everyone was searching for her, only she didn’t take any notice. She just stood up, stretched, did a lot of muttering in French and then rolled into bed, in her clothes, mark you. So then I went to your room, Tess, only you weren’t there, so I thought – I don’t know why – that you must have realised Maman was safe and I went back to bed myself.’

‘You didn’t go downstairs, tell Podge?’

‘How could I? It was the middle of the night,’ Cherie said righteously. ‘Anyway, I didn’t know he was down there. I would have told you, of course, but as I said, you weren’t in your room.’

‘Oh, Cherie . . . and we’ve been dreadfully worried, I rang Daddy’s place in Portsmouth . . . he’s going to ring me back tomorrow. What on earth will he say?’

The two girls were whispering on the landing, and they must have woken Marianne for she called out sleepily, ‘What is happening? It’s the middle of the night, girls, get back to bed.’

Tess poked her head round the door. Marianne was sitting up, looking down at herself with considerable surprise. She looked up at Tess as she entered the room.

‘I’m wearing a
dress
,’ she said slowly. ‘Why am I wearing a dress?’

‘You were ill,’ Tess said, at a loss for a better explanation. ‘What’s that in your hand, Marianne?’

Marianne looked down at the scrumpled bit of paper gripped in her fingers as though it might bite her. ‘I don’t . . .’ she began, and then her puzzled look fled and an expression of deep and terrible sorrow took its place. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she said, and then, her voice rising, ‘I’d forgotten, forgotten, forgotten! How could I forget such a thing, how could I sleep when I am so, so alone?’

‘We’re here, Maman,’ Cherie said doubtfully, but Tess leaned forward and plucked the piece of paper from between her stepmother’s fingers. She looked down at it, expecting to see French, and saw, instead, English words. Abruptly, cold and terrible dread began to trickle, like iced water, along her veins. She hadn’t counted the envelopes, clearly there had been two missing, not just one. She smoothed the paper out and saw that it was a telegram. She read it at a glance and then, stumblingly, read aloud the few words on it.

I am sorry to have to tell you that at midnight last night your husband was knocked down on his way to his quarters by an unidentified vehicle. An ambulance was called immediately but he was dead on arrival at hospital. Letter follows.

Cherie sobbed, once, then spoke, her voice small, bewildered. ‘Is that our daddy, Tess? Does it mean our daddy’s been killed?’