The Healing Stream (8 page)

Grow up, she told herself, what’s the matter with you? You’ll soon be twenty. At your age most girls have probably been out with men lots of times. But I never have, this is the very first time and he isn’t like ordinary people, he isn’t just
anybody
, he’s Giles Lampton. Even now, in the light from the porch, he’s still keeping his arm around me. Does that mean he feels like I do, so churned up with – with – with what? Love? But he can’t be, not with
me
.

‘You’re miles away,’ he said softly. ‘What is it, sweet Tessa? Are you frightened that I’ve brought you here, just the two of us in the middle of the dark wood? Are you remembering all the wise warnings about being alone with strange men?’

‘Of course I’m not frightened. And you’re not a strange man. If you were I wouldn’t be here with you. I’m really interested to see your cottage.’

He cupped her chin in his hand and raised her face. ‘My cottage is merely an excuse to get you to myself for the evening,’ he said in a voice that made it impossible for her to meet his gaze. Surely he must know how hard her heart was beating. But apparently he didn’t, for when he spoke again those last wonderful words might have been a dream. ‘Don’t expect too much of it. It’s a bit of a tip, really.’ Then releasing his hold of her and taking a large key from under an empty upside-down plant pot, ‘Although I did my best to tidy it before I came to meet you.’

‘You needn’t have done that. Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded. Silly, isn’t it, but if I went into a house belonging to another woman and found it a muddle I would mind. But it seems different for a man.’

He laughed as he ushered her inside and flicking his cigarette lighter held the flame so that he could see the box of matches left in readiness to light the oil lamps. ‘A very proper sentiment,’ he said with mock seriousness.

‘I didn’t mean that men have to be fussed over and waited on. I don’t believe that at all. It’s just that I expect they have different priorities. Actually Uncle Richard is very tidy, always puts his wellingtons properly side by side in the lobby, folds the newspaper, opens his envelopes with a blade, things like that. But I don’t expect all men are like that. Are you?’

‘I’ve never thought about it. Tell you what: I’ll watch myself and let you know.’

She chuckled as she said, ‘Silly!’ That moment of self-awareness in the porch might never have happened. ‘What a dear little house. And lamplight is so much nicer than electricity, don’t you think? So warm, sort of full of comfort.’

Watching her, Giles thought what a delightful child she was. Child? As unworldly as a child, certainly, yet there was something wise about her for all her naivety. A delightful child, he repeated silently, that’s what she is and that’s how I must think of her. In the glow of the hurricane lamp swinging from the hook in the porch he had felt he had seen into her secret soul. Don’t be an ass, he told himself; you know damn well she has some sort of adolescent crush on you. What he hadn’t expected was an emotion within himself, an unknown sensation. Right from the day he had first met her, often he’d found it hard to put the thought of her out of his head. It had come between him and his work, it had haunted him as he lay in bed unable to sleep, it had followed him into his dreams. There had been plenty of women in his life, women of his own sort, enjoying their sexuality. So why couldn’t he put Tessa from his thoughts? What he felt for her was lust, unadulterated lust, he told himself repeatedly. If he were completely honest he had even let himself imagine how this evening might have turned imagination into reality. But he mustn’t let that happen. Somewhere in the world there must be a young lad who would one day be her husband, who would awaken her dormant passion; for beneath her rather old-fashioned manner he instinctively knew there was passion, like a silent volcano waiting to erupt.

It took no more than seconds for these thoughts to chase across Giles’ mind.

‘There’s no heating in the kitchen so you may prefer to keep your coat on while we organize supper. Steak, mushrooms, crusty bread. Not much of a feast to invite you to share – especially to share the cooking of it.’

‘It sounds delicious and sharing getting it ready will be fun. I don’t need my coat: the grill will keep me warm.’ Then, watching him light the oil lamp that hung from a beam in the kitchen ceiling, ‘But how come you have a gas cooker?’

‘It’s bottle gas. A pipe comes in through the wall. A chap comes every month and changes the bottle. Not that I’m here that often and when I am I don’t bother with much cooking if I’m working so the one he takes away is never empty – sometimes it won’t have been used at all. But if I altered the arrangement I might find I’d have to fix it myself.’

‘I don’t expect it’s very complicated.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not to some folk, I dare say. Anyway, I’ve no intention of finding out.’

To some people his approach to a simple task might have lost him respect, but to love-struck Tessa it was yet another example of how removed he was from the world of lesser men.

‘Do you know about grilling?’ she asked. ‘Or would you rather I did the steak and you peeled the mushrooms and fried them?’

‘Steak I can do. The frying pan is in that cupboard and you’ll find oil on the end of the bench. How do you like your steak? I have mine a bit charred on the outside and very rare in the middle. But you can have it as you prefer. My cooking talents are limited but I can cook steak to perfection.’

‘Do mine the same as yours. But let me get going first, or give me a hand peeling the mushrooms.’

‘OK, that’s the best plan. Let me pour us a glass of wine while we’re slaving at the hot stove.’

Often enough Tessa prepared meals at Chagleigh Farm just as when she hadn’t been working at the hotel she had cooked for her grandmother and herself, but never had she experienced an atmosphere as there was in the tiny kitchen of Hideaway Cottage. She noticed that when her wine glass was half empty Giles topped it up, just as he did his own. Was that why she had such a warm,
complete
sort of feeling, as if all her life had been leading to this moment? But her feet hadn’t quite left the ground and when she saw Giles coming towards her glass with the bottle for yet another top up, she shook her head.

‘You go ahead, but don’t give me any more. You see, at home – on the island, I mean – Gran and I only drank wine with our meal at Christmas, Easter and birthdays. I hadn’t thought about it, but I don’t think they ever have it with meals at the farm. So I mustn’t let you take me home tiddly! Gosh, doesn’t this smell
good
! Lunch feels like hours ago. Shall I cut some hunks of this crusty bread?’

A couple of minutes later she carried their glasses as he led the way with the tray of food. The lamplit living room, the warmth of the flickering flames of the burning logs, the none-too-neatly-folded morning paper on the couch left there as if confirmation that Giles hadn’t a natural eye for tidiness despite the effort he said he had made in readiness for her visit, all of it added to an atmosphere Tessa felt to be perfect.

‘It’s a lovely cottage. But, do you know, it isn’t a bit the kind of home I expected you to have,’ she said as she waited while he carried a small gate-leg table topped by the tray of food to the fireside.

‘And what sort of a home would that be?’ he asked, his tone making her feel childish and out of her depth.

‘I don’t know that I’d really given it any thought,’ she answered, determined not to give a hint of the hours of each day when he filled her mind. ‘I suppose modern, perhaps a service flat. This is homely, the sort of place that makes you want to kick off your shoes and curl up on the sofa.’

‘What a delightful idea. Perhaps we’ll try it after we’ve eaten our supper. More wine?’

About to refuse, she remembered her effort to appear sophisticated. ‘Thank you. The result of our labour deserves wine.’ But she must keep control of herself. How much wine would it take to make her ‘tiddly’? She had an uncomfortable feeling that Giles could read her thoughts. ‘After we’ve eaten and cleared up the mess, will you show me your workroom?’ Then with a chuckle that escaped before she could hold it back, ‘It’s the sort of maternity ward for all my friends in Burghton.’

‘Labour ward might be the more accurate description. Yes, if you want to see it. But I fear my clearing up didn’t stretch that far.’

But when, the meal eaten and the dishes washed, he opened the door leading off the living room and ushered her into what she thought of as his private sanctum, she was disappointed. It was surprisingly tidy, no papers left around, nothing to show that this was where the inhabitants of Burghton saw the light of day. The typewriter was covered and by its side a machine she couldn’t identify.

‘Where do you keep what you type? The room looks as though no one uses it.’ She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her tone.

‘The good folk of Burghton are safe in the top draw. And that, I’m afraid, is how things will be for a while. Someone from Deremouth cycles over to do my typing. I dictate on to this machine and leave it for her. Mrs Johnson has been very reliable, until this last week she’s never let me down. She lost her husband a year or so ago and must have quite a struggle to bring up their four children on her own. Now one of the brood has gone down with measles, no doubt to be followed in quick succession by the other three. So until she can come back I have no typist.’

How could she keep the admiration out of her gaze as she looked at him? A man of national repute – national and international, she corrected herself – and yet he made no mention of getting rid of this Mrs Johnson and engaging a replacement; already Tessa had held him on a pedestal, but what he said raised him even higher.

‘I have an idea,’ she said, speaking even as it formed. ‘If you don’t want to engage a proper typist – and I think it’s splendid that you’d rather wait for this Mrs Johnson, who must need the work – what about if I keep your work up to date?’

‘You? But I thought you were a carer-oblique-friend to Deirdre. What time do you have to take on an extra job?’

‘This wouldn’t be a job. Don’t you see? I know Burghton as if I lived there. I told you, the folk there are like family. When I was at school I wasn’t in the really clever set – just ordinary and average. So when for the last year the really bright ones did extra maths and languages, all that sort of thing, I was with the lot who did more practical things. Typing was one of my choices. Just like in the sewing classes, some chose to do embroidery, but I preferred dressmaking. Then at the hotel, although they called me deputy manager, I was really a general dogsbody and I did most of the typing. I wouldn’t be as fast as your lady from Deremouth, at least not at first, but I would save there being such a mass for her to catch up with, don’t you see?’ Imagine if she could end each day listening to his voice. ‘Please say I can do it. I’m quite careful, I don’t make lots of mistakes.’ She was conscious that he was watching her closely; if only she knew what was going on in his mind. Perhaps he thought she had an awful cheek and was wondering how he could refuse her offer without hurting her feelings. After all, a proper professional typist would work so much more quickly than she could. Had she spoilt the evening by suggesting it? But imagine hearing stories of the lives of the people from Burghton spoken in his voice, spoken just as he thought of them. He
must
say she could do it.

‘And what do you think your uncle and aunt will have to say about it? But Tessa, you would be doing me a great favour; that I can’t deny. I’ve had dealings with the agency in Deremouth in the past: once they sent me a girl who was frightened of the solitude down here and I’m sure, on the occasions when I stayed in the house, expected I would try to rape her. Then, the second time they sent a middle-aged woman, a good typist once she got started, but she never stopped talking. You’re different, I suppose because you know the characters already. But it’s out of the question that after you finish work with Deirdre you cycle over here in the dark and come to what would often be an empty house. No, I can’t let you do that. And, as I say, I’m often out in the evenings.’ Yet she could tell from his expression as he looked at her that he hadn’t quite put the idea out of his mind. ‘I look on you as a friend. Friendship and business don’t go hand in hand.’

Tessa looked at him squarely, frightened that her hero might have feet of clay.

‘You don’t have to waltz around the point,’ she said, ashamed of her hostile tone. ‘If you don’t think I’d be quick enough, or type well enough, I’d much rather you just came out with it. I don’t make scenes if I don’t get my own way. I suppose I just felt that if I typed what you dictated it would make me part of the book. Silly of me.’

‘Not silly at all, except that I’m sure your aunt and uncle would worry to have you here alone on these dark winter evenings. If you want to take on extra work, then what I pay Mrs—’

‘I’m not looking for a job and if you talk about paying me, then forget the suggestion.’

‘I don’t want to forget the suggestion. I like the idea that you should be involved. Now how about this for an idea . . .’

And so it was that when he delivered Tessa back to the farm he drove along the narrow lane right to the gate, then went in with her to meet Naomi and Richard. There was nothing in the manner of their greeting to suggest just how different he was from the picture they’d formed of him. Tessa had implied he was a friend of Mr Masters, someone probably Richard’s age. Giles was forty, good looking in a rugged way and with a voice that was evidence of an expensive education. Naomi had borrowed the first of the Burghton series from Tessa’s collection and made time to read it. This wasn’t at all the sort of man she had envisaged. The writer had the gift of taking the reader into the psyche of each character, every one of them different and yet the whole bringing to life a mixed community that was utterly believable. And this man? He might bury himself in Downing Wood to escape the hubbub of town life, but he struck her as very much part of the modern post-war world.

‘Before I accept Tessa’s kind offer to help me I want to be sure it has your approval,’ he said with a warm and friendly smile at Richard and Naomi. Then, having gone through an explanation of the plight of his usual typist, he rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder as he said, ‘Instead of reading in bed as she says is her habit, this work-thirsty niece of yours has offered to spend the last hour of the day typing up what I have been recording. Sometimes there will be nothing, and sometimes more than she can do in one end-of-day hour.’