Distant Voices Read online

  ‘I’m sterile, Isobel. I can never father a baby.’ He suddenly managed to find the words and they came out in a rush. Then he sat quite still, not looking at me.

  I felt numb.

  For a long time we sat in silence, neither looking at the other. I could sense his misery and shame and I wanted to comfort him but part of me was crying out in a shock of disappointment and yearning. Never have a baby. Never hold my own child in my arms. I could not bring myself to believe it. I wanted to argue; to say it couldn’t be; to talk about specialists and further tests but one look at his face clamped the words in my throat.

  At last I dragged myself from my chair and going round the table to him I dropped a quick kiss on the top of his head. However I felt about babies I still loved him more than life itself and I told him so, kneeling before him on the cold kitchen flags, my hands resting, pleading, on his.

  ‘You can’t divorce me because of this, darling. You can’t.’ My own voice was breaking. ‘I won’t let you. I love you too much. Babies don’t matter so very much; perhaps we might adopt one, but the important thing is we have each other. That’s all I care about.’

  At last he brought himself to look at me, and I saw the anguish and uncertainty still flickering behind his eyes. ‘I’m not a proper man Isobel. I can’t be, I …’

  ‘I’ve never had any complaints, have I?’ I leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the lips. For a moment he stayed completely still, without responding, and then, almost unbelieving, he returned my kiss. We clung together for a long time as the sunlight slowly crept into the kitchen and then at last we went together into the bedroom.

  We lay together, not making love, just lying quietly, for a long time, in one another’s arms until eventually, exhausted by misery and tension, Peter fell asleep.

  Never once did I give Ross Macdonald a single thought. What he and I had done together on the warm moonlit beach had belonged to the magic of the Highland night. Save for the sense of calm serenity which he had left with me, our meeting might never have been. It would certainly never happen again. Strangely I felt no guilt, only a happy wonder when I thought of it at all and gratitude that he had comforted and reassured me in the only way that mattered – then.

  The rest of our holiday passed in a daze. We were both stunned by the loss we were sure was ours, but our happiness in refinding each other in some way made up for that. We walked and swam and climbed the lower slopes of the mountains and went fishing with Ross. Ross never showed by word or sign that he remembered our encounter and I was grateful for his silence. I knew there was nothing cheap or easy in what we had done and I treasured the memory of it in secret.

  But most of all I treasured Peter and our time together. We never mentioned the subject of babies again; at night sometimes after he had gone to sleep I found myself crying quietly into my pillow and my dreams were sad and lonely ones, but during the day I refused to let myself think about it at all. Time enough for that when we had both had the chance to adjust a little.

  On the last day of our stay, deeply mysterious, Peter insisted on walking alone into the village three miles away. I guessed it was to buy me a present so I happily kissed him and after watching for a moment as he set off up the white stone road I turned and wandered slowly down to the loch to make my farewells to the mountains alone. Ross was leaning against his boat sorting out the nets very much as I had seen him that first day of the holiday.

  ‘Hello there,’ he smiled at me, his blue eyes clear and friendly and somehow understanding.

  ‘It’s our last day,’ I murmured. And I stood still.

  When he held out his hand I took it naturally and we stood for a moment looking at each other. Then gently he let my fingers fall. ‘Shall we take a wee walk along the shore?’ he said, and I nodded.

  When we reached the rocks he led me this time between them. I followed up a steep path winding high into the cliff face and then back down among the rock pools at the corner of the island itself. Finally we came to a deep circular sheltered pool, hung with weed the colour of emeralds and garnets.

  ‘There you are lassie,’ he glanced at me and smiled. ‘The magic pool of the Macdonalds. Will I leave you while you make your wish?’

  I looked down into the opaque shifting water, suddenly overcome with misery and shook my head. ‘I’ve no wish, Ross. No wish now. That is why I didn’t ask you to bring us here. To have done so would have been the most tactless thing in the world.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I thought you and your man were happy again?’

  ‘We are, Ross.’ I held out my hand to him, wanting to feel the comfort of his fingers as I fought back the urge to cry. ‘We are happy; but there’s no wish. Not now.’ As I stretched towards him I felt a slight catch at my wrist. My bracelet had snagged on a corner of rock. With a little cry I tried to grab it as the fine gold links snapped but I missed it and it slid into the deep pool.

  ‘Oh no, my lovely bracelet!’ I cried. Ross scrambled over to my side and together we gazed down trying to see beyond our own reflections into the depths of the water, but it was impossible.

  ‘It’s bottomless, lassie; it goes right down through the island to the sea bed. That’s why it’s so magical.’ Ross looked up at me. He smiled enigmatically. ‘It seems the fairies were determined to have your offering of gold after all. So perhaps they know your wish already …’

  I felt very sad as I walked back up the beach with him, overwhelmed by the end of the holiday, my beloved bracelet gone and my misery over Peter a blank pall. There seemed to be nothing left to look forward to. Nothing but emptiness.

  Ross and I didn’t say goodbye. He squeezed my hand when we got back to the boat and bent once again to his nets. I walked slowly back up the beach without looking back.

  Peter was waiting for me when I reached the cottage looking very pleased with himself. In his hand was a box. I opened it and it contained the most beautiful carved silver brooch. The kind they made locally. In the excitement of putting it on I forgot to mention the loss of my bracelet.

  Two months later I knew I was pregnant. Of course Dr Henderson must have known it wasn’t Peter’s child but he said nothing as he ushered me from his surgery, he just shook my hand and wrote a note for the office to get them to give me a few days off work as I was looking, so he said, so run down.

  When Peter came home that night I was sitting on the sofa. He kissed me hello and I pulled him down beside me. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you, love,’ I gulped. I had felt strangely calm waiting for him, but now the moment had come I found my hands were shaking.

  He held them tightly and looked into my eyes, frowning.

  ‘What is it, Isobel. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I went to see Dr Henderson today.’ I swallowed hard and went on in a rush. ‘I’m sorry Peter. I’m going to have a baby.’ To my horror I could feel the tears welling up suddenly. I tried to blink them away but they spilled over onto my cheeks.

  Peter let go of my hands. For a moment he looked so hurt I was stunned. Then he stood up.

  ‘I never guessed there was someone else, Isobel.’ He bit his lip. ‘I can’t blame you, I suppose. I expect you want a divorce as quickly as possible to marry him?’

  ‘Oh no. No! No!’ I flung myself at him. ‘Oh Peter darling. There’s no one else. There never has been; not like that. It’s just that …’ I stopped.

  His arms were round me and I was sobbing into his shirt front.

  ‘It was the fairy pool. I dropped my gold bracelet. It would never have happened otherwise.’ I burst into sobs again.

  ‘The magic pool of the Macdonald women?’ he murmured into my hair. ‘You went and wished and the fairies granted you your heart’s desire?’ He didn’t sound cross, it was almost as if he were smiling.

  I glanced up at him through my hair. ‘I know it can’t really be that. It only happened once – that night you threw me onto the floor. I ran down to the beach and …’

  He put his fingers on
my lips. ‘Don’t tell me any more, darling.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’d rather think it was the fairies.’ He took a step back for a moment and gazed at me steadily. ‘This is something we would have had to discuss and think about sometime, Isobel. I know we never mentioned it but there are other things besides adoption when,’ he hesitated, ‘when there is nothing wrong with the woman. That way she can have a baby herself even when her husband …’ he stopped and took a deep breath, ‘when her husband is like me. Perhaps I would have preferred a more clinical approach,’ he grinned, ‘but on the other hand perhaps it’s nicer to thank the fairies than a doctor.’

  Our daughter was born two months ago now, a gorgeous child with eyes the colour of amethyst and a fuzz of soft black hair. Peter was there at the birth and if I ever had any fears that he might reject her they were dispelled when I saw him with her. He adores her and is as proud as any father I’ve ever seen.

  We called her Faye.

  Who Done It?

  Flakes of snow blew in through the door with him as Jenkins pushed his way into the warmly lit bar of the Dog and Duck. It was early yet and only old Fred and Mr Denby were in.

  ‘My usual, Sam,’ said Jenkins. He was full of importance. Leaning his elbows on the bar he looked sideways at Mr Denby. ‘Heard the news, have you?’

  ‘No Jenks, what’s that then?’ Sam slid the pint glass expertly across the polished counter.

  ‘They found a body up Highfield way.’

  ‘A body?’ Mr Denby straightened up sharply and looked at the newcomer for the first time. ‘A dead ’un you mean?’

  ‘’Course I mean.’ Jenkins was indignant. He took a long drink at his glass. ‘Huddled up under Jeffrey’s barn he was, in all the puddles and melting snow up there.’

  ‘Who was it then, Jenks?’ Fred spoke for the first time. His hand was shaking slightly as he raised his own glass to his mouth.

  ‘Don’t reckon they know yet.’ Jenkins drained his beer and waited expectantly, his fingers casually nudging the glass across the bar. ‘He was pretty soggy, so they say.’

  ‘He would be.’ Mr Denby nodded sagely. ‘It’s been thawing the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Snowing again now, though.’ Jenkins nodded towards the dark windows. The glass was as far as it would go without pushing.

  Mr Denby noticed at last. ‘Same again all round, Sam, please.’

  ‘What do the police say, Jenks?’ Fred was lighting his pipe, sucking the flame down into the encrusted bowl.

  ‘They reckon it was murder.’

  Fred dropped the match and blew on a burnt finger. ‘Murder? What makes them think that?’

  ‘He had a hole in his head, that’s what. And blood all over him.’

  ‘Poor chap.’ Sam produced three brimming glasses. ‘I wonder if it was old Everett. He used to sleep rough in the barn sometimes.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t him.’ Jenkins clasped his glass happily. ‘It was Everett as found the body.’

  ‘Do they reckon he did it?’ Mr Denby looked at him sharply.

  ‘Nope. He’s got an alibi.’

  The four men were silent for a while, listening to the fire hissing round the logs in the hearth, then Fred slammed down his empty glass on the counter and turned for the door.

  ‘Goodnight all,’ he called and was gone.

  ‘I think he knows something,’ said Jenkins quietly. ‘Did you see how his hand was shaking?’

  ‘And he burned hisself on that match.’ Mr Denby nodded. ‘Do you think we ought to tell Constable Conway?’

  ‘No.’ Sam shook his head vehemently. ‘If he did it he had good reason. Fred never does anything without a very good reason.’

  Fred plodded slowly up the hill. The lights in Constable Conway’s cottage were blazing as he went up the slushy path and knocked on the door. Mrs Conway showed him into the parlour where the constable, his blue shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow, was sitting at the table, eating a large bowl of stew.

  Fred sat down opposite the young man and waited until his host’s mouth was empty. ‘That body you’ve got. Know who it was?’

  Conway shook his head without speaking and spooned up some more stew.

  ‘Did he have a red shirt and a townified tie?’ Fred was twisting his cap round between his fingers on his knee.

  Constable Conway choked slightly. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I seen him before. He was heading up Highfield way. Looking for hammer beams, he said.’

  ‘Hammer beams?’ The constable’s mouth dropped open. ‘What are they when they’re at home?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know, but Jeffrey’s barn’s got ’em. He had a camera with him.’

  Conway nodded. ‘Yes, that was still there. There wasn’t no robbery. The chap had quite a bit of money in his wallet.’

  ‘Was it by the door you found him?’ The casualness of Fred’s question did not fool the constable. He had risen and, buttoning on his tunic was already reaching for his notebook.

  ‘Now see here, Fred. You’d better tell me everything. What do you know about all this?’

  ‘Nothing much. But a few days back I was up that way. I saw one of those great icicles fall over that doorway. Like a sword it was, three or four foot long. That would kill a man if he were standing underneath.’

  ‘I reckon it would.’ The constable nodded thoughtfully. ‘Could have been that.’

  ‘And the icicle would have melted long since.’

  ‘I reckon it would.’

  Fred left the cottage well satisfied.

  There was no one left in the village now who would remember the slick fancy architect fella who had seduced and then abandoned Fred’s pretty daughter. Only old Mrs Hennessy, and she was blind. And you can’t fingerprint a puddle, now can you?

  Watch the Wall, My Darling

  PART ONE

  With each smart tap of her foot on the sun-baked ground the swing arced higher. Above her the dappled shade of the oak tree cooled the air. Mercifully hidden now behind the high yew hedge the garden party was in full swing.

  Caroline Hayward grimaced as, throwing back her head at the apogee of the swing’s travel, she felt her long heavy hair slip from its combs. Her bonnet had already gone, hanging from its ribbons behind her like an unruly animal. Shaking her head she laughed suddenly, feeling her hair whip across her face. What did it matter how she looked? She was alone at last and for a few precious moments she was free!

  ‘That swing was not designed for adults!’

  The deep voice startled her so much she nearly released her hold on the ropes.

  Dragging her slippers in the dust to slow her momentum she tried desperately to stop, suddenly acutely aware of the acres of petticoat showing beneath her light, blown skirt. Grabbing at what remained of her dignity as the swing slowed she curbed her first instinct which was to jump to her feet. Instead she smoothed her skirts, taking a deep breath as she saw who had addressed her. Dressed in sober black like all the men present at the bishop’s garden party, the Reverend Charles Dawson, her host’s elder son, was standing facing her, his darkly handsome face showing uncompromising disdain; Charles Dawson who had spent the best part of the party surrounded by a cluster of his father’s younger women guests.

  ‘You obviously find our party boring, Miss Hayward,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I must suggest you find other ways to amuse yourself. That swing was not designed to take someone of your weight.’

  ‘I am not that heavy, Mr Dawson!’ Caroline retorted. To her chagrin one of her slippers had fallen off and she was feeling for it desperately with her foot, hidden beneath her full, long skirt.

  He allowed himself another tight smile. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were.’ He gave a slight bow, his eyes gleaming. ‘Nevertheless, the swing was put up for my brother’s children, who are aged six and seven respectively. When you have recovered your shoe –’ he raised an eyebrow slightly, ‘– perhaps I can escort you back to
the party and fetch you a glass of lemonade.’

  She could hear in the still heat of the garden beyond the hedge the deep voices of the sober, assembled clerics, the higher voices of the women, the occasional constrained laugh. She and Mr Dawson were uncompromisingly alone.

  No one had noticed when she had slipped away. Her father, the Reverend George Hayward, had been deep in conversation with his bishop, his daughter long forgotten, when she had glanced round the company, many of whom she had known all her life, and experienced her sudden, quite unexpected wave of rebellion.

  The violence of the emotion which had swept over her had astonished her. She was overcome with anger and despair. She was still a young woman, wasn’t she? She was still reasonably attractive, wasn’t she? She was still full of day dreams and of hopes. So why was she here, at her father’s side, faithfully accompanying him as ever on parish business, in the role into which she had slipped almost without realising it when her mother had died? Her sisters were married, her brother now lived in London. She alone was left. And it had been expected and accepted by everyone that she would fill her mother’s shoes. All thoughts of her marriage seemed to have flown from her father’s mind. The few persistent suitors who had called on her slowly slipped away. And no one seemed to have noticed but her.

  She glared at Charles Dawson. She had not been one of the young women clustering round him with adoring looks and simpering giggles. No, she had been beside her father listening dutifully as he talked church business with the bishop! Not that she would have talked to Charles anyway, she reminded herself sternly. It was no problem for her to remain immune to his handsome good looks, behaving as he was like an extension of her father in his obvious disapproval of her. She had always detested him for his pompous ways. And he would never, ever, have been one of her suitors. Rich and well connected, he would look far higher than a mere rector’s daughter.