Encounters. Barbara Erskine
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damp in this bit of the house.’ Robert walked back into the passage and peered through the next doorway. ‘Another good sized room. And another. Good God, look!’
Victoria stared over his shoulder nervously. In the corner of the room was an enormous heap of old tin hats. Opposite them, near the window, a dozen long poles were stacked in the corner.
‘Those hats must have been here since the war.’ Robert picked one up.
‘Don’t touch them!’ Victoria was suddenly frightened. ‘Please don’t touch them. Let’s go. I don’t like it here either.’ She could feel the unhappiness, the desperation. It seemed to pervade the room.
‘Don’t be silly. We must see it all now we’re here. Look, the stairs are along here.’
‘No, Robert. Please.’ She felt panic clutching at her throat. ‘Don’t go upstairs. Don’t …’
‘Victoria!’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘OK. You go back. Go and look at the garden with young Mr Turner. I’ll have a quick shufty up here and then I’ll come and find you, OK?’
‘Robert …’ She raised her hand as if to stop him but already he had set off up the steep stairs, awkwardly pulling himself up by the handrail.
She took a deep breath. At the foot of the stairs a door led out onto the old terrace. She rattled the handle, not expecting it to open, but to her surprise it turned easily. It had not been locked.
The heat in the garden hit her like a physical blow. After the unnatural cold in the house it was wonderful. She threw her head back and raised her arms towards the sun with relief, then abruptly she dropped them to her sides. There was a young man standing on the terrace. Dressed in shabby corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt, he had his arm in a sling. He turned and grinned at her.
‘Hello.’
Victoria smiled back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone else here.’ She was embarrassed, and at the same time relieved to see him. After the silence and the oppressive atmosphere of the west wing it was wonderful to see another human being. ‘Are you looking round too?’ she asked. She paused and found herself staring at him again. She knew him. Confused, she fumbled for a name, but none came. She couldn’t place him.
‘Looking round?’ He looked puzzled. ‘No. I live here. For the moment.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She was still desperately trying to think where she had met him before. ‘We understood the place was empty.’
‘Empty!’ He seemed to find the word ironic. ‘Well, I suppose it is in a way. I hate it in there. It’s so cold, did you notice? However hot it is out here. As cold as the tomb.’ He shuddered. ‘Why were you staring at me?’
She hastily looked away. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve met before somewhere, haven’t we?’
He was the most attractive man she had ever seen. Shocked at her own reaction, she was trying to cope with the sheer physical impact he had on her. It confused and frightened her.
He didn’t seem to have heard her question. He was concentrating on the flower bed near them. And he obviously hadn’t seen the admiration in her eyes, for when he glanced back at her he scowled. ‘Not a pretty sight, am I?’ He half raised his injured arm. ‘Don’t look at me. Wouldn’t you like to see the garden?’
‘Yes. Please.’ Desperately she tried to get a grip on herself. Middle aged – well, nearly – women did not go round the country ogling handsome young men and feeling their breath snatched away by waves of physical longing for complete strangers. She concentrated hard on the flowers, as he seemed to be doing, hoping he had not noticed her confusion. ‘The garden is very beautiful.’ She hoped that her voice sounded normal. ‘Mr Turner told us it had gone wild, but it seems very neat to me.’ A crescent of rose beds curved around the neatly mown lawn, brilliant with flowers; beyond them a herbaceous border stretched towards the cedar tree, a riot of lupins and gladioli and hollyhocks.
The young man glanced at her and smiled. ‘A few of the chaps work on it when they’ve got the strength. I’m not much good. I can’t keep my balance without this damn thing.’ As he turned to step off the terrace onto the soft mossy lawn she saw he was using a stick.
‘You look as though you’ve really been in the wars,’ she said gently.
He frowned. ‘Who hasn’t? But I’m lucky, I suppose. I made it back. Look. Look at the roses. God, they’re lovely.’ He stopped and stared at them with a strange intensity.
There was a long silence. Victoria felt uncomfortable, as though she were in the way. He had withdrawn from her into some unfathomable pain. Glancing nervously back at the house, she remembered Robert suddenly and wondered where he was. She wished he would come. He had been there: through the fear and resentment; he knew how to cope with pain.
The house on this side was smartly painted. She frowned. Several windows stood open and from somewhere she could hear the sound of music – a band playing on a scratchy record. Staring up at the windows, hoping to see Robert, she glimpsed a shimmer of white at a window. Her exclamation of surprise brought the young man’s attention back to her.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I thought I saw someone up there. Someone in white.’
He gave a strained smile. ‘Probably one of the nurses.’
‘One of the nurses?’ She stared at him. ‘Do you have nurses to look after you?’ Her eyes were wide with sympathy.
‘Of course.’ His eyes were clear grey, his face handsome, tanned. He glanced down at his arm ruefully. ‘They’re threatening to take this off.’ Just for a moment she could hear the fear in his voice.
She didn’t know what to say.
Visibly pulling himself together he stared at her. ‘You were right. We do know each other, don’t we?’
‘I thought so.’ She forced herself to smile.
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Yes,’ he repeated with conviction.
She frowned. Her emotions were sending her conflicting signals. There was something achingly familiar about his eyes, his mouth, his hands; something so familiar that, she realised suddenly, she knew what it was like to have been held in his arms and yet he was a stranger. She turned away abruptly. ‘Perhaps we met when we were children or something.’
‘Perhaps.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘Who did you come to visit? It obviously wasn’t me.’ There was a trace of wistfulness in his tone.
‘We came to look at the house.’
‘Oh?’ He stopped, gazing down at the grass. ‘Interested in history, are you? It must have been lovely here, before they moved us in.’
Victoria smiled. ‘Your family have lived here for a long time, have they?’
‘My family?’ He looked at her in amusement. ‘No, my family don’t come from here.’ He stepped down onto the soft soil of the flower bed and picked a scarlet rose bud. ‘Here. For you. It goes with your dress.’ He held it out to her. As she took it their fingers touched and the electricity which passed between them left them both for a moment confused. She slipped it behind the pin of the brooch she was wearing.
‘Thank you.’
He was frowning. ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring.’
She looked down at her hand, startled. ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘My husband is here. He was looking round upstairs. I ought to go and join him, really.’ She hesitated. She couldn’t bear the anguish in his eyes. ‘He was injured too – in the Falklands. He’s out of the army now.’ There was another long silence. ‘I can’t remember your name,’ she said at last.
‘It’s Stephen.’ He said it almost absent-mindedly, ‘Stephen Cheney.’
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