Catching Katie. Sophie Weston
Читать онлайн книгу.
flew. She forgot her parents, both the old tensions and new difficulties alike. Flowers bloomed on the paper. She hardly seemed to touch it and the image was there: half-formed, enigmatic, but somehow utterly the thing it was supposed to be. Katie worked like lightning, hardly believing her luck.
It was the lilac that was her downfall.
The tree was heavy with the drooping white blossom, but, try as she could, she could not get the curve of branch and flower. She left them and went on to draw the little lilies of the valley, cat-faced pansies, waving grasses. But time and again dissatisfaction drove her back.
She uncoiled herself. There was a branch about half-way up. It looped over the wall into the neighbouring garden but it had exactly the right arc, the right fall of blossom. It was out of reach from the ground but not impossibly high. It was touching the wall, though. Katie had done some conscientious research for her gardening responsibilities and she remembered that trees could get fungus if their branches were allowed to rub against brickwork.
‘Pruning,’ she said aloud. ‘That’s what it needs.’
And, incidentally, she would get her branch of lilac to paint without risking a terminal crick in the neck. Benefit all round, she thought, pleased. She went in search of secateurs.
Ten minutes later she was regretting the whole idea.
The lilac tree was old and sturdy. But it was not exactly the sort of tree you climbed when you were five foot ten and had never been a champion gymnast. Nevertheless, it had stood a long time, and one unwise assault was not likely to bring it crashing to the ground. Or so Katie found herself trying to believe.
‘I can do this,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘I can.’
She looped an escaping swatch of soft hair behind her ear and applied herself to the problem. She also held onto the branch for dear life.
It had not looked this difficult when she’d started. The branch had looked nearer, the lilac tree had definitely been half its present height and there had been no sign at all of the dog on the other side of the wall. The dog was now jumping excitedly against the wall that divided the gardens. As it did so, it showed a fine set of healthy teeth.
Normally Katie liked dogs well enough. But she averted her eyes from those teeth. If only someone would come out of the house and put a muzzle on the wretched creature. Even the bad-tempered man who had not liked Andrea’s van would have been better than no one.
‘Hello?’ she called out tentatively.
Haydon Tremayne stirred, not opening his eyes. He frowned. Something had disturbed him. He did not know what it was. He did not like it.
Somebody wanted him to do something. No, not somebody: a woman. Again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He turned his head away from the source of the noise.
‘No,’ he muttered.
No response. The house looked as deserted as the summer garden. No sign of this morning’s bully. No one to catch her if she fell out of the lilac tree. Katie set her teeth. She was on her own.
‘I got myself into this. I can get myself out of it. I can.’ She said it aloud. It seemed more convincing that way.
The tree wobbled. She clutched convulsively at her branch. There were twigs in her hair and her bare arms would carry the scratches for a long time. If she got down at all.
‘Nonsense. Of course I’ll get down.’ It was, Katie thought, the bracing tone she used to her least talented pupils. It did not convince them either.
Below her the dog reared up on its back legs. At its full height both paws reached high enough up the wall to come within touching distance. It barked once. It was not reassuring.
‘Good dog,’ said Katie without conviction.
It seemed to encourage the animal, she saw dismally. Not taking its eyes off her, it set up a pleasurable barking that would, surely, have roused the neighbourhood—if there was anyone about to be roused. The dog began to drool.
Haydon was not sure whether he was dreaming. He turned his head restlessly. He knew he should be moving, doing something. Even on this warm Saturday, he had a load of work. So maybe it was the voice of conscience sounding through his head like a wild hunt. He became aware of a vast indignation at a world which would not even let him drowse in his own garden for half an hour. He stirred angrily, trying to burrow into the canvas cushions under his head and shut out the noise.
The barking increased to decibels a rock band would envy. If she had not been clinging desperately to the trunk of the tree, Katie would have put her hands over her ears. She could only pray that the touchy millionaire was not at home. Or her tenancy of the house would be over in less than twenty-four hours.
‘Hush,’ Katie hissed.
The dog took no notice. The tree seemed to sway. She grabbed. She heard an ominous cracking.
The dog backed off and began to charge the wall. He gave the impression, thought Katie sourly, that he had not had a game like this in months. The tree swayed further.
‘Shut up, you stupid animal,’ she yelled.
Peering through the branches, she tried to quell the dog with a basilisk glare. It was a bad mistake. The ground was much too far away. Her branch dipped towards it.
‘Stay-calm,’ she told herself. Her shaky tone belied the heartening words.
The dog thudded rhythmically against the wall. The tree creaked. Katie gave a squeak of pure terror and shut her eyes.
Haydon gave up the unequal struggle. He opened his eyes. Something was pounding in his head. He should not have let himself fall asleep in the chair like that. At least, not on an empty stomach and a week’s jet lag, he thought muzzily. He could feel the beginnings of one of his infrequent but devastating migraines.
He regarded the extravagance of early summer with blurred indignation. The garden was deserted. In the windless air, the branches were still. A few early bees buzzed. The guard dog his insurance company insisted on was chasing one along the wall. But that was all.
Or was it? He stood up, rather unsteadily, and went to the summerhouse entrance. Bracing himself against the lintel, he tried to focus.
The Great Dane was flinging itself up the wall, barking. Either the target bee had no sense of self-preservation at all or something strange was happening. Haydon’s eyes narrowed. Yes, there was definitely something wrong with the lilac tree next door. In spite of the windless day its blossoms were waving wildly.
Haydon was a scientist. It cost him a wince, but he swung round to check the apple trees, just to be certain. He liked to be in control of his facts. Yes, he was right, the branches of his own trees were as still as stone. So there had to be someone in that lilac tree.
Haydon came suddenly and sharply alert. He forgot his incipient migraine. He stood very still, listening.
Was it her imagination or was the tree beginning to tilt into the wall? Katie opened her eyes and scanned the neighbouring garden feverishly. The bully might have gone about his business, the millionaire might be away—she prayed that he was—but was there not supposed to be a couple who looked after him? What she needed here was a friendly man with a long ladder. If—
The tree definitely lurched. Katie stopped thinking.
‘Help!’ she yelled.
The sound sliced through his brain. Haydon swung back to the tree. He was suddenly, blindingly angry. He began to run.
Katie was clinging like a monkey to the wildly dipping branch. Her foothold had gone; the dog