Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine
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was very neat, the ranks of logs undisturbed beneath their net of spiders’ webs save for a few that had fallen at the end of the pile, the spade still leaning where she had left it in the corner. With one last look round she turned off the torch and returned it to her pocket. She needed both hands for the box. Hefting it up with a groan she made her way out into the cold garden, conscious of the brooding woods so close to the front of the cottage. It was impossible to run with the box. As swiftly as she could she walked back indoors and then she dropped it on the hall floor. Turning she slammed the door shut and shot the bolt home.
Safe. She closed her eyes and laughed quietly to herself, embarrassed, alone as she was, by her own stupidity. Picking up the box again she hauled it into the living room and put it neatly by the stove. Then, drawing the curtains against the darkness she went back to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The phone rang as she was waiting for it to boil.
‘Kate, my dear. Just checking to see that everything is all right.’ It was Roger Lindsey. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been out most of the day so I thought I would give you a quick call to make sure you have everything you need.’
‘Thank you. I’m fine.’ She took a deep breath, astonished at how pleased she was to hear the sound of his voice. ‘I came by earlier to leave my car again so I saw you were out.’
‘We were having lunch with some friends in Woodbridge. Nice people. They had read your book.’
‘Nice people indeed.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Roger, tell me, how do I make this woodburner thing stay alight all night?’
She heard an exclamation of impatience. ‘Didn’t Greg show you? I’m sorry, my dear. Those things take a bit of getting used to, but once you’ve got the hang of it you can keep it going for months without it going out. Do you want me to come up and show you?’
She shouldn’t drag him over when he was ill, when he had been out all day and must be tired, but suddenly the thought of a visitor was very tempting. ‘Would it be an awful imposition? I’ve got a good whisky here.’
She heard him laugh. ‘I’m on my way.’
It was scarcely fifteen minutes later that she saw the headlights of the Land Rover appear from the trees. Roger climbed out. ‘Greg’s away for a day or two. I’ll give him a good bollocking when he gets back. He was supposed to show you how everything works.’
‘He must have forgotten. I had so much stuff to bring in.’ She closed the door behind him and led the way into the living room. She had put the whisky bottle on the table with two glasses. She poured, then she watched as he knelt before the stove and pulled the doors open. ‘Start with a good blaze, like this,’ he instructed. Magically a fire appeared beneath his thin hands. ‘Then put on one or two of the logs. Like so.’ He pushed two huge logs into the small cavity and miraculously they fitted. Then he closed the doors. ‘Now, leave it for a while with the dampers open like this. Once the fire has caught properly – about two-thirds of the way down that glass, I should say – we close them tight. The secret is to get it burning slowly and steadily and then to cut off as much air as possible. You have to stack the logs in really tight last thing – that’s an art you must practise I’m afraid, but you’ll soon get the hang of it. It keeps this place really snug once it’s working properly.’
He took the glass she offered him and sat down in one of the armchairs, gazing round the room. ‘You’ve made it look very comfortable.’
The tall, thin man sprawling in the chair in his shabby cords and old tweed jacket was so reassuring and normal that Kate found the wave of nervous loneliness which had hit her earlier was receding fast. ‘I gather your son used to live here. I’m sorry my coming here has upset him,’ she said as she sat down opposite him.
‘He’s no business to be upset.’ For a moment a shadow passed across Roger’s face. ‘He knows we need the money. Sorry if that sounds crude, but it’s a fact of life. And it’s nice for us to have a congenial neighbour.’ He smiled comfortably. ‘As you’ve gathered, it’s fairly isolated up here. And to that end, Diana has instructed me to ask if you would like to come and have some supper with us on Wednesday. We quite understand if you’d rather not because you are working, but –’
‘I should love to.’ She replied so quickly she surprised even herself. ‘I shall look forward to it immensely.’
‘Good.’ His smile was expansive, deepening the network of wrinkles around his eyes. ‘You’ll have the pleasure or otherwise of meeting our other two children, Allie and Patrick.’ Draining his glass he stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else I suppose I’d better go home. Di will have supper ready soon.’
Stay, she wanted to say. Please, stay and talk to me. She liked his presence in the room. It was comforting. Solid. And safe. She said nothing. Smiling, she showed him to the door. ‘I’ll report back on my success or otherwise with the stove when I see you.’
‘Do that.’
She watched as the Land Rover backed round and headed back up the track, the headlights bucking against the trees as it slid between the ruts. In a moment it was out of sight.
Closing the door and bolting it again she walked back into the living room. As though recognising the hand of a master the woodburner had settled down to produce a satisfyingly hot glow which was already warming the room. She looked round, pleased. Although Roger had gone something of the friendliness he had brought with him had remained; basking in it, she would make herself some supper, read a little, listen to some music, have a hot bath and go to bed early. Tomorrow she would spend the day with Lord Byron.
In the stillness of the night the tide lapped imperceptibly higher along the beach, round the headland and slowly, oh so slowly, into the backwaters of the estuary, licking at the mud, floating strands of trailing grasses and weeds, curling round the toes of sleeping geese and ducks. Rising.
In the dune the sand had dried. It was brittle, friable, ready to fall. Beneath it, only a centimetre down now, was the clay – clay which was plastic, impervious to air or water, and in the clay was the peat which held preserved the remains of four human bodies.
She had been sitting at the word processor for two hours and she had not noticed that it was getting light. Now, arms and shoulders cramped and her head throbbing from her intense concentration, Kate sat back, took off her glasses and, dropping them beside her notes, stared out of the window. The mist had receded to leave a sunrise of breathtaking clarity. The narrow vee of sea visible between the shingle banks from her carefully positioned table glittered with blinding beauty. It was more than anyone could resist; besides, she needed a break. Donning jacket, scarf and boots she pulled open the front door and emerged into an ice cold wind. Looking around she took a deep breath of pure delight. This was a place where Byron himself would have felt at home.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean – roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain …
The beach was still wet from the receding tide as she tramped northwards along it, murmuring the lines from ‘Childe Harold’, her head ducked against the sting of the wind and the glare, her cheeks tingling beneath the whipping strings of hair as they pulled free of her scarf. The words weren’t quite right, of course. This wasn’t an ocean and it was neither all that deep nor dark, but still the mood was right. It was exhilarating. She wanted to jump and run and dance, but the shingle and soft sand precluded all but the most undignified gallop. Stopping at last, exhausted, she turned and began to retrace her steps. With the wind and glare behind her she could slow down and appreciate the different colours and textures of the water: where the sand rose near the surface it was pale green, even yellow. Further out streaks of deep turquoise melded with grey