When Donovan surfaced again the fairy was back, perched on the window seat and watching as if she expected him to do something interesting. It was the sheer intensity of her gaze which roused him. He groaned and rolled over, shielding his eyes against the light, and she was sitting there cross-legged, a few feet from him.
âYou're Elphie.'
Her bright gaze sparkled with delight. Donovan knew nothing about children but he supposed she was about six years old. âYou're a policeman.' The little piping voice chimed exactly with the pointed face, the slender limbs, the floss of ash-blonde hair. Even now he had more of his wits about him, he was still inclined to look for the gauze of wings tucked behind her shoulder-blades.
âDonovan,' he said. âMy name â Donovan.'
âNana says I've got to call you Mister.'
Donovan gave a gruff chuckle. âNobody calls me Mister, and you're not big enough to start.'
She recognized it as a joke. The pale triangle of her face spread in a beam. âI'll tell Nana you're up.'
Wings or not, she flew from the room and down the stairs beyond.
Her departure gave Donovan the opportunity to explore his circumstances. A glance under the bedclothes confirmed his suspicion: he was naked, someone had been tending him like a baby. He had no recollection of it, none at all. He remembered being in the saloon on
Tara,
too weak to try the phone again, then waking up here. Nothing in between. The woman said it was Friday. He'd lost three days.
She said he'd had pneumonia. His chest felt bruised. He'd never really been ill before. Injured â he knew the Accident & Emergency wing at Castle General better than some of the people who worked there â but not ill. Pneumonia was an old man's disease!
Another, slower, footfall on the stairs and Mrs Turner â that was the name he'd been looking for â appeared with a tray. âElphie says you're feeling better.'
âI must be. I can keep my eyes open' But he found it difficult to look at her. A man unused to dependency, to whom the very thought was anathema, he was appalled to realize he'd been utterly dependent on a stranger for three days.
But if Donovan was embarrassed, Sarah Turner wasn't. She smiled. âLet's see if you can eat as well.' She put the tray in front of him.
He couldn't work out what time of day it was, had to ask. âThree o'clock in the afternoon.' And, anticipating his next question: âStill Friday.'
She'd made him chicken soup â what Shapiro
called Jewish penicillin â and toast. He began sipping it to please her, found appetite came with the eating. It was four days since he'd had anything solid.
Satisfied, Mrs Turner left him to it. âWhen you want a wash, the bathroom's next door on the left. Simon brought your shaving kit from the boat.'
âSimon?' Donovan mumbled through the toast.
âMy stepson. Call if you need anything.'
The food put some life back into him. His chest still ached, his limbs felt heavy and his head light, but these were the aftermath of illness rather than illness itself. He'd slept his way towards recovery.
After he'd eaten he tried getting up. It took him two tries to reach the dressing-gown left thoughtfully at the end of the bed. Simon hadn't brought that from
Tara:
Donovan didn't own one. Mostly, if he wasn't asleep he wanted to be ready for whatever little surprises the day had in store.
So that, washed and shaved, his next priority was to track down his clothes. He found them in the wardrobe, washed, pressed and hung up. Almost, they looked too clean to be his. He put them on anyway and, already feeling more in control of his situation, headed downstairs.
The rattle of pots led him to the kitchen. Sarah Turner was baking. She looked round in surprise when he cleared his throat. âMr Donovan! You shouldn't be up and about yet. Sit down' â she pulled out a kitchen chair â âbefore you fall down.'
She was right: his knees were trying to bend both ways. He slid gratefully into the chair. âListen, I â erâ' He tried again. âThank you for looking after me. I'm
sorry to have imposed on you.' Since he didn't ask much from other people he didn't get much practice at thanking them. Even to himself it sounded an absurdly formal way to address a woman who'd stripped the damp clothes from his unconscious body and put him to bed.
It did to her too, but she was too well brought up to giggle. âYou're very welcome, Mr Donovan: I'm only glad you're all right. We were a bit anxious about you that first night. Then the antibiotics got to work, and after that it was really only a matter of letting you sleep it off.'
âHave I put someone out of their bed?'
She beamed. âHeavens, no. This is a big house, we've more than enough room for guests. Don't even think of leaving tonight. See how you feel tomorrow, but stay as long as you need to. Elphie's enjoyed having you here. She doesn't see many new faces'
He snorted. âI can't have been too entertaining out cold!'
âWell, it's quiet out here. There are no children in the village now: she has to make do with me, her father and any stray puppies, sick lambs and orphan chicks she can find. I'm afraid she sees you as the ultimate in sick lambs, Mr Donovan.'
He scowled. âI wish you wouldn't call me that.'
Her head tilted to one side. âYou prefer Sergeant?'
âI prefer Donovan.'
She shook her head crisply. âI don't call my employees by their surnames, I'm certainly not addressing a guest that way. I presume you have a Christian name?'
He nodded, reluctantly. âI never use it.'
âWhy ever not? If it's good enough for God, it's certainly good enough for you. What is it?'
âCaolan.'
In thirty years, the only pleasure his first name had ever given him was the way it made Sarah Turner stop and blink. âI beg your pardon?'
âCaolan. It's Irish.' He relented a little. âPeople who insist on doing call me Cal.'
She looked relieved. âVery well. Cal. Now, we have a sort of farmhouse tea at six. If you're well enough I suggest you join us, then have an early night. Or if you're tired before that I'll have Simon bring you up a tray.'
âI'm OK,' he grunted, embarrassed by her kindness. He chewed on his lip. âMrs Turner â can you tell me what happened?'
âYes, of course.' She dusted flour off her hands and sat down facing him. âOn Wednesday morning Elphie found your boat moored on the towpath. She insists she knocked; when she got no answer she peeped through the window. She saw you on the sofa, thought you were asleep, thought she'd wait for you to wake up.' She watched him, gauging his reaction. âThat must seem very rude to you. She doesn't mean to be, she just doesn't understand that people like their privacy. And in the event, it's probably just as well. You really were very ill.'
Donovan nodded slowly. âI'm surprised they left me here. It wasn't your job to look after me, they should have taken me to hospital.'
âWho?'
âWell â the doctor, whoever you called. Did he think I lived here?'
âDr Chapel lives in the village. He didn't think you needed to be in hospital, and I was happy to look after you. It was a dreadful night, and the road out here is so long and so bad we thought you'd be better tucked up in a warm bed than bouncing around in the back of an ambulance. Dr Chapel put you on antibiotics, he said that and a bit of care was all you needed.' She smiled brightly. âAnd he was right.'
âWhat village? Where are we, exactly?'
âEast Beckham. It's a bit pretentious to call it a village â there are a dozen houses and Mrs Vickery runs a general store in her front room. Everyone else works for The Flower Mill.'
Donovan was still thinking in terms of baking. âYou mill grain?' He knew East Beckham as a dot on the map north of the Thirty Foot Drain. He didn't know there was any industry out here.
âFlower with a W,' said Mrs Turner. âIt's a family business. We grow bulbs: cut flowers for the spring, bulbs for the garden centres.'
Of course, bulbs. Donovan had seen the fields in April, great splashes of primary colour like a child's painting. In many ways the fens are more like Holland than the rest of England.
âWhat happened to my dog?'
âHe's all right. We left him on the boat but he's got food and water, he'll keep until you're fit to go and see to him. Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight you really should stay indoors.'
He didn't need persuading. The towpath had to be
half a mile from here, he'd have collapsed in an abject huddle within the first hundred metres. He couldn't believe how weak he felt.
Mrs Turner smiled again, sympathetically. âSo Cal, what brought you out this way? We're a little off the hire-boat circuit. Surely you don't suspect a major crime in East Beckham?'
For a moment he sounded quite offended. â
Tara
isn't a hire-boat, she's my home. But no, I'm not here on business. I had some leave, I thought I'd get out of town for a week.'
âSick leave?' Seeing his surprise she quickly apologized. âI'm sorry, I saw the wound in your side. It's quite recent, isn't it?'
After a moment he nodded. âI was shot.'
âIn the line of duty?'
One dark eyebrow rocketed. âWell, it wasn't a social occasion!'
âI don't mean to pry,' said Mrs Turner. âBut I read about it in the papers. I thought that was you.' She pursed her lips. âYou were very brave.'
Donovan shook his head. Like every born outsider, he both craved acceptance and couldn't take it when it was offered. âThat's not what it is. You do what you have to â what the situation requires. Afterwards someone says “That was brave” or “That was stupid”, but at the time you're just trying to get through. To get home.'
âYou could probably have got home without a hole in your side,' Sarah Turner suggested softly.
He never found it easy to talk about himself. He shrugged awkwardly. âThere never seemed to be a
moment when there was a choice. Some things you don't ever do. You don't turn your back on people who need your help. Once you accept that, the rest kind of follows. If you can't walk away, you have to find a way through.'
Donovan remained uncomfortable with her regard. He'd been considered a hero before. But what he remembered of the events in question was feeling scared all of the time. It betrayed a curious naivety in the pit of his soul, a place where he'd never quite grown up, that he couldn't see anything remotely admirable in that.
He changed the subject. âYour husband runs the business?'
Mrs Turner shook her head. âI'm a widow â Robert died fourteen years ago. His son manages The Flower Mill now'
âThat's Simon? Elphie's father.'
âThat's right.'
âYou never felt like retiring to the south of France when the next generation took over?'
Sarah Turner hooted with mirth. âWhat â lie on a verandah stirring a daiquiri? Not really my scene, Cal. I'm too old to circulate, too young to vegetate. Besides, who'd look after Elphie? No, my place is here. I mightn't have been born in the village but I fully intend to die here.'
Donovan wasn't much of a social animal either. He didn't understand the rules of conversation. He thought it was about exchanging information, didn't understand why the people he did it with tended to get a glazed expression and edge away. He made
people feel they were being interrogated when all he was doing was passing the time until he could leave without causing offence.
He said, âDoesn't Elphie's mother live here then?'
He saw at once it was the wrong thing to say. Sarah Turner's gaze turned from friendly to glacial, then back again, in less than a second. If he hadn't been looking right at her he'd have missed it. If he hadn't been a professional investigator, trained to see and experienced enough to trust what he saw, he might have thought he'd imagined it. But, however brief, it was intense enough to token some real, abiding grievance in the woman's life. Her anger wasn't at Donovan for prying, it was older and deeper and cast in concrete. Mere mention of Elphie's mother made her see red. It had for a long time and it always would. Probably people round here knew better than to provoke her, so his transgression had shock value as well.
But Sarah Turner was a civilized woman for whom good manners were not an optional extra. Seeing his puzzlement she felt obliged to explain. Salvaging a rather cool smile she said, âElphie's mother has never taken care of her. She abandoned the child when she was just a baby, as soon as it was clear she was going to need special looking after. I don't know where she is now, and I have no wish to know. We don't have a lot of time for Elphie's mother in this house.'