The road wound and twisted so the castle got nearer slowly, each turn of the road revealing a little more of its face, like a shy but beautiful woman emerging from behind her veil. But they did get closer, and presently Hester could see the lodge, a bird’s eye view as yet. She was trying to see whether Matthew had taken her washing in when she realised the omnibus had passed the stop she normally used. Still, the walk was probably of about equal
length whether you were walking forward to the lodge or back to it.
Leaning back in her seat, resigned to the walk, Hester tried to look at her home as a stranger might; from a distance the lodge looked, if not as romantic as the castle, at least interesting. But like most things, closer scrutiny was disappointing; it was a real let-down when you saw it, as she saw it now, against the faded splendour of the distant castle. Once it might have been rather nice, built as it was of silver-grey stone and roofed with gleaming slates, but the perpetual Welsh rain had caused lichen to grow on the tiles and streaked the stone walls with green and brown so that now it was a uniform sludge colour, crouching behind the high wall with the left-hand gate partly obscuring the small bit which could be seen from the road. To Hester’s critical eye it looked like a dirty-faced child squinting sourly through prison bars. A sly child, she thought, who probably picked its nose when it thought itself unobserved and wiped its harvest on someone else’s furniture.
It really is an ugly house, Hester decided, turning slightly to indicate to her fellow-passenger, with a smile and a clearing of the throat, that she wished to leave her seat. Hovering there while the old woman gathered her wits, Hester acknowledged that the lodge had a thousand drawbacks – it was cold, damp, and the proximity of the front windows to the ill-kept drive meant that the panes were perpetually dirt-splattered – but it was a home, as much her own as any home could be. Though she thought wistfully that it would be fun to live in the castle, to pretend all day about Princesses and magic and giants and dragons, to have big log fires in the great hall and to order your dinner from the kitchen, something different every night. Why, if she lived there, she would never have to peel a potato, hang washing on a line or catch a bus, servants would do all the menial work, leaving the
mistress to sit before a roaring fire and sew a fine seam.
As Hester half stood up, the woman sitting beside her hauled herself reluctantly to her feet. Hester slid past her, giving due thought to the bunions. The conductor, standing at the foot of the stairs, must have seen the movement in the mirror for she heard the bell tinkle commandingly and the green omnibus, which had been charging along in a cloud of spray in the very centre of the road, swerved to the left as the driver began to apply the brakes. Hester, clutching the still slumbering baby to her chest, steadying herself against a seat, saw the outposts of a tiny hamlet begin to appear outside the windows. Half-a-dozen grey cottages, slate-roofed, crouched on either side of the road, their gardens hidden by drystone walls, their inhabitants keeping indoors on such a wet and miserable day.
The omnibus stopped. Hester walked up the aisle between the two rows of seats, steadying herself with one hand. She descended the stairs, then said ‘Thank you’, politely to the conductor, who nodded as she got carefully down off the step. No one else was getting off. The vehicle, which had scarcely stopped at all, it seemed to Hester, roared off again, plumes of water spraying on either side of it as it went, and Hester walked a little way after it. She wanted to have a look at the hamlet – you could scarcely call it a village – where the staff from the castle must live, those who did not live in, of course.
Hester wondered what it would be like to live here, in a small community, cheek by jowl with neighbours who must know one another intimately. For the first fifteen years of her life Hester had known nobody much apart from the staff and children of the Sister Servina Orphanage and the girls at the Convent School in Liverpool. She thought it might be rather fun but, fun or not, the cottages were not her destination so having taken a good look at them and the smithy, the solitary shop in someone’s front
room, she began to walk slowly back the way she had come.
The rain had been intermittent throughout the journey but now, as though it had waited for her to get off the bus, it came down hard and viciously, the drops so large that they created small explosions on the wet tarmac and bounced off Hester’s unprotected head with considerable force. She tried to draw her head into her shoulders like a tortoise and gave up her leisurely gait in favour of a brisk, splashy trot. She had been walking along more or less in the middle of the right-hand carriageway, but now she dived for the shelter of the great stone wall with its jagged, raw-rock top. It gave a little shelter, though you had to offset that against the occasional shower of drops when you went under the branches of one of the trees which leaned over the wall at intervals.
It was a good walk. It must be a mile, Hester thought dolefully, as her hair began to slick to her head and raindrops sluiced down her face. She should have brought an umbrella, but it had been fine when she started out, and she could not have managed an umbrella as well as the burden beneath her coat. She sighed and tried to walk even faster; if she didn’t get out of the rain soon she’d probably catch her death. For ten minutes the picture of herself on her death-bed – very pale, dignified and noble, with people coming from miles around to see the bride who had died so young – kept her occupied, but then the sheer discomfort of the heavy rain began to tell and not even the most vivid imaginings could keep her feet warm and dry or her hands from turning white and purple with the cold. Crossly she slogged along, head bent, saturated shoes sloshing indifferently in and out of the great, rain-dimpled puddles. No point in walking an additional yard or two round a puddle when you were as wet as she; might as well wade right through the middle.
So intent was she on walking as fast as possible that
she did not hear the pony and cart until it drew to a halt beside her.
‘Hester! You’re soaked, girl! What are you doin’ here? Didn’t you ask the bus conductor to stop at the lodge? They will, if you asks.’
Hester looked up at the man driving the cart and gave him a grateful smile. A chance to get out of the wet a bit quicker! She put a hand on the side of the cart.
‘Oh Matthew, am I glad to see you! The omnibus was past the lodge before I knew it. I’m ever so wet.’
Matthew laughed with more than a trace of indulgence. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man in his thirties, wearing a sack over his head and shoulders to keep off the rain. A skinny black-and-white border collie sat beside him in the cart, pressing close to his stained corduroy trousers, eyeing Hester doubtfully.
‘You’re half drowned, be the looks of it. Come on, give me your hand, I’ll heave you aboard.’
He held out a square, capable hand but Hester shook her head. ‘Can’t take your hand, Helen’s under my coat. But I can hop up.’
She hopped up unaided and sat on the wet wooden seat beside the dog. Behind them were sacks of what looked like chicken meal or fertiliser, she could not tell which; Matthew had chucked another sack or two over them to keep the worst of the rain off. As Hester settled herself the collie shifted further along, giving her an almost human look of dislike, then heaved a deep sigh. Hester patted the dog’s wet head with a wet hand but received not a flicker of response. Fanny, she knew, was a one-man dog; Matthew was the only person who mattered in her life, and she rarely even acknowledged Hester’s existence.
Matthew waited until she was settled, then lifted the reins and clicked his tongue. The bay mare flicked an ear back and broke into trot.
‘Baby all right? You all right, too? What did they say at the ’ospital clinic?’
For the first time since she had boarded the bus, Hester turned back the edge of her coat. Slumbering in the rough sling which Matthew had fashioned for her the baby lay, tiny fists balled, mouth a crinkled rosebud, small body cuddled against Hester’s ribs beneath the curve of her breast. At the sight of her child a tide of gentle love washed over Hester, bringing an involuntary smile to her lips, a tenderness to her eyes.
‘She’s fine; the nurse and the doctor were pleased with me and said Helen was doing just as she ought at a couple of weeks. We don’t have to go back again, next time we can see the village doctor.’
Matthew nodded. ‘Good. Less trouble. Cover her up again, m’dear, us don’t want her taking cold.’
Hester pulled the edge of her coat across, but not before a raindrop had hit the baby full on the face, causing a pair of large blue eyes to open for a moment, squint confusedly, and then slowly close. Hester laughed and held the child even closer.
‘She nearly woke up then. I was glad she slept in the bus so I could keep her tucked away from harm, under my coat. I do hate people staring and hanging over her.’
‘Why? Folk think she’s a pretty thing, and aren’t they just right?’
‘Yes, she’s very pretty, but I’m afraid they might give her coughs and colds and things. I’d rather they kept their distance. She’s so little, a cold or a cough might make her dreadfully ill.’
‘Aye, I never thought o’ that.’ Matthew slowed the cart as they drew alongside the lodge. ‘Wait on, I’ll tie Frisk to the gatepost and get the door open for you.’
‘I’m all right, I can manage,’ Hester said briskly. ‘Thanks for the lift, Matthew. Are you coming in for your lunch?’
‘Dinner, d’you mean?’
‘Sorry, yes. Dinner. Are you coming back or did you make yourself sandwiches?’
‘You didn’t ’ave time, I daresay, what wi’ gettin’ the bus?’
‘Sorry, I forgot. Why didn’t you remind me?’
He smiled kindly at her. Hester, climbing down from the cart, reflected guiltily that Matthew was always kind.
‘It don’t matter. I’ll come in for dinner if it’s no trouble.’
‘Of course it’s no trouble, silly! I’ll have to feed Helen when she wakes, but I’m sure I can find something nice so you can have a hot meal. When’ll you be in?’
She was standing at the lodge door, looking back at him, a hand on the latch. He glanced ahead, towards where the castle bulked pale against its dark cliff.
‘Say an hour? Will that suit?’
‘Of course it will, Matthew! See you in an hour, then.’
Hester hurried into the lodge and shut the door as Matthew drove off down the long muddy track towards the castle. The front door opened straight into the parlour, a room filled with heavy Victorian furniture bought by Matthew’s mother and grandmother and lovingly cared for, judging by the gleam on the walnut-wood piano, with its candle sconces and shallow, yellowing keys. There were a great many knick-knacks in the parlour: artificial flowers under glass, a case of stuffed birds and quantities of cheap but pretty china from various seaside resorts, and everything was clean and gleaming. It was dim in the parlour even on a sunny day, but with the rain pouring down from a dark sky very little light filtered through the musty Nottingham lace and looped sateen curtains which half obscured the small diamond-paned window. Nevertheless it was a room to be proud of, if you could forget that it was all old Mrs Coburn’s stuff and if you liked old-fashioned things, for there was almost nothing modern
in the room. Even the leaded windows had intrigued her at first, with their wobbly, green-tinted glass distorting the view outside, but they were undoubtedly very old.
I still like these windows, Hester thought, they’re like a gingerbread house would have, only I hate cleaning them; it takes so long. And we could do with fewer
things
around too, because they take ages to dust. One day, when I know Matthew a bit better, I may suggest we put some of the stuff away and give ourselves some space; but not yet, it’s too soon to change things.
Having taken off her coat, Hester settled the still-sleeping child in the old-fashioned moses basket which stood on its stand beside the settee, and looked guiltily at the wet footprints marking old Mrs Coburn’s rug. In the bedroom a great many old pictures and photographs lined the walls, so Hester knew Mrs Coburn’s stern, unsmiling face very well. The older woman’s ghost was often present in the parlour, looking sadly and accusingly at the daughter-in-law she had never met, suggesting that Hester could try a little harder, get up a little earlier … Hester seldom entered the lodge by the front door in deference to Mrs Coburn’s cherished front room. But today, because of the rain …
Still. Matthew wouldn’t mind, even if the marks hadn’t dried out by the time he came in for his meal, and the Coburn ghosts were present only in Hester’s imagination. After his mother’s death Matthew had lived here alone until their marriage – ten years of cooking his own meals, cleaning for himself, sorting out his finances and his marketing. I think I’d go mad if I were alone here for ten days, let alone ten years, Hester thought, padding barefoot into the kitchen, her muddy shoes in one hand. It’s such a dark house, so chilly and unwelcoming. Matthew probably won’t mind if I change things, and I will one day, because he does want me to be happy. And because he rescued me when I needed
someone, I want him to be happy too, so I won’t make many changes.
The kitchen wasn’t a bad room, though. The fire had been lit in the range – poor Matthew, Hester thought, conscience-stricken, to have to tackle that on top of so much else – and the kettle, though it wasn’t over the heat, purred gently on the hob. She padded across the quarry tiles, slung her coat on one of the ladder-backed kitchen chairs and began to wind down the drying rack. It was old and creaky, but an absolute blessing. Each rainy morning Hester did her washing, hung it over the rack, then hauled it up to the ceiling where the clothes dried in the uprush of warm air from the range, out of sight and mind, until she brought it down the next day.
Until baby Helen had been born Hester had washed only on a Monday, but she and Matthew couldn’t afford piles of towelling and muslin napkins, a dozen of each had to suffice, which meant washing every day whether she liked it or not. So now the drying rack had come into its own, and Hester now appreciated this relic of Mrs Coburn, if no other. Fortunately I quite like washing, Hester reminded herself, draping her coat across the rack, then feeling the top of her grey jumper and the white blouse beneath it. They were both pretty wet, the rain had channelled down her neck and soaked most of her upper clothing; glancing down, she saw her navy skirt was also soaked for six inches around the hem and muddy from the dirt of the road.