Across the Sands of Time (11 page)

‘Wake up, lout! Have you no shame? Barely mid-afternoon, and you already in your cups!'

Wallace Dakin opened bleary eyes, took in the woman before him and closed them again, groaning. Jessica, unsympathetic to his plight, again enlisted the use of the parasol to rap insistently on the table top for the girl in the kitchen, provoking another groan from the suffering landlord.

The girl appeared reluctantly, wiping greasy hands on her gown.

‘Bring some coffee,' Jessica snapped. ‘Black and strong and plenty of it. And look sharp about it.'

The coffee duly delivered, Jessica set about sobering up the tavern-keeper.

‘Wallace, you must listen to what I have to say,' she began, once it became apparent that she had his attention. ‘It's come to my knowledge that we are shortly to be paid a visit by the coastguards. Do I make myself understood?'

He stared at her, his once handsome face working stupidly.

‘Aye, that's perfectly clear. It is correct, I suppose.'

‘Indubitably. I think perhaps it might be wise to take stock of what lies in your cellars. Mind me?'

He nodded.

‘And while I'm here I want a word regarding my sister. Marion is failing, Wallace. You are aware of that?'

Another nod, stricken this time.

‘You will do her a favour by smartening yourself up and laying off the drink – or at least, cutting back on it. Show her a little consideration, man. Let her see that you care for her. It's the very least you can do.'

Pressing her lips tightly together to indicate an end to the conversation, Jessica left the room, taking the stairs to the bedchamber above. Marion lay propped up on pillows in the vast bed, her eyes closed in her wan face. Jessica caught her breath. Her sister seemed to have deteriorated in the few days since she had last seen her.

‘Marion, it is I. Are you awake?'

Marion opened her eyes with effort.

‘Why Jessica, how robust you look. Is it windy outside? You have a fine colour in your cheeks.'

Aware that her heightened colour stemmed more from the altercation with Wallace than from any idiosyncrasies of the weather, Jessica could not help but smile.

‘It's very fine for the time of year,' she remarked, going to sit in the chair by the bed, her back ramrod straight, skirts spread out around her.

‘You're about to ask if there is anything I require,' Marion continued in her new, unfamiliar, weakened voice. ‘There is but one thing. Jessica, I want to see my daughter one last time. Could it be arranged?'

Jessica did not answer. Spiriting Polly away had been far from easy. She knew, and Marion knew, that the girl was better off where she was. What her sister asked was a heartbreakingly impossible request.

 

Trina's cold nose in her hand brought Thea awake with a jolt. Disoriented, she threw a glance around at the unfamiliar surroundings and laughed shakily when realization dawned. Whatever would Dominic think if he knew she had dozed off in his kitchen.

Sitting back in the chair, stretching lethargic limbs, she allowed her mind to trail back over the scenes and conversations she had just witnessed. People today were not so very different, she concluded, with their loves and problems and loyalties. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

‘Come on, Trina,' she said to the dog, scooping up the documents before her. ‘Mum will be wondering where we are. Let's go. With luck you might get a nice juicy bone as a special treat.'

The rest of the day passed agreeably. After lunch, she and Dominic took Trina for a walk across the fields and along the sandy lanes that criss-crossed this part of the Wirral. It seemed natural for Dominic to take Thea's hand in his as they strolled along.

‘It's been a grand day, Thea,' he said in his lilting brogue. ‘Just grand. All being well, I'm free again next Sunday. Will you be needing some more strong-arm stuff for Merry?'

She was aware of her rapidly thumping heart and the warmth of Dominic's hand against hers. She looked up, her clear grey-blue eyes meeting his.

‘Yes, I'd appreciate your help, Dominic.'

Regrettably, it was not to be.

At break at school the next day, Thea was taking her turn on playground duty when the mobile phone in her pocket started up. She answered it hastily, her attention fixed on the playing groups of children under her care.

‘Thea? It's me, Richard. Look, I know this isn't convenient so I'll be quick. Will you be seeing Dominic Shane today?'

‘I could be – any particular reason?'

‘Well, yes. I haven't mentioned this before but we've come across his ex-girlfriend, the lovely Aisling Cleary. I don't know how much you know about his problems here, we only know Aisling's version and Tracey says she doesn't trust Aisling any further than she could blow her. Thea, she's coming to look for him.'

‘Aisling is?' Thea's voice rose to a squeak. ‘But why?'

‘Oh, some idea she's cooked up about wanting to make amends and all that. I wouldn't have thought Dominic would be too keen to see her. You might warn him, sis. Tell him she's getting an early flight tomorrow.

‘Thea? Are you still there?'

‘Yes,' Thea replied, seeing a skirmish in the furthest corner of the yard and making a bee-line for it. ‘OK, Richard. I'll do that.'

The troublemakers saw her coming and broke up instantly, leaving Thea with the phone still in her hand and her mind racing.

From what Dominic had divulged of Aisling Cleary, she seemed
ruthless, cunning and untrustworthy. Was she coming to claim Dominic back? Now, just as they were on the verge of something new and exciting? Thea bit her lip. It certainly looked that way….

T
hea knew she was too late the moment she drew up outside Dominic's front gate. The house looked shuttered and silent; no smoke rising from the chimney, no window open to the late autumn sunshine, no dog barking a warning. There was nothing to indicate the presence of the householder.

Heaving a sigh, for she had left the school premises as soon as she reasonably could and driven straight here, Thea slid out of the car and went to double-check. She rang the doorbell and, receiving no response, walked round to the rear of the house, her feet crunching on the pebbled path.

Glancing in at the kitchen window, she saw all the signs of a hasty departure; newspaper flung aside, cupboard doors left ajar, the remains of a hurried meal still on the table.

Two plates, she noticed, with a pang that shocked her.

She was about to leave when a voice hailed her from the neighbouring garden. A pleasant-faced woman stood by the fence, a quilted green gilet over a shapeless jumper and trousers, secateurs in hand. Behind her, a rose-bed had been given a rigorous pruning.

‘Were you wanting Mr Shane?' she asked politely. ‘Only he was called away unexpectedly.'

‘I see.' Thea managed a smile. ‘Did he say when he'd be back?'

‘No, the young woman with him seemed in a desperate hurry. They've taken the dog with them. I think there was some talk over putting her in kennels, but you know how Mr Shane is over Trina!'

‘Well, thank you.'

Leaving the woman to her gardening, Thea returned to the car.
On the way home her mobile phone trilled. When she arrived at the farm there was a message.

Sitting in the car, frowning a little, she played it back again. No mention of the woman responsible for his sudden departure. Thea had to wonder what Aisling Cleary's game was. Bad news, Richard had called her. It wasn't like her brother to cast aspersions.

Maybe the Irish girl had caused problems between him and Tracey. She'd certainly come between herself and Dominic – and just when the friendship had subtly changed.

The chugging of a tractor made Thea look up and moments later her father drove into the farmyard, the huge double wheels spewing clods of mud across the concreted surface. Parking the vehicle in the barn, he reappeared, sending her a salute of greeting.

Thea collected her bag of schoolwork and left the car to go and speak to him.

‘Hi, Dad. What a mess on the yard. I hope it's not my turn for hosing down.'

‘Think it is, actually. He grinned. ‘'Course, if you're pushed I don't mind taking over.'

‘I wouldn't say no.'

As a rule she enjoyed doing her bit on the farm. Right now she had too much on her mind.

‘Thanks, Dad. Oh well, suppose I'd better get changed and see to the ponies before it gets too dark.'

‘You sound a bit out of sorts, Thea. Bad day?'

‘No, not really, it's this time of year. You know, winter coming on, spring a long way off. I should have sold that mare and foal when I had the chance. It would have been less to do.'

Chas looked his daughter over carefully but made no comment. At the back door of the farmhouse they parted company, Chas to
seek out the new farm hand, Thea to run upstairs and get into working jeans and a warm jumper. She remembered as she came down again that it was her mother's day at the farmers' market, which meant the making of the evening meal fell on her.

‘It'll be curried something,' she muttered, then felt an immediate stab of guilt. Curry wasn't her father's favourite dish; his dinner could well end up in the bin.

Dusk was drawing down rapidly as she hurried to the fields with hay and a bucket of dry feed. A cold wind swept in off the estuary, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water. The small herd of ponies were gathered around the gate watching for her, their eyes bright under their shaggy forelocks, bodies rounded and snug in the thick winter coats they were growing.

‘Hello, you lot,' Thea called, dishing out their usual treat of Polo mints. One of the foals pushed in and gave her an impatient nip.

‘Bad pony!'

Thea rubbed the tender spot on her arm. It hadn't broken the skin but would leave a bruise.

Animals fed, she hastened back to the house to start the supper, only to find Mae home and in the process of cooking their evening meal.

‘Honestly, Mum,' Thea began, ‘you must be shattered after being on your feet all day. You don't have to scrub potatoes and clean masses of vegetables like this. Something light would do.'

‘Not for your father, it wouldn't. He's been out on the fields and deserves a decent evening meal. Anyway, chops and two veg is easy enough. Put the kettle on, will you, love? I'm gasping for a cup of tea.'

Thea obliged. Handing the tea to her mother, she made instant coffee for herself and went to thaw out by the range.

‘Did you see anything of Helen Sanders at the market?'

‘Yes, I did. She was having some friends round so she bought quite a lot of stuff. I thought she looked a little better.'

Mae deftly milled some rock salt over the prepared vegetables and transferred the steamer to the hob.

‘Bryony still features a lot in the conversation. Helen can't praise
her enough. D'you know, your sister's even turned a hand to the milking.'

‘Then miracles do happen,' Thea murmured, sipping coffee.

‘Oh, Thea. Bryony always was a helpful little thing as a child. It's just the teenage stage that was … well, a little fraught. And when is it not?'

‘I suppose you're right,' Thea said, relenting.

When Chas came in, the conversation turned to his farming day and whether to spend the evening filling in the welter of agricultural forms that were piling up on the dresser, or go to the Thatch for a game of darts.

Meal over, Thea took herself off to the sitting-room to do her preparation for tomorrow's lessons.

‘Not herself,' Mae mouthed to Chas, directing a meaningful look at the closed door.

‘I noticed. It wouldn't have anything to do with that young vet she's been seeing a lot of lately?'

‘Dominic, you mean?' Mae switched on the dishwasher and went to sit opposite her husband by the range. ‘Why d'you say that?'

‘Well, I was having a word with the lad' – Chas's usual way of addressing farm hands, young or old – ‘and he said they'd taken on a relief vet at the practice because young Shane had been called back to Ireland.'

‘Really? Did Jason say what for?'

‘No, but it'll be unfinished business, I suspect. I always thought there was more to that fellow than met the eye.'

‘Oh, Chas!' Mae threw her man a glance of amused affection. ‘You say that about everyone you haven't known from being a boy.'

She broke off, frowning.

‘I hope this isn't a disappointment for Thea. She's not had it easy this year.' She bit her lip. ‘Oh, dear. She seemed quite taken with Dominic, and he obviously likes her. But then what young man wouldn't? Thea's lovely … I do so want her to be happy, Chas.'

‘Me, too.' Her husband nodded, then glanced at the clock. ‘I
might tackle some of that confounded paperwork, then slip down to the Thatch for an hour.'

‘Why not, love? I'll just read a few chapters of my library book, then,' Mae said comfortably.

 

Much later, schoolwork done, Thea shouted goodnight to her mother and went upstairs.

A soak in the bath failed to work its usual relaxing therapy, and as Thea climbed into bed, Thea knew she was in for a disturbed night.

Taking a while to glance through the new copy of her equine magazine in the hope of a distraction, she eventually switched off the bedside lamp. She dropped off to sleep at once, moaning softly as the images took shape behind her closed lids….

 

‘No, Puss! You must stay in the cradle where I put you!'

Florence was a pretty six-year-old with a bright crop of golden ringlets, china-blue eyes and an angelic expression that totally belied her forceful nature.

Her sister, Amelia, a year younger and of a quieter disposition, took pity on the cat and, after a slight hesitation, grudgingly removed her doll from a second toy cradle.

‘Here you are, Florence. Let Puss go and have Mary Rose instead.'

‘No, I don't want your stupid doll! Dolls are for babies. I like cats best.'

‘I'm not a baby.' Amelia pouted.

‘Yes, you are.'

‘Not!'

‘You are. Babies play with dolls and that's all you ever do!'

‘Girls, girls,' Polly cried, sweeping into the nursery with an armful of freshly laundered linen. ‘What's all this? You're never squabbling over poor Puss again?'

The cat seized its opportunity and fled to the high window-sill, where it sat twitching its tail in injured affront. The two little girls, dressed identically in white muslin, their faces shining and rosy
with recent washing, immediately forgot their differences and found their most fetching smiles.

‘Here you are at last, Polly!' Florence said. ‘Are we going to the park now?'

‘Please, Polly. You promised,' Amelia added.

‘I know I did and yes, we shall go at once while the sun's out. It will do us good – and I daresay Puss will relish a bit of peace.'

Bundling her small charges into their outdoor clothes, Polly thought how happy she was with her situation here in the tall house on Stanley Square. She adored the little girls.

Their mama, Dorothea Kendrick, had turned out as generous as she was beautiful, giving Polly her cast-off gowns to make over for herself. Jerome Kendrick, the master of the house, was involved in politics and absent a good deal.

Polly knew him as a distant figure, tall and distinguished-looking, with mid-brown hair and a handsomely twirling moustache. There was a son by an earlier marriage – Harry. But Polly didn't want to think about Harry.

Feeling very trim in her dark blue nurse's gown and matching bonnet, Polly ushered the girls out into the bright summer day. Weather permitting, most afternoons were spent thus. They either walked in the park or by the River Dee, or took the governess cart for a drive around the leafy lanes that surrounded the city.

Although Polly's day began early, lighting the nursery fire and dusting, and ended late, since she was often required to attend her mistress when she returned from a dinner engagement or a visit with friends to the theatre, Polly was well satisfied with her lot.

She still fretted over leaving her mother and missed John Royle with a fierce ache that would not go away. But she knew her Aunt Jessica had been right. She was better away from the dangers and insecurities of the Harbour House and the daunting prospect of a loveless marriage.

After spending a pleasant couple of hours taking the air, the little party returned home for the children to have their afternoon nap. As a rule, Polly made use of this quiet time to catch up on
some mending or personal sewing. Today, finding herself short of coloured thread, she slipped down to the kitchen for more.

‘A letter's just arrived for you, Polly,' Cook, a comfortable body who was also the housekeeper – this being a small household – informed her.

Seeing the Parkgate postmark, Polly stowed the letter away in her apron pocket to read later and lingered for a few moments to chat. Returning by the back-stair, booted feet tapping smartly on the uncarpeted oak treads, bundle of thread clutched to her, she reached the top and was about to cross the shadowy landing when a hand shot out and held her fast.

‘Ho, there, Miss Polly. Where are you off to in such a hurry?' Harry Kendrick's voice rasped in her ear.

‘Master Harry! Let me go or I shall scream!' Polly struggled against his grip, bobbins of thread bouncing to the floor and rolling away in all directions. ‘Let go of me!'

‘Not until I've had that kiss.'

‘I'd sooner kiss the pony,' Polly retorted. ‘Stop this at once or I shall tell the mistress!'

‘It'll be your word against mine, Polly my sweet. What a feisty creature you are! One little kiss, Polly, then you may go.'

Spirit-laden breath seared Polly's nostrils and the hands on her shoulders tightened frighteningly. But Polly hadn't lived all her days in a tavern for nothing. Twisting her head away, she delivered her tormentor's shin a sharp kick with the pointed toe of her boot. He let out a howl of anguish, swiftly checked.

His hands fell away and Polly ran for it, not stopping until she gained the safety of the nursery quarters. Shutting the door, she shot the bolt and leaned her back to the solid wooden frame, fighting to control her gasping breath. She realized she was shaking.

This wasn't the first time Harry had made a nuisance of himself and she wasn't sure what to do. He was a good-looking youth who knew how to wield the charm. Would the mistress believe her word against that of her stepson?

‘Polly?' A drowsy voice beckoned from the darkened bedroom beyond. ‘Polly, I'm thirsty. I want a drink of water!'

The simple request did much to restore Polly's scattered wits.

‘Coming, my dear,' she called, and pouring water from the jug on the side table she went through to where her charges were tucked up in their beds. ‘Want a drink of water – what, young lady?' Polly asked in mock severity.

‘Please,' Florence obliged, dimpling.

‘That's right. What a good girl. Now drink it up, then have another little sleep. It's muffins for tea, Cook tells me. Won't that be nice?'

Much later, Polly took out the letter from her aunt and, squinting her eyes in the flickering light of the candle lamp, began to read.…