Born of Woman (33 page)

Next day, the sky had cleared and Hester's nerves sparked into excitement as she caught the country bus and rumbled away from the city to the hills. Hester had been writing on her knee—wildly lurching scribbles as they swung round corners or jolted over pot-holes—glimpse of a hare sitting motionless in a field of freckled clover; gleam of a wagtail as it flashed across a burn; grease on the page where she had paused to eat her cheese and pickle sandwiches.

The passage was so vivid, Jennifer could almost taste the pickle on her tongue, see the green and purple hills peering in at the windows of the bus. She pressed her nose to her own pane, the smirch of rain now blurring with a belch of smoke from a distant factory chimney. No tree, no hint of green here, yet less than fifty miles away, the wild and lonely Cheviots reared huge against a wide and free horizon.

She let the curtain fall.
They
could follow Hester, drive to Hernhope, swap the city for the hills. She was almost there, for heaven's sake. Why return to Putney at all, when Lyn could come up North instead, meet her here in Newcastle and then drive on to Mepperton, now—immediately—or at least tomorrow morning? The idea was so bold and yet so simple, it took her breath away. She sank down on the bed. Always before, she had let Matthew overrule her when she tried to mention Hernhope and her longing to return there. Matthew fussed and quibbled, warned of legal tangles, but they could cut through complications simply by ignoring them. All they had to do was slip away and take over Hester's house without arguments or lawyers or any more delay. It had been impossible before. She had been tied to the book and Matthew's apron strings. But now Matthew was half a world away and all the publicity finished save one last evening. The book would sell without her, buoyed by its own momentum. If she flew tamely back in the morning, Putney would close around her like a cage again. A gilded cage, maybe. She had to admit she was still tempted by Susie and the boys, the affection and attraction of a family, but if her new kid sister had designs on Lyn, then it was safer for them to leave.

True, Lyn himself was a problem. He had been strangely guarded about his mother's house, seemed almost to ignore its existence and his rights there—but then Lyn was strange about a lot of things, especially recently. Living at Putney had only made him worse. It was time
she
took command for once, stopped listening to his fears or Matthew's fuss-pottings, and returned where they belonged. A move to Hernhope would solve several problems at once—give Lyn the peace and privacy he needed, remove him from the threat of Susie, remove herself from the grab and glare of London, make a final break with Matthew.

She shifted on the bed, secured the slipping towels. Was that fair on Matthew—to take advantage of his absence, when he was slaving to earn the cash which would make them free of him? Was it fair on the boys to turn her back on them, with their parents both away? Was it even fair on Susie? Could she really leave one scatty teenager to cope with all four children? And how would Anne regard it? Supposing Lyn refused to leave at all or …

Her head was aching with all the complications. She tried to distract herself, picked up the hotel Bible lying on top of the local phone directory, thumbed idly through its pages. It was a new modern translation to match the new modern room. She shut her eyes, opened the book at random, jabbed her finger down. They had played that game at Sunday School when she was still in single figures. You opened your eyes, and whichever verse your finger pointed at, was your personal message from God. Half the time, the passage was irrelevant or they couldn't understand the King James purple prose, but it had passed the time while they waited for the vicar, or dozed their way through prayers.

She sat there for a moment, Bible on her lap, finger pointing, eyes still closed. She should be getting dressed, choosing her most appealing outfit for her final interview, rehearsing her opinions. Yet she couldn't settle, couldn't concentrate. Until she had spoken to Lyn, she was tugged in two.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, stared at the verses underneath her finger. It was Jeremiah—not a Book she knew—chapter thirty-three. She peered at the tiny print on the cheap and grainy paper.

‘The Lord Almighty said, ‘‘In this land that is like a desert and where no people or animals live, there will once again be pastures where shepherds can take their sheep.'''

The words leapt and dazzled on the page. Despite the flat and casual language, they were so strikingly appropriate, it was as if God indeed had spoken. Herhope was a desert, the farm sold, the house abandoned. Matthew himself had dismissed it as a wilderness. Yet here was a pledge and promise that it would revive again, the sheep return, the life return. Her eye strayed to the verse above.

‘In these places, you will hear again the shouts of gladness and joy and the happy sounds of wedding feasts … I will make this land as prosperous as it was before.'

Wasn't that a prophecy—that she and Lyn would return to Hernhope as bride and bridegroom, man and wife, and that joy and wealth would follow them? It could be just coincidence, but even so, it was still extraordinary when there were more than a thousand pages in the Bible, more than thirty thousand verses, and when she had just been struggling with her own decision. She didn't believe in a formal churchy God who spoke through Bibles or thundered out of pulpits, but she did believe in powers and presences shaping people's lives. It was as if Hester had returned, after months of anger and estrangement to be the guide and spirit she had seemed at Hernhope.

‘Although still queasy from the bus, I took a glass of punch with Mr Winterton on arriving at his house, which is more remote than any I have seen. Some would call it bleak, but I find a peace already here. The view is wonderful.'

The view is … Jennifer stared across at stained and puking chimneys, the sprawl of ugly roofs—the spew and dross of Newcastle's bird's eye view. Was it any wonder that Hester had kept her distance, when she had cut herself off from all that she had stood for, left her house to rot? If she had harboured any doubts, they were now completely stifled. The finger which had pointed to the verses was somehow Hester's finger, the prophecy her gift. She and Lyn must return to hill and forest, find Hernhope's peace again. She would phone Lyn after dinner, share her plan with him, coax him up to Newcastle in the morning. All the reporters assumed Hernhope was her home, even if they attacked her for turning her back on it. Well, this time, they'd have no reason for attack. She would complete her last interview, then drive back home to Mepperton to be the Country Woman they had hailed and publicised.

She lay back against the pillows, closed her eyes. She could already see lights beaconing from the windows, cheeses in the larder, flowers softening the stone …

‘Jennifer?'

She started, clutched the towels around her. Jonathan was knocking at the door. He would never presume to enter, but she recognised his purr, his unobtrusive tap.

‘Sorry to rush you, but remember we're meeting early for a drink. So if you could be down in just five minutes …'

Jennifer dashed to the wardrobe, took out the soft blue shirtwaister which had always been Lyn's favourite. She would dress for him tonight, not for the book or Newcastle's leading newspaper. Her face looked nude without its make-up, but she refused to hide behind it. It was only false and she was herself again—and Lyn's. Her cheeks were glowing, anyway, with the excitement of her plan.

This time tomorrow they would be back in Hester's house.

‘Absolutely fantastic!' Jonathan thrilled. ‘That was the best interview I've ever heard you give. I could almost
see
Hernhope, the way you described it. That chap was totally captivated. What luck he was a Borders man himself. I hardly had to say a word this time, with you two bubbling over. You sounded so elated.'

‘Yes. I am.'

‘At going home, I suppose?'

‘Yes.' Jonathan meant Putney. She meant home, real home.

‘How about another drink, then? To celebrate a really sparkling interview and a most successful tour. We could go on somewhere different, if you like. I know a nice little bar just across the …'

‘If you don't mind, Jonathan, I'd rather call it a day now. We've got to be up early for the plane and …' She hadn't told him yet that she didn't intend to catch it. No point worrying him. Matthew had instructed him to shepherd her safely back to Putney, so how could he allow her to drive the other way? Better to talk to Lyn first, make her plans with him, then simply inform Jonathan in the morning.

She floated up the stairs, drunk not only with her last after-dinner cocktail, but with the relief of her decision, the success of her interview. Naked-faced and ordinary, she had somehow become the star she had never managed in all her paint and plumes. It hadn't been an effort. She had simply poured out her excitement, the strange dazzling promise of the Jeremiah verses, her faith and joy in Hernhope, in Hester's return.

The bedroom seemed confining after the sweep and swank downstairs. She kicked off her shoes, removed her watch and bracelet. The paper bags of vegetables were still lying on the chest of drawers where Jonathan had left them. She drew out a carrot, a swollen head of corn. Lyn had grown corn and carrots up at Hernhope, tiny seedlings fighting bare and stony soil. When they left, they had been a flare and boast of green above the stones. It was too late to plant a second crop, but diey could prepare the ground for autumn, plan a bumper harvest, make up for all those months of negligence.

She lay on the bed to make her call. Her legs were made of cocktails. The phone seemed to ring for ever until its shrill changed to a grunt.

‘Who is it?' Grudging male voice not deep enough for Lyn's.

‘Auntie Jennifer here. That you, Charles?'

‘Mm. You woke me up.'

‘I'm sorry, love. How are you?'

‘Tired.'

‘Well, you can go straight back to sleep. Just get Lyn for me, would you darling?'

‘Lyn's not here.'

‘Not there?' So the picnic
had
gone on. ‘Where is he, then?' Copses, bushes, double beds, flashed across her mind like crude and out-of-focus snapshots.

‘Well, he did come back and then pissed off again.'

‘Charles!'

‘I'm only using Susie's word. That's what she said. She had a row with him. They came screaming in about nine o'clock and started fighting with each other. We were pretty scared. They were even throwing things. In the end, Uncle Lyn slammed out.'

Relief and horror curdled in her head. ‘L … look, I'd better speak to Susie. Could you get her?'

‘She won't come. She's locked herself in the loo and refuses to open the door.'

‘She'll come for me, Charles. Tell her it's urgent, will you.'

‘Hell! I'll never get to sleep with all this uproar.
Okay
, I'll go. Hang on a minute.'

The minute seemed to grow like a beanstalk, shooting up, up, up, sending out shoots and branches until it was tapping against the ceiling, choking her in its tendrils. What in heaven's name had happened?

The phone suddenly came alive and was screaming in her ear. She winced and held it from her.

‘Listen, Jennifer, I've had more than I can take of that bloke of yours. He's the most uncouth, neurotic, unreasonable, impossible, self-centred … pig I've ever had to deal with. And I told him so. Don't think I'm going to …

‘What happened, Susie? What …'

‘I'm bloody
glad
he pissed off. I told him not to come back—ever. We don't want him here. No one does. Not even you. I told him what you said about his being such a bloody pain and …'

‘Susie, how could you? Look, I only meant …'

‘No, you didn't. You're fed up to the teeth with him as well. It's obvious. You only ever relax when he's out of the way. He's ruining your life. Can't you see that? Well, I won't have him ruining mine as well. I've got enough problems as it is. You don't know half of it. Now let me get to bed, Jen. I'm shattered.'

‘No—wait, Susie,
please
. Don't go yet. I must know where he is. I've got to speak to him and …'

‘I don't know and I don't care. All I know is he can't get back in here. I've bolted all the doors.'

‘Susie, please unbolt them. You can't leave him out all night. It's pouring down with rain. At least, it is up here. He'll catch a chill and …'

‘Balls! He's as strong as an ox. You just fuss him all the time which makes him pretend he's feeble. Anyway, he's got his bloody car. He can sit in that and shiver, then perhaps he'll have come to his senses by the morning.'

The phone was amplifying Susie's voice until it sounded like a howl of pain. Jennifer tried to stop her own voice crumpling up. ‘Yes, but what about the morning? I mean, the boys and everything? If Lyn comes back, please don't start a row again. It's not good for them to hear all that fighting and quarrelling, not with their parents away and …'

‘Christ, Jen! My parents threw things at each other almost every mealtime. You're all so bloody sheltered in this house.'

‘That's not true, Susie. Lyn had a difficult start himself and …'

‘Yeah, and what about
your
life? Aren't
you
entitled to a bit of fun? God! He treats you like a nun and you sit there and accept it. If it was me, I'd screw everything in sight just to pay him out. He's not the only man in the universe, you know. In fact, I doubt if he's even a proper man at all.'

‘Susie, be quiet. I won't have you running him down like that. He happens to be my husband and I love him.'

‘Love? Balls! What d'you mean by love? Habit, safety, handcuffs, clinging on to someone because you're too bloody scared to face life on your own. Right—I've said enough. I'm going to bed. And if I was you, I'd go out on the town and pick up the first randy bloke you can find, and maybe you'll actually enjoy yourself for once, instead of pining and rusting with your own—ha ha!—man.'