Harbinger of Spring (11 page)

‘
Sam Blake. Thank you very much.
’

Sara smiled and walked away and a moment later the air trembled once more to the roar of the giant machine.
W
hen she got a little distance away again she thought once more how easy it was to make friends in this part of the country. The people seemed to stand back at first to have a good look at you, then they completely accepted you.

Entering the house, she had qualms of conscience about having left Desmond to his own devices, but the roar now of football spectators as she walked into the sitting room and the fact that Desmond did not even turn his eyes from the screen told her she was worrying unduly. She glanced at the clock and was almost relieved to see it was time to prepare tea.

She went into the kitchen and suddenly realized she was bored with Desmond. They had never been in any way romantic about each other, but in the setting of swinging London—the boutique, the coffee bars, the pop scene, they had found a certain pleasure in each other
’
s company. Yet here, in the country
—
Or was it that she was unconsciously comparing him with Hugh Cornish
?
But that was ridiculous. There
was
no comparison. In any case, it was always silly to compare one person with another.

What else did Hugh do besides bird-watching and writing? Did he ever take out a woman? But how absurd. Of course he did—a man like that. Any woman would be proud—eager—to be seen with him. She pictured him with a woman who was tall and dark, a woman with dignity and poise, dressed well but not ostentatiously. Certainly not in any of the trendy fashions she designed for her teenage customers.

The smell of burning toast claimed her attention, but for some reason she could not dismiss Hugh entirely from her mind. He was still with her when she loaded the tea trolley and wheeled it through to the sitting room, but the silence which now reigned there and Desmond
’
s moody expression set her thoughts on a different track.

‘
Had enough television
?
’
she asked brightly.

‘
They
’
ve got some kid stuff on now.
’

‘
Never mind. As soon as we
’
ve had something to eat, it
’
ll be time for us to make for the bright lights.
’

She arranged two of a nest of tables and poured tea,
‘
What sort of a place are we going to?
’
Desmond asked.
‘
I hope it
’
s lively.
’

‘
I had to choose by the name. It
’
s a Mecca. They
’
re always good.
’

‘
Hum,
’
he spoke with a mouthful of toast.
‘
It depends. There
’
s very often too much old-time for me.
’

‘
I like a bit of ballroom dancing.
’

‘
What—all that slow, slow, quick-quick slow stuff? It looks a grind. Couldn
’
t you have found a discotheque somewhere?
’

‘
I hardly know my way across the town yet. There
’
s bound to be some pop. There always is.
’

‘
I suppose so.
’

Sara was feeling slightly exasperated and looked for another topic of conversation.

‘
I was digging in the back garden a while back and—
’

‘
Digging
!’
The complete disbelief in Desmond
’
s tone made Sara feel as if she had committed some enormous crime, but she went on desperately,

‘
A robin with a very red breast came and hopped into the hole right at my feet. Then when I stopped digging and rested my hands on the fork it came and perched there for almost a minute.
’

‘
That
’
s great. A little Robin Redbreast.
’

His sarcasm was unmistakable. Normally, she would have barely noticed it. Now—

‘
Another muffin?
’

He yawned.
‘
No, thanks.
’

‘
More tea?
’

He merely shook his head.

Sara drew herself upright in her chair. Like most of
his type Desmond had always been offhand, making no effort at good manners, or to hide what he was feeling, but at the present moment he seemed to her insufferably rude. Didn
’
t he know the difference between being a guest in someone
’
s house and sitting at a table in a coffee bar or beating out rhythm in a discotheque? She let her annoyance subside before saying quietly:

‘
I don
’
t think you like it very much here, do you, Des?
’

‘
Well, it
’
s
dead,
isn
’
t it? Like being in a cemetery. Even if you look out of the window there
’
s nothing to see.
’

‘
It
is
very quiet.
’
She looked at the clock.
‘
I
’
ll clear away, then we
’
ll get ready to go.
’

‘
Okay. Where do you keep your telephone?
’

She looked at him in surprise.
‘
The telephone? In the hall.
’
Then understanding dawned.
‘
Of course
—
you haven
’
t fixed up where to stay yet, have you? You
’
ll find a directory there. Try the yellow pages.
’

He did not move from his chair while she was loading the trolley, but when she was in the kitchen his voice reached her faintly from the hall, and as she ran water into the sink she couldn
’
t help wishing his visit was over.

An hour later they were in the car and making good speed towards Norwich. Desmond had hardly uttered a word, but as Sara was negotiating a turn into the busy traffic of the ring-road, he said casually,

‘
There
’
s a train for London at half-ten. I think I
’
ll catch it.
’

She laughed briefly.
‘
I hope you
’
re good at getting up early on Sunday mornings, then. I seem to remember you once telling me you liked to stay in bed until about noon.
’

‘
I meant the half-ten
tonight
.
’

‘
Tonight? But—
’

This again was typical of Desmond—changing his mind without the least consideration for others. All part of the cult of so-called freedom. All the same, it was quite a relief knowing she would not have his company tomorrow, too.

She concentrated on her driving through the quite heavy traffic and hardly spoke again until they were inside the dance hall and seated at their table. A modern waltz was in progress and the floor was not over full. At any other time Sara would have been delighted to have danced to the lilting music, but one glance at Desmond
’
s cynical and contemptuous expression was enough to give swift wings to the notion. A waiter came. She picked up her menu card and ordered with complete abandon. This was going to be a dinner, not a dinner-dance.

By nine o
’
clock there had been only one number for those who preferred jive. But a second one followed shortly afterwards and Sara took the floor with Desmond without any great enthusiasm. She left him when the dance ended and spent an overlong time in the powder room before going back to him and announcing that it was time to leave if he wanted to catch the ten-thirty train.

Outside, it seemed to her to be very cold and she noticed that the concrete of the car park was slippery with a thin film of ice. However, the engine gave no trouble in starting and she arrived at the station at least a quarter of an hour too early. Desmond broke a silence which had lasted during the drive.

‘
I
’
ll let you know as soon as I hear of any suitable premises.
’

‘
Yes, do. Goodnight, Des.
’

She hardly waited for him to close the door before letting in the clutch and for a few minutes she had to struggle to prevent her annoyance interfering with safe driving. But the traffic was thin at this particular hour
and soon she was on the well lit, straight road through the suburbs. Then came unlit miles, along a frosted road glittering under the beams of her headlamps. Sara forced herself to dismiss all thought of Desmond
’
s behaviour in her concentration over the dangerous surface. Near Wroxham she had a horrible moment when she felt the back wheels spin as she negotiated the zigzag of the railway bridge.

Later, as she was travelling along the narrow lane to the boatyard she had a decided skid, so she finished the remainder of the journey at not much more than a walking pace.

The rough ground of the boatyard looked as if it had been covered by a light fall of snow and the surface was difficult to walk over. Then when she reached the launch the canvas canopy was board-stiff and the mooring rope seemed a bar of iron.

There was a light, tinkling sound as she got into the launch which she identified as a skim of ice on the river breaking as the boat rocked. She started the engine and got into the pilot
’
s seat holding the torch so that the beam was straight ahead. Then she noticed a fitment which had not been there before—a searchlight.

Sara fumbled and found the switch and as a brilliant beam shot out felt a great glow of gratitude. Ted Barker
’
s kindness to her knew no bounds. He must have returned to the boatyard after his ordinary hours and fixed the light for her. With its aid she made a good pace along the main river, but slowed the engine to a gentle throb as she turned into the mill dyke. To her surprise the powerful beam picked out a dinghy close into the fringe of reeds. She recognized the duffle-coated figure and called out,

‘
Hugh, it
’
s Sara
!’

‘
I guessed so when I saw the light.
’

She came alongside the dinghy and stopped. He
s
tooped low to peer under the hood.

‘
You
’
re alone. I thought—
’

‘
Desmond took the ten-thirty train back to London.
’
Suddenly she felt a compelling urge to talk.
‘
Have
you
finished what you
’
re doing? If so why not come up
to
the house and have coffee, or something?
’

‘
Well, I certainly won
’
t get
any
more
photographs
around here tonight.
’

‘
You mean my coming along has frightened everything away? I
’
m
sorry.
’

‘
You needn
’
t be. People
happening
along is one of the hazards of this business. I
can
’
t expect
to have the river to myself. I
’
ll
accept your
offer of
coffee,
“
or something
”
. Just a
minute and I
’
ll
hitch on
to your
stern
and you can tow
me.
’

A few minutes
later,
a
thrill of pleasure bubbling up
inside her, Sara opened the
front door and switched
on the light. Hugh came in after
her
and
closed the door
behind him.

‘
Give me your coat and make
yourself comfortable
in the sitting room while
I
make
some coffee,
’
she
told him.

She hung
his
coat up and led
the way
into
the sitting
room, noticing that his gaze
rested on the
piano.