The Winter Sea

CHAPTER 10

I KNEW THAT HE was watching me.

The rain was coming harder now. It beat upon the windshield with the force of fifty drummers, and the wipers could no longer clear it fast enough for us to have a good view of the road. Graham had tucked the car into a layby and idled the engine, and now he had turned in his seat and was watching my face while I looked out the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s not much of a tour, in this weather. The countryside all looks the same when it rains.’

‘That’s all right. You can’t control the weather.’

‘We could try to wait it out.’ But from his doubtful tone I knew that he felt fairly sure, as I did, that this rain had settled in to stay awhile, and he was not the sort of man to wait for long.

I had been looking forward to this morning more than I’d have wanted to admit. I’d been watching the clock till he’d come up half an hour ago and walked me down to where his beaten-up white Vauxhall waited parked beside the harbor wall, with Angus wagging happy in the back. But we had only gone a short way when the clouds that had been smothering the morning sun had opened. It was clear now that we’d have to end our driving tour before we’d even properly begun. I tried to hide my disappointment.

Graham must have seen it anyway, because he put the car in gear again and, turning up the wipers to their highest speed, eased back on to the narrow road. ‘I tell you what. I’ve friends who have a farm not very far from here. We’ll stop and visit them, all right? Put in a bit of time, till the rain eases.’

Angus, who’d stretched out along his blanket on the back seat, raised his head to note the changing of our course, and by the time we’d reached the farm’s long lane was standing on the seat, tail wagging, obviously pleased by where he was.

The lane was rutted deep and muddy, ending in a neat square yard with sheds joined in a squat row to the front of us, and barns along our right hand side, and to the left a low-walled whitewashed farmhouse with a bright blue door.

‘Sit tight,’ said Graham, pulling up his jacket’s hood, ‘I’ll see if they’re about.’

He stood at the farmhouse door, with water sluicing down a drainpipe at his shoulder, and knocked. No one came, so with a shrug and quick smile of encouragement, he jogged across the hard-packed yard and through the open doorway of the nearest barn.

He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that Angus hated being left behind. The dog had merely sat and whimpered while his master had been knocking at the blue door, but when Graham disappeared into the barn, the spaniel stood and scrabbled at the window of the back seat and began to howl, a piteous, heart-rending noise designed to move the listener to action. I could only stand a minute of it—then I turned and rummaged for his leash. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘all right, we’ll go, too. Just hold on.’

I didn’t have a hood. But I had boots, which I was thankful for, because my first few running steps were ankle-deep in rainwater. With Angus pulling hard against the leash, we moved with near-Olympic speed across the courtyard, and were through the door and in the barn before the rain had soaked me.

It was warmer inside, dusty from the hay and from the movement of the animals, and smelling sharply of straw and manure. After what I’d written last night, it seemed fitting, somehow, that I should now find myself confronted by a row of tidy horse stalls—three with horses, and one empty— and that one of the three equine faces turned to watch my entrance should look strangely like the mare that I’d created for Sophia, with the same great liquid eyes and coal-black mane and gentle features.

Graham wasn’t anywhere in sight. He must, I thought, have gone the full way down the barn and round the corner, to the sheds, which I could see now were connected at the far end. Angus would have followed, but I held him back a moment, keen to have another minute with the horses.

I loved horses. Every young girl did, so I’d been told, and I had never totally outgrown the phase. My more discerning readers sometimes commented on how I always managed to work horses into all my plots, though I at least could claim that I could hardly write historicals without a horse or two. Truth was, they were my private weakness.

There was no great black gelding in any of the stalls, like the one I’d given to Nathaniel Hooke, and no bay gelding either. Only a tall chestnut hunter who eyed me, aloof, and a curious grey in the end stall, and standing between them, the mare—or the horse that I thought was a mare, since she looked like the one I’d imagined. She stretched out her nose as I offered my hand and with pure joy I petted the velvety hair by her nostrils and felt the warm push of her breath in my palm.

‘That one’s Tammie,’ Graham said. He had, as I’d deduced, been in the sheds, and was returning now with his unhurried stride. ‘You want to watch him, he’s a ladies’ man.’

I turned, surprised. ‘He?’

‘Aye.’ Coming up, he took the dog’s lead from me so I’d have both hands free for the horse.

I rubbed the side of Tammie’s neck. ‘He’s much too pretty,’ I declared, ‘to be a boy.’

‘Aye, but you’ll wound his pride by saying so.’ He glanced at me with interest. ‘D’ye ride?’

‘Not really.’

Grinning, he asked, ‘What does that mean?’

‘That means I can sit on horses if they let me do it. I can even hold on if they’re only walking, but beyond a trot I’m useless. I fall off.’

‘Well, that can be a problem,’ he agreed.

‘I take it no one’s home?’

‘No.’ He glanced briefly at the open double doorway, where the rain was coming down now in an almost solid sheet, and then looked back at me and, seeing how absorbed I was in petting Tammie, said, ‘But we can wait. We’re in no hurry.’ And he hitched a rough stool forward with one foot, and took a seat, while Angus settled on the straw-strewn floor beside him.

It was almost like my book, I thought. The stables, and the mare—well, Tammie, looking like the mare—and me, and Graham, with his clear grey eyes that looked, by no coincidence, a lot like Mr Moray’s. We even had the dog, curled up and sleeping in the straw. Life echoed art, I thought, and smiled a little.

‘What about yourself ?’ I asked. ‘Do you ride?’

‘Aye, I won ribbons in my youth. I’m that surprised my dad’s not had them out to show you.’

His voice, behind the dryness, held such fondness for his father that it made me wonder something. ‘Maybe,’ I ventured, ‘he’ll show me tomorrow. You know he’s invited me over for lunch?’

‘He did mention it.’

‘You’ll be there, too?’

‘I will.’

‘That’s good. Because your dad’s been trying very hard to help me with my research, and he seemed keen to have me meet you so we could talk history.’ Pretending a deep interest in the horse’s face, I asked him, without looking round, ‘Why didn’t you tell him we’d already met?’

I wished, through the long minute of the pause that followed, that I could have seen his face, and known what he was thinking. But when he spoke, his voice was hard to read. He only tossed the question back at me. ‘Why didn’t you?’

I knew why I’d kept silent, and it wasn’t just because I hadn’t wanted to conflict with his own story, or the lack of it. It was because…well, Graham, like the horses, was a private weakness, too. When he was near me I felt half-electric, half-confused, excited as a teenager caught up in a new crush, and I had wanted that to last a while, to hug it to myself and not let anyone intrude upon it. But I couldn’t tell him that, so I said, ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really think.’ And then, like him, I threw the ball back. ‘I assumed you’d had your reasons for not telling him.’

Whatever they had been, he didn’t tell me. We were on a different subject. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘how goes the book?’

Much safer ground, I thought. ‘It’s going really well. It kept me up till three o’clock this morning.’

‘Do you always write at night?’

‘Not always. When I get towards the last part of a book, I write all hours. But I do my best work late at night, I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m half-conscious.’ I’d said that last part as a joke, but he nodded, considering.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Maybe at night your subconscious takes over. A friend of mine paints, and he says the same thing, that it’s easiest working at night, when his mind starts to drift and he’s nearly asleep. Says he sees things more clearly, then. Mind you, I can’t tell the difference myself from the pictures he paints in the daytime—they all look like great blobs of color to me.’

After this past week and what I’d learned about Sophia Paterson, I’d formed a few opinions on the subject of subconscious thought and how it ruled my writing, but I kept these to myself. ‘With me it’s habit, more than anything. When I first started writing—really writing, not just playing—I was still at university. The only time I had was late at night.’

‘And what was it you studied? English?’

‘No. I love to read, but all through school I hated it when books were pulled apart and analyzed. Winnie-the-Pooh as a political allegory, that sort of thing. It never really worked for me. There’s a line in The Barretts of Wimpole Street—you know, the play—where Elizabeth Barrett is trying to work out the meaning of one of Robert Browning’s poems, and she shows it to him, and he reads it and he tells her that when he wrote that poem, only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant, and now only God knows. And that’s how I feel about studying English. Who knows what the writer was thinking, and why should it matter? I’d rather just read for enjoyment. No, I studied politics.’

‘Politics?’

‘I had ideas of changing the world,’ I admitted. ‘And anyway, I thought it might come in handy, somewhere. Everything’s political.’

He didn’t argue that. He only asked me, ‘Why not history?’

‘Well, again, I’d rather read it for enjoyment. Teachers always knock the life out of the subject, somehow.’ Then remembering what he did for a living, I tried softening that statement with, ‘Not all teachers, naturally, but—’

‘No, it’s no use now, you’ve said it.’ Leaning back, he studied me with obvious amusement. ‘I’ll try not to take offence.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘You’ll only dig yourself in deeper,’ was his warning.

‘Anyway, I never finished university.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I finished my first novel first, and then it sold, and things just took off on their own after that. It bothers me sometimes that I didn’t get my degree, but on the other hand I really can’t complain,’ I said. ‘My writing has been good to me.’

‘Well, you’ve got talent.’

‘My reviews are mixed.’ Then I paused, because I realized what he’d said, and how he’d said it. ‘Why would you think I’ve got talent?’

I’d caught him. ‘I might have read one of your books this past week.’

‘Oh? Which one?’

He named the title. ‘I enjoyed it. You impressed me with the way you did your battle scenes.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘And you obviously did a thorough job with all your research. Though I did think it was hard luck that the hero had to die.’

‘I know. I tried my best to make the ending happy, but that’s how it really happened, and I don’t like changing history.’ Fortunately, many of my readers had approved and had, according to their letters to me, wallowed in the tragic end, enjoying a good cry.

‘My mother would have loved your books,’ he said.

My hand still idle on the horse’s neck, I turned. ‘Has she been gone for long?’

‘She died when I was twenty-one.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. So am I. My dad’s been lost these fifteen years. He blames himself, I think.’

‘For what?’

‘She had a problem with her heart. He thinks he should have forced her to slow down.’ He smiled. ‘He might as well have tried to slow a whirlwind. She was always into everything, my mum.’

That must be where he got it from, his restlessness. He flipped the conversation back to me. ‘Are both your parents living?’

‘Yes. I have two sisters, too.’

‘They’re all still back in Canada?’

‘One sister’s in the States, and one’s in China, teaching English. My dad says it’s our Scottish blood that makes us want to travel.’

‘He may be right. Where’s home for you, then?’

‘I don’t really have one. I just go to where my books are set, and live there while I’m writing.’

‘Like a gypsy.’

‘Sort of.’

‘You must have some interesting adventures. Meet some interesting people.’

‘I do, sometimes.’ I could only hold his gaze a moment, then I turned away again to scratch round Tammie’s forelock. Tammie nudged me, flirting, and I said to Graham, ‘You were right, he is a ladies’ man.’

‘He is. He has a handsome face,’ he said, ‘and kens the way to use it.’ He was looking at the open door again, and at the rain that was still pelting down upon the hard-packed yard. ‘I think we’re out of luck the day, for touring.’

He was right, I knew, but I said nothing.

Truth be told, I wouldn’t have minded spending the rest of the day in this stable, with Graham and Angus for company. But he clearly wasn’t one to sit still for that long, so when he stood, I gave the horse a final pat and turned my collar up, and made the dash, reluctantly, back through the rain to where we’d parked the Vauxhall.

I did a better job, this time, of hiding how I felt. And it seemed hardly any time at all before we were surrounded by the houses and the shops of Cruden Bay, and then we’d reached the bottom of the path up to my cottage and he parked and came around to let me out. Shrugging off his coat, he held it overhead so that it shielded both of us, and said, ‘I’ll walk you up.’

He left Angus in the car, though, and I knew that meant that Graham didn’t plan on coming in. And that was fine, I thought, there was no reason for me to be disappointed. There’d be other times.

But still, I felt a little flat inside and had to force a smile to show him when we reached my front door and I turned to thank him.

Graham took the coat that he’d been holding overhead and put it on again. ‘We’ll try the tour another time,’ he said.

‘All right.’

‘See you tomorrow, then. At lunch.’

‘OK.’

He stood a moment longer, as though wanting to say something else, but in the end he only flipped his hood up, smiled, and started off again along the path while I turned round to fit my key into the cottage door.

My hands were cold and wet and couldn’t work the lock, and then I dropped the key and heard it ping on stone, so that I had to crouch and search for it, and by the time I’d found it I was well and truly soaked.

I straightened, to find Graham standing once again beside me. Thinking he’d come back to help, I told him, ‘It’s all right, I found it.’ And I raised the key to show him.

But when I began to try the lock again, his hand came up to catch my face, to stop me. I could feel the warmth of his strong fingers on my jawline, as his thumb traced very gently up my cheekbone.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t tell my dad, because I didn’t want to share you. Not just yet.’

I was convinced, at first, I hadn’t heard him properly. And even if I had, I couldn’t think of what to say. If I’d been writing this, I thought, I would have had no problem. It was easy writing dialogue for characters in books, but in real life, the words just never came to me the way I wanted them.

He took my pause for something else. ‘I’m sure that sounds insane to you, but—’

‘I don’t want to share you either.’ Which, considering the way that tumbled out, was not exactly the sophisticated answer I’d been aiming for, but seconds later I had ceased to care.

The kiss was brief, but left no room for me to misread his intentions. For that swirling moment, all I felt was him—his warmth, his touch, his strength, and when he raised his head I rocked a little on my feet, off balance.

He stood looking down at me as though he’d felt the power of that contact, too. And then his teeth flashed white against the darkness of his beard. The grey eyes crinkled. ‘Put that in your book,’ he dared me.

Then he turned and, shoving both hands deep into his pockets, walked off whistling down the wet path while I stood behind and watched him, standing speechless in the rain.