Sitting on the edge of the bed she kicked off her sandals and lay back on the pillow. She had drawn the curtains against the sun and the room was shadowy, the heat stifling. She could feel her eyes closing. Relaxing on top of the duvet she could feel some of the aching tension easing out of her bones, the heat and the darkness behind her eyelids like a warm bath of peace. Sleep. That was all she needed to soothe away her fears. Sleep, undisturbed by a crying baby or the restless, hot body of her husband next to her in the bed. Poor Luke. He was out in the coach house with Jimbo working amongst the smells of oil and petrol and the heat of sun-warmed metal.
The weight on the side of the bed was so slight she barely noticed it. For a moment she lay there, eyes still firmly shut, resisting the lurking flutters of fear, then slowly, reluctantly, she opened them and looked around. Nothing. The room was still. There was nothing near the bed which could have caused the slight frisson of movement in the air, the almost unnoticeable depression of the bedclothes near her feet – nothing beyond the stirring of the bed curtain in a stray breeze from the window. Feeling her mouth dry and uncomfortable she swallowed and closed her eyes again. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of. But the moment of relaxation had gone. She could feel the uncomfortable trickle of adrenaline into her system, nothing dramatic, nothing startling, just a premonitory priming of the nerves. ‘No.’ Her whisper was long drawn out, anguished. ‘Please, leave me alone.’
There was nothing there. No shadow in the corner, no strange half-heard echoes in her head which seemed to come from some unrecognised aural receptor which had nothing to do with her ears, nothing but a shred of instinct which was telling her that all was not well.
Pushing herself up on her elbow, she could feel a trickle of perspiration running down her face. Her hair was sticky; it needed washing. More than anything, she realised suddenly she would love a long, cold bath, somewhere she could wallow sleepily with the door locked, and the humid heat of the afternoon kept at bay.
Swinging her feet to the floor she dragged herself off the bed, realising at once that she was still dizzy and aching with exhaustion. Padding on bare feet across the cool boards she headed for the bathroom and putting the plug in the bath turned on the taps – mostly cold – and tipped in a little scented oil. Her face, as she examined it in the mirror was white, damp, and even to herself exhausted. There were dark rings over as well as under her eyes, where the lids were sunken and drawn, and her body, as she peeled off her thin cotton shirt and blouse and underwear was ugly – still swollen, her breasts huge and blue veined, damp with sweat. She scowled at herself, tempted for a moment to veil the mirror with a towel. The idea made her smile as she stooped to turn off the tap and step gingerly into the cool water. The bath was definitely an improvement on the bed. A huge old-fashioned bath with ornate iron legs she smiled to herself every time she climbed into it at the thought that such things were now the height of expensive fashion. Cool, supporting to her back, it felt solid and somehow secure. She lay back until the water lapped around her breasts, her head against the rim, and closed her eyes.
She wasn’t sure how long she had slept but she woke to find herself shivering. Chilled she sat up with a groan and hauled herself out of the water. She had left her watch on the shelf above the wash basin. Grabbing it she looked at it. Nearly four. The others would be back from their walk soon, and Ned would be wanting a feed. Snatching her cotton robe from behind the door she went back into the bedroom. It was just as before – hot and airless. Pulling back the curtains she stared down into the garden. It was empty.
Reaching for her hair brush from the dressing table Joss began to brush her hair vigorously, feeling the residual tension from her forehead and the back of her neck receding with every stroke. Throwing it down she was reaching into the drawer for fresh crisp clothes when she glanced up at the mirror and felt her stomach drop. For a split second she didn’t recognise the face before her. Her brain refused to interpret the image. She could see eyes, nose, mouth, like gaping holes in a waxen mask – then, as shock-driven adrenaline flooded through her system, the images regrouped, cleared and she found herself looking at a frightened facsimile of herself – eyes, huge; skin, damp; hair, dishevelled, her bathrobe hanging open to display the heavy breasts, breasts which for a fraction of a second had felt the touch of a cold hand on the hot fevered skin.
‘No!’ She shook her head violently. ‘No!’
Clothes. Quickly. Quickly. Bra. Shirt. Panties. Jeans. A protection. Armour. Outside. She must get outside.
The kitchen was empty. Throwing open the back door she looked out into the courtyard. ‘Luke?’
The Bentley had been pulled out of the coach house. It stood gleaming gently in the sunlight, strangely blind without the two huge headlights which still stood on a trestle table just inside the open double door of the coach house.
‘Luke!’ She ran across the cobbles and stared in. ‘Where are you?’
‘He’s gone out for a walk with the others, Mrs Grant.’ Jimbo appeared suddenly from the shadows. ‘With his Ma and Pa being here and that, he thought he’d take the chance.’
‘Of course.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘I should have thought of that.’ She was conscious suddenly of how hard Jimbo was staring at her. The young man’s face had fascinated her when she first saw it. Thin, brown, with strangely sleepy slanted eyes, the planes of the cheeks and brow bones were flattened into Slavic features of startling dramatic cast. She could never see him without picturing him on a pony, a rag tied round his head, a gun brandished in one hand as he galloped over the plain. It had been something of a disappointment when, unable to resist it, she had asked him if he could ride and he had looked at her askance with the unequivocal answer, no way.
‘You all right, Mrs Grant?’ The soft local vowels did not fit the hard features. Nor, she had to admit, did the eyes: the strange all-seeing eyes.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She began to turn away.
‘You look tired, Mrs Grant.’
‘I am.’ She stopped.
‘The boys been keeping you awake, have they? I heard them when I stayed at yours with my mum when I was a lad. She says they always come back when there are folk in the house.’