LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 11

      It was one of those gifts of a summer morning, when it was a privilege to be awake with the dawn chorus.

      Rachel had been woken at five by Indignant the Sparrow. The bird had got into the habit of sitting on the roof above her bedroom, cheeping loudly and, well, indignantly, until the moment she leaned out of her window and he took fright.

      As she did so this morning, the view took her breath away and stole time. After heavy rainfall in the night, the sun shone, jewelling the landscape. It was a morning washed clean. After two months of living in the cottage, the trees had greened up even more, making the bucolic scene teem with life. The sky was still pale and cold, but even Rachel, with her rudimentary knowledge of weather, could tell it was going to be a wonderful day. It was shaping up to be a fantastic summer.

      She pulled on her newly purchased Wellingtons and her fleece and slipped out into the magic. Making her way down the track from the cottage, she turned right down the narrow lane that led away from the rest of the village. She was surrounded by apple orchards, which enveloped her in a scent so sweet it nearly made her weep. Stopping for a moment to enjoy the sweet melancholy she leaned on a gate and stared into the field. The blossom fuzzed around the branches like so much pinky-white candy-floss. In contrast, in the next field, there was a decrepit building housing a tractor. The unploughed field was furrowed deep in red clay mud and, above, the sky had deepened to an azure blue, warm with promise. Beauty and dereliction side by side. Swallows dive-bombed flies and then swooped under the beams of the building, popping neatly into their mud nests. It was as far removed from city life as could be imagined.

      Rachel heard a light and fast tapping on the tarmac behind her and turned, expecting to see a small dog. Instead of which, she came face to face with a hare. It had an alert, inquiring expression. She and the hare stared at one another for some moments, its large, pale eyes contemplating her without fear. Then it trotted off, squeezed under the hedge on the opposite side of the road and disappeared. Rachel released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

      She walked on, further down the lane, past a field of sheep. She paused again to enjoy the sight. The lambs were beyond the tiny cute stage but were still suckling, every now and again, in between grazing. Rachel could hear their teeth tearing the grass and watched as a mother bucked off a lamb attempting a cheeky suckle.

      In the opposite field were some enormous cows, even Rachel recognised them as the distinctive breed that had marked Herefordshire on the world agricultural map. Big and lumbering, with red flanks that echoed the colour of the soil, their cream faces bore a sweetly vacant expression. To Rachel’s delight, they had calves with them. They trembled on unsteady legs, far too insubstantial to bear their weight. She leaned on the gate, entranced. Some of the cows spotted her and plodded over, their offspring doing a wobbling dance behind. One cow mooed ominously. Rachel backed away, suddenly very aware of their size and protective mothering instinct.

      She moved on, wondering if Hetty had enjoyed walking the same lanes. It was no wonder the woman was lingering in such a beautiful place, even after death. Rachel felt even more sure Roger Foster’s words held true. It just didn’t feel right that Hetty would wish her harm. The vibes she got from the atmosphere that occasionally sprang up in the cottage were girlish, mischievous even. If Hetty wanted to stay in her old home, she supposed it was fine with her. As long as the ghost or spirit or essence, or whatever it was, didn’t mind sharing with a load of builders too.

      The lane wound round in a long, slow loop and Rachel found herself back on the edge of the village coming up behind a rambling house, bearing a sign proclaiming ‘Michael Llewellyn and Son, Builders.’ She checked her watch; she’d been out longer than she thought and it was getting on for nine. Gabe had offered an open invitation to visit whenever she had time. Country people got up early, didn’t they? Perhaps it was time to test the theory.

      It was a large and solid-looking house, painted white, with small-paned windows set at odd intervals across the walls. It looked as if bits had been added on over the years and wasn’t the smart, done-up building she had expected. From what Gabe had told her, the family never used the front door, so Rachel ignored it and made her way down a narrow, rutted drive to the side of the house. She squeezed past Gabe’s Toyota and a hatchback, feeling like an interloper. As she did so, a door in the house flew open and a middle-aged woman sprang out, a large bundle of letters pressed against her. She stopped and appraised Rachel, with a broad smile.

      ‘You must be Rachel, from old Hetty’s cottage. How do you do?’ The older woman held out her free hand and smiled. ‘Gabe and Mike have told me so much about you. It’s good to meet you at last.’

      Rachel went shy. ‘Hello,’ she managed. She wondered exactly what had been said and how she had been recognised so immediately.

      ‘Sheila Llewellyn,’ the woman explained, although it was hardly necessary; the resemblance to her son was unmistakable. The same golden-brown hair, the same sherry- coloured eyes. ‘Now, I’m so sorry to dash off, but I must get these to the post and, if I don’t go now, I’ll miss it. Be back in a mo’, though, and I’ll get the kettle on. Mike’s out, but Gabriel’s in his shed if you want to go on through.’ Sheila nodded her head to the back of the house, raised her hand as a goodbye and hurried off.

      Rachel stared after her for a second and then made her way further along the drive to the back of the house, following the sounds of a tool being applied to wood. Some pale- brown chickens scattered before her, scolding her for the intrusion. The outbuildings rambled on in an untidy way, but the door to the one nearest the house was open. She stepped over a ginger-and-white cat lazing fatly in the doorway and stopped short as she caught sight of Gabe.

      He had paused in whatever he’d been doing and was instead staring intently at a large piece of wood held in a clamp. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she had a feeling an important decision was being made.

      He was dressed casually, as usual, in disreputable jeans and a ragged green t-shirt, with a logo now so faded it was indecipherable. Rachel enjoyed the view for a moment. Gabe’s back was strong and well muscled, but in the way created by physical labour rather than hours put in at a gym. He had long muscles, well defined but not huge and bunchy in an off-puttingly he-man way.

      Her eyes were drawn to his arms. She always liked looking at them. Sinewy and tough, the bulge of his triceps was revealed under the fraying sleeve of his t-shirt. She longed to draw him like this.

      Gabe picked up a chisel and lightly tapped it on the wood. There was some pop music playing on an old Bakelite radio wedged on a dusty shelf. Dust motes spun in the sunlit air and the place hummed with the smell of sawdust.

      It was wonderful.

      Gabe, still unaware of his audience, tucked a length of hair behind his ear and reached sideways, bending over as he did so. He ran a long, brown thumb along the length of the wood, feeling the grain. It was a tender caress, as if he was touching a woman in that first questioning contact before making love. It made Rachel go liquid inside. She wanted to call out but couldn’t speak. She refused to break the mood. And then, just as she was beginning to feel like a voyeur, the cat got up and, after stretching, wove its way between Gabe’s legs, making him jump.

      ‘Christ, Ned, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’ Gabe picked up the cat and turned to the door, scratching it under its ears. Then he saw Rachel.

      ‘Fuck!’

      At

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