In the Blood - Philip Loraine

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other and understand each other as deeply in their hearts as they had, from the first moment, understood each other in their bodies.

      It shamed her that he had the courage and honesty to face up to the fatal divergence between them whereas she had not. Somewhere at the back of her mind arose the unwelcome thought that he could do this because he genuinely loved her while she had merely been overcome by lust for him.

      She rolled off the bed and went into his bathroom for a shower. Normally he would have joined her and they would have indulged in the usual amorous games; but this time he did not, and she felt bereft, already lost without him.

      Enfolded in a vast towel she went back to the bed, where he was still lying, and studied him. Weakly, but then she felt weak, she said, ‘I … don’t think I can take it, Steve.’

      ‘Oh God, how d’you think I feel?’

      She would like to have said that she loved him, but had long ago made up her mind never to say it until she was absolutely sure. So she wasn’t absolutely sure! Looking up at her woebegone expression, he reached out and pulled her into the sitting position, facing him squarely. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s really nothing to do with us as people, it’s our jobs. We’re neither of us going to give them up; why the hell should we? We’re not children, we know what life’s about. You may want to go on with this … hole-and-corner affair, I don’t. I care for you too much, Kate, and we’re going nowhere.’ He echoed it with passion: ‘Nowhere!’

      ‘Do we … you know, have to make it final?’

      ‘Jesus, how do I know? What’s “final” anyway? But we’ve got to break the link, we can’t go on seeing each other, it’d be too painful.’

      ‘It’s painful anyway.’

      ‘Kate.’ He took her by both shoulders and shook her a little. ‘We must be able to live without this constant …’

      ‘Interference?’

      ‘Sounds awful but it’ll do. Interference. Always wanting to be with you when it’s impossible. I damn near cocked-up an important meeting yesterday.’

      Kate stood and moved away, troubled by a suspicion that he might be right. What about the stab of irritation she’d experienced because his unheralded arrival had momentarily undermined her famous efficiency? And hadn’t she been relieved not to have him in the dining-room, knowing how much his presence there would have unsettled her? She grimaced at these thoughts and said, ‘I tell you what, let’s plan to go on holiday together. We really might … one day.’

      Gently, because she sounded so forlorn, he replied, ‘Yes, love, we might.’

      ‘I know it’s a bit wet, but I can bear it that way, Steve. It’s the finality I can’t take.’

      ‘OK. I’ll book a couple of weeks in Shangri-La—how about September?’

      They smiled tenuously at one another. Only later would Kate wonder if, like her Scottish mother, she was subject to second-sight.

      After a restless night—that same ache for a warm body which wasn’t there, might never be there again—Kate realized that work would automatically carry her along until mid-afternoon when it was her habit to take a few hours off, either in the garden or with feet up on her bed. She knew the kind of thoughts which would then seize hold of her, and took steps to circumvent them. She rang Daniel.

      He sounded chirpy, full of energy, but this was a telephone manner he kept for her, and it could mask any kind of pain or despair. She said, ‘I’ve just been looking at the map. Doesn’t Sally live in the Vale of Evesham?’

      He read out the address: Somerton Farm, Little Norton, near Sedgeberrow.

      ‘It’s not far from here—Roman roads most of the way. I think I’ll go there this afternoon. Want to drive up and join me?’

      No, Daniel didn’t think so; he didn’t feel much like driving (his way, Kate was sure, of not referring to the useable leg, deteriorating. Dear God!) and he had a lot of stuff to type up for Dr Forrester, some Oxford professor whose book on Cardinal Wolsey he’d been researching. He said, ‘You go and see Sally, I’ll stick with the old professor.’

      ‘You’ve still got the letter, haven’t you?’

      ‘No. I put it in your glove compartment yesterday.’

      ‘Take care of yourself. Eat properly.’

      ‘Ava’s in the kitchen right now, making me a chicken pie.’ Ava (three times a week) had been named after the beautiful Ava Gardner whom her father had worshipped. She was a very plain girl, a reasonable cleaner and a less reasonable cook, but she was cheery and fond of Daniel, and that was what really mattered.

      The fine spring weather had faded, and the Cotswold Hills in driving rain soon lost their claim to be picturesque and became grim; but as Kate tipped over the edge of them into the Vale, slivers of sunlight lay across the orchards, touching the fruit blossom with delicate promise. Kate hoped Sally’s husband was not engaged in that most perilous of businesses—a return of frost had already been forecast. He was not. Somerton Farm had shed its land except for an orchard and the garden, but the barns at its back were in good repair and a few new ones had been added. Ken Ferris was a distributor of agricultural seed and feed and fertilizer.

      ‘Nothing spectacular,’ said Sally, ‘but safe. Everything has to eat.’

      She had always been a big girl; child-bearing and, Kate guessed, uncomplicated contentment had made her bigger: blonde and, yes, voluptuous, with an innocent face, innocent pale blue eyes. In her present state, Kate could and did envy her.

      They had tea in an untidy, beamed sitting-room, rambling shambling, toys all over the floor. The two children, one and three years old, were being looked after upstairs by their paternal grandmother. ‘With them around,’ said Sally, ‘we couldn’t have got a word in edgewise.’ Kate gave her the creamy, blotched sheet of writing-paper. She shook her head over it. ‘That damned shelf, I should’ve guessed. Spent hours looking for it. Funny how a thing like this can bring back … a whole time of your life. Could’ve been yesterday.’

      ‘We can’t read the signature. We were pretty sure you’d know who wrote it.’

      ‘Mrs Howard, Rosemary Howard. She came to stay that weekend before your grandmother died.’

      ‘From Salisbury?’

      ‘Yes. She lived in The Close, but the house was too big for her, she was selling it.’ The pretty face seemed perplexed, blue eyes worried. ‘Does it matter?’ She was holding up the letter.

      ‘We’re just curious. Why do you ask?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Perplexity disappeared into a laugh, as it probably always did, she wasn’t an introspective type. ‘Aren’t secrets best left alone? I mean, there’s got to be a reason for them being secrets in the first place. I always think, “Oh well, it’s no concern of mine anyway,” but then I’m incredibly lazy—lazy-minded.’

      ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

      ‘Sort of. Not that I’ve ever known of a cat killed by curiosity. We’ve got eleven out in the barns—eleven at the last count, that is. Curious as hell and all very much alive.’

      Kate said, ‘I think Daniel and I are intrigued because ours is a very odd family, full of feuds, hatreds, oh and lots of secrets—they’re kind of in the blood.’

      Gazing beyond her out of the window, twisting a fair lock of hair, as she probably had since she was a girl, Sally replied, ‘My family’s as dull as boiled potatoes. She really had it in for her son, Mark, didn’t she?’

      ‘Always.’

      ‘I

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