Three Mile Drove, Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Claire Summerby placed her glass carefully on the table, ‘Ted Jackson, yes I know him. He’s been a tradesman for years, a real fen man through and through.’
Darren Goldwater leaned back in his chair, looked into brown eyes that he found so alluring and tried to keep his mind in focus. ‘So you’d describe him as a trustworthy sort then, competent and reliable?’
She narrowed her brows, but the fine eyes retained a smile, or perhaps it was their vividness which made it appear that way to him. ‘I don’t think I’m quite the person to ask on that score, do you? I mean, personally I wouldn’t describe myself as a fountain of knowledge on building, plastering, that sort of thing.’
‘No, of course not,’ Darren felt a surge of embarrassment and fidgeted with his lighter.
‘Mind you, I know most of the people in these parts and I’ve not heard a bad word said about him, so that must pass for something.’
She took a sip from her glass and placed it back on the tablemat, he noticed she positioned it dead centre. He felt her eyes upon his; it was the kind of calculated, considered look a copper might give when he wasn’t convinced of your story, faintly doubting, even though the smile remained.
‘It’s some decision you’ve taken here, isn’t it Darren? Turning your back on city life, pop culture and all that, to join us rustics. Do you think you’ll be able to stand it?’
Except that you don’t sound much like one of these rustics to me, Darren thought, somewhere along the line she’d had the benefit of a good education; that was obvious.
‘I reckon so,’ he answered, ever aware of how appealing her eyes were, and of how they might be reading him a little too well even at this early stage of knowing him. He took his glass and leaned back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant, though knowing he’d failed. He’d realised the way he’d snatched at it. He’d become aware because he’d seen her eyes follow his darting hand movement. ‘I wouldn’t have made the decision if I thought I couldn’t hack it,’ he said self-consciously.
‘It still seems a strange thing to do,’ she said, taking a sip from her glass and twirling the stem gently in her hand. ‘You’ll find us fen folk a little guarded at first, you might even find some of us quite unsociable, but don’t worry, most of us tend to change when we get to know people better. We open up a lot.’
Darren’s eyes narrowed, he wondered whether Claire’s remark might be a personal message from her to him, then dismissed it quickly. This woman was pretty, he might regard her as beautiful, but that didn’t provide a passport for his mind to start playing silly buggers. They had only just met, they couldn’t even be regarded as friends in the true sense of the word; he needed to keep things in perspective.
‘I don’t mind admitting I’ve met some pretty gruff people here, downright nasty even.’ Darren leaned forward in his seat, clasped his hands together and found himself recalling the weird noises that seemed to drift across the fens, mainly at night, and of how he’d followed a course that had ended behind Tomblin’s house. He told her of the ensuing confrontation with him and of how he’d reported it to McPherson, only to be told that it was his own fault for trespassing, noticing all the while how her flawless complexion seemed to turn increasingly pale as he spoke.
And when she spoke, her voice had a severity to it he’d hitherto not heard. ‘I’ve already told you, the voices you think you hear are nothing more than foxes baying, as a city person you couldn’t be expected to understand that, but that’s all it is.’
Darren noticed the way her broad face was set firm, of how serious she looked now, and of the complete transformation between this firmly set look and the one that produced a flashing smile, one which was like a sudden surge of radiation, sending shock tidal waves to the core of his brain.
‘And you would do better than to go trespassing on Tomblin’s land,’ she continued, ‘he’s an oddball and can turn nasty so I’m told. Tim’s right, you were trespassing Darren, he probably didn’t mean to sound so damning, he would have said as much for your own good. Stay well out of it.’
He thought there was a hint of warning in her final sentence – no, he was damned well certain of it. He was disturbed by her attitude, but more disturbed by her backing for McPherson. If McPherson had advised him for his own good, then pigs flew and he was the Crown Prince of Persia. Darren felt a surge of resentment he struggled to control.
But he was going to control it; he wasn’t going to let this fine evening be spoiled, no matter how much her change of manner might have affected him.
‘Yeah, guess you’re right.’
Inside though, he didn’t feel right, not at all. Both McPherson and Claire were taking the same stance, was there some kind of conspiracy between them, were they really so close that they thought as one on the matter? He shook himself free of the shackles of that prospect. But Claire had lived in the drove as a child and had practically lived on the doorstep of Tomblin’s house. She’d just said she’d heard he was a bit of an oddball and could be trouble, but he thought that she hadn’t just heard from some kind of extended grapevine, he thought she knew first hand. With every mention of Three Mile Drove he’d seen her brow furrow, he’d seen her bright eyes grow strangely troubled, and that wasn’t in his imagination one little bit.
He’d like to force the issue, to bring up her childhood and rummage through the dark wastes that must be lurking in the back of her mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to risk the tenuous thread of a relationship in its infancy. This woman made his heartbeat race and his passions soar so that it needed all his willpower to force them down.
He felt her eyes upon him, she’d sat silently during his few seconds of furious reflections, yet he’d an odd feeling that she hadn’t missed a thought, that she could read him like a book. He became aware that his left hand was clasped tightly around the cigarette lighter he always placed before him and never used. He suddenly thought of it as an adult version of a child’s comfort toy and vowed he’d dispense with it at some stage. He saw her glance at her watch, he generally took the line that if a woman did this in his company then they were becoming bored, he wondered whether this might be true in her case. He thought he’d seen her look at it before, but his preoccupation with her had been so intense that he couldn’t be certain.
He glanced at his own watch, one of the few worthwhile gifts he’d ever received from Goldie, and one that curiously, he was loath to dispose of. ‘Is that the time, I guess we’d better be off then, I expect you’ve got a busy schedule tomorrow.’
‘No, as a matter of fact I haven’t, I’ve one or two house calls to make but that’s about it.’ She raised her smooth, dark brows, ‘It’s why I suggested Friday evening, don’t you remember, or weren’t you listening?’
‘Oh yeah, of course,’ Darren squirmed, hoping it didn’t show.
‘Or am I such boring company that you want to shoot like a bat out of hell? Talking of which you’ve told me practically nothing about your rock days, I only know what I’ve read in the papers, so after I’ve bought the drinks you can tell me what it’s really like.’
Darren smiled, watching as she rose and strode briskly to the bar. He’d called for her a couple of hours back, her house was centre –point in the arc of a crescent not far from the village crossroads. A small, modern estate development which sat incongruously amidst a surrounding cluster of much older houses, most of which, Darren’s not-quite academic mind placed in the nineteenth century. It was a neat, detached house with a tidy, open plan front lawn. He’d thought it might be difficult finding it in the dark, so he’d carried out a preliminary check earlier in the day. He hadn’t wanted to be late for this one.
The porch and hall lights had been on, and a light in the upstairs front window. There had been a slight delay when he’d knocked on the door, before she’d answered, standing before him in an elegant three quarter length black dress, which although not exactly hugging her figure, left him in no doubt she was in good trim.
“Good timing,” she’d said, her lips creasing into an easy smile as she flicked her dark hair back to reveal a pair of classy looking gold earrings.
But classy had been the impression of her that had instantly lodged in his mind, and right away he’d decided that no basic village pub was going to do for a first night out with her. His usually lazy brain had whirled into action with the speed and fury of a silver ball spinning around a roulette wheel, and landing on the idea of the charming wooden beam pub that stood on the waterfront of the River Ouse, in Ely. He’d taken a look around the city when he’d met the solicitor, Henley, and although his mind hadn’t quite been on the subject of the quaintness of the place, it had taken a few sharp mental images, and with Darren Goldwater, stored mental images seemed to present themselves before him when he most needed them.
‘Dreaming are we?’
Darren turned quickly in his seat as she returned with the drinks, that explosion of a smile bringing him back to earth with an almighty bang. He’d sat, elbows perched on the corner table that looked out on the river, its tide rippling in the waterside lights. Realising that he’d been caught deep in his own reflections, Darren smiled and took the drink perhaps a little too quickly to his lips. Once again he thought she hadn’t missed the unusual haste of his actions. Curiously, his smile broadened at the thought of it.
Despite his reluctance to dwell on his rock days, Darren found himself recounting them to her in vivid detail. Perhaps it was her attentiveness and alertness that persuaded him to paint the picture in such a way, he was aware that he was communicating with someone of considerable mental, and he suspected physical energy, and her very life force seemed to suck the memories from him like an unseen magnet. Every so often he’d seen a smile flash across her face.
When he’d finished she laid back in her chair, stretching out her legs, oblivious of the barman calling for time for all he was worth. ‘You know Darren,’ she said, her eyes flashing momentary annoyance as a less than sober man brushed against their table, ‘I wouldn’t have marked you down as a rock musician, you don’t fit the bill, somehow.’
Darren screwed his face; the remark hurt a bit, ‘Eh?’
‘Well, you look craggy enough, I suppose, but…’
‘Oh you mean washed up, withered away by booze and crack, wasted away by late night orgies and early morning workouts in the back of some old passion wagon…’
‘No, let me finish and don’t interrupt, I don’t see you in that light at all.’ She smiled and reached for glass, ‘Don’t act like a little boy who’s just been scolded. No, what I meant to say is that I find you too sensitive for all that, somehow. I noticed that from the word go. I can’t understand how you lasted the way you did.’
Darren clasped his lighter again, and was reminded of his earlier thought that its sole function was a grown-up equivalent of a child’s comfort toy. It had to go, but not tonight. He withdrew his eyes from Claire unwillingly, casting a gaze at the barman, now a hive of frenzied activity, snatching glasses from tables now deserted, apart from empty glasses and over-filled ash trays. ‘Ah, but that’s my little secret,’ he said, picking up on her last remark, his face set firm, ‘but we all have those, don’t we Claire?’