Read Online An Affair to Remember by Virginia Budd - Free Book Online Page A

country village ought to look – like the one depicted on the posters in the London underground. Tarted up, prosperous looking cottages, mostly slate roofed, but some still thatched. On the right half way along, a village store, newly painted, fashionable pottery in the window, a sign above it (green with red lettering, Emmie’s idea) announcing they do deliveries, and at the far end of the street, where it descended gently towards the river, an ancient looking church surrounded by yews. No immemorial elms of course, they’d all gone.
    Following Sel’s instructions, she ignores all this; there’ll be plenty of time to explore later; and carries on through the village, past a pair of 1920s bungalows designed to look like Swiss chalets and a newish looking housing estate, until she reaches the river. “Over the bridge,” Sel had told her, “follow the road uphill, down the other side, and you’ll come to Brown End.” The bridge is narrow, no pavement for pedestrians: as she crosses it there’s time to look down and notice the large, ungainly grey bird standing still as a statue on one of the flat stones protruding from the bubbling water below the bridge. The bird looks up, startled at the passing car, and with an angry flap of his wings takes off, gliding away up the valley towards a distant belt of trees. ‘ Ardea !’ says a voice in Beatrice’s head, ‘ Ecce ardea – so long, so long it has been…’
    “Rubbish,” she shouts, anger overwhelming her, as she grinds the Mini into bottom gear in preparation for the climb up the hill: “It’s not a bloody ardea , it’s a bloody heron…”
    The auguries, it seems, are not good…
    At the top of the hill, as the road enters a small wood and flattens out before descending to Brown End, the Mini gives up the ghost. A knocking noise, a splutter; that’s it, the engine conks out. “Bloody car! Bloody, bloody useless little car!” Her anger, already stoked, turns to a fury of frustration, as hastily switching off the engine she opens the door and gets out. The smell of burning rubber’s back and there’s smoke coming out of the bonnet. The damn thing passed its MOT only three weeks ago, how could it let her down at such a crucial moment; how could it? Far from the cool, efficient image she tried so hard to promote at her interview, she’s going to look a flustered, overheated idiot when, sans luggage, sans car, she arrives at Brown End on foot. What about her luggage, for that matter? Would it be safe in the car? Anyone could force the boot open, one bang would probably do it. She wants to cry, scream; she can feel one of her headaches coming on. She can’t cope, really she can’t; one’s done one’s best and this is how one’s rewarded. She tries a breathing exercise featured in one of Syl’s health magazines; closes her eyes and tries to think of something nice (what? – for God’s sake); slowly begins to calm down. Opening her eyes she finds she’s being scrutinised by a rook. There’s a gate leading to a pathway into the wood, just beside where the Mini gave up; he’s sitting on it, head on one side, peering at her. She’s pretty sure he’s laughing. “Bugger off,” she shouts angrily and squirting a quick, contemptuous message, he hops away, but she can still see him further up the fence, and he’s still looking at her.
    The sweat’s trickling down her neck, her T-shirt seems pasted to her breasts, she’s a feeling she’s been stung by something nasty and she knows she looks a complete mess. The only good thing, if Sel’s right, and people often aren’t when dealing with distances, is that there’s only another half mile before Brown End. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to walk it, at the most half an hour, and she can carry the small holdall – newly purchased and quite smart looking, with her. The rest of the luggage must take its chance. At least the car seems to be cooling down a bit, so hopefully no danger now of