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Authors: Anne Weale
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experienced sailors. Unfortunately, I used to feel seasick if the water was the least bit choppy. It was the only thing we didn't do together.'
It was no longer an effort for her to speak unemotionally. Twelve years didn't make that kind of memory painless, but it transformed passionate grief into forlorn acceptance.
To give the devil his due, James Gardiner didn't produce any of the meaningless cliches which most people felt obliged to utter.
He said, 'What was your father's occupation? Did he leave you comfortably provided for?'
'He was an artist. No, he didn't,' she said briskly. 'But my mother's sister took me in.'
'How much have Emily's parents been paying you to teach her?'
She told him.
They had almost reached the end of the long tall tunnel of trees, their branches beating in the wind. At other seasons of the year they did offer some protection from lighter showers, but not now their leaves were gone and the rain was falling in a torrent, drumming on the roof of the car and blurring the windscreen even though the wipers were fanning back and forth at full speed!
He said, 'That's not much salary for a responsible job. They were taking advantage of your situation.'
She had sometimes thought the same thing, and wondered if she ought to press for a higher salary than the one proposed by Lord Edgedale when she changed from part-time to full-time.
However, as she hadn't any proper qualifications, and working at Cranmere was both convenient and congenial, she had said nothing. But she couldn't have managed on her salary if Miss Ewing had not left a small income. Being unearned, it was heavily taxed, but it paid the rates on the cottage and the electricity bills. As she never spent money on the usual pleasures of her age-group—food was her only self-indulgence—she had been able to manage.
They had come to the pair of lodges which flanked the main gateway and housed the head gardener and his wife in one, and a gamekeeper in the other.
The great gates, supported by stone piers topped with finials in the form of swagged urns, stood open. Beyond was the minor road which, after hugging the brick wall which marked the boundary of the estate for a few hundred yards, converged with the main road.
From the junction to the outskirts of the village, her companion was silent, peering through the veil of rain on a winding stretch of road where each bend might reveal a hazard.
When, further on, she began to explain the position of Miss Ewing's cottage—her cottage now—he said, 'You forget—I've lived here longer than you have. Your aunt was here in my time. An old dragon, from what I remember of her.'
Outside the cottage he pulled the Jaguar on to the grass verge where it wouldn't impede passing traffic. She had thought that whatever he wanted to talk about could be discussed in the car, but he said, 'I'll come in for ten minutes.'
She could hardly refuse to admit him, but she was simmering again at his arbitrary invasion of her home as she ran down the path ahead of him.
Like most small, old houses in England this one lacked an entrance hall, the door opening directly into what was known as 'the front room'. Summer's cottage, which was at one end of a terrace of ten, had had a small glazed porch added. Modern in style, it was an eyesore to look at but an improvement in practical terms. They were able to shelter inside it while she fumbled for the front door key instead of the one she usually used.
As she always did, she had left the fire ready to be lit. As soon as she had switched on some lamps and taken off her outer clothing, she struck a match and held it to the kindling in the grate.
She straightened to find that James Gardiner had removed his cap but not his coat, and was taking in the details of her sitting room. The ceiling was low and seemed lower with him standing there. She watched him glance at her bookshelves, at the water-colour painting—bought with pocket money at a jumble sale—which she had
It was no longer an effort for her to speak unemotionally. Twelve years didn't make that kind of memory painless, but it transformed passionate grief into forlorn acceptance.
To give the devil his due, James Gardiner didn't produce any of the meaningless cliches which most people felt obliged to utter.
He said, 'What was your father's occupation? Did he leave you comfortably provided for?'
'He was an artist. No, he didn't,' she said briskly. 'But my mother's sister took me in.'
'How much have Emily's parents been paying you to teach her?'
She told him.
They had almost reached the end of the long tall tunnel of trees, their branches beating in the wind. At other seasons of the year they did offer some protection from lighter showers, but not now their leaves were gone and the rain was falling in a torrent, drumming on the roof of the car and blurring the windscreen even though the wipers were fanning back and forth at full speed!
He said, 'That's not much salary for a responsible job. They were taking advantage of your situation.'
She had sometimes thought the same thing, and wondered if she ought to press for a higher salary than the one proposed by Lord Edgedale when she changed from part-time to full-time.
However, as she hadn't any proper qualifications, and working at Cranmere was both convenient and congenial, she had said nothing. But she couldn't have managed on her salary if Miss Ewing had not left a small income. Being unearned, it was heavily taxed, but it paid the rates on the cottage and the electricity bills. As she never spent money on the usual pleasures of her age-group—food was her only self-indulgence—she had been able to manage.
They had come to the pair of lodges which flanked the main gateway and housed the head gardener and his wife in one, and a gamekeeper in the other.
The great gates, supported by stone piers topped with finials in the form of swagged urns, stood open. Beyond was the minor road which, after hugging the brick wall which marked the boundary of the estate for a few hundred yards, converged with the main road.
From the junction to the outskirts of the village, her companion was silent, peering through the veil of rain on a winding stretch of road where each bend might reveal a hazard.
When, further on, she began to explain the position of Miss Ewing's cottage—her cottage now—he said, 'You forget—I've lived here longer than you have. Your aunt was here in my time. An old dragon, from what I remember of her.'
Outside the cottage he pulled the Jaguar on to the grass verge where it wouldn't impede passing traffic. She had thought that whatever he wanted to talk about could be discussed in the car, but he said, 'I'll come in for ten minutes.'
She could hardly refuse to admit him, but she was simmering again at his arbitrary invasion of her home as she ran down the path ahead of him.
Like most small, old houses in England this one lacked an entrance hall, the door opening directly into what was known as 'the front room'. Summer's cottage, which was at one end of a terrace of ten, had had a small glazed porch added. Modern in style, it was an eyesore to look at but an improvement in practical terms. They were able to shelter inside it while she fumbled for the front door key instead of the one she usually used.
As she always did, she had left the fire ready to be lit. As soon as she had switched on some lamps and taken off her outer clothing, she struck a match and held it to the kindling in the grate.
She straightened to find that James Gardiner had removed his cap but not his coat, and was taking in the details of her sitting room. The ceiling was low and seemed lower with him standing there. She watched him glance at her bookshelves, at the water-colour painting—bought with pocket money at a jumble sale—which she had
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