nose-to-tail through the town before they finally escaped onto a dual carriageway, where she kept to the slow lane, turning off after a few minutes onto a narrow country road. Here the fog lifted briefly to give glimpses of ploughed fields on either side. They negotiated the twists and turns for several miles, Emily hardly daring to make conversation in case she distracted Lorna from the tortuous business of driving. She learned, however, that the fog had come down in the night, and that Lorna’s mother was still fit at eighty-five and liked to get out to see friends as much as possible, but would probably have to miss a concert in Ipswich that evening if conditions didn’t improve. Lorna worried that Mother did too much.
There’s been an awful lot to sort out recently,’ Lorna said. ‘And she’s insisted on doing most of it all herself.’
‘The will and things?’ Emily wondered, never having had to deal with such procedures herself.
‘Mother always says being an author is like running a small business. There’s so much paperwork. And neither of us is computerish. At least all the filing is in good order. She’s always been strict about that.’
‘What will happen to the papers? The letters and manuscripts, I mean?’
Lorna eased the car round a tight corner. ‘She’ll explain everything when you meet. That’s probably best.’
Emily thought of the points for their meeting that she’d jotted in her notebook. She’d also brought Coming Home with her, which she’d now read and enjoyed. It was a story about a young man taken from the country life that he knew, the prospect of life as an academic, to fly planes in the RAF, and how he returned to find that everything had changed, including the girl he’d loved. She sensed that it had a ring of the autobiographical about it, like many a first novel.
They drove on, as through some shadowy netherworld, London and civilisation worryingly further and further behind. The road descended sharply into thick drifts of fog, so Lorna slowed down to a crawl. ‘Not long now,’ she remarked, and a few moments later, they passed a village sign, wreathed in mist, then – the air grew momentarily clearer – houses, a village Post Office, the great flint shoulder of a church. Soon after that, Lorna drove between a pair of white posts and along a bumpy drive where delicate winter branches of trees lined the grassy verge on either side. Where the drive dipped, the mist surged in a sinister fashion and the sense of passing into another world intensified. Finally the car lurched to a halt, alarmingly close behind another vehicle, something black and sporty-looking.
‘Here we are,’ Lorna said with relief. They both got out. The air was chilly, with the scent of bonfires.
Lorna led the way past some outhouses, two with stable doors. ‘Are there horses?’ Emily asked, shivering.
‘Not in our time,’ Lorna said, her voice coming across pale and wistful. ‘I would have loved to learn to ride, but it wasn’t something my parents did. Come on. We’ll go via the kitchen, if you don’t mind. I must see that lunch is all right.’
She opened a heavy door and led Emily into a square utility room, then on through another door into a farmhouse kitchen. There was a rugged wooden table in the middle, one end of which was piled with clutter – a radio with a broken aerial, cook books, magazines and sewing. Pots and pans hung above a fireplace that was completely filled by a huge old Aga. A crowded wooden dresser of similar vintage to the table took up one wall. Though cramped, the room was homey and warm, and smelled of something savoury and delicious. A grey cat was curled up in a basket by the stove. It stirred for a moment at their entrance, then settled back into sleep. It was wasted with age, its ragged coat barely disguising the ridge of its backbone.
‘This won’t take a moment,’ Lorna said. She’d peeled off her cagoule to reveal an untidy ensemble of cord
There’s been an awful lot to sort out recently,’ Lorna said. ‘And she’s insisted on doing most of it all herself.’
‘The will and things?’ Emily wondered, never having had to deal with such procedures herself.
‘Mother always says being an author is like running a small business. There’s so much paperwork. And neither of us is computerish. At least all the filing is in good order. She’s always been strict about that.’
‘What will happen to the papers? The letters and manuscripts, I mean?’
Lorna eased the car round a tight corner. ‘She’ll explain everything when you meet. That’s probably best.’
Emily thought of the points for their meeting that she’d jotted in her notebook. She’d also brought Coming Home with her, which she’d now read and enjoyed. It was a story about a young man taken from the country life that he knew, the prospect of life as an academic, to fly planes in the RAF, and how he returned to find that everything had changed, including the girl he’d loved. She sensed that it had a ring of the autobiographical about it, like many a first novel.
They drove on, as through some shadowy netherworld, London and civilisation worryingly further and further behind. The road descended sharply into thick drifts of fog, so Lorna slowed down to a crawl. ‘Not long now,’ she remarked, and a few moments later, they passed a village sign, wreathed in mist, then – the air grew momentarily clearer – houses, a village Post Office, the great flint shoulder of a church. Soon after that, Lorna drove between a pair of white posts and along a bumpy drive where delicate winter branches of trees lined the grassy verge on either side. Where the drive dipped, the mist surged in a sinister fashion and the sense of passing into another world intensified. Finally the car lurched to a halt, alarmingly close behind another vehicle, something black and sporty-looking.
‘Here we are,’ Lorna said with relief. They both got out. The air was chilly, with the scent of bonfires.
Lorna led the way past some outhouses, two with stable doors. ‘Are there horses?’ Emily asked, shivering.
‘Not in our time,’ Lorna said, her voice coming across pale and wistful. ‘I would have loved to learn to ride, but it wasn’t something my parents did. Come on. We’ll go via the kitchen, if you don’t mind. I must see that lunch is all right.’
She opened a heavy door and led Emily into a square utility room, then on through another door into a farmhouse kitchen. There was a rugged wooden table in the middle, one end of which was piled with clutter – a radio with a broken aerial, cook books, magazines and sewing. Pots and pans hung above a fireplace that was completely filled by a huge old Aga. A crowded wooden dresser of similar vintage to the table took up one wall. Though cramped, the room was homey and warm, and smelled of something savoury and delicious. A grey cat was curled up in a basket by the stove. It stirred for a moment at their entrance, then settled back into sleep. It was wasted with age, its ragged coat barely disguising the ridge of its backbone.
‘This won’t take a moment,’ Lorna said. She’d peeled off her cagoule to reveal an untidy ensemble of cord
Similar Books
