“Who is the father, Sybilla?” he repeated after a moment. “And should you be carrying that heavy basket?”

  “It’s only got bread and tea in it,” she said, almost smiling. “Oh and a pound of sugar.”

  “That’s too heavy for you,” said Dave, taking the basket from her. “Let me carry it into the house.”

  She didn’t argue and they walked together to the front door of the manor. They were closer than they had been for a long time.

  “Do I know him?” asked Dave, as he opened the door for her.

  “Know who?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. The father of your child...”

  She was on the brink of confiding in him, but at that moment the father himself appeared in the hall. He was already the worse for drink and it wasn’t yet lunchtime.

  “Hello,” said Lord Mountjoy, holding onto the banisters as he began to make his way upstairs. “I see you’re being chivalrous, Dave,” he said, “carrying the lady’s basket.”

  Dave ignored him, and ushered Sybilla into the kitchen. Light had suddenly dawned.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” he said, shutting the kitchen door after them. “Isn’t it?” He grabbed her arm.

  “Ouch! You’re hurting me!” she cried, struggling free.

  “It’s him, I know it!”

  “You’re mad!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! Go away!”

  Dave released her but remained where he was in the middle of the spacious kitchen with the old-fashioned range and large wooden table that took up most of the floor space.

  “You must tell him, Sybilla,” he said quietly. “He must do right by you. He’s got enough money to support you and the child...”

  “And get kicked out in the process?”

  “So it is him...”

  “Yes, it’s him. Happy now?”

  “But why, Sybilla? The man’s a drunk...”

  “He wasn’t always that bad,” she said sadly. “And he was kind to me, and I felt sorry for him. She leads him a dog’s life... And I found him attractive ... once...”

  “So – how did it happen?” Dave came and sat at the kitchen table, watching her as she put away the shopping.

  “How d’you think?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You want to know all the sordid details, is that it?” She turned from the larder and glared at him.

  “Of course I don’t.” Perish the thought, he said to himself.

  “Look,” she said, coming and sitting down opposite him. “It happened only once. It just – happened. He looked so sad and it was more of a comfort thing on my part – I had always rather fancied him, but when it came to it, it wasn’t exactly earth-shattering...”

  “Enough.” Dave put up his hand. “I don’t need to know all that. I just wish, oh how I wish you weren’t going to have this baby...”

  “So, if I had an abortion, you’d marry me?” Her tone was flint hard.

  Dave realised that that was what it boiled down to. He remained silent.

  They sat looking at each for several seconds, then Dave stood up. “It’s all academic now, anyway,” he said. “I’d better get on.”

  “I’ll bring you a cup of tea in half an hour,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Dave smiled his thanks and left the room. It looked as if cups of tea were all he could expect from her from now on. He just wished he didn’t still love her so much.

  Summer, 1968

  Robbie was sitting with Dorothy in the Feathers, the evening following the death of her fiancé. Bernard had telephoned him with the news, and he had at once gone to see her to invite her for a commiserating drink. At the back of his mind was the thought that Bernard wouldn’t have been exactly heartbroken over this particular death, but he still wouldn’t place any bets on the vicar grabbing this unexpected opportunity with both hands. Besides, it was too soon to offer marriage; the poor man had only just died.

  He took Dorothy’s hand in his own and looked into her eyes. He still found her attractive, but all thoughts of his own chances with her had receded completely now. He had never been the one she wanted, anyway, and now he couldn’t help thinking about Lady Mountjoy. His housekeeper, Lucy Carter, had been a comfort to him over the years, but she wasn’t wife material; not for him anyway.

  “I’m so sorry, Dorothy dear,” he said, patting her hand with a fatherly gesture. She smiled at him as she sipped her gin and tonic. “Thanks, Robbie,” she said, “It was a terrible shock – he was only in his early forties, you know. And he had always been so fit. Told me he went to the gym at least twice a week ...”

  “Sometimes it happens that way,” said Robbie sagely. “I see people come to my surgery all the time who seem fit as fiddles on the surface. But blood pressure is the silent killer; so many of us don’t know we’ve got a problem with it. There are no obvious symptoms ...”

  “I think you’d better check mine out sometime,” she said. “I don’t want to keel over like that. I’m the same age as him.”

  “Of course, Dorothy, my pleasure,” he said. “But you look fine to me,” he added chivalrously. She didn’t look at all fine, however. He could see the lines of sorrow round her eyes; she looked gaunt and pale, and it seemed as if she had lost two stones over night.

  When Robbie had refreshed their drinks, she looked at him confidingly. “Do you mind if I tell you something, Robbie?”

  “Of course, Dorothy. You can tell me anything, you know that. How long have we been friends?” he said rhetorically as an afterthought.

  “Well, I think the reason I’m so upset about Jon dying is ...”

  “Anyone would be,” interrupted Robbie. “Of course you’re upset. You were going to marry him!”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “And that’s just it. I think I’m feeling guilty...”

  “Guilty? What on earth do you mean? You didn’t stab him to death, did you?”

  “No. I mean I think in some way I’m feeling relieved that he died...”

  “Relieved?” Robbie was puzzled. He swallowed his whisky quickly, now ready for a third.

  “Yes. You see I think I became engaged to him on the rebound...”

  “Ah,” said Robbie. He began to see what she was driving at.

  “I thought I was in love with him. He was so handsome and everything. But there were things about him that I was beginning not to like very much. I was beginning to regret my rash decision to get married. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I do, dearie. I do. But what did you mean about not liking him very much?”

  “Oh nothing specific, I suppose. But I sort of got the feeling that he would monopolise me once we were married. He was the putting-his-foot-down kind of man, I think...”

  “Ah,” said Robbie again. “In that case, perhaps it was for the best... Not him dying, of course, I don’t mean that. But now at least you’re free to get on with your life... You have your work. You do so many people good. Contacting their loved ones who’ve passed over...”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t ever want not to do that. I don’t think Jon really approved of what I do, even though that’s how I met him in the first place...”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. He came to consult you about his dead parents, you said?”

  “Yes. Then he told me about his cousin ... I didn’t realise that his cousin was Dave Allison, of course. He told me that his cousin seemed to know his parents were going to die ... when I found out that his cousin was Dave, that made perfect sense. His seeing auras, and all that...”

  At that moment, the man in question walked into the pub. He had just finished work for the day, and was ready for a quick pint before going home. He stopped when he saw Dorothy with Robbie. He knew he wasn’t her favourite person at the moment, and he could understand that. He decided to pretend he hadn’t seen her, but she suddenly looked up and smiled at him.

  He hesitated for just a second then, taking up his beer, made his way over to them. “Hi,” he said, as casually as he could in the circumstances. “Hello, Miss Plunkett, how are you feeling now? And it’s Dr MacTavish, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, laddie. Sit yourself down. I’m just about to get refills. Can I get you another?”

  “No thanks, I mustn’t stay long. My wife’ll kill me if the supper’s ruined.”

  While Robbie was at the bar, he sat down opposite Dorothy and returned her smile. She realised that that smile could kill at ten paces; it was devastating. No woman could resist him.

  “I – I’m sorry I had a go at you, Dave,” she said. “You know – earlier. I was still in shock. I’m sure there was nothing you could have done...”

  Dave smiled again. “No, you were right. I should at least have told you about his black aura. You would have understood, of course... But I never really thought...”

  “It’s all right. I understand.”

  Robbie came back with the drinks. “Well, Dave, it’s a sad day for you too,” he said.

  Dave took a long swig of his beer, and wiped the froth from his mouth. “Yes, well. In the midst of life et cetera. And anyway, I wasn’t exactly surprised...”

  “It wasn’t such a shock for you, of course,” said Dorothy. “But you were brought up with him, weren’t you? You were more like brothers, really...”

  Dave looked sad for a moment. “I suppose we were, but there was five years difference in our ages, so we were never really that close as children. I wish we had liked each other more ...”

  Dorothy wasn’t entirely surprised by this. Dave, she thought, was an altogether nicer person than Jon Muirhead. She didn’t have any real evidence for this, of course. She barely knew him. But she could see just by looking at the man that he was one of the nicest people she could ever possibly meet. But then, maybe it was just his blue eyes ...

  “The vicar’s a lucky chap,” he said suddenly.

  Dorothy gave a start, then she composed herself. “What makes you say that?” she asked, toying with her third gin and tonic.

  “I don’t know why I said it,” said Dave, genuinely puzzled himself. “It just came into my head. I think you’re – forgive me – in love with him?”

  Robbie jumped in. “Come on, laddie, that’s none of your concern. I think you’re overstepping the mark...”

  “Yes, I’m sorry ...”

  “No,” said Dorothy. “He’s right. I don’t mind. I think his psychic gifts extend beyond the auras he sees. I think he can see what’s inside a person’s head as well as what’s outside it...”

  “I’ve never been aware of it before,” said Dave, finishing his drink. “But I just looked at you and the thought came into my head. You have been in love with him for a very long time, haven’t you?”

  Dorothy was beginning to feel the tears well up again. “Yes. I can’t seem to move on from that. I know it’s useless, but I can’t help it.”

  Dave stood up slowly and came round the table to her. He touched her gently on the shoulder. “I think you should try and get over him, for your own sake,” he said gently.

  Robbie tutted impatiently. “Don’t you think I’ve been telling her that for years?”

  “Yes, I’m sure you have. But I know you’ll never marry him, Dorothy. I just know it.” So saying, he drained his beer glass and wished them good evening.

  He walked slowly towards the door of the pub, and they watched him go out.

  “There goes a man with the troubles of the world on his shoulders,” observed Robbie.

  Dorothy could not but agree, for she knew that what he had just told her was solid fact. She knew now beyond any doubt, she would never be the wife of the vicar of St Stephen’s. But she found, instead of feeling sad, she was relieved. At last, she could get on with her life.

  Early Winter, 1963

  Lord Mountjoy was feeling chipper. His health was back on track; the hospital had given him the all clear. If he had been the kind of man that did jigs, he would have done one. However, aware that his dangerous level of drinking would have caused him to fall over should he have attempted such a rash activity, he wisely refrained. He settled for humming instead.

  Having given the good news to his lady wife, he decided to tell his gardener next. Having had a celebratory swig from his secret vodka bottle, he made his way into the garden, still humming. Forsythia Mountjoy had received his news with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, remarking that he should take better care of his health in the future otherwise he’d be back to square one. Silly old trout, he’d thought. She didn’t care if he lived or died although, on balance, he rather suspected she’d prefer it if he did the latter.

  But not even his wife’s attitude could dampen his spirits that cold late November morning. He saw Dave attacking a particularly recalcitrant mass of brambles and started towards him, switching to another tune as he did so. “I Feel Pretty” seemed an apt song, he thought, having caught a glance of himself in the hall mirror on the way out. His looks had certainly improved recently, he noticed. Maybe it was because he had eased up on his drinking somewhat since being told he was seriously ill. But now he was well, there was nothing to stop him returning to his old friend, Mr Alcohol.

  Dave looked up as he saw Lord Mountjoy march purposefully towards him. The black aura around his head was very pronounced now. Oh dear, he sighed to himself. Poor old chap, must be bad news. But he looks cheerful enough – more cheerful than usual...

  “Hi, Dave,” Florian called, waving his hand. “How’s tricks?”

  Goodness, thought Dave, what’s got into him? Thinks I’m his buddy now. It wasn’t often that his lord and master addressed him in such a matey way.

  “Fine, sir,” said Dave politely. He still knew his place, even if his lordship didn’t.

  “What’s with this ‘sir’ business? It’s a beautiful day ...” It wasn’t. It was November. “... And all’s right with the world. Everything’s tickety-boo. Having trouble with those brambles, I see...”

  “Er, yes sir,” said Dave, quite at a loss. “But they won’t beat me.”

  “I almost feel sorry for them,” said Lord Mountjoy, grinning from ear to ear. Dave found this a rather unnerving sight.

  “Er, is there anything you wanted, sir?” said Dave, hoping he would go away. It was all too much. Since discovering that Florian was the father of Sybilla’s baby, he had avoided him as much as possible, finding it difficult to look him in the eye. He wasn’t jealous of him exactly; there seemed very little to be jealous of. The man was an old soak and obviously dying. He had heard that he had been diagnosed with some form of lung disease, which he presumed was cancer, and now the black aura confirmed this diagnosis. He was hardly a man to envy in those circumstances.

  “No, no. You carry on. Just felt like a breath of fresh air.”

  Dave returned to his brambles, puzzled. What did the man want, he wondered. Did he know about the baby? Did he know it was his?

  The man still stood there, balancing on the balls of his feet, humming that stupid ‘West Side Story’ song. Dave dug viciously at a bramble that had never done him any harm. Go away, he said under his breath, both to the bramble and Lord Mountjoy. Go away.

  “I’m feeling really good today,” said Lord Mountjoy suddenly. “Better than I’ve felt for months and months – years, even.”

  Did the man know about the baby? Maybe that was why he felt so cheerful. “That’s er – good,” said Dave, throwing the dead bramble into the wheelbarrow beside him. He wanted to throw Lord Mountjoy in there with it, but wisely refrained.

  “Did you – er, you knew that I was ill, didn’t you?”

  “Er, well I had heard something,” Dave said carefully. “I – I hope you – er, I mean, I hope it isn’t anything too serious...” Silly thing to say, but then, what else could he say?

  “Well, it was serious, but I’ve just been given the all clear,” he said, clapping his hands behind his back and walking up and down briskly. “I feel like a new man,” he said cheerfully.

  So did Lady Mountjoy probably, Dave thought wryly. That was unkind, he chastised himself. “Well, I – I’m very pleased for you. They’ve told you you’re cured? The hospital, I mean...”

  “That’s right. I’m right as rain.” Lord Mountjoy continued to pace up and down, and Dave had to admit that, if it wasn’t for the black aura, the man looked better than he had done for ages. But black auras, in his experience, never lied. Perhaps the hospital had washed its hands of him, knowing they could do no more for him. But it was cruel to tell him he was cured if he was about to die. He would need time to get his affairs in order.

  “Just thought I’d let you know. Perhaps you could pass on my news to Sybilla. She seems to be avoiding me lately.”

  “I – I will, sir, of course.”

  “Good lad. Now, I think I’ll go and write a few letters. Need to inform everybody that I’m no longer at death’s door. The treatment was horrible but, by God, it was worth it!”

  Dave watched him return to the house. He removed his cap and scratched his head. Poor guy, he thought ruefully. There was no doubt the man would be dead within the week, but perhaps it was kinder for him not to know. He returned to his brambles with a vengeance.

  Summer, 1960

  “How could you?”

  “How could I what, dear heart?”

  “How could you humiliate me like that in front of all those people?”

  Paul Brierley smiled. His nose still hurt from the punch it had received from Lord Mountjoy but he was bearing the pain bravely. “Sorry,” he said inadequately, “it was the drink talking...”

  Forsythia Mountjoy was sitting with her erring lover in the park the day after the disastrous social gathering at which he had announced to all and sundry, and particularly to her husband, that she was, as he crudely put it, a ‘right goer’.

  “I had so much trouble explaining to Florian,” she said, kicking at a stray leaf at her feet. The weather was pleasantly warm that June afternoon, but there was no warmth in her heart.

  Paul simply shrugged. “You can’t stand him, you’ve told me so often enough. Why don’t you leave him and come and live with me?”

 

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