anyway, that’s what I want, too,’ Susan insisted loyally. ‘I don’t want to get married until I’m thirty, at least. I’m going to make a career for myself first.’
Harriet turned away to carry their empty cups to the sink. Outside it was completely dark now, and insects attracted by the light, were beginning to throw themselves against the murky glass of the window. She had Sellotaped pieces of cardboard over the broken panes, and now, watching some of the hairy-legged moths making their futile attacks, she was glad she had. She was no lover of insects in any form.
‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Susan, apparently prepared to leave the question of what Harriet intended to do until the morning, and her aunt frowned.
‘In here, I think,’ she decided thoughtfully. ‘The air in the salon is definitely musty, and I’d like to be sure all the corners have been swept out before lying down in there.’
‘All right.’ Fully recovered now, Susan unrolled the sleeping bags, and spread them out before the fire. ‘Can I miss having a wash tonight? I feel too sleepy.’
Harriet nodded her agreement. ‘All right. Do you want to go outside first, or shall I?’
‘I’ll go,’ Susan offered with a grin. ‘I’ll make sure there are no spiders lurking about. At least that’s one thing I’m good for!’
An owl hooted as Harriet let herself back into the house a few minutes later, and she suppressed the hysterical laughter that welled up inside her. Why was it she had never anticipated what it might be like after dark? she wondered, securing the bolt with a definite feeling of relief.
For all she was tired, Harriet did not sleep well. She had too many things to think about, not least what she intended doing next day. Susan, lying curled up in her sleeping bag beside her, obviously had no such anxieties, and Harriet envied her her ability to leave her problems to solve themselves.
But where did that leave her? What could she do, knowing how distressed Susan would be if she insisted on selling the house? And how long might it take to negotiate another sale even if her money was instantly forthcoming? Charles had only given her eight weeks’ leave of absence, and besides, Susan had to return to school in September.
There seemed nothing for it but to remain where she was, however distasteful to her that might be. It was only eight weeks, and surely, once they were satisfactorily settled there would be no need for them to see André Laroche. It wasn’t as if they had any rent to pay, and no doubt his wife would soon object if he started paying undue attention to the new owners. Was she so unsure of herself and her feelings that she must succumb to the absurd and cowardly notion to flee? The past was dead; the pain she was experiencing was the vulnerability of an old wound that had suddenly been scratched by a heavy and insensitive hand. And like all injuries, exposure to the air might effect the swiftest cure. But nothing could convince her that she would ever feel anything but hatred and contempt for the man who had awakened her so rudely to the cruel facts of life.
HARRIET was awakened by the sound of Susan running water into the iron kettle. Somehow, she had managed to rake over the embers of the fire without disturbing her aunt, and with the aid of some dry twigs and the torn-up cardboard boxes in which they had carried their crockery and groceries, she had succeeded in rekindling the fire to boil some water for breakfast.
Harriet stirred sleepily, aware that apart from a certain stiffness in her spine, she felt reasonably refreshed. Outside, the birds had already set up a morning chorus, and the smell of blossom from the garden was scenting the air with its fragrance. Everything seemed less sombre with the sun filtering in through the grubby panes, although its brilliance again illuminated the rooms’ shortcomings.
She had not undressed, and now she wriggled out of her sleeping bag feeling distinctly hot and sticky, reflecting ruefully that Susan’s description of her the night before was now far from accurate.
‘You sleep well,’ her niece remarked cheerfully, setting the kettle squarely on the flames, and Harriet refrained from revealing that it had been well into the early hours before she had closed her eyes.
‘Did you?’ she asked instead, getting to her feet and wrapping up the sleeping bag, and Susan nodded vigorously.
‘Like a log,’ she exclaimed. ‘It must be the air. Hmm!’ She took a deep breath at the open doorway. ‘Isn’t it divine?’
Harriet tied the sleeping bag into its roll and set it on the table. ‘That stream,’ she ventured thoughtfully, ‘do you think it’s very shallow?’
‘Our stream?’ Susan was eager. ‘I shouldn’t think it’s very deep, if that’s what you mean.’
Harriet grimaced. ‘Could I wash there, do you think? I feel awfully grimy, and I want a thorough wash before I change my clothes.’
Susan shrugged. ‘I’ll go and see, if you like.’
‘No.’ Harriet shook her head. ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll go myself. Did we unpack any towels last night?’
Armed with soap and towel, toothbrush and paste, Harriet opened the door which led into the tangled garden at the back of the house. Like the front, it was overgrown with shrubs and weeds, but as she trampled her way towards the sound of the water as it tumbled over its rocky course, she saw the remains of what had once been a herb garden, and smelled the delicious fragrance of mint and rosemary.
The stream was clear and fast-running, and Harriet felt almost inclined to taste it, but she decided not to take any chances. Instead, she took off her sandals and dipped her feet into its chilly shallows, smiling as the coldness tickled her toes. Downstream a short way, a cleft in the rock formed a small pool, and Harriet thought longingly of submerging her sticky body. Washing was all very well, but there was nothing to compare with taking a bath, and after assuring herself that she was completely alone, she stripped off her shirt and pants, and plunged bodily into the water. Sitting on the sandy bottom, the water lapped coolly about her breasts, and she soaped herself luxuriously, enjoying herself as she had not done since she was a child. In her apartment in London, she had a large modern bathroom, with a step-in bath and shining chrome-plated shower, and she had forgotten what it was like to enjoy the simple things of life. Her parents’ home in Surrey was the same, with every kind of labour-saving device, from washing machines to central heating. But sitting here she couldn’t help wondering whether they were not losing more than they gained.
A brisk rub down with the towel restored the glow of warmth to her skin, and she pulled on her pants and shirt again to run back to the house. She didn’t bother fastening them, she intended changing as soon as she got back, and she came into the house eagerly, intending to tell Susan what she had done.
The sight of André Laroche lounging by the sink, talking to Susan as she buttered the toasted remains of the loaf they had bought the previous afternoon, brought her up short, and she was glad of the wet towel to hide her embarrassment. She wondered uneasily which way he had come, and whether he had seen her in the stream. Would she have heard a footfall over the musical sounds of the water? The idea of his eyes observing her impromptu ablutions did not bear thinking about.
‘Good morning.’ He straightened, his greeting instinctively polite, but she sensed his probing regard and pressed the towel closer.
Harriet wondered if she was
