you’ve done!’ she yelled.
‘Shut up, Judy,’ he said, bored. ‘One tumblerful is the same as the sum of all the prissy little doses you’re going to give me one by one.’
‘I am not going to hand you little doses one by one. If you drink that lot on an empty stomach you’ll be flat on your back!’
‘Fine. With you in my arms?’
‘No!’ She took the glass out of his hand and put it down with a bang on the table. ‘Please leave now, Nick.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘I mean it.’ Her eyes were cold with anger. ‘Please get out of here. Go back to your office and sort out your problems there, not in my studio.’
She pulled the door open and stood by it. ‘I mean it!’
For a moment he hesitated, then he picked up the whisky glass, took a couple of gulps from it, put it down and strode past her to the door.
‘I thought you wanted me back,’ he said softly as he stood for a moment looking down at her.
‘Out, Nick,’ she repeated stonily.
He shrugged, then, with a strangely grating laugh, he walked past her and out onto the landing.
She slammed the door. For a moment she listened to the sound of his footsteps running down the long flights of stairs, then she turned back into the studio.
‘Oh yes, I want you back, Nick Franklyn,’ she said to herself softly. ‘But on my terms. Not yours.’
Picking up his glass, she began to pour the whisky carefully back into the bottle.
Alan and Shirley Peters had motored up to the Welsh border from Cardiff that morning.
‘We love this part of the country, see.’ Shirley had a firm grip on Jo’s arm. ‘Mind the pebbles here, they’re that uneven. Are you feeling better now?’
She had Jo’s bag over her shoulder. On Jo’s other side her tall, taciturn husband was holding her elbow as though he were afraid she would try to escape.
‘It gave me a real turn, it did, seeing you lying there near the water,’ she rushed on. ‘We saw you earlier from the bridge, see. “There’s a mermaid, cast up on the strand,” Alan said, didn’t you my lovely? And then when we came back two hours later you hadn’t moved, so we thought, there’s something wrong. You couldn’t be asleep, you looked so uncomfortable, you did, with your head on the stones – and your eyes were open. Quite normal they looked, but we couldn’t make you hear. “She’s epileptic, she is,” Alan said, didn’t you my lovely?’
Jo smiled shakily as the woman paused for breath. ‘I’m all right, really. It’s good of you to help me, but I can manage. My car is up there, by the castle.’
‘Car?’ Shirley let out a shriek. ‘You can’t drive a car! It wouldn’t be safe! Where are you staying? We’ll take you there.’
Jo shrugged. ‘I hadn’t found anywhere. I thought I’d look for an hotel or something, but then I must have fallen asleep in the sun …’ She was still confused, dazed by the sudden transition from past to present without the intermediary of Carl Bennet’s gentle voice. Shakily she put her hand to her head.
‘Well, there now, that’s your problem solved then. We’ll take you back with us to Margiad’s house. That’s where we stay, down by the church. Bed and breakfast she does, and she’s a nice kind soul. She’ll see you get to a doctor if you’re still poorly tomorrow, see?’
Swept on in the tide of their concern Jo allowed herself to be fitted into the back of a small red Volkswagen and driven the few hundred yards to Margiad Griffiths’s guest house. There, amid much fuss, she was shown a spotless little room with a mansard window overlooking the high common beyond the river and told to lie down whilst her landlady brought her a cup of tea.
She lay back gratefully on the pink nylon sheets and gave a deep sigh. She was exhausted. She had been so tired and confused she had not even waited to see if Richard had seen where she went to –
She sat up, feeling suddenly very sick. Richard de Clare did not exist.
There was a knock on the door and Mrs Griffiths appeared carrying a tray. She was a small, plump woman with pepper-and-salt hair and a soft pink complexion which complemented faded blue eyes. Once she must have been very pretty.
‘They’ve gone out again, you’ll be glad to hear,’ she said gently. ‘Talk the hind leg off a donkey, that Shirley would, and no mistake. How are you, my dear?’ She put the tray down beside the bed.
Jo forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine – just very tired. I had such a strange dream by the river. It made me feel so odd –’ To her embarrassment she knew suddenly that she was near to tears.
Mrs Griffiths gave her a close look, then with innate tact she turned away, delving into her pocket. ‘I’ve some aspirin here if you need them and the bathroom is across the hall,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you have a hot bath and pop into bed for a while? I can give you some supper later. Shirley said your car was up by the castle. She said her Alan would fetch your things if you liked.’
Jo smiled. ‘Would he really?’ She stood up shakily and felt in the pocket of her jeans for the car keys. ‘It’s a blue MG, by the War Memorial. I’d be so grateful –’
Mrs Griffiths took the keys and dropped them into her apron. ‘I’ll run downstairs and find you a spare nightdress for now, shall I?’ And she was gone.
Jo sat back on the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Then, wearily, she lay back on the pillow. Her last thought as she drifted into sleep was of little Will. As he played in the dirt of the castle bailey he had fallen on the ground and grazed his knees. She had to see that someone cleaned them properly and smeared on some antiseptic; the whole place was so filthy …
She awoke next morning to the smell of frying bacon. Puzzled, she lay staring around her room, looking at the pink chintz curtains blowing at the open window and the pink drapes of an unfamiliar dressing table. Her mind was fuddled with sleep. Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. She was still fully dressed. Someone had put a tartan blanket over her while she slept. Her bag and typewriter stood on the floor by the door and she could see her car keys on the dressing table.
It was all coming back to her. Sitting by the River Wye, looking up at the broken silhouette of the castle, she had somehow gone into a regression; on her own, and without wanting to, she had slipped back to the time of Matilda and for two or three hours had lain on the white shingle in a trance, oblivious of the world around her. She hugged her knees with a shiver, wishing suddenly that Nick was there. Then she put her head in her hands. Had she even forgotten that? That she could never see Nick again? She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. Nick and she were finished and Richard was far away beyond her reach. She was alone.
Standing up shakily, she glanced at her watch. It was ten past nine. She went to the window and stared out at the low hills beyond the trees. It was somewhere up there that she and Richard had ridden with their hawks.
She found she was clenching her fists violently, suddenly overcome by fear. Was it her need to see Richard that had made her regress alone and unprompted,
