She was an affectionate old thing, I found. She came docilely out of the trailer and made no fuss when I led her up the little garden path and in through the front door of the cottage and across the little hall into the room prepared for her. I gave her some sugar and rubbed her ears, and she butted her head playfully against my chest. After a while, as she seemed quite content in her unusual and not very spacious loose box, I went out into the hall, shut the door, and padlocked her in. Then I walked round the outside of the cottage and shook the water-pipe bars to see if they were secure, as the frosty air might have prevented the cement from setting properly. But they were all immovably fixed.
The mare came to the window and tried to poke her muzzle through the glassless squares of the window frame and through the bars outside them, but the maze defeated her. I put my hand through and fondled her muzzle, and she blew contentedly down her nostrils. Then she turned and went over to the corner where her hay was, and quietly and trustfully put her head down to eat.
I dumped the rest of the hay and straw in one of the front rooms of the cottage, shut the front door, manoeuvred the trailer round with some difficulty into the lane again, and set off back to Bedfordshire. In due course I delivered the Land-Rover and trailer to their owner, thanked him, and drove the hired car back to Joanna’s mews.
When I went in, she kissed me. She sprang up from the sofa where she had been sitting reading, and kissed me lightly on the mouth. It was utterly spontaneous; without thought: and it was a great surprise to both of us. I put my hands on her arms and smiled incredulously down into her black eyes, and watched the surprise there turn to confusion and the confusion to panic. I took my hands away and turned my back on her to give her time, taking off the anorak and saying casually over my shoulder, ‘The lodger is installed in the cottage. A big brown mare with a nice nature.’
I hung up the anorak in the cupboard.
‘I was just... glad to see you back,’ she said in a high voice.
‘That’s fine,’ I said lightly. ‘Can I rustle up an egg, do you think?’
‘There are some mushrooms for an omelette,’ she said, more normally.
‘Terrific,’ I said, going into the kitchen. ‘Not peeled, by any chance?’
‘Damn it, no,’ she said, following me and beginning to smile. She made the omelette for me and I told her about Buttonhook, and the difficult moment passed.
Later on she announced that she was coming down to the cottage with me when I went in the morning.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘He is expecting Mrs. Doris Jones to open the door to him. It will be much better if she does.’
I couldn’t budge her.
‘And,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve thought of putting curtains in the windows? If you want him to walk into your parlour, you’ll have to make it look normal. He probably has a keen nose for smelling rats.’ She fished some printed cotton material out of the drawer and held it up. ‘I’ve never used this... we can pin it up to look like curtains.’ She busily collected some drawing pins and scissors, and then rolled up the big rag rug which the easel stood on and took a flower picture off the wall.
‘What are those for?’ I said.
‘To furnish the hall, of course. It’s got to look right.’
‘Okay, genius,’ I said, giving in. ‘You can come.’
We put all the things she had gathered into a tidy pile by the door, and I added two boxes of cubed sugar from her store cupboard, the big electric torch she kept in case of power cuts, and a broom.
After that springing kiss, the sofa was more of a wasteland than ever.
Seventeen
We set off early and got down to the cottage before nine, because there was a good deal to be done before Kemp-Lore arrived.
I hid the car behind the bushes again, and we carried the rug and the other things indoors. Buttonhook was safe and sound in her room, and was delighted to see us, neighing purringly in her throat when we opened her door. While I tossed her straw and fetched her some more hay and water, Joanna said she would clean the windows at the front of the cottage, and presently I heard her humming softly as she wiped away the grime of years.
The putty round the new panes had hardened well, and after I had finished Buttonhook, and Joanna was stepping back admiring the sparkle of the glass, I fetched the paint and began the tedious job of covering the patchwork of old decayed black paint and pale new putty with a bright green skin. Joanna watched me for a while and then went indoors. She put down the rug in the little hall, and I heard her banging a nail into the wall to hang up the picture just inside the front door where no visitor could fail to see it. After that she worked on the inside of the windows while I painted their outsides. She cut the flowery material into lengths and pinned it so that it hung like curtains.
When we had both finished we stood at the gate in front of the cottage admiring our handiwork. With its fresh paint, pretty curtains, and the rug and picture showing through the half-open door, it looked well cared for and homely.
‘Has it got a name?’ Joanna asked.
‘I don’t think so. It’s always called “The Keeper’s Cottage,” as far as I know,’ I said.
‘We should name it Sundew,’ she said.
‘After the Grand National winner?’ I said, puzzled.
‘No,’ she said soberly, ‘the carnivorous plant.’
I put my arm round her waist. She didn’t stir.
‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, I will,’ I assured her. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven. ‘We’d better go indoors in case he comes early.’
We went in and shut the front door and sat on the remains of the hay bale in the front room, giving ourselves a clear view of the front gate.
A minute or two ticked by in silence. Joanna shivered.
‘Are you too cold?’ I said with concern. There had been another frost during the night and there was, of course, no heating in the cottage. ‘We should have brought a stove.’
‘It’s nerves as much as cold,’ she said, shivering again.
I put my arm round her shoulders. She leaned comfortably against me, and I kissed her cheek. Her black eyes looked gravely, warily into mine.
‘It isn’t incest,’ I said.
Her eyelids flickered in shock, but she didn’t move.
‘Our fathers may be brothers,’ I said, ‘but our mothers are not related to them or to each other.’
She said nothing. I had a sudden feeling that if I lost this time I had lost for ever, and a leaden chill of despair settled in my stomach.
‘No one forbids marriage between cousins,’ I said slowly. ‘The Law allows it and the Church allows it, and you can be sure they wouldn’t if there were anything immoral in it. And in a case like ours, the medical profession raises no objection either. If there were a good genetic reason why we shouldn’t marry, it would be different. But you know there isn’t.’ I paused, but she still looked at me gravely and said nothing. Without much hope I said, ‘I don’t really understand why you feel the way you do.’
‘It’s instinct,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand it myself. It’s just that I’ve always thought of it as wrong... and impossible.’
There was a little silence.
I said, ‘I think I’ll sleep in my digs down here in the village tonight, and ride out at exercise with the horses tomorrow morning. I’ve been neglecting my job this week...’