At last the length of the shadows thrown by the mine building made her realize how late it was. As she walked back to the cottage in the orange evening light the exercise relaxed her and it occurred to her that she might be ill, like her father. He could be paranoid too and she’d read that such diseases could be inherited. Rather than frightening her, the thought was reassuring. She could talk to someone. Get treatment. She probably wasn’t in any physical danger at all. It was all in her head.
She kept this thought clear in her mind for two days, long enough to drop a note to her father, asking if he could arrange for her to see his doctor at St. Nick’s, and a letter to Antonia Thorne. The letter was unspecific. She still didn’t feel sufficiently safe to commit herself to paper. She just said it would be good to have a talk.
Something was worrying her. She got a lift out to Langholme with Rachael to post them. Even though the letters were sealed she was reluctant to hand them over.
Chapter Twenty-Eight.
Grace only went to the pub with the others so she could use the public phone in Langholme. It wasn’t so much that she had a puritan attitude to communal drinking but she hated the crowded intimacy, the jostling at the bar, feeling strangers’ breath on her neck. She’d gone out occasionally with people from her hall at university so as not to seem stuck-up, and student haunts were always packed and noisy. Edmund had never suggested taking her to the pub. When he drank it was seriously, on his own behind closed doors.
Rachael must have thought Grace would resist because when she suggested the trip she said, “Project leader’s orders. You’ve got to come. It’ll do us all good to get away from this place for a while.”
So they’d climbed into Rachael’s tiny car and driven through the dark to Langholme. Grace had been a bit anxious about leaving all her work at Baikie’s with the farmhouse empty anyone could break in, but the others said she was being ridiculous. Who would drive all that way to steal a pile of papers and a couple of pairs of binoculars? And she saw that she probably was being foolish. With help she’d come to realize that.
She waited until it was almost closing time to phone her father from the call box in the street outside. In the short space of time they were in the pub Anne drank four gins and flirted with the young boys by the bar.
Grace could hear the clatter of plates, sense her father’s wavering concentration.
“Well?” she shouted. “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes.”
“Have you made me an appointment?”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re the most sorted-out person I know. You don’t need to see a shrink.”
Only then did she realize how much she’d been relying on the doctor to provide her with a way out. She stood in the phone box, cut off from the pub by the road. A lorry went past, dazzling her with its headlights, making the small panes of glass in the old-fashioned box vibrate.
“Dad?” She’d lost concentration and was scared he’d hung up on her.
“Yes.”
“I can’t carry on doing this, Dad.”
“Of course you can. It’s not for much longer, is it?”
“It’s too long. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“For me, girl. Stick it out for me. The old team, working together.”
There was a shout in the background, a crash of plates and without saying goodbye, her father replaced the receiver.
For a long time she stood where she was, trapped in the box. She couldn’t face Rachael or Anne in the smoky pub. She was afraid she’d burst into tears, not of sadness but of confusion. She didn’t know what to do and she’d always been able to take decisions before. Then a drunk old man came out of the pub and staggered crabwise across the road towards her, lit by a single lamp further down the street. She pushed open the heavy door and fled. She passed him on the pavement but he seemed not to see her.
In the pub Anne was back at the bar.
“You’ve been a long time,” Rachael said.
“I couldn’t get through.”
Then Rachael told her that Anne was planning to move into the box room
“I think she just needs the privacy,” she said apologetically.
“Why?” Grace demanded. “What’s she up to?” It was her way of trying to warn Rachael, but the other woman looked at her strangely and changed the conversation, so for a moment Grace wondered if they were working together, if there was a conspiracy against her.
I am going mad, she thought. Just like my father.
The next morning Rachael went off early. She said she had a meeting with Peter and the developer. Grace, who hadn’t slept much, was up before her, and tried to make normal conversation. She made Rachael coffee, then watched the small car drive away, the engine straining up the hill. Back in the cottage she put bread under the grill to toast, but didn’t get round to eating it because Anne appeared, still in her dressing gown, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
“I’m on my way out,” Grace said quickly. “I won’t be back until this evening. It’ll be quite late.”
Anne must have seen the bread slowly turning brown under the grill but she only shrugged and said OK.
It wasn’t until midday that Grace realized she’d rushed off in such a hurry that she hadn’t left details of her proposed route at Baikie’s.
She didn’t want to give Rachael cause to look more closely at her work so she decided to go back. She assumed that by then Anne would be out with her quad rats There was a car parked by the cottage and for a moment Grace was suspicious. It wasn’t Peter Kemp’s car and they never had other visitors. Then she thought again that she was being ridiculous. It probably belonged to someone who was looking at Black Law farmhouse and the land, a valuer or an agent.
As soon as she went into the kitchen she heard the noises in the other room, snuffling, squealing sounds. Without thinking she opened the door into the living room to look in. There was a smell of food, of smoked fish and ripe fruit, which made her feel sick. She saw Anne Preece lying on the floor with a man. His naked bottom was in the air, his trousers round his ankles, so like the pose in a smutty seaside postcard that she wondered briefly if it was a practical joke. Anne’s way of getting back at her. But Anne wasn’t laughing. Underneath the man but facing the door she saw Grace at once and was obviously shocked. The man had to turn to look at her. At the same time he was pulling up his underpants with one hand and bearing his weight with the other. It was quite a gymnastic feat. As soon as he turned, Grace recognized the man’s face. Edmund had sent her newspaper cuttings about the Black Law development and Godfrey Waugh had featured. Grace stared at him for a moment then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.
So Anne had been in league with the opposition all along. That at least hadn’t been part of her imagination While she was considering what to make of the information she tore a page from her notebook and wrote the details of where she expected to be that afternoon.
The door opened and Anne came in, not super cool any more, but ruffled, diffident. As uncertain, Grace could see, as she was. Looking at Anne Preece, Grace decided not to pass on the information about her affair with Waugh to her father. It would have to be dealt with, but not in that way. She hated the idea of Edmund gloating over it, rolling the details round and round in his mouth as if it were an expensive brandy to be savoured.
So when Anne talked about Godfrey’s wife and child she said, “It’s all right. I won’t say anything.”
She spoke slowly and firmly. She wanted Anne to believe her. Anne must have done because she smiled gratefully.