The Healing Stream Read online

  ‘You? But I thought you were a carer-oblique-friend to Deirdre. What time do you have to take on an extra job?’

  ‘This wouldn’t be a job. Don’t you see? I know Burghton as if I lived there. I told you, the folk there are like family. When I was at school I wasn’t in the really clever set – just ordinary and average. So when for the last year the really bright ones did extra maths and languages, all that sort of thing, I was with the lot who did more practical things. Typing was one of my choices. Just like in the sewing classes, some chose to do embroidery, but I preferred dressmaking. Then at the hotel, although they called me deputy manager, I was really a general dogsbody and I did most of the typing. I wouldn’t be as fast as your lady from Deremouth, at least not at first, but I would save there being such a mass for her to catch up with, don’t you see?’ Imagine if she could end each day listening to his voice. ‘Please say I can do it. I’m quite careful, I don’t make lots of mistakes.’ She was conscious that he was watching her closely; if only she knew what was going on in his mind. Perhaps he thought she had an awful cheek and was wondering how he could refuse her offer without hurting her feelings. After all, a proper professional typist would work so much more quickly than she could. Had she spoilt the evening by suggesting it? But imagine hearing stories of the lives of the people from Burghton spoken in his voice, spoken just as he thought of them. He must say she could do it.

  ‘And what do you think your uncle and aunt will have to say about it? But Tessa, you would be doing me a great favour; that I can’t deny. I’ve had dealings with the agency in Deremouth in the past: once they sent me a girl who was frightened of the solitude down here and I’m sure, on the occasions when I stayed in the house, expected I would try to rape her. Then, the second time they sent a middle-aged woman, a good typist once she got started, but she never stopped talking. You’re different, I suppose because you know the characters already. But it’s out of the question that after you finish work with Deirdre you cycle over here in the dark and come to what would often be an empty house. No, I can’t let you do that. And, as I say, I’m often out in the evenings.’ Yet she could tell from his expression as he looked at her that he hadn’t quite put the idea out of his mind. ‘I look on you as a friend. Friendship and business don’t go hand in hand.’

  Tessa looked at him squarely, frightened that her hero might have feet of clay.

  ‘You don’t have to waltz around the point,’ she said, ashamed of her hostile tone. ‘If you don’t think I’d be quick enough, or type well enough, I’d much rather you just came out with it. I don’t make scenes if I don’t get my own way. I suppose I just felt that if I typed what you dictated it would make me part of the book. Silly of me.’

  ‘Not silly at all, except that I’m sure your aunt and uncle would worry to have you here alone on these dark winter evenings. If you want to take on extra work, then what I pay Mrs—’

  ‘I’m not looking for a job and if you talk about paying me, then forget the suggestion.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget the suggestion. I like the idea that you should be involved. Now how about this for an idea . . .’

  And so it was that when he delivered Tessa back to the farm he drove along the narrow lane right to the gate, then went in with her to meet Naomi and Richard. There was nothing in the manner of their greeting to suggest just how different he was from the picture they’d formed of him. Tessa had implied he was a friend of Mr Masters, someone probably Richard’s age. Giles was forty, good looking in a rugged way and with a voice that was evidence of an expensive education. Naomi had borrowed the first of the Burghton series from Tessa’s collection and made time to read it. This wasn’t at all the sort of man she had envisaged. The writer had the gift of taking the reader into the psyche of each character, every one of them different and yet the whole bringing to life a mixed community that was utterly believable. And this man? He might bury himself in Downing Wood to escape the hubbub of town life, but he struck her as very much part of the modern post-war world.

  ‘Before I accept Tessa’s kind offer to help me I want to be sure it has your approval,’ he said with a warm and friendly smile at Richard and Naomi. Then, having gone through an explanation of the plight of his usual typist, he rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder as he said, ‘Instead of reading in bed as she says is her habit, this work-thirsty niece of yours has offered to spend the last hour of the day typing up what I have been recording. Sometimes there will be nothing, and sometimes more than she can do in one end-of-day hour.’

  ‘I shall enjoy it. It’ll be even better than reading the book to feel that I had a hand in its preparation. And it’ll be good for me to have some typing practise.’

  ‘But you haven’t a typewriter,’ Richard objected.

  ‘Everything’s in the car, Uncle Richard. Giles insisted that was where it all stayed until he was sure you and Aunt Naomi thought it was a good idea.’

  ‘We’re not your gaolers, my dear. It’ll only be until measles has run its course so the late nights won’t hurt you as long as you’re sure your typing will be up to the job.’

  Tessa felt she stood outside herself looking at the scene. Giles Lampton actually here in the kitchen of Chagleigh Farm, then he and Uncle Richard going outside to the car to fetch the things she would need and carrying them up to her bedroom. The thought of Giles in her bedroom was both exciting and embarrassing; he would be bound to notice that between two bookends on her bedside cabinet she kept her treasured collection of all nine volumes of the Burghton series. The thought of it seemed to tell him her most private thoughts. She felt gauche, frightened to look at him as he and Richard came down the stairs, expecting to be met with that teasing expression, his brows raised, his eyes leaving her in no doubt.

  ‘I’m eternally grateful to you, Tessa. There is enough there to keep you busy for a night or two. After that, Mrs Pilbeam, perhaps I could occasionally drop off some dictation while this poor child is with Deirdre. If you find it too much, Tessa, you promise me you’ll tell me. I look in at Fiddlers’ Green most days.’

  Tessa nodded, smarting under the description ‘poor child’. ‘Naturally, but really it’s no trouble and good for me to get some typing practise.’

  ‘Well, thank you, anyway. Let’s hope the rest of Mrs Johnson’s brood don’t get measles, then she should be back in a week or so.’

  Not without a feeling of guilt, Tessa hoped the germ would spread.

  After he’d gone she expected either Richard or Naomi would be sure to refer to her rush to get out for the evening. Fate was on her side though; it seemed they were satisfied that she had been occupied with something which involved Fiddlers’ Green where they knew Giles was a frequent visitor. And so started her first night of sitting at her dressing table, listening to his voice and typing his words. A little older, a little more worldly, and the magic of it might not have been so intense.

  Next morning Deirdre wanted to sort her clothes and put aside anything she was discarding to be taken to the church jumble sale. While she sat in her chair deciding which pile each item should be put in, what more natural than Tessa should tell her about the typing arrangement?

  Immediately Deirdre’s easy, friendly manner vanished to be replaced by the old tight-lipped, angry expression. ‘You think he’s the cat’s whiskers. I know you do. Every time he comes in I can feel it – and I bet he can too. Has he tried any hanky-panky with you yet?’

  ‘What a funny thing to say! Hanky-panky? Of course he hasn’t. Anyway he didn’t ask me to do his typing, I offered. I don’t want my typing to get rusty; I don’t know what I might need in my next job.’ It was hitting below the belt and she knew it. As soon as she’d spoken she wished she could withdraw her words.

  ‘If you’re any good he might give the Deremouth woman the push and take you on full time. He can see you’ve got a crush on him and he fancies you; I’ve seen the way he watches you sometimes. But don’t be a sucker, Tessa; he’s had years of practise. Mind he
doesn’t try and have it away with you.’

  ‘Where in the world do you pick up your expressions?’ Tessa said with a laugh, hoping to steer the subject away from what she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘I wasn’t always stuck in this blasted chair. I had some good times. Dad was wrapped up with the business when I first left school and it was easy enough to pull the wool over Miss Sherwin’s eyes. I had a lot of friends. Bet I’ve done more with my life than you ever did with yours, living with a grandmother.’

  ‘Maybe. Now what about this jumper? It’s cashmere. You ought to keep it.’

  ‘OK, if you say so. But I was telling you about Giles. Miss Sherwin used to chatter a lot to me about him. She doesn’t like him, that’s for sure. Perhaps there was something between him and my rotten mother. They must have been two of a kind.’

  ‘But if that’s true, why does your father give him the run of the place like he does?’

  ‘Search me, I don’t know. I don’t even know if there was really anything going on between them – can’t remember back that far. She must have been horrid – and stupid. She went off with some stinking rich American before the war started. Miss Sherwin saw it all. Giles served in the navy. I don’t remember any of it, except that when he was on leave he used to stay with us. Well, he stayed with us unless he had any more inviting bed to sleep in. Poor old Giles, stuck on a ship with only chaps. When I was a kid, say fifteen or sixteen, I used to look forward to when he came. You remember how, at that sort of on-the-brink age you want to find out about all this sex business. I instinctively knew it wouldn’t be wasted on him if I sort of flaunted myself. Miss Sherwin kept an eye. If he’d tried anything on, she’d have pounced.’

  ‘What does it matter to us if he likes the ladies?’ And of course that was true, Tessa told herself as she made sure her tone gave nothing away. ‘He’s old enough to be our father. Anyway, I’m glad to be able to do his typing until his regular typist is able to start work again. He’s going to bring his recordings to the farm and collect what I’ve done while I’m here each day. You don’t want this blouse, do you? I’ve never seen you wear it.’

  ‘Crumbs, no. I shouldn’t think even at the jumble sale anyone would want it. Miss Sherwin chose it for me before the accident and couldn’t understand why I hated it. I was sixteen and longing to look as glam as Betty Grable.’ Deirdre went back to talking about those halcyon years between leaving school and her accident. Tessa suspected that some of the tales of parties and near seductions were exaggerations of the truth, but she looked with real affection at the pretty girl imprisoned in her chair.

  All the Johnson children went down with measles so for the next month most of Tessa’s days ended with the sound of Giles’ voice. But there were others when he brought no work, instead collected what she had ready for him and, with courtesy that earned him Naomi’s and Richard’s respect, asked them if they would agree to his suggesting to Tessa he might take her out to dinner. Soon she would be twenty, quite old enough not to ask permission, but they appreciated what they considered to be his old-world charm.

  Tessa was in seventh heaven. Giles filled her every thought and he would have to have been blind not to realize it. She was a delight to be with. He enjoyed her open adulation; when he read her silent message, almost begging him to love her, he prided himself on having the willpower that stopped him taking advantage of her naivety. Tessa had no idea what went on in his mind and imagination. Early in April, leaving enough dictation to keep Tessa busy for two or three weeks, he returned to London to see his publisher – and to get back into the merry-go-round of living. He had plenty of friends, both male and female; it was crazy to hang around in Devon because of a young girl with her head full of dreams and no experience of reality. So he told himself. And there were times when he believed he had succeeded in putting her out of his mind. His friends were in many walks of life, and it would have surprised Tessa if she could have listened to the discussions he had with some of his more serious-minded acquaintances. She believed the man she knew was the whole man but the truth was more complex.

  Try as he would, the vision of her was never far below the surface. In an attempt to put her out of his mind he would take one or other of his willing acquaintances to dine, to dance and home, either to his apartment or to hers, both of them anticipating they would have the whole night before them. This was the way he wanted his life; this was the way it had been for years, neither ties nor responsibilities making demands on him. When Tessa pushed herself to the forefront of his thoughts there was one truth that wouldn’t be ignored: he wanted her, he wanted to be the first man to show her the wonder that could be found in natural, uninhibited sex. But what was she but a sweet, adoring child? Did she have the slightest idea of what was in his imagination? Not for the first time he likened her to a volcano waiting to erupt, unaware of the passion that waited to be awakened. That inner voice whispered to him of the joy there would be in teaching her how to use her body, hers and his, too. He made no contact with her while he was away, nor yet with Julian Masters. Tessa was secretly disappointed when on her twentieth birthday there was no word from him; but reason told her that he probably didn’t know the date and, even if he did, to contact her would be because she had let it be so obvious how much he meant to her. A birthday message belonged to her dreams and it was high time she faced reality.

  Then, in the second week of May he returned to Devon, stopping at Chagleigh Farm on his way to Hideaway Cottage to collect any typing Tessa had been saving ready for him. A few minutes chat with Naomi and Richard, then as he put the folder of typing on to the passenger seat of the car and prepared to leave, as if it were an afterthought, he said, ‘If she has nothing better to do this evening, how about if I collect her and take her out to eat? She has been remarkably good over all the hours she must have spent typing up my dictation.’

  ‘I can answer for her,’ Naomi replied. ‘She’ll be thrilled. What time shall I tell her? About seven? That’ll give her time to pretty herself up.’

  If he could have heard the remarks between Richard and Naomi as the sound of his car grew fainter, he would have been reassured.

  ‘Young Tessa mustn’t spend her life being a companion to Deirdre Masters,’ Richard said thoughtfully. ‘There’s no future in it for her and what chance will she have of meeting anyone? Even Lampton, he’s a good enough chap, but how can he lead her to meet young men?’

  ‘Is that the chauvinist in you talking?’ Naomi teased.

  ‘It’s the realist. Can you see Tessa happy with no husband? She may like to feel she’s independent, but she’s no career girl. I do worry about her in her present job; there’s no future for her there.’

  ‘Working at Fiddlers’ Green is better for her than working here with us, although I do miss having her around. I’ll give you a hand with the afternoon milking if you like, shall I?’ Then, thinking back to where their conversation had started, ‘Anyway, it was caring for Deirdre that put her in touch with Giles Lampton.’

  ‘Hardly the same thing as a young man she might share her future with. He’s a sound fellow though, and all this typing has been good practise for her. Come on, love, let’s go and drive our old ladies into the milking shed.’

  ‘Where would you like to go? Deremouth? Exeter? Or would you rather we looked for a country pub with food?’ Giles asked as he held the door open for her to get into the car. She didn’t answer immediately so he walked round to his side and got into the driver’s seat. ‘Still thinking?’

  ‘Let’s just go home and do something for ourselves.’ Until she’d arrived back at the farm from Fiddlers’ Green she had imagined him still to be in London and here she was, dressed in her new dirndl skirt and the blouse she had bought at the same time because the pale green of the silk was exactly right with it. All that, and an evening with Giles. No matter how she tried to compose her face, it insisted on smiling.

  ‘Then I hope you aren’t hungry. Don’t forget I’ve been away. Milk, bre
ad, cheese and a tin of soup, that’s the extent of the shopping I did.’

  ‘I expect it’s silly, but I’ve missed the cottage. I just want us to be there again.’

  He took her hand and raised it to caress it with his cheek as he drove. ‘Do you?’ And there was something in his tone she’d never heard before. ‘Do you, sweet Tessa? Yes, we’ll go home. You can make us a jug of coffee, and later we’ll go to Deremouth and buy fish and chips. How does that appeal? It’s not too cold, we’ll eat them in the traditional way straight from their newspaper wrapping. I’ve missed you and your simple delights.’ And when she didn’t answer, ‘You’re supposed to tell me that you’ve missed me, too.’

  ‘Oh, but I have. Every morning I hoped it would be the day that Deirdre would say you’d phoned them to tell them you were back. Then every evening when I got home I hoped Aunt Naomi would say you’d collected the typing. Then, today, she did.’

  It wasn’t until he’d turned into the narrow lane to the cottage that he spoke again. ‘I’d told myself I wouldn’t bring you here again,’ he said, looking straight ahead of him. Yet without turning to her he could sense her hurt. ‘It’s no use, Tessa, the thing you want, the thing I want. You are just twenty, I’m twice your age and lost the innocence of youth more years ago than I can remember.’ Making a turn into the area of scrub near the cottage, he switched off the engine and turned to her. ‘What do you think brought me back from London? You did, you precious child. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. Never a moment when you weren’t there.’

  ‘I thought of you all the time, too. I kept imagining what you were doing; I pictured you with glamorous women, sophisticated, successful, lots to talk about. How could I expect you would want to come back to Devon and me?’

  Holding her under the chin, he raised her face looking directly at her and willing her to meet his gaze. What she read in his eyes banished every coherent thought from her as her lips parted knowing that he would move closer, then feeling his mouth cover hers. ‘Damn this gear stick,’ he muttered, barely moving away from her.