River of Destiny

The sale was completed in May, clinched by the fact that a mooring on the river was part of the deal, and they moved in at the beginning of July. Ken’s job as an IT consultant could, like John’s, be done anywhere as long as there was good access to the Internet and to London if necessary. Zoë’s as an assistant in a Bond Street art gallery couldn’t; didn’t count, apparently. ‘You’ll find something to occupy you,’ Ken had said airily, giving her one of his bear hugs. ‘There are galleries and antique shops all over the place up here, you saw for yourself. Come on, sweetheart, you’re going to love it. It will be absolutely perfect. And when we’re settled in we’ll ask John and Amanda to come and stay.’

Was that it? Was that the reason for the entire move? To impress, even upstage, John and Amanda? Had she caved in and agreed to her whole life being turned upside down on a whim, to try to compete with their best friends? Drying her hands on a towel Zoë gave a deep sigh and turned back to the window. Of course she had. Did it even matter? Probably not.

The fact remained, though, that try as she might she had not settled in; the faint excitement had worn off, the feeling that some dire fate was winding them round with sticky threads had become stronger than ever. She still thought of the house as a barn, not a home.

It was an exquisite building, with huge, full-height living space, the massive beams cunningly spot-lit for full effect, and a large woodburner as the focal point of the room, as was of course the enormous window looking down towards the river. Above there was a broad galleried landing and off it two large bedrooms, also with incredible views. Ken’s office was at the back, at the end of a short passage off the landing, looking down over the fields, a quiet rural outlook which Zoë secretly feared would be unbearably lonely and bleak in the winter. The two other barns in the group were slightly to the side and back, out of her immediate sight from this window. The Threshing Barn was occupied by a retired couple, Stephen and Rosemary Formby, and The Summer Barn, so they had told her, was owned by a large and noisy family which appeared to use it as a holiday home and, as far as they could see so far, weren’t there all that often. From her kitchen window she could see part of the communal gardens and the river, always the river, tidal for its first dozen or so miles from the sea, quite narrow here just round the bend from the lovely old town of Woodbridge, where it broadened, then narrowed again as it changed character to meander through the gentle Suffolk countryside. From here they were looking across towards open country and off to the left of the barn towards a fourth house, The Old Forge, much smaller than the barns and the only building of the group with a large private garden which, from what she could see of it behind its neat hedges, was pretty and productive. She gathered it was occupied by a single man, another passionate sailor, so she had been told, but she had yet to set eyes on him. He was, according to her neighbour, Rosemary, her source of all information about the other occupants of the small select community, something of a recluse, which turned him into a mystery.

A loud knock made her jump.

‘Zoë, dear?’ Rosemary Formby put her head round the door. She was a small woman, somewhere in her late sixties, her iron-grey hair cut boyishly short, her face, devoid of make-

up and weather-beaten, highly coloured, which served to emphasise eyes which were a brilliant Siamese cat blue. ‘Steve and I are going into Woodbridge. I wondered if you needed anything?’ Coming in, she dropped her shoulder bag and car keys on the table in such a way that Zoë understood she was on the move and wouldn’t be stopping, something for which Zoë was secretly pleased. Their new neighbours were friendly and hospitable but perhaps a little too enthusiastic and in your face.

The woman glanced towards the window. ‘Is Ken down at the boat again?’

Zoë nodded. She had already put the memory of the mist and her strange attack of panic behind her. ‘He’s making the most of every moment of this glorious weather.’

‘Well,’ Rosemary was already scooping up bag and keys again, ‘don’t let him turn you into a sailing widow. There are enough of them round here already.’

Zoë shuddered. It was just an expression but nevertheless it was an unfortunate turn of phrase.

As Rosemary headed back to the door she paused. ‘I see Leo’s back.’

‘Leo?’

‘Our elusive neighbour.’ Rosemary inclined her head towards the window. She hesitated. ‘He can be a bit touchy, Zoë. Don’t go rushing in there. Fools and angels, you know.’ And she had gone.

Fools and angels? Zoë stared after her. Then she went to look out of the window again. Sure enough a thin stream of blue smoke was rising from the chimney of The Old Forge. Zoë loved a mystery and as this man was the nearest thing to it in her life at the moment he intrigued her. It was very hard to resist the urge to make a neighbourly call.

Leo Logan was standing in his garden staring down at the river. It was a view of which he never tired. Whatever the light, whatever the state of the tide, the water fascinated him. The sages knew. You can never step in the same river twice. The sunlight was catching the soft cinnamon-red bark of the pine trees, warming them, dancing on the trunks, painting them with ever-changing shadows. He heard the latch on the gate behind him and scowled. He had already guessed who it was. He had seen that they had moved in. He knew someone would eventually buy the place but it had been a blissful few months of peace while it was empty. He took a deep breath, nerving himself for what was to come, and turned round.

It was the woman. She was tall and slim with short wavy blonde hair, artfully streaked to look as though it was sun-bleached. Her eyes were intriguing. Amber. And nicely shaped. But her smile had frozen into place as he knew it would the moment she saw his face.

She swallowed and held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Zoë Lloyd. Your new neighbour. I just thought I would say hello.’

‘Hi, Zoë. Leo Logan.’ He grasped her hand momentarily then turned away to give her a moment to compose herself. ‘How do you like it here?’

‘I’m reserving judgement.’

Her answer surprised him. He had expected her to gush nervously and head for the gate. As it was she held her ground and even more astonishingly she confronted him at once. ‘What did you do to your face?’

‘Accident in a forge.’

‘God!’ She came to stand beside him, also looking down across the hedge towards the water. ‘What a bugger.’

‘An irony, isn’t it, considering I’m now living in one!’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘And before you ask, I do not wear a mask like the Phantom of the Opera. One day I will probably have plastic surgery but at the moment I can’t afford it and the insurance money, if there is any, will probably not come through until I am in my dotage and no longer care. I try and present my best side to strangers. You took me by surprise.’

She smiled. ‘I am sorry. Given the option I nearly always manage to do the wrong thing.’

‘How refreshing.’ He folded his arms. ‘So, is there a Mr Lloyd? Lots of little Lloyds? Dogs? Cats? Horses? Boats?’

‘Hasn’t Rosemary given you our life history yet?’

He shook his head. ‘Rosemary and I are not bosom friends. As it happens, I have been away for a while, but also, I value my privacy.’

‘I see. And I have barged in, I’m sorry. I’ll go.’ She turned away, rebuffed. ‘For the record,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘there is a Mr Lloyd and a boat. The other things, no.’ Her voice sounded, even to her ears, strangely bleak as she said it.

She half expected him to call her back as she headed towards the gate, but he said nothing. A quick glance as she unlatched it revealed a resolutely uncompromising back view, taut shoulders beneath the denim shirt, an air of concentration as he studied the river.

Fools and angels indeed.

Pushing open the kitchen door she came to an abrupt standstill, staring round. ‘Ken? Are you there?’

Again she was aware of the eerie sensation that there was someone around, someone who had just that second left the room. ‘Ken?’ She knew it couldn’t be him. Once he was down on the boat he would be there until lunchtime if not later. She glanced at her mobile, still lying where she had left it on the antique pine table, and shook her head. She was not going to call him again.

‘Zoë?’ The voice from the doorway behind her made her spin round. It was Leo. He had followed her across the grass. ‘Sorry. I was rude. Can’t help myself. It wasn’t intentional. Peace offering?’ He held out a wooden trug. In it was a selection of vegetables and on top a spray of golden chrysanthemums. He put it on the table and glanced round. ‘This has the potential to be a nice place. I’m glad you’ve got rid of the chichi blinds.’

She smiled, looking round, seeing the kitchen through his eyes. It had been well designed and expensively fitted, a country house kitchen with soft lavender-blue walls, a cream Aga, a refectory table and old chairs which she had found only weeks before in a shop in Long Melford. ‘There weren’t any blinds when we arrived. They must have gone with the previous owner. They didn’t stay here long, did they?’ Without her realising it there was a touch of anxiety in her voice.

‘No, thank God.’ He began to unpack the trug, scattering earth across the table. ‘I’ll take this back, if you don’t mind. There is one thing I will mention while I’m here. You need to kill those damn security lights. They illuminate the whole area like a football stadium when they come on. They destroy the view of the night sky for everyone for miles around. Do that and I would be eternally grateful.’

Zoë was taken aback by his vehemence. She had barely noticed the lights; all the barns had them. When she had, it was to enjoy the shadowed views they cast across the lawns. She decided it was better to ignore the comment for now, say nothing and respond later if he brought it up again.

‘This stuff is very welcome,’ she said. ‘Ken isn’t a gardener. It was one of the attractions of this place, that most of the gardens are communal and are mown by someone else.’

‘And you?’ He scanned her face enquiringly. ‘Don’t you garden either?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve never thought about it. We lived in London before.’ She was watching his hands. They were strong and well formed; his nails were filthy.

‘So why on earth have you come here?’

‘Ken wanted to live in the country, and he adored the idea of having a mooring for the boat at the bottom of the garden.’ She didn’t realise that she hadn’t included herself in this statement; that she was distancing herself from the decision.

‘And he couldn’t find a mooring nearer London? What does he do?’

‘IT consultancy.’

‘And you?’

‘Nothing at the moment.’

‘A lady who lunches, eh?’ Was there a touch of scorn in his voice?

The colour flared into her face. ‘No,’ she said defensively. ‘Hardly. I don’t know anyone round here to have lunch with. And anyway, I shall be looking for a job.’

‘Which would be?’

‘I worked in an art gallery.’