Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time

She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans and stared at it morosely; then, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she let herself in through the gate and began to walk towards the south porch.

Richard de Clare had never stood in this church. One look round the fluted pillars and high windows told her it had been built long after Richard’s time. In disappointment she began to walk up the broad aisle looking around her. There were several other people wandering around with guide books, talking in muted tones. Ignoring them, she made her way slowly up the chancel steps and stood staring at the altar, thinking of the last time she had stood before a shrine – was it at Brecknock? – with Gerald, saying mass. She remembered the mingling of the incense and the candles, their acrid smoke blown by the cold wind off the mountains which filtered through every corner of the castle. She remembered looking up at a carved, painted statue of the Holy Virgin and praying for her unborn baby, praying with a faith suddenly so intense, so absolute that it had filled her at the time with a calm certainty that her prayers would be heard. I wonder how long Matilda kept that faith, she thought grimly, her eyes on the cross which stood on the altar. Did she still have it when she died? She had not told Pete Leveson that she already knew the end of the story, nor Ceecliff.

She was conscious suddenly of someone watching her as she gazed at the cross, and embarrassed she turned away. In this so Puritan, so Spartan church, the memories of her Catholic past seemed almost indecent, and to the agnostic, twentieth-century Jo, the urge to go down on her knees and then cross herself as she turned away from the sanctuary was like a primeval hangover of some strange superstition.

Hastily she retraced her steps and let herself out into the churchyard. She drove slowly through Clare, savouring the beautiful medieval buildings of the Suffolk town, and turned to follow the signs towards the country park and the castle.

Parking once more, she stood and stared around her. Where the huge castle of the Clares had once stood were now the hollow remains of a ruined railway station. The Great Eastern Railway had come, destroyed most of what remained of the castle, and in its turn had gone, leaving only the empty shell of the station, trimmed and manicured, with mown grass between the platforms where the track had been. Only a few fragments of wall remained of the castle which had stood for nine hundred years. But the motte was still there – the high, tree-covered mound on which the original keep had stood – and determinedly Jo climbed it, following the spiralling path to its summit. From there she could see the whole of Clare spread out in a shimmering panorama before her. The air was soft. It smelled of new-mown hay and honey. She stood there for a moment and rested her hands on the surviving chunk of flint-built wall, as if by touching the stones she could reach back over the years, but nothing happened. There were no vibrations from the past. Nothing at all.

That night Jo went through her grandfather’s attaché case. Sitting in her bedroom, the windows thrown open to the scented garden, she felt absolutely at peace. The small table lamp was attracting the moths but she didn’t notice as she pulled out the old letters and diaries and his notes. Never before had she felt even the remotest curiosity about her ancestors. Like Ceecliff her interest was in the present, perhaps because her father had died whilst she was still too young to remember him properly. Her mother Jo rarely saw now. They met from time to time, felt a rush of warm emotion as they kissed, then slowly sank into mutual incomprehension as they tried to find some common ground. At present Julia Clifford was in San Tropez. A fond smile touched Jo’s mouth for a moment as she thought of her mother. They would meet again in the autumn or at Christmas, probably here, at Ceecliff’s, exchange gifts and a little bit of gossip, then their paths would once more diverge. Jo looked back at the letter in her hand wondering suddenly how much of her own tartness was a direct reaction against her mother’s vapid fluttering. But Julia, she knew, would have no time for the past either. For her the past, like Jo’s father, was dead.

There was only one mention of the distant past in the letters. The mysterious Gruffydd of Wales. Was Matilda somehow an ancestress of hers, through him? But how was that possible when William was so implacably the enemy of the Welsh? She wished she had noted the names of Matilda’s children more closely now, and what had happened to them. Only one name lived in her memory. Little William. Her baby.

She got home very late on Sunday evening, exhausted by the long drive through the heavy traffic, and she slept soundly, untroubled by dreams, to be woken by the phone.

‘Jo? Is that you?’ It was Bet Gunning. ‘What the hell are you up to, giving that story to Pete Leveson?’

‘What story?’ Jo yawned. She looked at her clock sleepily. ‘God! Is it really nine? Sorry, Bet, I overslept.’

‘Then you haven’t seen today’s papers?’

‘No.’ Jo could feel her stomach beginning to tighten. ‘You’d better tell me the worst.’

‘Daily Mail exclusive – a whole page – by Pete Leveson. Entitled, Jo Clifford’s Secret Life. It’s all here, Jo. Your hypnosis. Matilda de whatever-her-name is … bloody hell! I thought we had a deal. I thought this was one of your articles for W I A.’ Bet was furious. ‘I know we’re a monthly. I know Pete is a friend of yours, but you could at least have given me an option –’

‘Bet,’ Jo interrupted. ‘I know nothing about this. That bastard took me out to dinner on Friday night. We talked off the record, as friends.’

‘Off the record?’ Bet scoffed. ‘That’s just what it’s not. He’s got you verbatim. “Imagine my terror and confusion,” Jo said to me last night, “when I found myself alone in an alien world …”’

Jo could feel herself shaking with anger. ‘I never said any such thing!’ she said furiously. ‘I’ll sue him, Bet. How dare he!’ Her eyes were blazing. ‘I’ll ring him now, then I’ll get back to you –’

She slammed down the phone and dialled Pete’s number. It was several minutes before he answered.

‘Jo, how nice. Have you seen it?’ His voice was laconic.

‘No I haven’t seen it, you turd!’ Jo stamped her bare foot on the carpet like a child. ‘But I’ve heard about it. Bet Gunning is hopping mad – but not as mad as I am. Everything I said to you was in confidence –’

‘You never said so, Jo,’ Pete put in gently. ‘Sorry, but not once did you ever mention the fact that you wanted all this kept secret. If I’d known that –’

‘You could have guessed, Pete.’ Her voice dropped coldly. ‘You used our friendship. That was the most cynical piece of underhand behaviour I have ever witnessed. And the fact that you didn’t tell me what you wanted to do, proves that you knew it.’

There was an exaggerated sigh the other end of the line. ‘Cool it, Jo. It counteracts the item in the Mail Diary the other day. It establishes that you’re into something interesting and it keeps you in the headlines. Three plus factors, if you ask me. When your own story comes out they’ll be out there baying to read it!’

‘Did you use Carl Bennet’s name?’ Jo was not to be appeased.

‘Of course –’

‘He’ll be furious! You had no right without asking him.’

‘So, if he wants, I’ll apologise, but he won’t object to some free advertising. The Great Public will beat a path to his door. Look Jo, love, it’s super talking to you, but my coffee’s perking and I’ve got to get dressed. Keep your hair on, there’s a love. When you’ve thought about it a bit you’ll realise it’s all good publicity. See you!’ Blandly, he hung up.

Still angry, Jo dragged on her jeans and a sweater. Catching her hair back from her face with a scarf, she grabbed her purse. Outside Gloucester Road underground station she bought a paper from the news vendor, then she sprinted back to the flat.

As Bet had said, it was a whole-page feature. There were no fewer than three photos of her – one a glamorous, misty picture taken three years before at a ball with Nick. He had been blocked out. The picture made her look dreamy and romantic and very beautiful. It had been taken by Tim Heacham.

Jo had to dial three times before she got through.

‘I am sorry, Jo, I really am. I didn’t know what he wanted it for.’ Tim was contrite. ‘Hell, what was I to think? Pete was back in favour as far as I could see. I had no reason not to give it to him.’

‘But it is such a god-awful picture! It makes me look –’ Words failed her.

‘It makes you look quite lovely, Jo, unlike that hard bitch face you insist on using over your byline.’ Tim was grinning. ‘I did try to ring you, as it happened, to check, but you were away.’

‘I was in Suffolk.’ Jo flopped down beside the phone. She laughed wryly. ‘I went to look at Clare whilst I was there.’

‘Clare?’ Tim’s voice sharpened. ‘Why?’

‘Didn’t you read the article?’ Jo was staring at it as she spoke. ‘“The handsome man whose love had come too late … The passionate Richard who had to turn away and leave his lady to her fate …”’ She grimaced. ‘He came from Clare. I went to see his castle.’

‘And did you find him there?’ Tim’s voice was curiously flat.

‘No, of course not. Is something wrong, Tim?’

‘No.’ He said quietly. ‘Why on earth should anything be wrong?’

That night the baby woke her again. She was deeply asleep, the sheet thrown back because of the warm humidity of the night, the curtains and the window wide open. She woke very suddenly and lay, wondering what it was she had heard. Then it came again, the restless mewling cry of a hungry baby. She felt herself grow rigid, her eyes wide in the darkness, not daring to breathe as the sound filled the room. Slowly she forced herself to sit up and grope for the light switch. As the darkness shrank back into the corners she stared round. She could still hear him. Hear the intake of breath between each scream, thin pathetic yells as he grew more desperate. She pressed her hands against her ears, feeling her own eyes fill with hot tears, rocking backwards and forwards in misery as she tried to block out the sound. At last she could bear it no longer. Hurling herself out of bed, she ran to the door and dragged it open, closing it behind her with a slam. Then she ran to the kitchen. With the two doors closed she could no longer hear his anguished cries. Her hands shaking, she filled the kettle, banging it against the taps in her agitation. The Scotch was in the living room. To reach it she would have to open the kitchen door. She stood with her hand on the handle for a moment, then taking a deep breath she opened it. There was silence outside in the hallway. She ran to the living room, grabbed the bottle, then she hesitated, looking at the phone. Any time, Sam had said. Ring any time …

She knelt and drew it towards her, then she stopped. The flat was completely silent, save for the sound of the kettle whining quietly in the kitchen. She could not ask Sam to come to her in the middle of the night a second time, because of another nightmare.

She made herself some tea, took a slug of Scotch and the last three Mogadon, then she lay down on the sofa in the living room and pulled a rug around her shoulders in spite of the hot night. There was no way she was going back into her bedroom until morning.

Tim was in his studio, staring at a copy of the photo of Jo and Nick. He had blown it up until it was almost four feet across, and had pinned it to a display board. A spotlight picked out their faces with a cold hard neutrality which removed personality, leaving only features and technique behind.

Thoughtfully he moved across the darkened studio to the tape deck and flipped a switch, flooding the huge, empty room with the reedy piping of Gheorghe Zamfire, then he returned to the photograph, standing before it, arms folded, on the very edge of the brilliant pool of light, the only focus in the huge vaulted darkness of the studio.

Beside him on the table lay a small piece of glass. As he tapped the powder onto it and methodically rolled up a piece of paper his eyes were already dreamy. He sniffed, deeply and slowly, then he walked back to the picture.

It was some time later that, with a felt pen, working with infinite care, the tip of his tongue protruding between his teeth, he began to draw a veil and wimple over Jo’s long, softly curling hair.

Jo worked late into Tuesday night, typing up the notes of her interview with Rose Elliot. The draft of the article was going well and she was pleased with her results. Absently she reached out for the cigarette packet, then she drew back. The same three cigarettes had been there since the end of June and it was now the eleventh of July. She tossed the packet to the back of the table, typed another paragraph and then got up to make coffee. In the hall she caught herself listening for sounds from the bedroom, but none came. The flat was silent.

She worked for another two hours, then she switched on the TV and stretched out on the sofa to watch the late film. She spent a second night there.

It was about ten o’clock next morning that a knock came at the flat door. She opened it to find Sheila Chandler, one of her upstairs neighbours, standing on the landing. She was a prim-looking woman in her late fifties, the intense unreal blackness of her iron-waved hair set off by a startling pink sleeveless chiffon dress. Jo barely knew her.

She gave Jo an embarrassed smile. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Clifford,’ she said. ‘I know you’re busy. We can hear you typing. It’s just that I thought I must look in and see if there is anything I can do to help.’

Jo smiled vaguely. ‘Help?’ she said.