For One Night

Of course, there would come a time when he or she would ask about its father. Quite what she would say she had no idea. It would be difficult to make anyone understand the force that had driven her that night. She wasn’t sure she understood it properly herself, and she was sometimes inclined to wonder if her behaviour hadn’t at least in part been motivated by that extremely large gin and tonic she had consumed, on top of a sleeping pill.

It wasn’t important now, now it had happened, she told herself firmly. She was on the brink of starting a new life; it was time to put the past well and truly behind her.

She didn’t rush the journey—after all, there was plenty of time. She stopped off for a leisurely lunch and arrived at her new home late in the afternoon. A heavy workload at the TV station had meant that she had had no time to spare to furnish or equip her new home before leaving London so she had taken the precaution of booking herself into the local pub for a couple of weeks.

Because her new property was a listed building there were certain rules and regulations she would have to abide by in any alterations and improvements she had carried out, but luckily she had discovered a building firm locally who specialized in renovation and repairs of the kind she would need. She had an appointment to meet with their representative in the morning, when they would go over the house and shop together to list and discuss what had to be done.

She knew exactly how she wanted her home to look. The building was three stories high, with a lovely large sitting room, a breakfast room/kitchen, and two good-sized bedrooms, so she would have plenty of space.

The almost euphoric sense of freedom and happiness that possessed her these days must be something to do with her changing hormone structure, she decided guiltily as she thought of Leslie. Her friend would have wanted her to be happy though, she knew that. The baby—her new life—these were fate’s bonuses and she must look upon them as such.

The local pub was another Queen Anne building; next to it was the rectory, and next to that the church and the small local school; all relics from the days when a rich landowner had designed that part of the town to please a new wife, who had been entranced with their quaint prettiness.

Diana had a room overlooking the rear of the pub. The river flowed past the bottom of the long garden—the same river that flowed past her own, and she made a mental note to ensure that at some stage she had adequate, childproof fencing erected as a protective measure.

The room’s four-poster bed was part of the original furnishings of the pub; it was huge and cavernous, and Diana surveyed it with a certain amount of wry bemusement. This was a bed for lovers, for couples.

Off it was her bathroom and a small sitting room. She could if she wished either have her meals in her suite, or take them downstairs in the dining room.

After she had unpacked, she wasn’t hungry enough to want to eat again, and so instead she decided to go for a quiet stroll around the town.

The town was still very much a working country town whose businesses focused on the needs of the local farming population. The Queen Anne “village” had long ago become part of the growing market town, which was now a mishmash of several architectural styles. In the centre was an attractive town square, and the cattle market. Her own property fronted on to this square, and was in the busier area of the town.

As she wandered around she discovered, tucked away down a narrow alley, an interesting looking dress shop. As yet her figure had barely changed, but new clothes of the fashionable variety would be something she wouldn’t need to buy for some considerable time.

She paused to linger for a moment outside a shop selling nursery equipment and children’s clothes. She could see from the window display that the shop catered for the wealthier inhabitants of the town. Of course, this part of the country was well established as a rich farming community.

A very traditional coach-built pram caught her eye and she found herself imagining what it would be like to push. A small fugitive smile tugged at her mouth. What was happening to her? She had never once in her life imagined herself having such maternal feelings and longings, and yet here she was drooling over prams. How Leslie would have laughed.

For the first time it struck her that she had no one with whom she could share her pleasure in the coming child. Her parents and brother were too far away, and even if they had not been, she knew that they would have been shocked at her disregard of all the conventions. They would have loved and supported her of course, but … but they wouldn’t have understood.

She would make new friends, she told herself sturdily. She wouldn’t always be a stranger here.

Her meeting with the builder proved more rewarding than she had dared to hope. Contrary to her expectations he was not full of doubts and criticisms of her plans, but enthusiastically entered into them. It was obvious from his conversation that he considered himself and the men who worked for him to be craftsmen, and he had a craftsman’s pride in his work. He only struck one worrying note, and that was over the large beams upstairs which she wanted to expose.

“One or two of them will have to be replaced,” he told her forthrightly, “and you’ll only be able to do that with original beams of the same period.”

Diana felt her heart sink. She had planned her entire decorative scheme around a very traditional exposed beam and plaster background, and now he was virtually telling her that that was impossible.

“I think I know where you can get some,” he told her, lifting her spirits immediately. “They’ve got some for sale at Whitegates Farm. They’re from a barn that was struck by lightning and had to come down.”

Whitegates Farm—the name rang a bell, and then Diana remembered Mr. Soames telling her that it was the home of his cotrustee.

“Will they sell them to me?” she asked uncertainly.

The builder smiled at her. “I should think so. You’d better telephone first to make an appointment though,” he warned her. “This is a busy time for farmers. I’ll negotiate the sale for you myself if you prefer it.”

In some ways she did, but she was going to be living in this new environment, and it was up to her to make contact with its inhabitants.

“I’ll ring the farm as soon as I get back to the pub,” she promised him.

A woman answered the phone, but when Diana put her request to her she explained that she was only the housekeeper.

“You’ll have to come out and talk to Mr. Simons about that,” she told Diana. “He’ll be here in the morning if that’s any use to you?”

Confirming the appointment, Diana got directions from her and then hung up.

The weather had turned pleasantly mild. She closed her eyes, seduced by the warmth of the sun coming in through the window. Next summer she could sit in her garden and watch her baby crawling on the lawn. She put her hand over her stomach and smiled to herself. The man who had fathered her child had melted into the mists of all those things she preferred not to think about. Before leaving London she had had a doctor’s appointment, and they had frowned over her lack of knowledge about her child’s father. There were medical details they needed for the records, and Diana had been made to feel like a thoughtless and rather stupid child.

The stock owned by the previous owner had been packed away in several large cases, and Diana spent the afternoon checking through them. Apart from a few handfuls of books of curiosity value to collectors there was very little that was salable. Some of the books had very nice leather bindings, though, and she resolved to keep them for display purposes on her own bookshelves.

Before leaving London she had visited various wholesalers to discuss the type of stock she wanted to carry. No firm orders could be given until the restoration and redecoration work was completed, but she had learned the value of good PR work whilst working for the television company, and on her list of things to do was a visit to the offices of the local newspaper, plus a tentative question mark against the idea of an opening party.

In the children’s section of the shop she intended to have a mural painted, depicting a variety of fairy-tale and animal creatures. The same firm she and Leslie had employed to decorate their London flat would attend to that for her … perhaps she would have a mural in the nursery as well.

She was doing it again, she derided herself, she was slipping away into her private daydream, all too content to let the rest of the world slip by. Were all pregnant women like this? She tried to think of the ones she had known, all of them busy career women with homes and husbands to care for. How on earth had they coped with this almost total slowing down, this change to a life at a much different tempo?

With her pregnancy had come a sense of tranquillity quite unlike anything she had previously experienced. She could not even do more than mildly berate herself for the manner in which her child had been conceived; her rare flashes of guilt totally overwhelmed in the following rush of delight that flooded her every time she thought about the baby.

This would be her child, and hers alone, and she was quite happy that it should be that way. This new life had been started accidentally, and she could only look upon it as a god-given gift to show her that death, however painful, is merely another chapter of life, and not its end.

The morning sickness which had plagued her on and off since the start of her pregnancy returned with full force in the morning, and briefly she contemplated canceling her appointment at Whitegates Farm. However, after a cup of tea and two dry biscuits, she began to feel a little better, and by ten o’clock she was quite looking forward to the drive out to the farm.

It was another warm day, with the sun shining and, knowing how hot it would be in the car, she dressed comfortably in a loose white cotton T-shirt top, and a gently gathered matching skirt.

Although to the discerning eye her pregnancy was beginning to be visible, and she herself could certainly see the changes in her body, she was still able to wear her normal clothes. Bright espadrilles, the same deep pink as her nail polish, adorned her feet, and matching sunglasses shaded her eyes.

It wasn’t until the landlady gave her a rather startled second look that Diana realized how very different her clothes were from those worn by the locals. Working in TV she had naturally adopted the same attitude toward fashion and design as her colleagues, and she coordinated and chose her clothes with this in mind almost automatically.

On the way to her car she collected a few more appreciative glances, mostly male. It was rather flattering to be studied with such interest, in London her appearance would have merited no more than the briefest glance.

As she had known it would be, the car was like an oven with the sun beating through the glass, so she opened the windows and turned the fan on to “cold”.

The directions she had been given were easy to follow, and soon she found herself driving along a road bordered by rich farmlands, both arable and pasture. Fields, heavy with crops, and crisscrossed by hedges, stretched away to the horizon, their colorscope of greens and golds occasionally broken up by a sprinkling of cattle.

The farm was larger than she had anticipated, a mingling of Tudor and Queen Anne, and very beautiful.

She had not expected the gardens that surrounded it either, and she realized the moment she turned into the open white gates and drove down the immaculate gravel driveway that this was more than merely a working farm. This was a showplace, she thought breathlessly, as she parked and admired the view in front of her.

The morning sunlight glittered on the mullioned windows set amongst dark beams and sparkling white plasterwork. It turned the red brick of the Queen Anne walls deeply rosy, and shimmered on the surface of the ornamental pond framed by willows and green lawns.

The drive had brought her to the front of the house, but now she could see that it continued around the side, and she frowned, wondering if perhaps she ought more properly to have driven round there. When she set out she had not envisaged that she might be coming to the sort of place where it mattered whether one chose the front or the back entrance.

Just as she was pondering her dilemma the front door opened and a tall stately woman in her late fifties came out, and called her name.

“I saw you drive up,” she said, when Diana stepped forward. “I’m Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. I’m afraid Mr. Simons is going to be delayed for ten minutes or so. If you’d like to come inside, I’ll take you to his study.”

The elegant rectangular hallway was in the older part of the building, the stairs going up from it were dark oak and very warm. A richly patterned carpet in reds and blues emphasized the cream walls and dark woodwork. A refectory table in oak gleamed with polish, reflecting the copper bowl of roses standing on its surface.