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I stopped at the lidded box and left a note for the milkman to find in the morning, then wondered if there would be any sign of the airman. It seemed ages since the last encounter.
Yet the trip there and back passed completely without incident. Even my parents hadn’t been in; all I’d got was Mum’s posh telephone voice, inviting me to leave a message on the answerphone.
I got back a little after five, just enough time to make up Jeannie’s bed and dust her room. Then a quick tidy-up all round and with luck I’d be able to wash my hair before she got here.
The contented feeling was back again. I looked forward to seeing Jeannie and wondered why she was taking the day off, and driving up too. I opened wide the windows and smiled into the pale purple distance, remembering that the big, blowsy poppies Jeannie liked so much were just breaking bud, and though they would quickly open and fall indoors, I decided to pick some for her room.
Jeannie was her usual unruffled self with not a hair out of place, despite the long drive.
‘Did you stop to eat?’ was the first thing I asked and she said she’d had fish and chips and peas. Mushy, of course.
I helped her in with her things, thinking that if she wasn’t such a love, I could hate her for the way she could pig it, without adding an inch to her waistline.
‘So what’s news?’ We were sitting outside with glasses of wine, watching the twilight thicken. ‘How come you’ve driven up, and a day early too?’
‘There’s a literary luncheon hereabouts tomorrow and I’m minding Susanna Lancaster. You’ll have heard of her?’
‘Of course. Who hasn’t? But what is minding?’
‘That, my dear good girl, is the taking care of an author when she’s making an official appearance, so to speak. Writers of Lancaster’s calibre always get one. She’s the guest speaker. It’ll be her last time, so Harrier Books want it to go well for her. Her book comes out officially today, and after that she’s giving up writing, or so she says.’
‘And are you her editor, Jeannie?’
‘No, her regular editor is getting married on Saturday, so I volunteered. I tried to get a ticket for you, Cassie, but no luck. Strictly limited, and sold out ages ago.’
‘No problem.’ For some reason, literary luncheons made me think of poetry readings, and big hats. ‘Where will it be?’
‘At the Throstle Farm Hotel, about seven miles from here. The great lady will want driving there – it’s why I brought the car. I’ll have to be up early in the morning to give it a wash and polish.’
‘Does she live far from here?’
‘Near Lancaster, actually. I believe her house is really something.’
‘It follows.’ Every one of Susanna Lancaster’s novels were bestsellers and some had been made into television dramas. I figured she wouldn’t be short of a pound or two. ‘What’s her latest book called?’
‘Dragonfly Morning. There’ll be books for sale at the luncheon and she’ll do a signing session afterwards. The area sales rep will be there and we’ll organize things between us. And when she’s had enough, I’ll drive her home.’
‘Do all writers speak at luncheons and have book-signing sessions?’ Just to think of it made me uneasy.
‘Quite a few. It’s a pity you can’t come along, Cas, and see how it’s done. There’s more to getting to the top of the heap than writing good books, you know. Publicity is important, as well.’
‘Mm. Piers arrived this morning,’ I said, by way of changing the subject. ‘Uninvited and unannounced.’
‘Oh, lordy! I thought your mother wasn’t going to give him this address?’
‘She wasn’t – didn’t. But he saw a postcard of Acton Carey I’d sent home, and put two and two together. We had words and, to put it in a nutshell, I gave him his marching orders. Hector got so nasty I had to shut him in the outhouse.’
‘Well, if it’s to be the end of Piers Yardley I can only say I’m not altogether sorry. I got the impression, from things you let slip, that he can be a little bit selfish.’
‘He is, but it isn’t entirely his fault.’ I had to be fair. ‘His parents dote on him. From being little, nothing was too good for our Piers. He expects everyone else to bow down and worship too. It’s a pity, because he’s very attractive, if you like ’em dark and brooding.’
‘And all of a sudden you don’t?’
‘Seems not. Aunt Jane was right, I suppose. She always said you shouldn’t settle for second best and that’s what Piers would have been.’
‘Why, Cassie? Was there once someone else?’ She topped up the glasses, avoiding my eyes.
‘No. Piers was the first, but I think I always knew he wasn’t the right one. Better to end it than let it drift on and fizzle out. Mind, Mum would like to see me married, though I think she went off Piers a bit when she found he’d asked me to go to London and live with him.’
‘So we’re both fair, free and on the shelf. Spinsters, I suppose you’d call us.’
‘Then here’s to spinsters!’ I said defiantly, raising my glass. ‘And just look at that sunset!’
A blazing sun had reddened the sky and the hills stood mistily black against it. At the top of the laburnum beside the front gate, a thrush sang its heart out, and love of Deer’s Leap washed me with a sadness that hurt.
‘I must take a lot of snaps before I go back, Jeannie – for the Deer’s Leap book, I mean. And if Beth asks me here at Christmas, I’ll take some winter ones, too.’
‘She’ll ask you. I’m glad you’re still keen on the book, Cassie. I like the idea. I think it would do well.’
‘I’ve thought of doing a succession to take in the whole history of the place. I’ve worked out I could write four, all linked to Deer’s Leap. I’d start with the building of the house, I think, in 1592. There should be loads of good factual background material; the Pendle Witches, the Civil War …’ I decided not to mention Margaret Dacre.
‘OK. Get the current book finished and I can’t see why we shouldn’t give you a contract. Are you up to four in fairly quick succession? When it’s a series, it’s better if there isn’t too long a lapse between the books.’
‘I can do it!’ Of course I could. Writing about Deer’s Leap would be no trouble at all. ‘You know how fond I am of this place.’
‘You had mentioned it! And had you thought, Cassie, that the bank just might give you a mortgage on the strength of a four-book contract?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ I felt my face flush. ‘I’d be so scared owing so much it would affect my work. I’d dry up, I know it. Besides, I don’t even have the deposit.’
‘Pity. You could do it, you know, but I suppose it isn’t for me to try to influence you.’
‘Aunt Jane always said that if a thing is for you, it will come your way in the fullness of time. I suppose I can always hope.’
‘Have you seen any more of the ghost?’ She changed the subject so quickly I was caught unawares.
‘Y-yes,’ I admitted, though I’d meant not to mention it. I mean, what would she say if she knew I’d biked back here in the dark, and been scared witless because I imagined I was being followed. ‘I thought I heard him at the kissing gate, but it was dark. I’d popped out to check that the white gate was shut.’ The lie came glibly. ‘I thought I heard him talking – maybe to Susan. Imagination, probably.’
‘I know. A lot of writers suffer from a fertile imagination, thank God! Shall we see this off?’ She divided the remaining wine between the glasses. ‘Then it’s me for bed. I shall sleep tonight. I always do here. It’s so peaceful after London. No street lights, no noise.’
‘Before you do, Jeannie, what’s the drill for tomorrow?’
‘I’ll give Susanna Lancaster a ring to confirm I’ll be picking her up, and at what time. The lunch is twelve thirty for one, so she’ll want to be there a bit beforehand – get her bearings. Suppose I should leave here no later than half-past ten. Don’t let me sleep in, there’s a love?’
‘I won’t. I’ll wake you with coffee – how’s that?’
‘You’re a good girl, Cassandra Johns,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but good girls don’t have a lot of fun!’
‘I know exactly what you mean!’
So we laughed, which is all a couple of spinsters can do, come to think of it.
‘Get yourself off to bed,’ I ordered. ‘There’s plenty of hot water if you want a bath.’
‘Bless you.’ She finished her drink then kissed my cheek. ‘’Night, Cassie …’
The day lived up to the promise of the previous evening. The morning sky was clear and blue with not a cloud to be seen. I stood at the window, staring, a habit I seemed never to tire of, and felt sad that in ten more days there would be no more hills nor endless skies nor stone walls clinging to the hills in untidy lines. Soon, I would look up from my desk and see only a pinboard on the wall, just three feet away.
I filled the kettle, thinking about Susanna Lancaster; wondering if I would ever have a signing session.
The kettle began to whistle, pushing pie-in-the-sky dreams out of my head. Of more importance was the fact that I had little more than a week in which to do something about the airman, because I couldn’t leave here knowing I was in Rowbeck and he was still trying to hitch a lift to Deer’s Leap with everyone around pretending he didn’t exist.
‘But what can I do about him?’ I demanded of the coffee pot. ‘All things being equal, he just isn’t my responsibility!’
‘Beg pardon?’ Jeannie appeared in the open doorway, bucket in hand.
‘Good grief! Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘The birds woke me so I’ve been cleaning the car.’ She kicked off her wellies. ‘Why were you talking to yourself? They section you for that, you know!’
‘As a matter of fact, I was trying to straighten things out in my mind – about the airman, actually – and I’m coming to realize that what happened around these parts more than fifty years ago is really none of my business.’
‘No. But you’ve got yourself tangled up in it, love, so I reckon it is. And I’ll take bets that if you do the Deer’s Leap books, the last of them will be Jack and Susan’s story – or as near to it as you can get.’
‘You know it will, Jeannie. I’ll have to be careful, though. Wouldn’t want Susan to recognize it – nor people like Bill Jarvis and his sister. Deer’s Leap will have to have another name – right from book one – and Acton Carey too. But I’ll worry about that when Firedance is out of the way. There’s plenty of time. Did you sleep all right – apart from the birds?’
‘I just crashed.’
‘The coffee’s ready. Want to take the pot back to bed?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll just sit here and empty it. What did they do in your war, Cassie, about coffee? I suppose it was hard to get.’
‘It wasn’t my war. I’m interested in it, that’s all. Aunt Jane once said the tea rationing was awful; said you just couldn’t brew up whenever you felt like it. And they didn’t have teabags. Those came later. But coffee I’m not sure about. Tea was the drink of the masses, I believe. Coffee was more middle class in those days. I wish Aunt Jane were still here. There’s so much she could have told me – especially when it comes to writing Jack and Susan’s story.’
I decided to talk some more to Bill Jarvis before I left; try to meet his sister too – ask her how it had been to grow up in a war. I might be really lucky, and get her to talk about Susan Smith.
‘Cassie – you’ve got three books to see off before you can get down to the star-crossed lovers. Don’t get too tied up with them – not until you have to. Do you find the pilot attractive, by the way?’
‘Yes, I do.’ If she’d expected a red-cheeked denial, then she wasn’t getting one! ‘As a matter of fact, he’d have been the type I’d have gone for fifty years ago.’
‘Fair, didn’t you say – Piers’s opposite. Did he put you off Piers?’
‘Jeannie! I’m not that stupid! Don’t you realize if he were still alive, Jack Hunter would be seventy-five, at least! He wouldn’t be young and straight and fair – and a little bit strung up.’
‘He had a nervous tic, you mean?’
‘Not exactly. But he pushes his hair out of his eyes with his left hand. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. But then I suppose most aircrews got a bit stretched at times. I know I would have.’
‘So he’s young and attractive and you find his nervous habit endearing. Reckon you were born fifty years too late, old love.’
‘Maybe I was, but the matter doesn’t arise. He belongs to Susan. After all that time, he still loves her! If Piers had cared for me like that, I’d have eaten out of his hand!’
‘If I didn’t know you better, Cassie, I’d say you were a nutcase. As it is, I’m half inclined to believe you – about the ghost, I mean. I envy you really, but I’m a down-to-earth Scottish lassie and things like communing with World War Two flyers don’t happen to me.’
‘Then be glad of it!’ I really meant it, because since that first meeting when I’d thought Jack Hunter was one of Beth’s fancy-dress guests, he’d been there, waiting to take over every spare minute of my thoughts. ‘And I think we’d better talk about the luncheon. Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, thanks. The car should be dry by now. I’ll just give it a bit of a polish, then I’ll ring Susanna – ask directions. Think I’ll take the pretty route through the Trough and pick up some honey on the way. If you’re making toast, by the way, I’ll have a couple of slices. Cut thick, please.’
‘One day, Jeannie McFadden, all those calories are going to catch up with you, and when they do, don’t come running to me for sympathy,’ I laughed, wallowing once more in the contentment that hadn’t been far away since Piers drove out of my life in a cloud of dust. ‘And if you’re to get the speaker there on time, you’ll have to shift yourself!’
Jeannie got back at seven, just as I was beginning to wonder if she’d had a flat, or run out of petrol.
‘You took your time! Got lost, or something?’
‘No. We left the do at four and Susanna asked me in for coffee, then showed me her place. She’s a real love. Y’know, if I could guarantee looking like she does, I wouldn’t mind getting old.’
‘Yes you would, Jeannie. You’d hate it – just like Susanna Lancaster does, I shouldn’t wonder. But tell me about her – and the house?’
‘We-e-ll, she told me she had plans, but didn’t elaborate. I think she will start another book, but it’s up to her. That house, though! I’d kill for it. It’s just outside Lancaster and pure Regency. Red brick, white doors and windows, and seven steps up to the front entrance. I counted. She must have made a pile!’
‘It follows. The television dramatizations alone must have sent her sales figures soaring. Is Dragonfly Morning going to sell, do you think?’
‘Hope so. It isn’t her usual thing; nothing to do with mystery and murder. Seems it’s a love story. She said it could have happened to anyone born in the twenties and whose young years had been touched by war.
‘Someone asked her if the book was fiction or biography, and she went a bit pink and said it was a bit of both really. I’ve brought you one – got her to sign it for you and she wrote something rather nice in it.’
‘Thanks a lot! What do I owe you?’
‘I’ll settle for a sandwich. I’m starving!’
‘Why? Wasn’t the lunch any good?’
‘It was fine – but somehow we seemed to talk instead of eat. You know how it is with working lunches? You balk against speaking with your mouth full and the next thing you know it’s gone cold and they’re pushing the next course at you! I’ll just get out of these things – won’t be a minute.’
I looked at the book she had left on the table. The jacket was stark and eye-catching; a girl on a bluff, alone against a morning sky, and shaded hills in the background. Her face had a waiting look, her eyes were anxious. The artist had done a good job. I turned to the title page.
For Cassie, a new author,
from Susanna Lancaster,
an old one.
‘You told her,’ I asked, embarrassed, ‘that I was a writer.’
‘But of course! I also told her your first novel made it to the bestseller lists.’
‘Only just! I made a very little plop in a very big pond!’
