A Prospect of Vengeance

longer-loved-one's eyes, rather than by any outright lie.

'I want to, then.' But now she also wanted more than that.

'What's her name? How old is she?' It irritated her that she knew so little: that she was asking these questions now, and not before, when there had been plenty of time. 'What do you know about her?'

'Her name is Catherine, with a 'C'. Because he calls her

'Cathy'.' He nodded towards his Arapile. 'Like in Wuthering Heights.' Then he shrugged. 'I don't know anything else.

Except . . . she talks to Spaniards. So she isn't shy . . . even though she is only fifteen — or maybe sixteen, I suppose — '

A faint memory of the old diffident Ian animated him suddenly. 'Why d'you want to talk to her, Jen? Audley's up there — ' The Wuthering Arapile received another nod ' — in fact, I rather think he's watching us, actually.'

Yes, thought Jenny cruelly: you don't want to talk to any dummy2

fifteen-year-old girl, do you! Fifteen-year-old girls probably frighten you. So at least you won't interrupt me!

It was easy to ignore him. There was a wide-open gap in the fence inviting her towards the child, who was no more than fifty yards away among the furrows, staring intently down at the ground, pretending to ignore them both.

But Ian had got her right, exactly: mid-teens, tall and very blonde . . . and thin, almost flat: she'd never be a Page Three girl, for sure!

'Have you lost something?' On the strength of her own great age, and Catherine Audley's alleged 'not-shyness', she called out confidently.

The child had already observed them covertly, while keeping her head down. But now she straightened up and stared directly at them from behind the protection of huge sunglasses which emphasized the thinness of her face, first at Jenny, then with a small movement of her head towards Ian, and finally back at Jenny. 'No.'

Jenny felt herself being scrutinized woman-to-woman, from hair to unsuitable shoes, via her sweat-stained dress, and returned the compliment automatically: jeans (but designer jeans), royal blue sweat-shirt (bearing the legend 'Buffalo Bar — Murdo — South Dakota', but without any sign of sweat), and a Givenchy silk scarf artfully knotted: the shoes alone were ordinary — ordinary schoolgirl's uniform-issue, square- toed (but that only served to remind her of her own sore feet, damn it!).

dummy2

The child continued to stare at her, giving nothing away from behind the darkened lenses. And Jenny felt a trickle of sweat run down from her throat to lose itself between her breasts, and adjusted 'not-shy' to 'self- possessed' as the gap between their ages was critically narrowed.

'You're looking for something?' She realized too late that the question was a stupid one. Even though there plainly wasn't anything to look for in the newly-turned red-brown earth, Catherine Audley had quite obviously been looking for something. 'What have you lost, Miss Audley?' She threw the name in deliberately, to regain the upper hand as though it was a fight between equals.

The child frowned, nonplussed by her recognition.

'It's Catherine, isn't it?' Jenny smiled sweetly. 'I'm a friend of Willy Arkenshaw's — Lady Arkenshaw?'

'Oh!' The frown dissolved. 'Willy — yes!'

'What have you lost, dear?' Jenny tried to open the age-gap again.

'I haven't lost anything.' Catherine Audley relaxed perceptibly for a moment. But then she began to frown again.

'I'm looking for bullets . . . Are you looking for my father?'

'Bullets?' The counter-punch caught Jenny unprepared, so that it took her a second to recover. And then she decided to leave the second question. 'Bullets?'

'Not bullets, actually — musket balls, I mean.' Catherine Audley touched the frame of her glasses with a nervous dummy2

gesture. 'Do you know my father? I mean ... if you know Willy

— ?'

If this was the teenage daughter, what would the father be like? Jenny wondered uneasily. 'No, dear. But — I've heard a lot about him.' Another sweet smile was called for. 'Musket balls?'

'Yes.' The child seemed to accept her lying-truth: it would take another year or two for her to learn that grown-ups were liars. 'There was a battle here, Miss — ? Miss — ?'

Saved by good manners! thought Jenny. 'Oh, I'm sorry, dear!

I'm Jennifer Fielding — Jenny?' Smile again Jenny. 'And you are ... Catherine? Cathy — ?'

'Cathy.' The child nodded. But then cocked her head.

'Fielding — '

''Jenny', please.' She felt the smile painted on her lips as she wondered if the child watched television, and how good her memory was from not so long ago. Because after the Beirut business, when they'd had all the television coverage, the TV

people had made a big thing of 'Fielding-ffulke', making a joke of it all the way back to 1066 and all that. 'Yes, I know there was a battle here — 1812, was it? And have you found any musket balls, Cathy?'