Missing Joseph

“No,” he said. “It’s not easy. For anyone. Polly.”

At the warmth of his tone, she looked away, in the distant direction of Cotes Hall where for the last four months a team of decorators and craftsmen had been pounding away at the long-abandoned Victorian structure, attempting to ready it for Brendan and his wife. “I can’t think why he doesn’t arrange for a night watchman.”

“He won’t be bullied into a watchman, he says. He’s got Mrs. Spence right on the grounds. He’s paying her to be there. And by God she ought to be bloody enough. Or so he says.”

“And does—” She worked at saying the name and betraying nothing as she said it. “Does Missus Spence never hear any mischief being made?”

“Not from her cottage. It’s too far behind the Hall, she says. And when she makes rounds, no one’s ever there.”

“Ah.”

They were silent. Brendan shifted his weight. Icy soil crackled beneath him. A gust of night wind soughed through the chestnut’s branches and blew at the back of Polly’s hair where the scarf couldn’t manage to hold it in place.

“Polly.”

She heard both the urgency and the plea in his voice. She’d seen them before on his face when he asked to join her at her table in the pub, appearing as if with preternatural knowledge of her movements each time she went to Crofters Inn for a drink. Now, as on those other occasions, she felt her stomach knot and her limbs grow cold.

She knew what he wanted. It was no different from what everyone wanted: rescue, escape, a secret to cling to, a half-formed dream. What did it matter to him if she was hurt in the process? On what account book was ever written the payment exacted for damage to a soul?

You’re married, Brendan, she wanted to say in a tone that combined both patience and compassion. Even if I loved you — which I don’t, you know — you’ve got a wife. Go on home to her now. Climb into bed and make love to Rebecca. You were willing enough to do that at one time.

But she was cursed with being a woman not naturally given to either rejection or cruelty. So instead, she said only, “I’ll be off now, Brendan. My mum’s waiting supper,” and she headed out the way she had come.

She heard him following. He said, “I’ll walk with you. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“It’s too far,” she said. “And you’ve just come that way, haven’t you?”

“But on the footpath,” he said with an assurance suggesting he believed his answer was the height of logic. “Across the meadow. Over the walls. I didn’t walk along the road.” He matched his steps to hers. “I’ve got a torch,” he added, pulling it out of his pocket.

“You shouldn’t be walking at night without a torch.”

“It’s only a mile, Brendan. I can cope with that.”

“So can I.”

She sighed. She wanted to explain that he couldn’t simply take a walk with her in the dark. People would see them. They’d misunderstand.

But she knew in advance how he would respond to her explanation. They’ll just think I’m walking to the Hall, he’d answer, I go out there every day.

What an innocent he was. How imperfect was his understanding of village life. It would matter little to anyone who saw them that Polly and her mother had lived twenty years in the gabled lodge at the mouth of the drive that led to Cotes Hall. No one would stop to think of that, or to think that Brendan was checking on the Hall’s renovation in anticipation of moving there with his bride. Assignation by night, the villagers would label it. Rebecca would hear of it. There’d be hell to pay.

Not that Brendan wasn’t paying already. Polly had little doubt of that. She’d seen enough of Rebecca Townley-Young throughout their lives to know that marriage to her under the best of conditions would not be a particularly nurturing affair.

So among other things, she felt sorry for Brendan which is why she allowed him to join her at Crofters Inn in the evening, which is why she now just kept walking along the verge, with her eyes fastened on the steady, bright beam from Brendan’s torch. She didn’t attempt to make conversation. She had a fairly good idea where any conversation with Brendan Power would ultimately lead.

A quarter of a mile along, she slipped on a stone, and Brendan took her arm.

“Careful,” he said.

She could feel the back of his fi ngers pressing against her breast. With each of her footsteps, the fingers rose and fell, acting the part of distant cousin to caress.

She shrugged, hoping to disengage his hand. His grip grew fi rmer.

“It was Craigie Stockwell,” Brendan said diffidently into the growing silence between them.

She drew her eyebrows together. “Craigie what?”

“The carpet at the Hall. Craigie Stockwell. From London. It’s a ruin now. The drain in the basin was plugged with a rag. Friday night, I should guess. It looked as if the water had run all weekend.”

“And no one knew?”

“We’d gone down to Manchester.”

“Doesn’t anyone go inside when the workmen aren’t there? Check things’re in order?”

“Mrs. Spence, you mean?” He shook his head. “She generally just checks the windows and doors.”

“But isn’t she supposed to be—”

“She’s a caretaker. Not a security guard. And I imagine she’s nervous out there alone. Without a man, I mean. It’s a lonely spot.”

But she’d frightened off intruders at least once, Polly knew. She’d heard the shotgun herself. And then a few minutes later came the thudding of two or three frantic, shouting runners, and the gunning of a motorbike afterwards. The word went out to the village after that. People didn’t mess Juliet Spence about.

Polly shivered. The wind was rising. It blew in brief, frigid gusts through the bare hawthorn hedge that bordered the road. It promised a heavier frost in the morning.

“You’re cold,” Brendan said.

“No.”

“You’re shivering, Polly. Here.” He put his arm round her and drew her snugly next to him. “Better, isn’t it?” She didn’t reply. “We walk together at the same pace, don’t we? Have you noticed that? But if you put your arm round my waist, it’s even easier going.”

“Brendan.”

“You haven’t been to the pub this week. Why?”

She didn’t respond. She moved her shoulders. His grip remained fi rm.

“Polly, have you been up Cotes Fell?”

She felt the cold on her cheeks. It insinuated itself like tentacles down her neck. Ah, she thought, here it comes at last. Because he’d seen her there one evening last autumn. He’d heard her petition. He knew the worst.

But he went on easily. “I find I like hiking more and more every week. I’ve been out to the reservoir three times, you know. I’ve done a long tramp through the Trough of Bowland and another near Claughton, up Beacon Fell. The air smells so fresh. Have you noticed that? When you reach the top? But then, I suppose you’re too busy to do much walking.”

Now he’ll say it, she thought. Now comes the price I’ll have to pay him to hold his tongue.

“With all the men in your life.”

The allusion was a puzzle.

He shot her a glance. “There must be men. Lots, I’d guess. That’s probably why you’ve not been in the pub. Busy, aren’t you? Dating, I mean. Someone special, no doubt.”

Someone special. Without consideration, Polly gave a weary chuckle.

“There is someone, isn’t there? A woman like you. I mean. I can’t imagine a bloke who wouldn’t. Given half a chance. I would. You’re terrific. Anyone can see that.”

He switched off the torch and put it in his pocket. Freed, his other hand grasped her arm.

“You look so good, Polly,” he said and bent closer. “You smell good. You feel good. Chap doesn’t see that needs his head examined.”