Free Part of the Furniture by Mary Wesley Page B

valley. To the left of the woods lay a pattern of silvery fields round a group of stone buildings. Barns? A farm? A glint of water zigzagged through the fields to a large pond, to reappear wider and swifter on its way through the woods, to a valley, to the sea, perhaps? It was difficult to judge distances. As it cut through the fields she felt a longing to follow.
    The curve of the lane up which she had driven in the dark was delineated by high black hedges, but the moor, rising and dipping, hid the gate she had wrestled to hold for the taxi to pass through. In the distance hills rose steeply up, but nearer the house stood an avenue of beeches whose branches bowed to the wind and etched the sky.
    Immediately under her window there was a stone terrace, beyond it a garden bounded by walls and over the walls a kitchen garden, walled also. Nose pressed to the glass, Juno tried to remember the name of the house she now found herself in. The address had been written on the envelope she had carried so long in her bag. The letter was addressed to Robert Copplestone. This she remembered, but the name of the house? The place? Village? Town?
    The woman who had opened the door had taken the letter, laid it on the oak chest, this she remembered. She remembered, too, rehearsing her speech, ‘I brought this letter from your son Evelyn, Mr Copplestone, I—’
    What more had she prepared to say? The speech was yet to be made and all she could remember was that the man Evelyn was dead, that she had felt horribly ill when trying to eat soup and that the woman had brought her to this room, put her into bed and that the sheets had been ice cold. Juno yawned, closed the shutter, drew the curtain. Should she try to find her way down the stairs, find the letter if it were still in the hall, find a light, read the address, discover where she was?
    Feeling her way, she gripped a bedpost and her knee knocked against something upholstered. She heard a snuffle, a damp nose touched her hand and she remembered the dog who had been there on her arrival. Stroking it, her fingers encountered something else which squeaked and moved. A puppy. The bitch’s cold nose edged her hand away, warning her off. Circumnavigating the chaise longue she felt her way back to the bed, climbed in, snuggled down, slept.
    When next she woke she sensed movement; the house was awake. Steps ran down the stairs, a door slammed; there were distant voices. Water gurgled in pipes. Outside there was the insistent and busy cawing of rooks, a cock crowed in the distance, a cow lowed; there was the sudden clatter of horses’ hooves and the crash of a tractor starting up. A man’s voice shouted above its din. It was time to get up. It was time to tell Mr Copplestone about the letter. She would feel morally able to make her speech if she could have a bath. She remembered the beautiful bathroom. She would have a bath, get dressed, nerve herself, tell Mr Copplestone about the letter. Be on her way.
    Loud voices in the kitchen could be heard from the yard. Robert Copplestone unsaddled his horse, slipped off its bridle and opened the stable door. The horse clattered in, shuffled through the straw bedding and made for the hayrack. A sturdy Welsh pony poked her nose over from the adjacent box. Robert ran his hand along the horse’s back and, feeling it scarcely warm, congratulated himself that to save work he had not had the animal clipped out. He gave the horse an affectionate pat, checked that the water-bucket was full, hung bridle and saddle in the tack-room and, closing the doors, crossed the yard to the house, where a male voice in the kitchen was rising in plaintive crescendo mixed with mockery from deeper accents.
    ‘’Tis not as if I’d asked to go.’
    ‘Some has, silly buggers.’
    ‘’Tis too much, I say, for one man to be milking eight cows—’
    ‘Hah! ‘Tis a chance to see the world, I say.’
    ‘Give over, Bert, we all know you didna want to join up.’
    ‘Reserved