Free Unhallowed Ground by Gillian White Page A

you’d expect to find in a Dartmoor valley. For all his staggering size—his slippered foot would do justice to a carthorse—Horace Horsefield was a mild sort of man, his wife had only to push him aside and he moved without a trace of annoyance. He merely suggested, ‘We ought to invite the young lady in, Nancy,’ which caused his wife to pause, straighten up on a sharp intake of breath and mutter, ‘Of course, of course, what am I about? Oh dear, you can see how unused we are to having visitors living down here. Come down in the world, and you’d never know now that we always lived such an active and sociable life,’ and she rushed off, soon out of sight. It was left to Horace to stand aside, Georgie followed him in and he closed the door behind her.
    Nancy Horsefield knelt by the fire, a pair of bellows in her hand. She twitched now and then like a wounded sea bird, glancing over her shoulder lest she miss the slightest movement. ‘No, no, Horace, not there, move those magazines, she must sit in the chair by the fire. It’ll blaze in a minute. It’s this wood, it’s too wet, not nicely seasoned as I like it.’ And then Nancy Horsefield stood up. Extra daubs of vivid colour had been applied to her powdered face, a clumsy smear of lipstick, some of it stuck to the sand-coloured cardigan over her navy tracksuit. She brushed her knees, wiped her hands on her trousers and Horace said, ‘Would she like a cup of tea, perhaps?’
    ‘Would you, dear? Would you like a cup of tea?’ Her eyes glittered brightly in her tiny head. Already bent and ready for the off, ready for the race to the kitchen, her overlarge trainers, that made her feet look huge, were tied with bright-red laces.
    At once Georgie agreed to the tea because Nancy was so keen to make it.
    Horace eyed the departing back with sad, half-closed eyes. He lowered himself into a sofa-sized leather chair opposite Georgie’s. She felt lost in hers. Her hand looked very small on the arm. He made his excuses. ‘She likes to keep herself busy. She always has, keeps the place like a new pin. My wife has so much nervous energy.’ But his tone was a pained one. And with Nancy gone from the room the atmosphere became peaceful, as if a machine had been turned off.
    Every single thing in the house was neat, tidy, pleasant, but not the kind of furniture one might expect in a rambling old house. An Indian carpet covered the floor and an Indian tablecloth overhung the small upright piano. Apart from this the room had the modern bungalow touch, or that of a house on a new estate. As if he could read Georgie’s thoughts, Horace said, ‘Nancy can’t abide old things. She likes everything new. She does her buying from catalogues, you see, she’ll spend hours over a catalogue.’
    Georgie had expected an old country family, retired, perhaps, children gone, country folks who decided to spend their retirement tucked away in glorious seclusion, or city people retired down here, walkers, bird watchers, shooters and fishers. Apart from that contradiction, the couple did not fit together at all, for while he could be a retired bank manager, or even a vicar, or a doctor, then Nancy would be his housekeeper.
    Or was that the effect of the drifting cardigan, hung behind her like a broken wing? Or maybe the missing hairnet?
    But at least this reception was more welcoming than the one she’d been given at the farm last night.
    ‘You were lucky to make it at all,’ said Horace darkly, ‘given the conditions yesterday.’
    ‘It wasn’t easy.’ And Georgie added, ‘But I was determined. And by the time I met the snow it was too late to turn back.’
    ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Horace, regarding her gravely, appeared to understand.
    ‘I was surprised to find the cottage so empty apart from a few basic essentials.’
    ‘Stephen never was a man to attach great importance to personal possessions. He never ate properly, either. Always thin as a rake.’
    ‘I realize that, but even