She had pressed herself more firmly against him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lou. You’re still a very attractive man.’
Louis had looked at her then, almost warily. ‘Tonight, I feel like I’m coming awake after a long sleep, coming out of a coma.’
‘I’m glad,’ Barbara said, and then, with drunken bravado, risked a provocative remark. ‘I’ve been waiting here for you.’
‘Have you?’ Louis squeezed her, the ends of his fingers touching the side of her breast.
At that moment, Barbara had noticed Barney watching them. He had been standing with cigar in hand, whisky glass raised, his eyes like stones. Barbara had felt the heat rush through her, had to laugh in a high, braying manner in order to defuse the moment. She’d grinned at Barney, but he’d only pulled a sour face and turned away.
The subject hadn’t been mentioned on the way home, but then that was typical of Barney. He’d nurse his painful suspicions in silence, curled around them. He’d never accuse, shout or get violent. Othman had left them at the end of Low Mede’s drive, talking about going for a walk to sober up. Barney hadn’t even said good night. Walking down the lane to The White House, Barbara had kept up a cheerful chatter, conscious of her voice being slurred. The atmosphere of the early morning seemed heavy, drowsy, dripping with floating bags of emotions that were ready to burst. Barbara had commented on the night, the feeling of it. Barney had grunted in response. He had no imagination at all. Barbara forcefully prevented the hot spasm of irritation that shot through her from escaping her lips in harsh words.
In bed, Barney had wanted to have sex, which again, Barbara supposed, was typical. He obviously needed to reassert his rights, exercise his ownership of her. Still, Barbara made no objection: the night seemed conducive to carnal urges. While Barney heaved and grunted on top of her, she fantasised happily: first about Othman (although it was very difficult to imagine Barney’s large, hairy body being Othman’s), and then about Louis. Poor Louis, so damaged. Barbara thought he probably hadn’t had a woman since his wife died. She wanted to smother him in love, make him feel good about himself. The evening had started so badly, what with all those silly thoughts she’d had about the girls, but by the end of it, she’d felt empowered, attractive again. No young girl could do for Louis what she could. She imagined he would be a sensitive lover: they could talk about poetry in bed, languorous in the afterglow of love.
Perhaps if Barney had whispered some endearment to her, she would have felt guilty about her secret desires, but he simply rolled off her without a word, leaving her unsatisfied. Barbara didn’t care. She stared out of the window at the sky, where the curtains hung open, and began to make plans.
Othman left the Winters’ cottage early in the morning. Lily guessed he didn’t want to risk running into Owen although she did not mention it. In the kitchen, Othman kissed her tenderly, stroked her face. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ Lily wondered whether difficulties with Owen were presaged. Othman certainly seemed eager to pursue an affair with her, and she had the feeling Owen was not to be included in it as she’d first thought.
She washed the dishes in a dream, replaying all the events of the previous night in her imagination. She’d asked Othman questions about himself, from which he managed to slip away, by asking her about her mother and what their lives had been like before she had brought her children to Little Moor. He seemed very interested in Helen Winter, reminding Lily of how Owen had suggested Othman might be an old friend of their mother’s. A cold dart had gone through her, prompting her to blurt, ‘Are you my father?’, which seemed absurd now. It was obvious he was far too young. He’d laughed at her question, ruffled her hair, leaning over her in the bed. ‘No, Lily, I’m not, though even if I was, I’d still be here with you like this, for my people have no taboo about such things.’
‘Who are your people, Pev?’ Lily asked.
‘A very old family,’ he answered. ‘Far older than you can imagine. I can trace my lineage back before Adam.’
Lily laughed at him. She did not believe that was the exact truth. ‘Why are you interested in us?’
He’d stroked her bare arm. ‘Because you’re special, my lovely. Soon, I will be able to tell you more, and then you’ll understand completely. But not yet.’
When he made love to her, Lily experienced fragmented visions, flashbacks, she thought, to her dream of Shemyaza. She told him about this. ‘Who is Shemyaza? Have you ever heard such a name.’
‘He’s dead,’ Othman said abruptly. ‘He lived a long time ago.’
‘But you know who he is... He is a real person?’
Othman shrugged, reaching out to her bedside table for a cigarette. ‘Yes, I suppose so, in a sense. He lives on only in legend.’
‘But I’ve never heard of him. Why would I dream of him? And there was so much detail, Pev! It was like I was really there. I could feel it, smell it. Could I really invent this person? He wasn’t human, and neither was the woman who carried me. They were something else. Anannage. You see, I remember the name. I feel like I know it.’
‘You must have heard of... him before,’ Othman said.
Lily noticed he was oddly reluctant to say the name.
‘The old church here in Little Moor is dedicated to him,’ he continued. ‘to St Shem.’
‘Of course!’ said Lily, although she doubted she would have made the connection herself. ‘But why would I dream of a saint, and why make him look like you? And if he was a saint, then he would have been human, so why...’
‘The imagination is a strange country,’ Othman interrupted. ‘The so-called St Shem was never really a saint. The dedication of the church must just have been a cover up in case any strangers wandered through the village. Your mother must have told you stories about him when you were a child, which you’ve remembered through your dream.’
‘But there was a story behind the dream, I just know it. It was like I simply stepped in and witnessed a small part of it. I didn’t understand it, and I want to know more.’
‘Perhaps you’ll dream yourself back into that forgotten country,’ Othman said, and covered any further questions she might utter with a kiss.
Later, Lily said to him, ‘You’ve changed my life.’
‘I know,’ he answered and smiled, leaning back beside her, his long, beautiful body warm against her flesh, his hair tangled with hers.
Who was he and where had he come from? How had he insinuated himself into their lives in this way, turned everything upside down? He had brought magic with him, Lily felt. He made things happen. What would she feel if he left her now? Could she survive, go back to how she was before? The last thoughts cast a cloud over her mood. She did not want to think about it.
When Owen came in, Lily realised she hadn’t been thinking about him at all, or even wondered why he’d stayed out all night. He seemed in a bad mood as he slammed around the kitchen, scraping a breakfast together for himself. Lily felt tense, sure that Peverel Othman’s presence was imprinted all over her body. Surely Owen could smell that Othman had been here?
Owen sat down. ‘Lil, we have to talk.’
Lily froze. He knew! She laughed nervously. ‘What about?’
‘Just sit down, will you.’
She did so, waiting for the attack. He was stirring cereal round in his bowl, staring at the table. Lily was frightened. She’d never seen Owen like this, so serious.
Owen sighed, looked up at her. His eyes were dark. ‘I stayed at the Crantons last night.’
Lily said nothing, tried to swallow without gulping.
Owen rolled his eyes. ‘Well, where’s the outburst? At least make me feel better by shouting at me.’
Lily frowned. ‘What? What do you mean?’
Owen stood up, gripped the back of his chair. ‘Why is it you’ve been sniping at me with remarks about Daniel for the past few days, but now you’ve conveniently forgotten about it?’
Lily stared at him. He was talking about jealousy. Soon, the accusation would come. ‘
I realised I was being stupid, and too possessive.’ Answer that, she thought triumphantly.
‘Oh right, so that means you don’t mind that I slept with Daniel last night.’
Lily found an irrepressible laugh bubbling out of her mouth. She put her hands over it to stop it.
Owen looked furious. ‘What’s so funny?’
Lily shook her head. Two days ago, she’d have been crucified by the thought of Owen touching anyone else. Now, all she felt was relief, a shift of blame. ‘You won’t believe this, but I thought you were going to tell me off!’
‘What for?’ Owen asked, in a cold voice.
Lily grinned. She couldn’t stop herself. ‘Well, while you were at Low Mede, Pev came here. While you were in bed with Daniel, I was in bed with Pev. Isn’t that a coincidence!’ She leapt up and busied herself at the sink, so she wouldn’t have to look Owen in the eye. She couldn’t stop laughing.
Owen came up behind her, grabbed her shoulder, pushed her round. Before she could protest, he slapped her face. The twins stared at each other in shock. Nothing like this had happened before, never had they raised a hand against one another in anger.
Lily hit Owen back. ‘You bastard, how dare you!’ The blow was stronger than his, sent him crashing into the table. ‘You dare to get angry with me over Pev, O. I’ve always known you’ve been itching to get your hands on Cranton. How dare you get jealous now!’
Owen straightened up, rubbing his face. Lily’s blow had been a closed fist, not an open palm. ‘Perhaps that’s true,’ he said quietly. ‘But I never did anything about it before — because of you. How weird that’s all changed now, since Peverel Othman arrived on the scene. How convenient that I was over at Low Mede so he could come sniffing round you. It was his idea, you know, for me to be with Daniel.’
Lily digested this information. It did not displease her as much as Owen might think. Othman had wanted her alone. He had wanted her. ‘So what are we going to do now?’
Owen paused for a moment. ‘We don’t fight. We mustn’t separate. Not now.’
Lily pushed her hair off her face. ‘You think something’s going on, don’t you?’
Owen nodded. ‘Yes, but I haven’t worked out what, yet. Othman told me things about us — he thinks, or knows, there’s something different about us. He wants us, Lil. Don’t flatter yourself he’s in love with you, or anything. He wants more than that — from both of us. So don’t go falling for him. It could be dangerous.’
Lily drew in her breath. ‘And are you in love with Daniel Cranton?’ she enquired archly.
‘Daniel is a need, not particularly an obsession,’ Owen answered obliquely. He rubbed the back of his neck, rolled his head around. ‘We have to find out what Othman knows about us. Until we do, we’re vulnerable.’
‘He asks about Mum a lot.’ Lily frowned. ‘I still wonder whether he knew her. He looks only a few years older than us, but I get the feeling he’s a lot older than that.’
‘We’ll play along for a while. It’s all we can do.’ Owen went back to his breakfast, and Lily sat down opposite him again, her elbows on the table.
‘Is this thing with Daniel going to be regular?’
‘I don’t know. What about you and Othman?’
Lily looked away. ‘I want him, O. I won’t deny it. He makes me feel…’ She wriggled her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. He fascinates me. Do you mind?’
‘Well, as you rightly pointed out, I’m hardly in the position to.’ Owen sighed deeply, and put down his spoon, reached for his sister’s hands. ‘Lily, we must stick together. Let’s be frank with one another. Our sharing was never that regular, was it? I suppose something like this was bound to happen. We were isolated. Now we’re not. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. You’re still my goddess.’
Lily smiled uncertainly. She wished she could share Owen’s belief their relationship would not be changed by all that had happened, and all that would happen, soon.
Barbara breezed into The White House, barely able to contain her excitement. She had been to the small local library, and after a rather difficult episode persuading the librarian to let her look at the auction details of Long Eden, had spent the afternoon leafing through the old invoices and papers. Although she’d unearthed no juicy scandals — a personal letter inadvertently bundled up with the receipts would have been nice — she had discovered that the Murkasters had sold off the least valuable of their effects, and that a dozen or so paintings from the house had been bought by a local man. It had been twenty years ago, but she hoped desperately that Mr G. Thormund still lived in Larkington, a village nearby. Now, if her investigations proved fruitful, she had a means through which to impress Peverel Othman.
She went straight to her sitting room and dragged out the telephone directory from beneath a pile of magazines behind one of the chairs. Thormund, G. She found it almost too easily, and the address matched what she’d written in her notebook: Leaning Willows, Larkington. Barbara wrote down the number and went to fetch herself a gin and tonic. Then she sat down on the sofa, phone in hand, and tapped in the number. She almost held her breath as the calling tone purred out, a connection from Barbara to the past. She felt it strongly. Then, just as she’d taken a mouthful of gin, the phone was answered. ‘Larkington 572.’ The voice was male, plummy, elderly. Barbara gulped down the gin.
‘Good afternoon. Am I speaking to a G Thormund?’
‘Godfrey Thormund, yes. What can I do for you?’
Barbara fell into her element. ‘I am Barbara Eager, the proprietor of The White House hotel in Little Moor. I’m involved in a writing project about the manor house, Long Eden, which as you must know is situated in the village. I understand you bought a number of old paintings from the auction at Long Eden some years ago, and was wondering if you still owned them?’
‘Yes,’ came the rather cautious reply.
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you at all, Mr Thormund, but I’d be extremely grateful if you’d allow me to view the paintings some time.’
‘Writing project, you say,’ said Godfrey Thormund. Barbara sensed mulishness.
‘Yes. I run a writer’s group here in the village, and we’re aiming to produce our second book soon. Long Eden’s boarded up now, and the gardens have gone wild. I’m hoping to find some representation of the house when it was lived in. Looking for inspiration, I suppose! But of course, I’d like to see any painting that once hung in the old place.’
‘Had a few meals at The White House,’ said Godfrey Thormund. ‘With my daughter.’
‘Lovely! Perhaps we’ve met already, then.’
‘Next Tuesday morning,’ said Thormund abruptly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Barbara had heard him, but hadn’t expected co-operation so soon.
‘Tuesday morning. Ten-thirty?’
‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much. Would it be all right if I brought a colleague with me?’
‘Just one? I don’t want crowds.’
‘Just one, Mr Thormund. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’
After she’d put down the phone, Barbara had to sit for a few moments, quickly finishing the gin. How opportune! Not only had she secured a viewing of the paintings, but their owner had been most specific about wanting no more than two people to call. It was only once her heart had slowed down that she realised she hadn’t asked for directions to Leaning Willows. Still, that simply meant more time would have to be spent looking for the place. She didn’t mind about that.
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday
Owen left the cottage at lunchtime, and afterwards Lily was unable to settle. She’d phoned Barbara Eager, only to be told the woman was out. Lily wondered whether she’d have confessed to Barbara that she’d slept with Peverel Othman, realising it was perhaps lucky Barbara hadn’t been available. Lily wanted to talk to someone, but instinct advised her Barbara wouldn’t be too pleased if she heard Lily’s news. She lay on the sagging sofa in the
darkened parlour, drinking homemade wine straight from the bottle. Her body still tingled at the memory of Othman’s touch. She couldn’t resist sifting through the memory of their love-making, reliving it in her mind. It made her feel hot and alive between her legs: she wanted more. Should she go and look for him now? No, she must be cool about this, not too pushy. She thought about her mother, how she’d brought the twins to the village, the idyllic life they’d lived together here. All Lily’s early memories of Little Moor were of summertime. Then came the shadowy time, when Helen had become ill. Lily had found it all so painful, she’d refused to think about it since. Now, perhaps, she needed to examine her memory.
Many of the local women had come to the cottage back then, while Helen lay pale and thin in her bed upstairs. Lily and Owen had been fifteen, very wrapped up in one another, which Lily now realised their mother had encouraged. She must have known she was going to die. There had been whispered injunctions from the bed of sickness that Lily and Owen must stick together. They would be well provided for, whatever happened. Lily had fallen into a kind of numbness: going to school, getting out of the cottage whenever she could at evenings and weekends. During this period, she and Owen had shared for the first time.
They had walked to the High Place in Herman’s Wood, a place particularly loved by Owen, but which Lily secretly found rather scary. She remembered it had been a Thursday evening, high summer, the night warm and scented. At the High Place, Owen had said, ‘She is dying, Lil.’ Lily hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but Owen had been insistent. ‘We have to think about what we’re going to do. I don’t think we’re old enough to live alone.’
Lily had been horrified. They had no living relatives that they knew of. Where would they go? In fear and misery, she had begun to cry. ‘She mustn’t die! She mustn’t! How can she do this to us?’