Someone Else's Conflict (4 page)

Marilyn smiled as Dorothy continued. The telephone, true to form, looked set to take even longer to restore.

‘He told them about you as well, love. They said they'll happily divert our calls to our mobiles and pay the bills.' They both laughed and tutted at the absurdity – neither of them had a signal at home. ‘Do you want me to run you to the phone box now?'

‘That'd be great, thanks. I could do with phoning Alan.' On her walk down she'd planned to ask, cajole, even beg the builders to start early – finding a way to scrape together the extra to pay him to work today, a Sunday, if he was willing – so they could get the devastation cleared and start almost on schedule the following week.

Over a mug of tea, she told Dorothy about the landslip, playing it down, emphasising her relief that it wasn't worse. Dorothy promised that Richard would come over and see what he could do to help as soon as he could, but he'd already gone out. ‘I did ask him to call by to see you before he went, but he thought old Mrs Horton might need him more. She's 82 and on her own as you know. Sorry, love.'

‘That makes perfect sense. I'm fine.'

As they went out to the car to drive to the phone box, her neighbour paused and leaned towards her confidentially.

‘I forgot to mention…we had a fellow here earlier asking if we had any work. A bit early in the day if you ask me – goodness knows where he popped up from. He looked harmless enough, if a bit eccentric. He hasn't been up your way? Forties, fifties, big rucksack, funny hat?'

‘I passed him on my way down. He was heading off over the moors towards Annerdale.' Marilyn had no reason to doubt he'd be well on his way by now, and wanted to reassure her neighbour, who found it difficult enough as it was to come to terms with a young woman living on her own out here. She appreciated her willingness to help, but bristled at fuss. ‘I'm sure he was harmless.'

All thoughts of power cuts and suspicious strangers were eclipsed on the way back from the phone box. Alan had apologised profusely, but that was little comfort. Not only was he unable to start clearing the mess today, but he'd have to delay starting on the barn itself. One of his customers on the edge of town had suffered a direct lightning hit to their house causing structural damage, and he was sure she'd understand that it had to take priority… She did understand but it didn't make her feel any better.

She had the presence of mind to borrow a sturdy shovel in case hers was buried, and allowed Dorothy to drive her up the lane to her house. She even summoned the grace to receive her sympathy with a show of gratitude as she got out of the car at her gate, but insisted there was nothing further to be done. She'd manage.

Diverted from her purpose only long enough to change into her oldest work clothes and plait her hair to keep it firmly out of her way, she took up the shovel and set to work. After a few minutes she began to feel daunted. She paused, but thought of the jeep, her link with the world, stuck inside, and kept going. Whenever she stopped to wheelbarrow the debris to a disused corner of the yard to deal with later, she noticed how much more she ached. Each time, she allowed herself no more than a minute's pause. She had to be able to get out, see people, show them she was reliable, not some airy-fairy artist who crumbled at the first sign of a crisis. The breaks became more frequent and her digging – work she would never admit she was not cut out for – slowed, her breathing increasingly ragged as the pile of earth and stones appeared to grow rather than shrink beneath her ineffectual onslaught.

‘Hello again.'

Marilyn jumped, annoyed both by her involuntary display of weakness and by the interruption. She had hardly given her morning's encounter another thought, but knew who it was without turning.

‘I haven't got time to stop.' She heaved one more shovelful into the barrow to prove her point before turning to face him, wiping her brow with a grimy hand. ‘What are you doing here?'

It came out more sharply than she'd intended, but he seemed unconcerned.

‘I followed the path up there and paused to admire the view from the shoulder of the hill.' He waved a hand. ‘Looks bad. I know you said you were OK but I wondered if you wanted some help after all.'

‘I'm fine. Thank you,' she added as an afterthought.

‘I'm not trying to be patronising. Think about it. Teamwork. One of us digs' – patronising or not, she knew which one he meant – ‘while the other wheels it away. We'd get the doors free in half the time.'

‘I'm afraid I couldn't afford to pay you much.'

‘Who said anything about paying?'

‘Mrs Harrington down the lane said you'd been asking for work.'

He rolled his eyes. ‘No secrets in an area like this, eh? I don't want payment – it's not very often I come across a damsel in distress. Good to be able to help. Though a spot of grub later wouldn't go amiss.'

She relented. ‘You're right; I guess it'd be easier with two. I don't want to hold you up too long, though. It's quite a way over the moors before you get to Annerdale, and the days are getting shorter.'

He looked back towards the barn. ‘Are you sure it's safe to move much of this? We don't want to make things worse.'

She was grudgingly impressed by his forethought.

‘Why don't we go and have a look?'

He shrugged off his rucksack, left it outside the porch and they climbed the hillside through the trees behind the house.

‘It all looks so different.'

She gazed across the devastation. The tips of small trees poked through the heap of soil that thickened as it slumped towards the bottom. A hedge with a low wall running at its foot disappeared into one side of the slide and re-emerged on the other. She wondered how many of those stones were now littering her vegetable garden. The worst threat was the lightning-struck tree that was leaning at a crazy angle, still attached to the roots in the ground, but for how long? A huddle of sheep munched unconcerned on the far side of the fall. She felt strangely distant herself, as if she'd wake up soon.

‘I don't think there's any danger of a second slip,' he said. ‘The soil looks pretty thin up there and it looks as if all that was going to move has done.'

Marilyn wondered how much either of them really knew, but saw no real reason not to agree. She saw no real reason to refuse his offer, either, though the idea of a stranger working uninvited in her yard unnerved her. As they scrambled back down, she hoped he'd clear the barn doors quickly and leave. Turning towards the house to fetch a hot drink and a slice of the fruit cake she'd made yesterday, she apologised to him for the lack of bacon or sausages – she wasn't one for cooked breakfasts herself and didn't have a lot in. He waved away her concerns, saying with an easy smile that he'd be grateful for whatever she had. It made her feel guilty for doubting him, but didn't stop her wishing he'd gone straight to make a start on the digging instead of following her to the house. He waited in the porch as she removed her boots then bent to do the same. Marilyn hovered in the inner doorway watching him.

‘Sorry,' he said as he straightened up, ‘you ought to know who it is you're inviting in.' She'd been intending to take the mug and cake out to him. ‘Jay Spinney.'

She took his proffered hand and shook it.

‘Good to meet you.' The introduction did nothing to lessen her reluctance to let him in. ‘So is that J as in short for something, or your full name?' she added, to fill the space in the porch.

‘You intending to write me a note of thanks?' He grinned. ‘Hmm, Jason, you mean? Jonathan, Justin? Actually, it's simply Jay. The woodland watchdog, they call us;
garrulus glandarius
, magpie's cousin…'

She couldn't help returning his smile. ‘I'm Marilyn.' She finally stepped aside. ‘Come in, then. Tea or coffee?'

‘Coffee, please. As strong as you can make it.'

‘A man after my own heart,' she said, and immediately regretted the familiarity.

She filled the kettle and put it to boil as he removed his coat in the warmth of the Rayburn.

‘Water supply OK, then?' he asked.

Marilyn nodded. ‘The spring's not in the path of the landslip, thank goodness.'

‘At least you don't have to fetch your water in buckets. But do tell me if there's anything else I can do for you while I'm here.'

‘I can manage, thanks.'

‘Oh. Right. Of course. I'll just finish freeing your barn door and be on my way. I suppose your husband'll be back later.'

‘I said I'll be fine.'

She felt more exposed than the bare soil of the hillside.

‘Well, things could be worse,' he mused as she brought to the table two mugs, the coffee pot and the fruit cake.

‘Forgive me, but why do people always say that?' she said as she sat down, poured the coffee and handed him a mug. ‘Whatever life throws at you, there'll always be someone telling you things could be worse.'

‘Ouch. Yeah, I've always wondered myself why it's supposed to make you feel better – sorry.'

He picked up his mug and took a sip, studying it appreciatively before setting it on the table. She felt a flash of pride; it was one of hers.

‘Sorry myself if I sounded ratty.'

‘Understandable.'

He smiled and she began to relax.

‘What brings you round here?'

‘Just a whim. Well, I lived for a while in Keighley when I was younger; used to like coming out to the Dales. So I'm spending some time revisiting these parts.'

She nodded, offered him the plate of cake. He took a piece and they ate in silence. There was a long moment where she felt she should say something, but couldn't think of a word. She noticed his free hand playing with the end of the colourful scarf around his neck.

‘That's a nice scarf.' Although she meant it, she immediately felt embarrassingly girly. He grinned as if he'd read her mind.

‘Thanks. I'm settling into it. Got it at a craft fair in Bath last year. The old one was like a rag; high time it went. I always wear one, you know, like some guys identify who they are with a tie. You know where in the world the convention of wearing a tie originated?' She shook her head. ‘Go on, have a guess.'

‘Well, from the way you ask, it's obviously not from the fashions of the English court.'

‘True enough. Though I'm sure English high society helped to establish it. But back in the 17th century, when I guess they were all still wearing lace collars, the army of the French king, Louis – the 14th, I think – called on a regiment of mercenaries. Those guys identified themselves with distinctive red scarves. They must have done all right because people eventually came to adopt scarf-wearing as a Good Thing.
Hrvati
, the foreigners called themselves.' The
h
was a strong sound, deep in his throat. ‘The French couldn't get to grips with that so it came out as
cravat
, and it came to be used for the scarves rather than the people. We can't really handle that
h
either, so we call them Croats.'

‘I never knew that.' She smiled. ‘Cravats from Croatia.'

‘
Hrvatska.
'

They laughed as he got her to try and pronounce it.

‘Have you got connections?' she asked.

‘With Croatia?' He paused. ‘I…I used to know someone. I've travelled. Got all sorts of connections.'

The way he spoke backed him up. Marilyn realised she hadn't been able to place his accent. His rich voice had the trace of northern that a childhood in Keighley would have given him, but no more; he clearly enjoyed pronouncing foreign words, but wasn't a foreigner himself. He sounded like a man who'd travelled, hints of vowel sounds and expressions picked up like mementoes of places he'd known.

Before she could ask any more, Jay brushed the crumbs from his fingers and went to put his mug and plate neatly by the sink, something Matt would never have thought to do.

‘Best crack on with that digging,' he said with a smile. ‘No rest for the wicked.'

Chapter 3

Vinko awoke, damp, shivering and stiff, in the scant shelter of the bridge under which he'd taken shelter in the small hours. The creeping dawn light was as grey as he imagined his face to be, but at least the rain had stopped. Wishing he'd had the guts to go to his grandparents' house the previous evening, he decided the moment had passed. Another time. He'd come back another time. Cursing the whole situation, he wandered back to the bus station, hoping the thin wind would take some of the damp from his clothes, and used the stainless steel handwashing facilities in the gents' to freshen up. One of those automatic things where you didn't get enough water and had only lukewarm blown air to dry with. No soap, of course. He triggered the contraption a few times in an unsuccessful attempt to warm and dry himself through, and peered to comb his hair and brush down his tatty leather jacket in the blurred reflection of the stainless steel. Better than nothing.