Authors: Anne Weale
She’s still very poorly, I hear.’
Jenny had planned to spend the evening cutting out the material she had bought in town on Saturday. But after her grandparents had gone out, the mild evening lured her into the garden. Now that summer time was in force, it would be light till seven o’clock. And after the long cold months of winter, there was at last the softness of spring in the air.
Thinking there might be some primroses in the part of the garden beyond the dividing fence, she shinned up the oak tree, balanced her way along the thick branch which reached over the top of the fence, and dropped lightly down on to the grass on the other side.
Her grandfather was a keen gardener and often won prizes for his flowers and vegetables at the local horti-cultural show. But he was now over seventy. And, eighteen months ago, he had reluctantly admitted that – even with Jenny’s help - it was impossible to keep up the whole of the Rectory’s three-acre garden.
The Church Commissioners had decided to sell half of it as a site for one private house, and it had been put up for auction. But the bids had been short of the reserve price, and eventually it had been sold by private treaty to a man from the town, an architect named Gilchrist. Simon Gilchrist.
But apart from learning his name and profession, and seeing his bold black signature on the conveyance, the Shannons had never laid eyes on him, and knew nothing else about him.
In accordance with the terms of the sale, workmen had come to erect the boundary fence. But, since then, nothing more had happened.
There were primroses on the bank below the chestnut tree. Jenny picked a small bunch for her grandfather’s study.
Then she wandered across the clearing which had once been a croquet lawn but was now overgrown with spear grass and hummocked by molehills.
Inside the derelict shed in the corner under the gnarled crab apple trees, she saw cigarette ends and an empty cider bottle - evidence that the village boys were still sneaking through the hedge and using the place for secret parleys and smoking sessions.
Earlier, while she was picking flowers, she had heard a car stopping in the road at the front of the plot. But she had not paid any attention to it.
Now, glancing out of the cracked and dusty window of the shed, she was surprised to see a man standing under the chestnuts where she had been herself a few minutes earlier.
And as he turned and came across the old croquet lawn, she saw his face and recognized him.
It was the man with the sleek grey Jaguar who had made her feel such a fool on Saturday morning.
If she acted quickly, there would have been plenty of time for her to dart out of the shed, scramble through the gap in the hedge and return to the Rectory garden by way of the back lane. But she was so surprised at seeing him again -
and right on her own doorstep! - that by the time she collected herself, he was within thirty yards of her.
Foolishly, she drew back from the window and stayed very still, hoping he would not come right up to the shed.
Probably he was looking round out of curiosity. A number of people had done so since the ground had been fenced off.
Sometimes they came to the Rectory to inquire if it was for sale.
As the man’s footsteps came nearer, Jenny held her breath and willed him to pass along the path now bordered by tall nettles.
Then, to her dismay, his shadow passed across the window, and the next moment he had opened the door and discovered her.
Perhaps he had glimpsed her watching him, for he did not seem startled to find her there.
‘Well, well ... the girl who stops traffic,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
Unwisely, Jenny tried to be dignified. ‘Good evening,’ she said stiffly.
But she could not prevent herself flushing, and she felt even more foolish than she had during their previous encounter.
The man was openly amused. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here,’ she answered shortly.
‘Really? - In this shed?’ he asked banteringly.
She bit her lip. ‘In the Rectory ... the house on the other side of the fence.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His glance took in the shabby jersey and slacks she had put on after tea. Then he moved out of the doorway and returned to the path.
Jenny followed. ‘If you’re looking for a building site, this land is already sold,’ she informed him coldly.
The hostility in her tone seemed to increase his amusement. ‘So you’re trespassing ... and pinching primroses,’ he said, noticing the bunch in her hand. ‘Not exactly the conduct one would expect of a daughter of the Rectory, do you think?’
Her colour deepened. ‘I don’t think the owner would mind.’
‘Not in the least,’ he said negligently.
It was a moment or two before the significance of this remark registered.
When it did, Jenny could not conceal her consternation.
‘Y-you are the owner?’ she stammered, taken aback.
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said sardonically. ‘My name is Gilchrist
... and yours, I believe, is Shannon. How do you do, Miss Shannon.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Perhaps, as I shall eventually be your neighbour, it might be a good idea if I came and introduced myself to your parents.’
‘My parents are dead. I live with my grandparents - and they’re both out this evening.’ She knew her tone was ungracious, but he could hardly expect her to be cordial when his own manner was deliberately provoking.
‘Some other time, then. I shall be over here a good deal in the next few months.’ His grey eyes glinted derisively. ‘I expect we shall see a lot of each other.’
‘You’re going to build a house here for yourself?’
‘Yes, starting next month. I hope by late August to be living here. The village seems a pleasant little place, and now that they’ve improved the road into town it shouldn’t take long to get to my office and back.’
Suddenly Jenny realized just how much difference it would make to have another house built close by.
Standing some way out of the village, and flanked on one side by the churchyard and on the other by sloping water-meadows, the Rectory had always enjoyed complete privacy. But now they would be overlooked, their peaceful seclusion spoiled.
‘Where are you going to put the house?’ she asked him.
‘Down there on the open ground.’ He indicated a position which would mean that it would be directly in line with her bedroom window.
‘I see. Well, I’d better be going. Good-bye, Mr. Gilchrist.’
‘You don’t have to run away,’ he said, as she moved. ‘I don’t mind you coming in here while the place is running wild. If you don’t pick the flowers, I imagine children will.’
‘Thank you, but I wouldn’t dream of coming now that the ground is going to be used,’ she told him stiffly.
‘You know, Miss Shannon, I think it was a pity I came to your aid the other day.’ His face was expressionless, but she was almost sure he was laughing at her inwardly.
‘How do you mean?’ she asked guardedly.
‘I fancy I rather deflated your amour propre - not a very auspicious beginning to a neighbourly relationship.’
‘Not at all. I was grateful for your help.’
‘Hm ... I wonder? Women are usually sensitive about their driving prowess.’
‘I don’t see why they should be,’ she answered coolly. ‘I believe statistics show that women are generally safer drivers than men.’
His mouth quirked at one corner. ‘Statistics can be made to prove almost anything. The trouble with women at the wheel is that they get rattled too easily.’
‘Probably because there’s always some lordly male driver honking them on from behind,’ Jenny countered crisply. ‘I must go now. Good-bye, Mr. Gilchrist.’
A few minutes after she had returned to the house and put the primroses in water, the front door bell rang.
The caller was Fenella Waring. She was wearing a scarlet dress with a white leather jacket slung over her shoulders.
Her toy poodle, Pascal, was sitting at her feet on the end of a scarlet leash.
‘Hello, Jenny, may I come in for half an hour?’ she asked smilingly.
‘Yes, do. How are you? I heard you were back.’
‘Oh, so-so. Rather limp after a hectic winter. I’m taking a week or two off before my next engagement.’ She followed Jenny to the sitting-room.
The two girls had attended the same school, but Fenella had left when Jenny was still in the fourth form. She was twenty-four, and was an actress. Her parents – her father was a bank manager in the town - spoke as if she were a second Sarah Bernhardt. But actually Fenella’s theatrical career had been confined to one or two small parts in provincial runs, some equally small parts on television and one three-minute appearance (as a harem girl) in a rather bad film.
‘There’s a gorgeous silver Jag parked down the road. I wonder who it belongs to?’ she said, letting Pascal off his leash, and arranging herself gracefully on the sofa.
‘To the man who’s bought our land,’ Jenny told her.
Fenella lit a cigarette. ‘Have you met him? What’s he like?’
‘I don’t like him. You might. He’s quite good-looking, I suppose.’ Jenny changed the subject by asking Fenella how her mother was.
Presently she made coffee, and the older girl chattered about her hectic life in London, and the fashionable restaurants and night-clubs where her many admirers wined and dined her.
‘What about you?’ she asked eventually, having talked about herself non-stop for nearly an hour. ‘I suppose you’re still at the kindergarten, and going about with James Langdon?’
Jenny nodded. She knew Fenella thought her life was incredibly dull, but she had a suspicion that the other girl did not lead quite as gay a life as she made out. She was a paragon of glamour by Farthing Green standards; but London was full of lovely girls.
‘No ring yet, I see. When are you and James going to make it official?’ Fenella asked. ‘One assumes you will get married eventually?’
‘I don’t know. James hasn’t asked me,’ Jenny said evasively. Her relationship with James was not something she wanted to discuss.
‘Why on earth doesn’t he have something done about his face? People in the theatre are always having their noses bobbed or their bosoms lifted. I’m sure a good plastic surgeon could get rid of that scar of his.’
‘Skin-grafting takes time. James can’t spare any. People need him, especially his mother. You know how delicate she is. They were going to deal with the scar when he was in hospital after the accident. But just as his other injuries were mending his father died. James insisted on coming back to take over the practice.’
‘Don’t you mind his face being like that?’ Fenella asked curiously.
Jenny’s lips compressed, and she shook her head.
Fenella shrugged. ‘Oh, well, love is blind, so they say.
And you have always hero-worshipped him, haven’t you?
Very different from me. I like variety. Sooner or later I get bored with people.’ She took out her compact and began to scrutinize her make-up.
Most of the older people in the village did not approve of Fenella. But although Jenny herself was not wholly in sympathy with her, there were moments when she could not help envying the older girl’s flamboyant looks and unfaltering self-confidence. She would never have been thrown into confusion by a man like Simon Gilchrist. If he had tried to unnerve Fenella, she would have given him a limpid stare with her large and deceptively soft dark eyes, and then purred an audacious riposte and left him standing.
But, watching her as she retouched her lips, Jenny knew that she could never emulate Fenella’s sophistication. Slinky dresses and skilfully applied false eyelashes were not her style.
When Mrs. Shannon came home, Fenella left. People like the Rector and his wife were among those who bored her.
‘I expect I do, too - but she likes showing off to me,’
Jenny thought dryly. She was well aware that Fenella would not have come to see her if she had not been at a loose end.
‘That girl smokes far too heavily,’ Mrs. Shannon said disapprovingly, tipping lipstick-stained stubs into the waste basket. ‘She’s getting a very hard look about her. It will be a good thing when she gives up this acting nonsense. I’m sure she has no talent beyond her looks, and they won’t last for ever. It was a great pity the Warings allowed her to go to London. She would have been much better off married to that nice Barton boy whom she treated so badly.’
‘What if I had wanted to go to London? Would you have let me, Granny?’
‘You’re quite different from Fenella, dear.’
Jenny grinned. ‘Don’t I know it!’
‘I didn’t mean in looks - though you certainly have no need to compare yourself unfavourably with her. You’re very like your mother, and she was a lovely creature,’ said Mrs. Shannon. ‘No, I meant in temperament. You have character, Jenny. Fenella has not. She thinks only of her looks and of having a good time with young men.’
At this point the Rector returned, and Jenny told them about meeting Simon Gilchrist.
‘I don’t like him a bit,’ she said, frowning. ‘I wish we had never sold the land, Grandpa. It will be horrid having another house right on top of us, and being overlooked all the time.’
‘Aren’t you judging him rather hastily, my dear?’ her grandfather suggested, in his mild way. ‘You say you only spoke to him for a few minutes.’