Wild Wood (42 page)

The shakes hit her like an outside force. “There was an accident.”

“Was Hugh Windhover involved? I saw him drive past just now.”

Alicia swallows. “He was very nice. In fact, if he hadn’t been driving . . .” She stops.

Rory applies arnica cream to a dressing. “You’ll have a nice black eye by tomorrow. Maybe two.” He puts the dressing over the lump on her forehead. “Where were you two off to?”

Silence.

“I know he’s an estate agent, Alicia.”

“It’s not a state secret.” Anger sparks up, just controlled.

As if the case were settled, he says, “You’re here because of your ancestors. Because of all that they did. You’re the latest chapter of this particular story, and there’ll be another yet to come—your children, for instance. You cannot sell Hundredfield.”

Children.
“This is ridiculous! Yes, there’ll be a next chapter at Hundredfield, but I won’t be in it—someone else will. And the Donnes will be gone at last. Some would say that’s a good thing and long overdue.”

Rory can be as stubborn as she. “You need to make this work, Alicia. It’s your duty. There. Said it.”

She stares at him, astonished. “That’s just, that’s . . . rude! Some girl hits her head and you get all these ideas? It’s stupid, it’s
more
than stupid, it’s, it’s . . .” Alicia sputters like a kettle, brick red with fury.

“Jesse is not
some girl
. Out of all the doctors in London,
I
see the drawings, and I know what they are because I’m linked to this place.
You
set that up, Alicia. You could have just called 999, but, no, you came and hauled me out of choir practice. If she’d been treated by someone else, none of this would have happened.” He hesitates. “This is not random. It can’t be. Scientist or not, I’ve never felt so certain of anything in my life. Yes, we’re standing on the edge here, but we don’t have to jump off.”

Alicia snaps, “We?
I
don’t have a choice, end of story. Stop bugging me on this.”

He will not let go. “There’s always a choice. You stopped your dad selling and—”

“Yes, then he died.” Like a child, Alicia claps her hands over her ears.

“You have to hear this. Your father—it wasn’t just about selling the land.”

“What?” Rage and fear make Alicia formidable.

Rory backs up. “It’s true. I was back late because Mum was talking about Hundredfield this morning. Your dad just wanted to clean the place out and walk away; everything was to go, the state furniture, the armor. . . . Never mind the land, he wanted to sell anything that wasn’t nailed down.
You
were meant to have this place because you fought him for it.”

Alicia’s face has gone from red to white. “I will not have my family gossiped about in the village. Your mother has always hated me. I don’t know why and I don’t care, but if this goes on, I’ll—”

Exasperated, Rory shouts, “I said she was talking rubbish. I
defended
your family, Alicia.”

They stare at each other. They’re standing close.

“So, are you going to tell me what Hugh said?”

She moves away fractionally. “I asked for a preliminary valuation, but we didn’t get that far. The trees got in the way.”

“Trees?”

“The accident—accidents. I had the strangest feeling when it happened.”

“Go on.”

She half laughs. “I think they’re on your side.”

“What?”

“The trees, Hundredfield. I really felt as if the place were turning on me.” Alicia touches the bump on her forehead with trembling fingers. “Oh, this is all just mad. Why does no one want me to sell?”

“Hugh does. He’d make a nice fat commission.” There’s no antagonism this time, just fact. Rory sounds so sad.

“I’m exploring options. That’s all I’m doing. I have to.” But her voice breaks.

“You’re stressed, Licia. Pardon the cliché, but you just can’t see the wood for the trees.” He holds out his arms.

“Oh . . .” She surrenders, sobs into his shirt.

He holds her at a slight distance. After a minute, he murmurs, “Careful. Good cotton, this. It’ll shrink.”

“Sorry.” Alicia stands back, head buzzing, nose running.

He offers his handkerchief.

Crying does not suit Alicia. Her eyes have swollen to slits and her face is a shade of hectic scarlet. “I must look dreadful.” She blows her nose, a painfully loud sound.

Rory conquers a wince. “Not at all.” He looks at his watch. “You know what? Time for lunch. And before you say you’re not hungry, think of my feelings. I
can
actually make a sandwich without poisoning people.” He holds out a hand.

Alicia is overwhelmed. “You’re lovely. Have I ever told you that? Really, really lovely.” She cups his face in her hands.

The yearning in Alicia’s eyes is a shock. There’ve been clues for years, but Rory’s ignored them all. He’s her friend, they’re
best
friends. You don’t fall in love with your best friend.

The silence is brief but it’s enough.

Alicia shrinks, shrinks into herself. She’d enjoy dying right now, if that were an option.

Rory pretends not to see her distress. “Come on. Not so bad. You’re just feeling the effects of shock. You’ll be right by tomorrow.”

But the shock isn’t physical anymore. Alicia steps back. “Of course. Yes, you’re quite right.”

“Did Jesse . . .” Rory hesitates. “I know Mack took her to Jedburgh. Is she coming back?”

Alicia does her best to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Jesse says nothing as they drive from the car park of the care home. Huddled like a child, she leans against the window and seems to sleep.

Mack lets her be. He’s driving fast but with great concentration; they can’t get back to Hundredfield too quickly, that’s what he thinks.

But he looks at Jesse from time to time. If she is asleep, it’s bad dreams she’s having. Her face is clenched tight.

Mack tries to imagine himself into her mind, into what she’s just experienced. Is it possible to feel, really feel, someone else’s anguish? He would have said no, once. Now he just wants to see her smile again.

“Stop. Please stop.”

Rattled, Mack almost swerves off the road but does as he’s asked, steering his old MG onto the shoulder and cutting the engine. They sit in the ticking silence. Woods crowd close, and the deep canopy of summer dims the light to green shot through with gold.

Jesse asks politely, “Do you mind if I get out?”

“No. Of course.” He goes to open his door; he’ll sprint around and open hers.

But the girl climbs out by herself. “I won’t be long.”

“Really, you’re fine.” Mack leans across to pull her door closed. “We’re not far from Hundredfield now.”

Sometimes Mack wishes he hadn’t given up smoking. Usually he has a big man’s confidence around girls, but Jesse’s different, so different she might actually be crazy. Her behavior in Jedburgh . . . How does he feel about that?

Common sense kicks in. Jesse’s not insane, she’s just shocked and desperately unhappy—with good reason; and that sadness, in its own way, is attractive. Mack’s surprised by his need to comfort her. Not his usual response.

His fingers drum on the steering wheel. He’s feeling anxious. For her. He gets out, looks at his watch. Five minutes yet? He’s pacing, up and back the length of the car, kicking the tires.

What did his mother say about Jesse last night? A bird of passage. Not those words, but that’s what she meant. Mack stops pacing.

He stares at the woods, in the direction Jesse went.

He doesn’t want this girl to go anywhere. And if Helen isn’t pleased, that’s too bad.

Mack stubs that mental cigarette on the ground and sets off to find Jesse Marley. He doesn’t want her to get lost.

There’s water close by. Jesse hears it as she sloshes along a muddy path. Her canvas shoes are starting to leak, but she doesn’t care; she needs time to think. Alone.

She plays the day like a film in her head, seeing it from every angle.

The face of the old nun, her eyes, the way her mouth moved when she said, “Your mother died, Jesse.”

She died.
Jesse flinches.

And the car park.

There
had
been a child, she
had
heard those desperate sobs, though neither Mack nor the man in the car park had.

Rory will offer explanations, if she ever tells him. She can hear him, hear what he’ll say. Eva’s death makes the child a symbol of her own loss, her own abandonment. Jung would have loved it too. But that
wasn’t
what happened.

Jesse walks on. Ahead, the trees are less dense and the water rush is louder. It lulls her, softens the grip of anguish. A few steps more and she’s standing on a riverbank. Close up, the roar of the water blocks anything else, even thought; it’s almost a voice.

Jesse stares around. Dragonflies flit and dart, and a waterbird paddles among reeds in an inlet carved out of the bank. It’s strange
to find such a large, still pool beside a river in full spate. It’s perfect somehow, the calm water and the trees, the sun glancing and bouncing off the surface of the pond.

What is it about this place?

It feels, it seems—what?
Like coming home.

She walks to the edge of the pool and kneels. The breeze dies and the surface settles to a perfect reflection of the sky, but in the green depths, something moves. She leans closer.

The roar of water enters Jesse’s head.

And in that chaos of sound, someone is calling her.

Jesse, here I am.

A woman’s face is beneath the water. The eyes, pale green, pale blue, hold Jesse.
Are those jewels? Is this real?

Hair floats and twines—an amber cloud moving like something alive.

The woman smiles. She’s deeper, drifting deeper, holding up her hands.

Jesse’s lying on the bank. She’s reaching down, falling down, sliding into the green.

Arms enfold her tenderly, and she rests against the woman’s shoulder as they float together through the green-glass world.

The bottom is a long way below, a long way, but Jesse can see it. And she can see what she has to do.

It’s there among the weeds. She has to pick it up.

“Jesse!”

Her body rocked and buffeted, Jesse opens her mouth to protest.

The woman is gone.

No!

But Mack grasps her hand, an arm clamped around her chest. He churns up, up, as Jesse flails, silver bubbles streaming from her mouth.

Don’t drop it, don’t . . .

Urgency fades.

It’s no longer important to struggle.

There’s no point.

No point at all.

On the bank, Mack clicks to automatic.

No airway obstructions and
flip.

Jesse’s on her back.

Air.

Nostrils pinched, his breath in her mouth.

One, two, three, four.

Compress.

Hand heels against her sternum, full weight behind each push.

One, two, three, four.

Nothing.

Same again.

Air. Compress. Air. Compress. Air. Compress.

“Come
on
!” To himself, to Jesse.

Pale as old spaghetti, just as limp, Jesse opens her eyes. Her face is defenseless, newborn.

Mack sits panting. It’s ridiculous and shocking but he’s laughing, shaking his head as he reaches for her hand.

“Welcome back.”

Jesse can nod, that’s all.

His jacket lies on the grass, and he covers as much of her body as he can. “There’s a rug in the car.”

From somewhere, he finds the will to stand and then to run.

And return.

Kneeling beside Jesse, when she stares at him, it’s as if Mack’s never been
seen
, never been looked
at
, before this moment. And in her face such loss, such confusion, he wants to cry.

“Got two. Come on. That’s it.” Mack’s babbling, helps her to sit up, pulls the picnic rug around her shoulders, and dumps the smelly, old dog-rug on top.

She says faintly, “Wet Labrador. Lovely.”

Jesse’s hair is all over her face. Mack drags it out of her eyes.