‘I didn’t mean any harm!’
‘I know, Carlotta.’ The woman approached cautiously. ‘It’s all right. You mustn’t—’
‘It was my last chance - coming to you.’
‘There’s no need for all this.’ Her voice was soothing. ‘Try and calm down.’
The girl climbed onto the parapet.
‘For God’s sake—’
‘They’ll send me to prison.’
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I thought I’d be safe here.’
‘You were - are. I’ve just said—’
‘Where else can I go?’ She hung her head, exhausted by her tears, swaying precariously backwards then jerking upright again with a little cry of fear. ‘Ahh . . . what will happen to me?’
‘Now don’t be silly.’ The woman moved forward, her face and hair ghostly in the moonlight. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you.’
‘I might as well be dead.’ The girl on the bridge became considerably more agitated, covering her face with her hands and once more starting to cry, rocking wretchedly back and forth.
Momentarily unobserved, the woman approached quickly. Softly. She was level with the girl. Had her arms wrapped round the slender legs.
‘Get down, Carlotta. Look - I’ll hold your hand.’
‘Don’t touch me!’
Charlie Leathers had been easing forward, a breath at a time, while all this was going on. Tugged into the drama, not caring, such was his excitement, that he might be seen.
The moon slid behind a cloud. Detail was lost but there was still light enough to outline a dark agitated shape, grotesquely tall, as if one woman was balanced on the other’s shoulders. For a few seconds they wrestled backwards and forwards, grunting.
The girl cried again, ‘Don’t . . . don’t push—’
Then there was a terrible cry and a splash as something heavy hit the water. Then silence.
Charlie stepped back into the shelter of the hedge. He was trembling, his nerve ends jumping like fleas on a hot plate. It was some time before he could start to make his way home. And when he did, more than one person noted his progress, for an English country village, despite all appearances to the contrary, is never quite asleep.
For instance, in the beautiful glass house Valentine Fainlight and his sister Louise were enjoying a ferocious game of chess. Valentine played with savage vigour and a determination to win. He would swoop over the board, snatch up pieces and wave them in the air triumphantly. Louise, more detached but equally resolute, remained very still. She would smile, a cool parting of the lips, after a successful move but showed neither disappointment nor displeasure in the face of failure.
‘Checkmate!’ The board was tipped over and the figures, dark blue resin styled in the manner of mythical beasts and warriors, clattered and fell. Immediately Louise got up and walked away.
‘Don’t sulk, Lou. Fair and square. Wasn’t it?’
‘As much as anything ever is with you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a glass of something.’
There was no denying that, so far, it had been good having Louise around. Valentine had been edgily uncertain when she had first asked if she might come and stay. He was sorry for her, of course. The break-up of her marriage had caused real damage. For the first time in her life she had been dealt wounds deeper than those she had inflicted. But it had worked out very well. On the whole.
To allay his anxiety and emphasise the transitory nature of her visit, Louise brought only two small suitcases. A month later she collected the rest of her clothes. Then her books and a tea chest full of stuff that had what is described as only sentimental value. Packing these things had hurt so much (why do people say ‘only’?) that the crate remained in the garage, unopened.
‘A spot of Casa Porta would be nice.’
Louise started to pull the curtains. These were immensely long and full yet almost weightless, being made of gossamer-fine fabric scattered with pale stars. There was a gap between the upper floor, suspended from a huge loft by steel cables, and the external wall and the curtains fell through this, tumbling from the top of the house to the bottom, over a hundred feet to the ground. When Louise walked along, pulling them behind her, she always felt like someone in a theatre at the beginning of a play. Halfway across she stopped.
‘There’s Charlie Leathers with that poor little dog.’
‘Aahh . . .’
‘Why do you have to mock everything?’
‘Not quite everything.’
No, thought Louise. If only.
‘You’re turning into a village drab, woman. Peering through the acrylics. You’ll be joining the WI next.’