his voice; he was feeling it as well. He put the key in the lock and turned it, then he moved towards the stern and reached for the painter. The rope was covered in droplets of moisture. ‘Ready?’ He sounded uncertain.
‘Perhaps they got stuck on a mud bank?’ she murmured.
‘Must have.’ He managed to smile but his attempt at a jovial tone didn’t quite come off. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’ He pulled the dinghy alongside and held it steady for her. She climbed down and sat in the stern, glancing over her shoulder into the dark. The water gleamed dully only inches from her, gently moving as if it were breathing. Already the reeds were poking above the water. Somewhere close by there was a splash. The dinghy bobbed up and down as Ken let himself down into it and sat carefully amidships, reaching for the oars. ‘Only a minute or two and we will be there.’
He pulled strongly, spinning the small craft round and headed for the little jetty. Zoë was clutching the torch, still switched off. She could just see the short wooden landing stage jutting out into the river in the faint reflected light off the water. Her sense of panic was increasing at every stroke of the oars. She fixed her eyes on Ken’s face. He could see behind them. He was watching, staring out into the darkness.
‘Slow now,’ she murmured. ‘We’re nearly there. OK, ship your oars.’ She had the painter in her hand. As they came alongside she reached out for the wet weed-covered wood of the jetty and pulled them towards it, slipping the rope around one of the stanchions with a sigh of relief. ‘Made it.’
Ken sat still. His eyes were still fixed on the river. ‘They are still there. I saw a glimpse of the sail.’
‘I don’t care. Let’s get out of here.’ She heaved the basket and bag up onto the boards of the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. What are you waiting for?’
‘The sail was still up. Filled with wind.’ There wasn’t a breath of wind now, the mist hanging round them in damp folds.
She shook her head. ‘It must be the re-enactors. Perhaps they are filming or something. Perhaps it is a pretend sail. They are probably motoring.’
‘Can you hear a motor?’
She shook her head. Unsteadily climbing to her feet in the small boat she hauled herself up and scrambled onto the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. Get out of the boat. I want to go home.’
He turned, following her, checking the dinghy was firmly tied up and heading for the path up through the trees. ‘Where’s the torch?’
‘Here. I’ve got it. I just don’t want to put it on.’ She was still whispering.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘In case they see us.’
For a moment he stopped, staring after her, then he turned and surveyed the river. He could see nothing in the mist and all was silence.
Leo could see the moorings from the window of his living room. He had watched his new neighbours make a neat job of picking up the buoy and stowing sail in the dusk. She was an attractive woman, Zoë. Her husband was older, competent, an experienced sailor, by the look of it. Leo turned his attention to his own boat, the Curlew, lying some twenty-four boat lengths further up-river. She was swinging easily to the mooring, neat, poised, as always reminding him of an animal, asleep, but ready for instant wakefulness.
Behind him a door banged in the small house. He ignored it. The Old Forge was full of strange noises, as he had told Zoë. Creaking beams, rattling windows, they were to be expected. But the other sounds: the echo of a woman crying, the screams which might just be an owl, though he never heard them outside, those were less predictable, less easy to ignore. Unsettling, he acknowledged wryly, but not frightening, not yet. He jumped as the phone rang close beside him and smiled bitterly. A cause for far more terror, the unexpected ringing of the phone.
It took twenty minutes to pack a bag, lock up and head out in his old Saab, up the mile-long communal drive to the narrow country road. If he was lucky he could catch the fast train from Ipswich with time to spare.
‘What does Leo do for a living, do you know?’
Rosemary had cornered Zoë in the garden next morning and reluctantly Zoë had allowed herself to be talked into going next door for a coffee. The Threshing Barn was slightly larger than theirs, and stood at a rough right angle to it. The buildings had been erected centuries apart and with no regard to the congruity of the group. The largest of the three, The Summer Barn, belonging to Sharon and Jeff Watts, formed the third side of the inverted C. That too was medieval, though not much of the original building had survived and it had retained fewer barn-like characteristics in its layout. The shutters were closed and it looked faintly bedraggled. Following Zoë’s gaze Rosemary sniffed. ‘They will be up for half-term, like as not.’ She reached down a biscuit tin from the cupboard.
Each building had a small enclosed back garden, barely more than a terrace, and a front area, slightly larger and more informal. The Watts’s was gravelled and bare, Rosemary and Stephen’s was of neatly mown grass with a narrow flowerbed and a low hedge around it, and Zoë and Ken’s was paved. Lately Zoë had begun to think in terms of terracotta pots and flowing pink and grey foliage. Gardening had never been her thing, but she had begun to dream of something pretty to set off the starkness of the renovated barn behind it. Only The Old Forge had a proper garden, partly enclosed by an ancient wall and partly with a hedge. That area, according to the ever-helpful Rosemary, was where the horses had waited for their turn to be shod, tied to iron rings which were still there in the wall.
‘As for Leo, I’ve never asked him what he does now and he’s never volunteered so I haven’t a clue. Nothing much, as far as I can see. Obviously he was once a blacksmith of some kind. I expect someone paid him millions in compensation for those awful scars. If I were him I would have sued the socks off them.’ She shuddered ostentatiously.
Zoë felt a twinge of distaste at the woman’s lack of charity. Hadn’t he said he was still waiting for an insurance payout? She changed the subject quickly. ‘Is he married?’ Leo intrigued her.
Rosemary glanced sharply at her. ‘Not that I’ve heard. He never seems to have any visitors at all.’ She was laying a tray with a neat lace cloth and silver sugar bowl. ‘He sails,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘As do the Watts. Theirs is the bright red boat.’ She sniffed. ‘Typical!’ There was another pause as she stood staring at the kettle, as though trying to will it to boil more quickly. ‘They will take it away soon. I think it gets hauled out of the water over in one of the marinas. It is a hideous thing. No sails. Just a great big noisy engine.’
Zoë hid a smile. She agreed with Rosemary there. She didn’t like noisy motor boats either. She hadn’t noticed a large red boat down at the moorings, so perhaps it had already been hauled out for the winter. The only other boat riding on the tide at the moorings this morning was the small brown sailing boat she had noticed the day before, which presumably was Leo’s.
‘Someone told me you’re a keen walker,’ she said as the silence drew out between them and threatened to become awkward.
Rosemary nodded vigorously. ‘You must come and join us, dear. It’s a wonderful way to meet people and to get to know the countryside.’
‘Maybe.’ Zoë shook her head enthusiastically, belying the hesitation implied in the word. She couldn’t think of anything worse than going for prearranged walks with a group of people she didn’t know, like small children two by two following their teacher round the pavements of London. She had seen groups of walkers like that round Woodbridge and as far as she could see they never seemed to be enjoying themselves. ‘I like exploring on my own, if I’m honest, and I love running.’ Not that she had done a lot of running since they had moved, which was odd