Her hands were clasped lightly in her lap. Her eyes were closed. An indecipherable smile danced on her lips.
After just a few minutes there was a knock on the door, which she answered at once.
Two rather good-looking young men stood on her doorstep. She looked them up and down, rather in the manner a farmer might appraise his livestock.
She seemed to know only the shorter one — a well-made young West Indian wearing tight black jeans, a bright white T-shirt, and a leather jacket — addressing him as Charlie.
‘Good to see you again,’ she said. Her voice was softer than before, almost husky. Her eyes, strikingly deep green, were very bright.
She reached out and touched Charlie’s cheek fleetingly. He pushed her gently back into the room, gesturing to his companion to shut the door behind them, took hold of her by both shoulders and kissed her briefly but firmly full on the lips.
She drew apart from him, running her tongue over her teeth as she did so.
‘This is Bob,’ said Charlie.
Mrs Pattinson turned to the second young man. He was tall and blond-haired, with curls which framed a full-featured face, making him look vaguely cherubic.
‘OK,’ said Mrs Pattinson. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of, Bob, shall we?’
She did not sit down, choosing instead to lean against the wardrobe.
Bob looked uncertainly towards Charlie. ‘Well get on with it mate, get your kit off,’ ordered Charlie.
Bob looked as if he were about to say something, but didn’t. Instead he silently complied, removing his cotton bomber jacket first and then his shirt. He had a fine body. Mrs Pattinson gave a small appreciative gasp, but said nothing.
Instead she waited patiently.
‘Get on with it, Bob,’ said Charlie again.
Just a little self-consciously Bob peeled off his trousers and paused only briefly before, with an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, also removing his underpants. Without warning Mrs Pattinson stepped forwards, reached out, and put a hand briefly on his crotch. Bob did not yet have an erection but the contact seemed to exert a certain knee-jerk reaction. Mrs Pattinson smiled. It did not seem that Bob would need much encouragement to perform.
‘Not bad, Charlie,’ she said, lifting her whisky glass in his direction. ‘Would you like to join me in a drink?’
She gestured to the whisky bottle and began to walk across the room towards it. Charlie moved swiftly behind her and, without warning, pulled the bathrobe apart and off. She stood in the silly underwear, still with her back to him. She was visibly trembling. In seconds his hands were everywhere. Then he pushed her, not so gently this time, face down on to the bed, holding her there with one hand while he casually undid the zip of his jeans with the other.
Mrs Pattinson’s breath was coming in short sharp gasps. Charlie pushed her stockinged legs carelessly apart.
Bob watched closely, as if entranced, anticipating perhaps whatever part he was to play. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with excitement.
Two
Freddie Lange roared the big four-wheel drive into the farmyard, tyres squealing on wet cobbles. As he skidded to a halt he began to shout so loudly and in such a state of panic that his voice came out in a kind of squeak.
‘Constance, Constance!’ His voice strengthened somewhat as he steadied his breath, forcing the power from his lungs. ‘It’s Harley Phillips, he’s under the tractor. His arm... he’s losing blood... Constance...’
Freddie was close to hysteria. The words tumbled out. Inarticulate in his haste and distress, he began to run towards the big old farmhouse. He was a tall handsome man, complexion tanned and made ruddy by years of outdoor work, his abundant shock of longish hair — yellow fading into silver-grey — plastered to his skull by the rain which had been falling steadily all morning. It was a particularly dreadful day for the end of August and Freddie had already had a good soaking. His physical discomfort — he had not expected to be exposed to the elements, he’d forgotten his cap and was wearing just a tweed jacket, now sodden, over equally wet overalls — was quite possibly increasing his panic.
The kitchen door opened just as he reached the back steps.
There stood Constance, a handsome woman in her forties, short bouncy dark hair framing a well-boned intelligent face. Her pale hazel eyes were calm and kind. The very sight of her was soothing to Freddie. She must have heard him from inside the house. Already she had in her hand the emergency medical kit which she kept in the kitchen cupboard and on her feet a pair of sturdy boots. She took her Barbour jacket from the hook by the door, slung it over her shoulders, and then placed her free hand firmly on her husband’s arm.
Her skin was almost ageless in appearance, creamy in texture and remarkably unlined, her mouth a full, strong line.
‘It’s all right, Freddie,’ she said. Her voice was well-modulated and calm as her eyes. She spoke English with the perfectly enunciated care usually applied only by those who have had to learn it as a second language. ‘Just take me there.’
‘Right.’
Freddie wiped his face with one hand, brushing away a mixture of rainwater and sweat. He found he was breathing more easily already and realised as he spoke that much of the panic had gone from his voice.
Nonetheless he ran to the vehicle, a Land Rover, fumbling with the door catch in his haste to be behind the wheel again. His wife merely walked purposefully, ignoring the rain, and yet she somehow managed to be installed in the passenger seat before he had hoisted himself into the car.
This time she lay a hand on his knee.
‘Don’t drive like a maniac. We won’t help Harley if we end up in a ditch.’
He nodded, struggling for control. He grated the gears trying to find reverse but ultimately managed to manoeuvre his way out of the yard with a little more aplomb than the manner in which he had entered it.
‘Now talk to me,’ Constance instructed when they were safely on their way. ‘First, someone has called for an ambulance, I hope?’
Freddie nodded again. He was peering anxiously ahead, windscreen wipers on full speed to give him the best possible vision in appalling conditions. ‘Bill did it on my mobile, but they could take ages, you know what they’re like...’
Constant interrupted him. He knew he was starting to babble again. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘Just tell me what happened and what condition Harley is in. The more I know before I get there, the better prepared I’ll be.’
She could hear the boy’s screams from inside the Land Rover as Freddie roared it across Brook Meadow. The scene ahead was not a pretty one.
Young Harley’s tractor had somehow tipped itself off the edge of the steeply angled expanse of land which he had been ploughing, its weight carrying it through the bushes and scrubland lining the edge of a steep drop leading down to the little stream at the bottom. The tractor had left a deep furrow in the red earth and already a stream of water was pouring down it.
Constance knew Harley well, and his family had worked for the Langes for generations. The lad was a good worker but inclined to be reckless. She guessed he would have been driving the tractor as fast as possible. This was not his first accident on the farm, but it looked like it might be his worst to date. The tractor had rolled down the steep-sided ditch and eventually come to a precarious upside-down halt, trapping Harley beneath it. The machine was fitted with a safety cage, but, as Constance knew well, these were worse than useless unless the workers wore their safety harnesses — and she doubted that any of them did.