Bernie was only a pace or two behind her. When she got to her car he shone his flashlight inside, searching even under the seats to make certain it was safe. Ginny squirted pesticide into the likely corners, but nothing moved.
‘Okay, I’ll get in and start the engine,’ she decided at last. ‘But, Bernie, promise me you’ll be careful checking the Mini. Don’t skimp it, there’s no hurry. Flash your lights when you’re ready.’
‘You fuss too much, sister-in-law.’ As an attempt to make a light remark it failed.
‘Lesley doesn’t want to lose you,’ she retorted.
Nor do I, she added to herself, silently.
It seemed like eternity before the Mini’s lights flashed. She breathed a sigh of relief as she engaged first gear and slipped off the handbrake. So far, so good: the caterpillars were leaving them alone. The air was clear in the headlights too, as though every single insect had agreed to desert the village that night, giant moths included. Perhaps with all the pesticide they had used it was not surprising, though she found it hard to believe.
‘No, I doubt if that’s the reason,’ she said aloud, more to keep her courage up than anything. ‘They’re unpredictable, it’s no more than that. Round the next corner — who knows?’
The narrow lane with its overhanging trees was an obvious danger spot. The farther she drove along it, doing no more than 15 mph, the keener became her doubts about the wisdom of returning to the cottage. All that picturesque greenery around it seemed now like a death trap. At every sound she wondered whether those curled up caterpillars weren’t dropping on to the car roof.
She drew up on her usual spot, marked by the oil patch, and turned the engine off but left her headlights on. The Mini arrived almost immediately after her. Getting out, she hurried over to speak to Bernie.
‘No, stay in the car, love,’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked out exactly what to do. I’m going into the cottage and if everything is okay I’ll give you a wave.’
‘And if not?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.
Unlocking the front door, she pushed it partly open and stepped inside, every sense alert. A faint odour of pesticide lingered on the air from Jeff Pringle’s spraying; otherwise everything seemed quite normal. Raising her arm slowly, she groped in the dark for the light switch, half-expecting to see giant moths poised on the furniture waiting for her. But no: there was nothing.
She closed the front door again, then turned on the kitchen light, checking all the obvious places. That evening there was not even a cockroach to be seen. And upstairs was the same: no trace of an insect of any kind.
Going to the downstairs window she waved to Bernie in the Mini. He flashed his lights in acknowledgement and slowly drove away.
The sight of her files on the sideboard reminded her that she should really sit down to write her notes on all that had occurred during that terrible day, but she just couldn’t face it. Instead, she cleaned her teeth perfunctorily at the kitchen sink, then went up to the bedroom.
Before getting undressed she hesitated for a second. In that flimsy nightdress she knew she’d feel so vulnerable, she’d never be able to sleep. She chose her most sensible pyjamas instead, tucking the top firmly into the elastic waistband, catching the reflection of herself in the dark window as she did so. Perhaps she should draw the curtains, she thought: but then she’d only wonder what was lurking behind them.
It was then she saw the giant moth. Brushing against the window from the outside, it fluttered briefly, then landed, flattening its wings against the glass. She recognised those velvety colours again — the browns, and purple, and rich pools of red.
Attracted by the light, obviously — yet did she have the steel nerves it needed to switch off and lie there in the dark? It took all the will-power she could summon up. She arranged her torch and the aerosol can side by side on the bedside table, then stretched out and pressed the switch, plunging the room into darkness.
One thing was certain, Elaine thought as she lay on the bed trying to fan herself with that old copy of the Daily Mirror she’d picked up. Wherever he was, Kit had gone for good. Like his father. Like her father, come to that.
Like every man she’d ever known. It was something that got into them. They just had to keep on moving. Couldn’t settle, least of all with her.
It had caught Kit younger than most. Hardly twelve he’d been when he disappeared. Seven months ago, was it? Well, he’d never get in touch, that was for sure. Of course she’d expected it to happen one day; not so soon though. Kit had always clung to her more than other boys might have done; not many friends in spite of always going on about Lenny and the gang. He’d never really been what you could call popular. He’ll stick it at home till he’s sixteen, she’d once forecast confidently when talking to the women in the canteen. Sixteen, that’s the tricky age.
Twelve.
She no longer worried so much. Whatever he’d gone through had happened by now. Probably living in some hostel under a false name like that boy she’d seen on the telly. Male prostitution, that’s what they said went on. What men saw in that, she couldn’t imagine. Dirty buggers. But the shock would be over, like a road accident. All he had to do now was survive.
Though with any luck, that might not have been it at all. What if he’d been picked up by some woman who fancied little boys? A fat woman, over forty, smelling of powder between her flabby boobs. That sort of thing existed; she’d read about it.
Jesus, it was hot!
She refolded me Mirror, trying to make it into a more effective fan, but it fell apart, the sheets slipping on to the floor. Sighing, she heaved herself off the bed and went barefoot down to the kitchen where she held a flannel under the tap, then wiped it over her face and neck to cool down.
It was the fault of that tree outside the bedroom window. Thicker than ever this year. It stopped the breeze getting through so the room got hotter than she’d ever known it. Tapped the glass too when a real wind got up, like some bloody ghost trying to get in.
Bending her head, she squeezed the flannel out over the back of her neck. God, that did her good! She could feel the heat just oozing out of her. Again she soaked the flannel and put it on her neck, closing her eyes at the sheer pleasure of it.
Wet her nightie too, so she drew it off over her head and spread it over the maiden to dry. People laughed at her, having one of those old maidens, but there was nothing more useful.
Going back towards the stairs she became suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness. Not ashamed — no, nothing like that. She straightened her shoulders, stepped proudly, imagining some man playing Peeping Tom at the window. She’d have something to show him!
Who should it be now? Fred, the landlord at the Pigeons, had quite an eye for her, with more than a touch of genuine intent behind his banter. Sense of humour as well; she liked a sense of humour in a man. Then what about the local constable — she’d caught him eyeing her. Those evenings after Kit vanished he’d sat down there night after night supping tea.
Back in the bedroom she stood briefly by the window, almost wishing somebody would stare in at her. Make a change after all those years. Here she was, thirty-five getting on for thirty-six, and it was over ten years since any man had touched her. Not that plenty hadn’t wanted to — or said they did, anyhow — but there’d always been Kit to think of.
She dropped back on to the bed, stretching herself out to stay as cool as she could. Three men was all she’d ever had, she reflected calmly, which must be well below the national average for a woman of her age. The full what’s-it, like; not counting the fumbles. The first was Bill out in the shed, only he went to Manchester. Then that soldier after a dance who gave her his mate’s name instead of his own, only she didn’t let on she knew.