Then Trevor who got her pregnant, so she married him. When he went off without saying, leaving her with a two-year-old kid, she’d sworn that was it — finito! No more bloody men were going to meddle in her life.
But now?
She ran her hands down over her smooth skin, enjoying the sensation. Perhaps if she got the doctor to put her on the Pill. Indulge herself, why not? Men did, and she could be just as much a bastard when it suited her.
Her foot was itchy, so she pulled her leg up to rub it. Her fingers touched something unexpected: a thick, hairy lump over her toes. Then the pain sliced into her, aiming with a terrible precision into the soft flesh between the big toe and the rest.
‘Shit!’ Walking barefoot through the cottage she’d picked up some kind of insect, she realised. But what the hell could it be? ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’
It bit into her again, whatever it was; as she tried in the gloom to get hold of it, something stung her fingers, piercing through them into her hand. Then she sensed a second one on her ankle; and a third, higher up her leg on the rounded flesh of her calf.
‘No…’ she sobbed, trying to brush them off, but not succeeding because more were coming. The whole bed was crawling with them. ‘Get off! No! No!’
It didn’t matter what she did, they clung to her like leeches, forcing themselves into her flesh. She could feel their little mouths chewing at her, nibbling their way. Agonisingly pushing herself up to the head of her bed, she groped wildly to take hold of the light cord. At first it escaped her hand, but then it swung back and she managed to catch it.
At the sight of those caterpillars grazing over her body like so many sheep, blood already trickling down over her skin, and yet more caterpillars approaching slowly over the crumpled sheets, she broke down into a bout of insane shrieking.
‘Kit? Kit! KIT!’
But Kit never came. Nobody came. She was quite alone, lying naked on that bed, living fodder for these vicious slugs. The pain as they chewed into her abdomen was already passing, as though some local anaesthetic were taking effect. She had no legs, of course; they’d gone. She realised that with an odd sort of clarity, quite free from fear or shock. Vaguely she recalled hearing about caterpillars attacking people — on the telly that evening, wasn’t it? While she was washing up?
Please, not my neck… no…
Another scream: it was her own voice, she thought. No more plucking chickens at that place… what was it called? No more what was it? Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Oh, where was Kit, why didn’t he come home — her little baby?
10
Ginny woke up the following morning drenched in sweat, wondering why on earth she’d gone to sleep with the window shut. Then her eye fell on the pesticide aerosol on her bedside table and she remembered.
She sat up and looked nervously around the room. Everything was as it should be, and that fact alone made her feel distrustful. Before putting them on she tapped out her slippers; they were clean too. From the window she checked the garden which was bathed in bright sunshine. It all seemed so normal. Several trees had lost a significant proportion of their fresh leaves, but that damage had mostly been done while she was away in London.
Upstairs and down the cottage gave the impression of being totally deserted by all insect life; even the spider among the rafters had gone. Even the midges from around the potted plants, but she had no complaints about that. She opened a couple of windows, then went into the kitchen to ladle pans of cold water over herself to wash off the salty sweat. Drying herself, she noticed how the reddish patches on her skin from the moth-saliva seemed to be clearing up already, but she put some more of Bernie’s cream on them before dressing.
The kettle was boiling for coffee when she heard the Mini drive up. Bernie strode in, looking a lot less worried than the previous evening.
‘Seems they’ve all gone!’ he informed her after a good-morning peck on her cheek. ‘We’ve already had a party out searching in all the obvious places, but there’s no sign of them.’
‘I don’t like it. They can’t just disappear.’
‘They can move on.’ He took the cup of coffee she offered him and helped himself to toast. ‘I’ve a message for you. The Reverend Davidson phoned to say he’s trapped a large moth, if you’re still interested.’
‘More than ever — aren’t you?’
‘I’m going into Lingford this morning. They’ve set up an Emergency Committee and want me there. But the answer’s yes, if it’s still alive. We’ve several dead ones already, but no living specimen yet. But be careful with it, won’t you?’
She laughed affectionately, running her fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t worry, Bernie.’
‘Not to damage it, I meant.’
‘Bastard!’
They drove back to his house where she could use the phone. On the way Ginny was struck by how empty the village seemed. At this time on a Sunday morning people would normally be strolling over to the church and the bells would be ringing. Today she passed only one man walking his dog and the church itself remained locked. The sole traffic was Bernie’s Mini just ahead of her, already turning into the drive.
‘A service has been arranged for this afternoon,’ he said when she mentioned it to him before going into the house. ‘They say the bishop is coming over for it. I’ll probably go myself if I’m back in time.’
From overhead came the drone of a small plane. At first it was invisible against the brilliant blue sky, but then she caught a slight gleam, like stray tinsel. It must be coming down, she thought, guessing from the sound of the engine.
‘Your friend Jeff Pringle,’ Bernie commented, shading his eyes as he gazed up at it. ‘Another spraying mission, I’d imagine.’
‘From that height?’
‘Oh, he’s not all that high. It’s deceptive.’
Bernie went off to Lingford almost immediately, leaving Ginny alone in the house. She took the opportunity to make a number of phone calls, first to the Reverend Davidson to arrange to see him after matins, and then to Lesley and Jack. The talk with Jack was the most difficult. He had not found out about the Spring Fête disaster until he’d seen the papers that morning. Being Sundays, they had only managed to squeeze a couple of paragraphs on to the front page of the later editions, but that was sufficient to make him anxious and possessive. He wanted to drive down right away to fetch her, saying she’d be safer in London. In the end her patience snapped.
‘Jack, if you don’t stop, I’m going to be very angry!’ she yelled at him down the phone. ‘I can’t stand being fussed over by you or anyone. I’m staying down here where I belong.’
‘But you don’t belong there.’
‘I do!’
‘But why?’
‘Because!’ she snapped. ‘How the hell do I know why?’
Because of Bernie of course, if she were honest with herself: but she wasn’t going to say that to Jack whatever happened. Eventually she put the phone down and looked at her watch in exasperation. She was going to be late getting to St Botolph’s. Before leaving she tried Jeff Pringle’s number, only to be greeted by the answering machine again. But this time it did produce a recording tone and she left a message to say where she was.
The Reverend Davidson was out on the lawn waiting for her when she at last drove up to his decaying Georgian vicarage. He held the door of her baby Renault as she got out.