Chapter 4
It was past ten when Julian Farge finally turned to back his father's Volvo into the Spinneycombe farmyard.
'Miss Prynne's out,' the middle-aged shepherd explained in his Somerset burr. 'Er's down at the Exford lamb sales. Dunno when she'll be back,' and he accepted the sack containing the body of his dog. 'Bloody shame about Spot.' He shook his head, tilted his crumpled felt hat. 'Er's been a good dog. I'll give Miss Prynne your message,' he nodded, dismissing Farge. 'Tis a pity the mistress bain't in: Mrs Prynne be down in Plymouth.' He laid the stiff bundle in the weeds round the lambing shed. 'Oi'm danged if Oi know 'ow to tell 'er.'
Farge eased himself back into the car. It was no fault of his, but he felt acutely embarrassed. Down here at the bottom of the combe, this old farmstead had rested for centuries, as if sculpted from the gentle landscape. The stone tiles on the roofs of the farmhouse and outhouses were mossy and fern-fringed, and the beeches framing the old house were in young leaf where they leaned across the stream chuckling down to its parent, the Barle. In his rear-mirror he could see the shepherd staring after him, motionless, his arms stiffly at his sides. Farge slapped into second gear and began threading up the shale track which wound upwards to the road cresting the combe. On his right the ewes were nibbling the short grass of the spring pasture, while not far from them their lambs gambolled and skipped. He stopped at the gate to watch them: surely, the scene represented something of what he and his men were fighting for, trying to protect this England — and it seemed to him worthwhile.
He turned into the gradient to coast down the winding, high-hedged lane. He was thankful the girl had been out. He wound down the window to sniff the scents of the moor which was awakening after the long winter. He started the engine as the gradient steepened, slipped into second to brake the heavy car.
Earlier, he had phoned through to the duty officer at Northwood without trouble. Jack Rackham had come on a moment later, keeping the conversation short and sweet: 'Thanks, Farge,' he said. 'See you on Tuesday. We're taking care of your onward transport.' End of chat.
Farge pressed back into the driver's seat, stretched his legs as the car swung into the next bend. Through the gateway he glimpsed the shining blue ribbon of the Barle — and a feeling of freedom lifted his spirits to clear the doubts from his mind: the decision was made. From now on, the action was up to him. He had always appreciated professionalism and now he could apply his years of training… but what was in the wind? The Barents? Mine-laying on the enemy's doorstep? Or….
Brushing the new bracken on the far side of the hedge, the mud-spattered front of a Land-Rover was charging towards him. He wrenched at the Volvo's wheel, braked; the rear wheels skidded on the mud-smeared surface. He heard the smashing of glass, felt the jolt as the front wheel dropped into the ditch. He tried to switch off the engine, but could not reach the ignition key: he was hanging on his side, unable to free the seat-belt.
'What the bloody hell!' he yelled in exasperation. 'Can't you-'
He heard a female voice, calm, authoritative. 'Don't move. I can reach the key.' A slender arm stretched through his window to reach the ignition key- and then the engine stopped.
'Take your weight while I try to open the door.'
He snapped the belt free, then found himself being dusted off by a girl in her mid-twenties. She seemed pretty cool, her hazel eyes steady beneath the woollen pom-pom hat perched on fair curls. The diesel of the Land-Rover was still chugging.
'Thanks,' he said shortly. 'You were taking up a lot of the road, weren't you?'
'You might have hooted,' she retaliated. 'It's a well-known blind corner. You were going too fast.'
'We don't all know the country round here as well as the locals.' He jerked his head towards the Land-Rover. 'You'd better switch off the engine.'
'I've got a rope in the back,' she said, ignoring his question. She jumped back into the Land-Rover and threw it into reverse. 'I'll back down to the bottom and return via the loop lane. I'll get you out backwards.' And the Land-Rover disappeared backwards down the hill.
'Well, I'll be…' He stood back, smoothing the back of his head. He inspected the canted Volvo: extricating it shouldn't be too difficult, but the inside wing was knackered. The girl might know where to find the nearest agent. He hoped his father had insured the Volvo comprehensively.
When she returned from the other direction, she permitted him to secure the rope, but insisted on driving the truck herself. She was a good-looker, her fair hair emphasizing her striking, lively eyes. Her jeans and parker jacket were mud-spattered and worn, but what little there was of her seemed to fill them very adequately. Levering and tugging, they finally extricated the heavy Volvo which, in addition to the wrecked wing, had suffered damage to the tracking. It took her half an hour to tow him to the garage at Hangstone Cross. It was clearly going to take some time to sort out the damage, and the garage owner asked if they could return after lunch.
She looked at her watch, then glanced up from beneath her curls: 'I've missed Tom by now,' she said, turning towards Farge. 'Can I drop you anywhere? There's a good pub in the village — not far for you to walk back.'
He climbed into the passenger seat of the Land-Rover and then she was off and into over-drive before he had belted himself in. He glanced across at his driver who, perched upright in the driving seat, her shapely legs stretched fully for her feet to reach the pedals, could barely see above the windscreen: she was much smaller than he had supposed. A tiny pulse was throbbing in the hollow where her neck emerged from the open shirt. The face was delicately chiselled too; a small, full-lipped mouth; weather-tanned, freckled cheeks above a determined chin. A character, — this bird.
'Miss Prynne,' he shouted above the din. 'You've got to eat somewhere and I'm grateful for your help. How about a beer and sandwich with me?''
He watched the flush to her cheeks, the momentary scowl, passing like a cloud.
'Thanks, but I'll have to make a phone call first.' Then she asked, 'But how d'you know my name? I don't know yours.'
'That can wait,' he teased. 'I'm grateful, that's all.'
The sun emerged and the clouds were scurrying across the brittle blue sky when they drew up outside the pub. Over the draught bitter and ploughman's lunch, she said:
'You're Julian Farge, aren't you?'
The car?'
'Your father's well-known round here.'
Their eyes met momentarily and he could see that she was sizing him up. 'I'm on leave,' he explained quietly. 'I was on my way back from Spinneycombe. I wanted to see your mother on my father's behalf.'
She arched her corn-coloured eyebrows. 'Oh?' she said.
He told her about her sheepdog, tried to express his father's regret. 'I'm sorry,' he ended lamely.
After a while she said: 'You're different from your father.' For the first time she smiled. Her small face seemed lit up from inside by a genuine pleasure. 'I don't mean to be unkind. You know that.'-She reached across and impulsively touched the sleeve of his coat. She accepted another half-pint, and they continued to talk. She told him of her life as a sheep-farmer on the moor. 'Tell me more about yourself,' he urged. But she had to return to Spinneycombe, and could drop him off at the garage on the way.
The proprietor was waiting for them. He told Farge that the steering linkage had to be replaced, and that the nearest Volvo dealer was in Taunton.