Chapter Eleven
Gabriel was as good as his word with the driving lessons and took her out twice that week. Nervous in his presence, Imogen
did a terrible job, the second time in particular, and started to despair about ever passing her test. They were awkward with
each other too, with Imogen feeling there were so many topics off the table for discussion, she was terrified to open her
mouth. At the end of each lesson, she would arrive back home exhausted and relieved it was over, but then—within hours—felt
herself strangely looking forward to the next one.
After several days of wet, blustery weather, Imogen woke early to find the rain had stopped overnight, leaving the sky overcast
and the air clammy. It was oddly warm for so late in the year, the weary summer heat seeming reluctant to release its grip,
despite the shortening of the days. Imogen felt sweaty again immediately after her shower and was shedding layers of clothing
before she had even finished her breakfast.
Of course, the cessation of the rain needed to be exploited, Imogen decided. Her encounter with Gabriel had left her too restless to settle herself in her attic studio. She needed to be out. Plus, she reasoned, she didn’t know how much longer she would be able to easily plan an outside sketching day. She still had to draw out a final double-page spread for her autumn Tango and Ruth book. She decided to walk down into the village to choose a landscape and make a start.
There was no need to lug all her art kit—she only really needed her big sketchpad and her pencils, along with a picnic blanket
she often used. It had a waterproof layer on the back. Everything would still be soaked after the rain and sitting on the
wet ground did not appeal. She would take some photos too, and do all the color painting back at home, she decided, packing
a satchel with the essentials. A water bottle would have been nice, but Imogen didn’t fancy adding any more weight to what
she was carrying. Anyway, it wasn’t that warm.
By the time she had strolled down into the village with her gear, it was past nine o’clock. The commuter traffic had ceased,
and the morning flurry of activity around the little village school had settled down too. All was quiet and peaceful except
for the white duck at the pond who quacked territorially at her as she approached. The pond—although picturesque—was not her
destination today. Instead, she followed the little stony path running between the road and the stream, which headed toward
the cricket ground and village hall. The stream quickly widened and slowed along this stretch, transforming to a small river
as it continued its journey toward Portneath and the sea. The rushing of the water over the boulders on the riverbed was soothing
and hypnotic. Imogen was glad she was alone with her thoughts.
She had explored most of the paths around the village now, and she knew there was a sweet little corner where the path led down the bank and under a pretty stone bridge, popping up and rejoining the road on the other side. She wondered if this was the spot Genny had been talking about at supper the other night. What an awful story that was.
Arriving at the spot, Imogen sized up the scene, looking for a pleasing composition. The bridge was definitely the centerpiece,
and she could picture, in her mind’s eye, Tango sitting, neat and smug, on the wide stone balustrade, looking down into the
river, perhaps watching the fish casting shadows in the water. Most of the wildflowers on the grassy bank were looking tired
now, worn out by a long, hot summer, but the daisies were still sprightly, and the bindweed smothering many of the taller
plants on the bank was studded with fresh pure-white trumpet flowers. It was perfect, she decided, laying out her blanket
and making herself comfortable with her sketchpad propped on her knees and her little stash of pencils fanned out beside her.
Imogen was soon engrossed, using broad swipes of the pencil to approximate the composition. In the background was the row of elegant, upright poplars—the trees lining the drive to the Hall—then there was the arch of the bridge with a scribble in a softer, darker pencil to approximate the texture of the stone, and then—in the foreground, the river itself with its reed bank, giving way to the grassy verge in the foreground. There was lots of detail she would put in later, and she thought about this as she sketched—the reeds were begging for a water vole to be in evidence, building its messy nest, and there could be butterflies around the wild buddleia, with its arching purple flowers. Imogen adored cramming detail into her paintings, with something new to find every time someone looked, from a tiny, scarlet ladybird on a leaf to perhaps even a stork here on the left, peering into the river for fish.
Time passed. Imogen was oblivious as she hyper-focused on her work.
Feeling warm and sweaty again for the second time that morning, she looked up to notice the heavy, gray cloud had been replaced
with blue sky and brilliant sunshine. She wiped her brow and started to wish she had bothered to bring a water bottle after
all.
Oh God, seeing as the sun was out, she supposed she should take a picture of the scene for her Insta feed. It wasn’t that
she didn’t love her growing band of followers, and she knew she needed to post regularly, but selfies made her feel painfully
shy. Perhaps she could just get away with taking a picture of her sketchpad with the bridge in the background... People
loved to see all the work in progress.
She was faffing about, propping her sketchbook on her rucksack and contorting herself to see if there was an angle where she
could get it all in the shot. No, damn, it was going to have to be a selfie so she could hold up her sketchbook.
She was holding the phone up as high as it would go and trying out insouciant grins, which were mainly coming across like
something out of a face-pulling competition, when suddenly her eye was caught by an addition to the background. A horribly
familiar face.
Imogen spun round and blushed scarlet.
“Strange time of day for a picnic,” said Gabriel, looking at her oddly as she dropped her sketchbook in a flurry of pages onto the picnic blanket.
“It would be, if I was,” she said, smiling nervously at him as he strode sure-footedly down the bank toward her. Goodness,
it was actually quite difficult to speak with her tongue glued to the roof of her dry mouth. Her eyes lighted on his right
hand, which was holding an aluminum water bottle, wondering if it was full.
“Want some?” he said, noticing immediately and proffering it.
“Actually, yes, please,” she said, with relief. Unscrewing the lid, she drank deep. It was cold and refreshing and sweet.
She took several huge, delicious gulps and then, worried about him having none left, wiped the top and offered it back to
him.
“Have it all,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here in the blazing sun without water. Did you not bring any?”
“Wasn’t expecting it to be so hot,” she muttered, chastised.
He was gazing transfixed at her morning’s work, his face unreadable.
“It’s just a sketch,” she said, shyly.
“Is it all right to look?” He glanced at her apologetically.
“Yes, of course! Sit?” she offered.
He folded himself down onto the other half of the picnic blanket with unconscious grace, gazing all the while at her rough pencil sketch of the scene. There was no real detail yet, just some scribbly place markers where she pictured some of the extra bits she loved to include. The sketch of Tango was full of majestic attitude, though—she was pleased with that—and the little girl, Ruth, was standing beside him, hanging over the parapet of the bridge, staring into the depths of the river below.
“Phew, isn’t it hot?” Imogen commented inanely, fanning herself performatively to cover her self-consciousness as he studied
her work, at close quarters. It didn’t help her to remember that he too was an artist. “You’d never think it was September.
I could just dive off the bridge into the river, couldn’t you?” she gabbled. “I mean, I don’t know... I wonder how deep
it is, after all this r—” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, this is where...” Imogen was horrified. How could she have been so crass? He would never forgive her. She would
never forgive herself.
If she thought for one hopeful moment she had somehow got away with her faux pas, a single glance at his face told her otherwise.
He was stark white, lips pressed together and brow furrowed. For a nanosecond their eyes met, and Imogen gasped at the agony
she glimpsed before he closed his eyes tight and turned away.
“Promise me you’ll never...” But he couldn’t finish. He hung his head, seemingly drained. “How did you know?” he said at
last, looking back at her.
“Genny told me at supper,” Imogen gabbled. “I’m so sorry. I’m just so desperately sorry for your loss. Genny said Annabel
was an amazing person.”
“An angel,” he murmured, “she was perfect.”
He sighed, staring at the horizon for so long Imogen wondered if he had forgotten she was there. “But you know this stuff,”
he went on at last. “Losing your husband?”
“I wouldn’t say Nigel was an angel.” Remembering the letter from Victoria, she added, “Actually, he definitely wasn’t.”
“But losing someone you love like that?” he went on.
He was clearly unwilling to let it go. Unfortunately.
“It was an accident too, wasn’t it?” he pressed her. “A car crash, you said?”
“Yes, a stupid accident that should never have happened,” Imogen agreed. “It just feels so senseless, doesn’t it? Like you’ve
suddenly been handed a completely different life to the one you expected. I don’t think you ever get rid of the sense of instability
that comes with that, do you?” she went on. “That idea that a whole lifetime with that other person can disappear in a split
second. It’s kind of insane.”
“It certainly makes you go kind of insane,” agreed Gabriel. “I was lucky to have such good friends.” His voice was stronger now, his strength and resolve
being slotted back into place through a sheer act of will.
“I’m just really, really sorry,” Imogen said again, tears flooding her eyes in a wave of empathy. She blinked and looked back
at the bridge, kicking herself for her stupidity.
“Life goes on,” said Gabriel briskly as he stood up and brushed himself off. “Keep the water bottle, and don’t stay out here
too much longer, okay? It may be September, but you’ll still burn.”
“That would be good. Maybe my freckles will join up,” said Imogen, feeling that he must now be comparing beautiful Annabel
with her in her jogging pants and her bare, sweaty face.
“Take care of yourself, Imogen,” he said over his shoulder as he climbed effortlessly back up the bank in just three giant strides.
It was only when he had disappeared from view that Imogen remembered she should ask about the trustees’ letter. Oh well, she
would find out soon enough. Apart from her faux pas about Annabel, he seemed in a better mood. Maybe everything was okay now.
Several weeks passed, where Imogen neither bumped into Gabriel again nor received any correspondence from him and she was
too shy to make the first move. She ached for contact with him—any contact—but dismissed her yearning as a general need to
get out more. Winifred seemed to have gone to ground, Simon was frantically busy with autumn flu vaccinations, and Genny,
of course, was flat out at the beginning of the academic year. Even Sally barely seemed to have time for her, and Imogen’s
last text to her had gone unanswered for days.
For the first time since moving to Middlemass, Imogen felt stifled by her little life in the village. Trapped, almost. Things
would be different when she had her driving license.
Gabriel had offered no more lessons, at least for now, and Imogen hadn’t asked. She felt like the two of them needed some
time apart to recover from her distressing habit of only opening her mouth to change feet whenever she was with him.
Autumn arrived abruptly with the damp, brackish chill of October. In response to the darkness crowding in by early evening, Imogen had started going to bed straight after supper, curling up with Tango and a good book, lights out by ten. Her sleep had been restless, though. She woke again and again to unfamiliar sounds, many made by Tango crashing around flat-footed—and many not. The previous night Imogen had been woken suddenly, sitting up with a thudding heart in response to chilling screams coming from the woods between Storybook Cottage and Middlemass Hall. She managed to rationalize them as the cries of a fox, but shaken, she had lain awake for over an hour listening to the house creaking around her.
She was no good at being alone.
Arriving in the village on her bicycle early next morning, Imogen was craving human company. Squinting against the low sunlight,
she saw two figures in conversation on the edge of the green and spied a dark brown shape at their feet. It could only be
Arthur, the long-suffering chocolate Labrador. She was delighted. The no-nonsense approach of Winifred Hutchinson was the
perfect antidote to nighttime terrors.
Getting closer, she was even more pleased to see that Winifred was talking to Genny.
“Imo, hi!” hailed Genny cheerfully.
“Hello, Genny... Winifred,” said Imogen, arriving at their side and panting only slightly.
“Should you still be riding that thing in your condition?” said Winifred, eyeing Imogen’s very large bump doubtfully.
“Apparently there’s no harm in it,” said Imogen. “In any case, I don’t have a lot of choice until I pass my driving test.”
“Oh yes, how is that getting on?” said Genny.
“So-so. Gabriel’s been teaching me on and off.” Imogen pulled a face. “ I don’t think he’s terribly impressed with my driving,”
she admitted. “But he’s very patient considering... He didn’t even shout when I drove into the ditch, not realizing there
was a ditch.”
Winifred raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, it wasn’t a problem,” Imogen rushed to add. “He was diplomatic enough to agree it did look a lot like a solid verge because
it was so overgrown. I’ve applied for a December test date now. I’m just waiting for it to come through.” She really needed
to get in more practice before then; she must get on with it and start looking for a professional instructor.
Winifred nodded approval. “My old schoolfriend Madge learned to drive as a land girl during the war. I’m older than I look,”
she added, noticing Imogen’s expression of surprise. “I’m bound to say a few proper lessons wouldn’t have gone amiss with
her—she was probably an absolute whiz at driving tractors, but she was a bit rough. I remember her offering to drive my car
when I sprained my wrist a few years ago. She went to turn left and broke the indicator stem clean off.” She chuckled. “Anyway,
as Genny and I were just saying, we need help. Could you rustle up a few apple pies, do you think?” she said to Imogen.
“Oh, er, well, to be honest, my pastry’s not the best,” Imogen admitted, thinking of her last gray, leathery efforts.
“All right, well, if you can’t do pastry, what can you do?” fired Winifred impatiently.
Imogen winced. Her self-esteem was already a little bit fragile without Winifred writing her off. Making good pastry wasn’t everything, surely?
“Winifred means, what else do you think you could do to help us raise some money for the school?” explained Genny kindly.
“I see!” said Imogen, feeling a little less crushed. “Why? What’s the matter with the school?” For the first time, she noticed
that Genny was looking tired, her eyes pink-rimmed as if she might have been crying.
“It’s all been going a bit pear-shaped since I saw you last.” Genny smiled bravely, but the corners of her mouth twitched
down, and she blinked rapidly.
“That blasted Education Authority,” exploded Winifred. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a display of pettifogging bureaucracy
masking the kind of insane decision-making that we have here.” She drew a calming breath, looking to Genny for permission
to continue. Genny nodded gratefully, so Winifred went on. “The situation is, despite having always received absolutely superb
inspection reports, the gray suits”—she nearly spat the words—“have turned down the school’s application for improvements
funding.”
“But if it’s a brilliant school as it is, why do we need funding for improvements?” asked Imogen, trying to remember what
Genny had said at supper. Admittedly, she had been too distracted by Gabriel to listen properly.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, unfortunately,” said Genny with a sigh. “You should come and see. It’s amazing how
much hasn’t changed in the last fifty years or so. The building we have is lovely, but it is Victorian. There are some big repairs that need doing, mainly to the roof, and there’s rising damp in half the classrooms. The funding was supposed to cover that too. Worse still, the improvements aren’t just ‘nice to have,’ they are essential. We’re still using the outside loos in the playground, for instance, and regulations mean we have to install proper plumbing in the main building soon or they’ll close us down. We’re talking somewhere around eighty thousand
at best for the whole lot.”
“Hang on, though,” said Imogen, clutching her head. “Aren’t the ‘they’ that want to close us down the same ‘they’ that won’t
give us the money?”
“Yes, basically,” said Genny gloomily. “They want us to merge with Latchfield school, and this is a pretty good way of making
sure it happens. They’ve got us, all right.”
“They most certainly have not,” said Winifred stolidly. “As soon as news gets out, the whole village will be up in arms about
it. It’s not just the ones with children, you know,” she said, glaring at Imogen.
“Er, no,” Imogen agreed hastily, worried her rapid calculations on the average age of the village—surely fifty plus?—showed
too clearly on her face.
“No, it is not,” Winifred continued, punching out each word. “I don’t think there’s a family in this village that doesn’t
either have a child at the school now or remember going there themselves. It’s part of the soul of this village—has been for
the last hundred years and will be for the next hundred—at least,” she said, jaw jutting intimidatingly.
“Fighting talk,” said Imogen admiringly, stirred at the thought of her own little girl tumbling through the school gates in years to come, chattering with her friends and dragging a satchel on the ground.
Letting the school close was unthinkable.
“We need a village meeting,” said Winifred. “To tell everyone what’s going on. Make a plan of action. Tomorrow night, village
hall, and, Genny, you can tell everyone just exactly what the situation is. We’ll co-opt a committee there and then.” She
stopped briefly, eyes ablaze with the challenge.
“Don’t you have to sort of... book the village hall with someone?” said Imogen timidly.
“Yes. Me,” said Winifred.
Genny caught Imogen’s eye and grinned.
“Now... it’s supposed to be the Mothers’ Union meeting tomorrow, but they’ll just have to rearrange,” Winifred was muttering
to herself.
“Won’t they be awfully cross?” ventured Imogen.
“Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “They’ll pretend to be, of course. Probably even say something silly about finding an alternative
venue, but there wouldn’t be a soul there if they did. Every one of that crowd will be at our meeting, because they wouldn’t
miss a scandal like this for the world,”
Winifred eyed Imogen. “You’re an artist, aren’t you, my dear?”
Imogen shrugged modestly, eager to make up for her failures as an apple pie baker.
“Good, you can do the posters. No time like the present, I say. I’ve got a box of marker pens and a roll of art paper at home.
Come with me, and I’ll make you some tea while you work.”