Stolen Summer. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
had been all she could afford—and into a flat of her own. It had been a painful business, but at least that way she was able to keep some of her most treasured possessions; and the furniture in her bedroom, and the chesterfield, where her mother used to sit and sew, were a constant reminder of her childhood.
Of course, that was all in the past now, Shelley mused reminiscently, as she drove through Aiskew into Bedale, and admired the blue face of the church clock that looked down over the High Street. ‘Four-fifteen,’ she murmured, resisting the temptation to stop for some refreshment. Marsha had said she would have tea waiting for her, and it wouldn’t be fair to waste time so close to her destination.
Marsha! A faint smile touched her lips as she thought about the woman who had brought her to this enchanting part of England. And it was enchanting, with its sun-dappled fields and blossom-covered hedges, all burgeoning now as spring gave way to early summer. She had not expected it to be quite so civilised, after her recollections of Teesdale, but the countryside around the little market town was infinitely pleasing. Crakehall; Patrick Brompton; even the names were delightful. She was so grateful to Marsha for inviting her. It was exactly the sort of change she needed. Once again, Marsha had come to her rescue, and she looked forward to the day when she could repay her in some way.
She had first met Marsha just a few weeks after her parents were killed. Marsha had stormed into the office to complain about an article one of the Courier’s correspondents had written about her, and because it was February and many of the staff had succumbed to the current ‘flu epidemic, Shelley had been asked to deal with her.
In fact, the interview had not turned out at all as she had anticipated. Having heard of Marsha Manning, having admired her work for some time, Shelley was able to understand the painter’s anger at being patronised, at being called an artist, and at being described as a lonely woman, taking out her frustration in oils and canvas. The fact that Marsha’s marriage had broken up only months before the article was written had fuelled the reporter’s penchant for drama, and what had begun as a serious discussion of Marsha’s work had deteriorated into little more than a libellous attack on her private life.
From the start, Shelley had sympathised with the other woman, and although there was more than ten years difference in their ages, and Marsha was much more worldly-wise and cynical, nevertheless, a curious friendship had grown up between them. It was a friendship strengthened by their mutual sense of loss—Shelley had missed her parents dreadfully in those early days, and Marsha was still recovering from a rather messy divorce. A casual invitation to lunch had initiated an association that had become one of the most important elements in Shelley’s life, and the years since then had only fortified the affection they had for one another.
In a way, Shelley admitted, Marsha had taken the place of her parents. Not as a mother; she was too young for that; but perhaps as an understanding older sister, someone Shelley could turn to for advice about the things—and people—that were important to her. She had grown used to turning up at Marsha’s studio at all hours of the day and night, knowing she was always welcome. They might not always talk; sometimes, when Marsha was engrossed in her work, Shelley would just sit and watch her; but she was there, she cared, and that was what was important. Naturally, Marsha had been the recipient of many confidences, not least those of a personal nature. As well as a willing ear, she offered a shoulder to cry on, something Shelley had been grateful for when her problems got too tough.
Of course, Shelley was working in a tough profession, that became tougher still when she left the Courier and joined the staff of Capitol Television. As a very junior associate-producer she had to suffer a lot of back-biting and jealousy, particularly when it became known that the station manager, Mike Berlitz, had a more than professional interest in her career.
In the meantime, Marsha’s career flourished. Her paintings—impressionist landscapes mostly—were proving popular with critics, and she was invited to show a collection of her work at the Shultz Gallery, a very singular honour indeed. Her son, who was away at school, returned home for his mother’s exhibition, and Shelley attended the opening with them, proud to be a part of Marsha’s well-deserved success.
It had been a less pleasant surprise when, four years ago, Marsha had decided to move to Wensleydale. With the success of her work, and the fact that she had nothing to keep her in London, she had decided to move north to be near her son, who had left university now, and joined a veterinary practice there. ‘Shades of James Herriot,’ she had said ruefully, smiling at Shelley’s shocked expression. ‘Darling, don’t look like that. Craygill is not the end of the earth. It’s just a couple of hundred miles up the motorway, with a magical mystery tour at the end of it.’
But Shelley had been less enthusiastic. Her work was demanding, and she seldom had time for holidays. Besides, the idea of driving hundreds of miles just to spend a few days in rural surroundings had seemed too much trouble, and although she and Marsha spoke together often over the ‘phone, their meetings had been confined to Marsha’s visits to London.
Until now, Shelley acknowledged wearily, the ache behind her eyes becoming an actual physical strain. It would have been easier if the winding country roads had been at the start of her journey, she conceded. Right now, even the undoubted beauty of her surroundings was little compensation. She wanted to get to her destination, take a hot bath, and go to bed. Marsha would understand. Marsha always had. That was why she had invited her.
The signs for Leyburn brought her into a busy market place, where several roads converged. Not much further now, she told herself encouragingly, turning her sleek little sports saloon on to the road for Aysgarth. Fifteen miles, at the most. With a bit of luck she’d be there soon after five o’clock.
As luck would have it, the roads were not busy once she left the town behind. But the constant convolutions of the route made any relaxation impossible, and she felt the sweat break out on her forehead as the throbbing in her head increased.
And then, without warning, the fanbelt snapped. One minute she was driving smoothly along a cathedral-like avenue of trees, and the next she heard the distinctive clatter as the rubber tore free of its housing, leaving her without any means to cool her already heated engine.
‘Damn, damn, damn!’
With a exclamation of disgust, Shelley drew the Ford into the side of the road and switched off the ignition. She had passed a village a couple of miles back, but she didn’t remember seeing a garage there. In any case, the idea of setting out to walk for any distance with an aching back and a throbbing head did not bear thinking about, and she decided she would have to wait until another car came by.
Pushing open her door, she got out, stretching her long slim body with real relief. As a matter of fact, she felt better out of the stuffy confines of the car. Leaning against the bonnet, she tipped back her head and let the cooling air blow refreshingly over her shoulders and sighed. Perhaps she should have taken a break, after all, she reflected. The fanbelt just might have lasted, if she hadn’t sustained the pressure.
The sound of a car’s engine caused her to take notice, but the shabby estate car, driven by a woman, swept by without pause. Oh, well, thought Shelley resignedly, it was going in the wrong direction anyway. Another vehicle would be along shortly. And this time she’d make sure the driver saw her.
But, in fact, several cars passed her without stopping; tourists, she suspected, with wives and children who regarded Shelley with unconcealed curiosity. Perhaps her appearance put them off, she thought uneasily. She was so accustomed to the kinks and mores of London society, she had seen nothing unusual in the very masculine lines of her black Edwardian-style pants suit, but here, miles from her normal habitat, she did feel slightly out of place. The tawny-red brilliance of her hair fought a losing battle with the loose peacock blue shirt that fell open at her throat, and although it had been neat when she left her flat that morning, by now her agitation had made a bird’s nest of its knot.
There was nothing else for it, she reflected wearily. She would have to walk, after all. At least, to the nearest’ phone box. Perhaps if she could reach Marsha, she would come out and pick her up. They could arrange for the car to be dealt with later.
Her