Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
you did, with your head on the stones – and your eyes were open. Quite normal they looked, but we couldn’t make you hear. “She’s epileptic, she is,” Alan said, didn’t you my lovely?’
Jo smiled shakily as the woman paused for breath. ‘I’m all right, really. It’s good of you to help me, but I can manage. My car is up there, by the castle.’
‘Car?’ Shirley let out a shriek. ‘You can’t drive a car! It wouldn’t be safe! Where are you staying? We’ll take you there.’
Jo shrugged. ‘I hadn’t found anywhere. I thought I’d look for an hotel or something, but then I must have fallen asleep in the sun …’ She was still confused, dazed by the sudden transition from past to present without the intermediary of Carl Bennet’s gentle voice. Shakily she put her hand to her head.
‘Well, there now, that’s your problem solved then. We’ll take you back with us to Margiad’s house. That’s where we stay, down by the church. Bed and breakfast she does, and she’s a nice kind soul. She’ll see you get to a doctor if you’re still poorly tomorrow, see?’
Swept on in the tide of their concern Jo allowed herself to be fitted into the back of a small red Volkswagen and driven the few hundred yards to Margiad Griffiths’s guest house. There, amid much fuss, she was shown a spotless little room with a mansard window overlooking the high common beyond the river and told to lie down whilst her landlady brought her a cup of tea.
She lay back gratefully on the pink nylon sheets and gave a deep sigh. She was exhausted. She had been so tired and confused she had not even waited to see if Richard had seen where she went to –
She sat up, feeling suddenly very sick. Richard de Clare did not exist.
There was a knock on the door and Mrs Griffiths appeared carrying a tray. She was a small, plump woman with pepper-and-salt hair and a soft pink complexion which complemented faded blue eyes. Once she must have been very pretty.
‘They’ve gone out again, you’ll be glad to hear,’ she said gently. ‘Talk the hind leg off a donkey, that Shirley would, and no mistake. How are you, my dear?’ She put the tray down beside the bed.
Jo forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine – just very tired. I had such a strange dream by the river. It made me feel so odd –’ To her embarrassment she knew suddenly that she was near to tears.
Mrs Griffiths gave her a close look, then with innate tact she turned away, delving into her pocket. ‘I’ve some aspirin here if you need them and the bathroom is across the hall,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you have a hot bath and pop into bed for a while? I can give you some supper later. Shirley said your car was up by the castle. She said her Alan would fetch your things if you liked.’
Jo smiled. ‘Would he really?’ She stood up shakily and felt in the pocket of her jeans for the car keys. ‘It’s a blue MG, by the War Memorial. I’d be so grateful –’
Mrs Griffiths took the keys and dropped them into her apron. ‘I’ll run downstairs and find you a spare nightdress for now, shall I?’ And she was gone.
Jo sat back on the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Then, wearily, she lay back on the pillow. Her last thought as she drifted into sleep was of little Will. As he played in the dirt of the castle bailey he had fallen on the ground and grazed his knees. She had to see that someone cleaned them properly and smeared on some antiseptic; the whole place was so filthy …
She awoke next morning to the smell of frying bacon. Puzzled, she lay staring around her room, looking at the pink chintz curtains blowing at the open window and the pink drapes of an unfamiliar dressing table. Her mind was fuddled with sleep. Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. She was still fully dressed. Someone had put a tartan blanket over her while she slept. Her bag and typewriter stood on the floor by the door and she could see her car keys on the dressing table.
It was all coming back to her. Sitting by the River Wye, looking up at the broken silhouette of the castle, she had somehow gone into a regression; on her own, and without wanting to, she had slipped back to the time of Matilda and for two or three hours had lain on the white shingle in a trance, oblivious of the world around her. She hugged her knees with a shiver, wishing suddenly that Nick was there. Then she put her head in her hands. Had she even forgotten that? That she could never see Nick again? She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. Nick and she were finished and Richard was far away beyond her reach. She was alone.
Standing up shakily, she glanced at her watch. It was ten past nine. She went to the window and stared out at the low hills beyond the trees. It was somewhere up there that she and Richard had ridden with their hawks.
She found she was clenching her fists violently, suddenly overcome by fear. Was it her need to see Richard that had made her regress alone and unprompted, or was it something else? Was Matilda beginning to take her over? She took a deep breath. She had been mad to come to Wales, mad to think she could handle this alone. She did need Carl Bennet’s help. He had started all this off and somehow he had to help her to get free of it again. She had to go back to him, had to persuade him to try again to make her forget, and as soon as possible.
Margiad Griffiths was in the kitchen when Jo, showered and in a fresh dark-blue cotton dress, went down. She turned from the cooker and smiled. ‘Better, are you?’ she said. ‘I’ve just made some coffee, or would you prefer tea?’
‘I’d love some coffee, please.’ Jo sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t realise I was so tired. I am sorry, I’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’
‘Not at all.’ Margiad reached down two earthenware cups from the dresser. ‘The Peters have gone, though. Sorry not to see you again, they were. They sent their best wishes.’
‘I wish I could have thanked them. I still don’t know quite what happened to me by the river yesterday.’
‘Exhaustion, I expect.’ Margiad poured the coffee. ‘I usually put my guests at the tables in the sitting room, through here, if you’d rather …’
Jo grimaced. ‘No, I’d rather stay here if I may. I expect all your other guests went out ages ago, it’s so late.’
Shrugging, Margiad passed her a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve only the three rooms. The Peters had one, and there was a nice young teacher in the other. Walking Offa’s Dyke, he was, but he stopped here for the books. Everyone comes to Hay for the books.’
Jo smiled. ‘I was here doing some research into the history of the town.’ The coffee was strong and fragrant. She could feel the heat of it seeping into her veins.
‘Oh, it’s an old town. The castle’s very ancient. That’s Richard Booth’s now, of course. Did you see it?’
Jo shrugged. ‘I’m more interested at the moment in the old castle. The first one. It was near the church.’
‘Down here?’ Margiad stared at her. ‘Well now. I never knew that! Fancy there being another castle. You’ll be off to see it later, I suppose?’
Jo sighed regretfully. ‘I can’t today. I’ve got to go back to London.’ She stared down with some distaste as Margiad put a plate of eggs and bacon down on the table in front of her. ‘I didn’t realise that was for me –’
‘Go on, girl. Eat it up while I make you some toast. You could do with some good solid food in you.’ Margiad was watching her carefully while behind her the frying pan sputtered gently on the stove. ‘Will you be coming back this way then, or have you finished all your research?’
Jo picked up the knife and fork. She cut into the top of the egg and watched the yolk flow across the plate.
‘I don’t know,’ she said after a moment. ‘I think it’s a case of whether it has finished with me.’
Her walk back towards the town took her past the site of the old castle. All that remained was the motte, grass-covered and sown with wild flowers. There was no sign of the wooden