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ed the all-in-one she had recommended.
She had even been able to buy a matching pair of casual canvas shoes to go with them.
And she had paid for them out of her month’s housekeeping money which Nick had only handed over to her the previous day.
Hardly the act of a supposedly responsible and mature woman, and one moreover who was actively considering leaving her husband and who morally therefore had no right to be spending his money, especially on something so frivolous… especially when she knew how much he would disapprove of her purchases.
They were comfortable, too, though. It was remarkable how different they made her feel… how light and unfettered. How free… She paused, entranced by the unexpected sight of her reflection in a shop window, blinked a little as she studied herself surreptitiously.
The salesgirl had commented enviously on the slimness of her figure, saying that she would need their smallest size, adding ruefully that she was lucky because their Lycra range tended to reveal every unwanted bulge.
It was only when she glanced at herself again that Fern realised she was grinning almost idiotically. No wonder that man had paused to stare at her. Quickly she hurried back to her parked car, part of her still shocked by her wasteful extravagance.
* * *
She was nearly there now, the flat Fenlands stretching out apparently endlessly in front of her.
Unlike others, Fern did not find this monotony boring; instead, the very regularity and predictability of the landscape seemed to offer a calming, soothing panacea to both her senses and her emotions.
What must they once have been like, these Fenlands, before they were drained? In her mind’s eye she could see them, a land of mystery and secrecy, cloaked in protective mists, whose safe paths were only known to those who lived there and within whose quiet, silent half-land, half-marshland lurked danger and death for those unwise enough to treat it without caution and respect.
Cressy had told her during their earlier conversation that, in addition to the old rectory and the farmland they had bought with it, the Institute for whom they both worked was in the process of buying a small acreage of one of the few remaining remote Fens with a view to Cressy and Graham taking charge of the protection and development of this land in its natural state.
‘When you see the house, you’ll wonder what on earth possessed us to buy it,’ Cressy had laughed. ‘It’s a huge old barn of a place, built early on in the nineteenth century and owned by the church ever since, although no one has actually lived in it for several years. It’s far too big for us, but it’s ideally situated for our work, and, as Graham says, once we’ve got the project properly under way at least it means we’ll be able to house any students wanting to do fieldwork. It will be a wonderful opportunity to recreate a very special natural habitat, and one that was in danger of becoming completely lost to us.
‘Of course, Graham keeps on joking that we could always fill the empty rooms with our children, but I’ve told him he can forget that. One, or possibly two, is my limit.’
As Fern drove through the final small village on her route, she glanced at her watch. Nick would be arriving home about now and reading her note. It was too late for her to change her mind and go back, and as she turned on to the long, straight road that disappeared in the misty distance of the low horizon she acknowledged that a part of her was actually glad, almost savouring the strange sensation which against all logic was lifting her spirits.
It took her several seconds to work out what it was and, once she had, she said the word aloud, experimentally.
‘Freedom…’
Ahead of her she could see the house, a gaunt, almost gothically structured building, thrown up incongruously against the flat pale skyline, a building which was almost ugly in many ways and yet, because of its obvious strength, its tenacity in clinging to existence here in this fey, half-solid, half-watery environment, it only appeared as an object of admiration rather than contempt.
As she drove in through the open gateway, Fern recognised the almost typical rectory-style garden, with its balding lawns and neglected tennis courts. It was a far cry indeed from Broughton House and its environment.
And yet, for all its almost theatrical air of brooding heaviness, the startling contrast between its heavy stone bulk and the almost ethereal, misty weightlessness of a landscape which seemed more sky and water than land, the house possessed an unexpected and endearing aura of warmth and welcome.
Fern was halfway towards it when the front door was suddenly flung open and Cressy appeared, running down the steps, whooping triumphantly as she did so and then hugging Fern fiercely before exclaiming, ‘You’re here! I was half expecting that you might get cold feet and change your mind. Wow!’ she added, releasing her and standing back from her a little bit, openly studying her appearance. ‘Things have changed. I’ll bet Nick didn’t sanction that outfit,’ she added wryly.
Fern could feel herself flushing defensively.
‘It’s too young for me, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have—’
‘Too young for you? Don’t be such an idiot,’ Cressy interrupted her. ‘It looks great on you. Much better than that dowdy middle-aged stuff you usually wear. Sorry,’ she added. ‘But you know me, Fern. I always speak my mind. I know your mother brought you up to believe that “nice girls” wear tweed skirts, twinsets and pearls, but you’re a woman now and it’s good to see you taking charge of your own life and dressing like one…’ She grinned as she saw Fern’s expression.
‘OK, OK, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a fine one to talk…’ She glanced wryly at her dungarees and bush shirt and then said gently, ‘But these are my choice, Fern, and no one else’s, and if Graham, much as I love him, started to dictate to me what he thought I should wear…’
She shook her head. ‘Listen to me! You’ve only just arrived and I’m lecturing you already. Come on inside…’
Cressy hadn’t changed, Fern reflected as she followed her into the lofty stone-flagged hallway, dim and cool after the translucent clarity of the light outside. Beams of sunlight picked out the dust spinning lazily in the air; a couple of brilliantly coloured woven rugs had been thrown casually over the battered leather chesterfield in front of the huge stone fireplace. Above it, on the wall, the mounted heads of what looked like a small herd of deer gazed glassy-eyed and moulting into space.
‘Gruesome, aren’t they?’ Cressy commented, following her gaze. ‘Not my choice, needless to say. They came with the house. Graham said they reminded him of a particularly awful holiday he once spent in the Scottish Highlands with his grandparents. We’re going to take the poor things down and give them a decent burial.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it, imagining the kind of society where that kind of wanton killing was not just sanctioned but actively praised? Look at them: a tribute to man’s dexterity with a gun; and an indictment against his heart and soul.’
No, she hadn’t changed, Fern reflected, listening to the passion in her old friend’s voice. The wild mane of strawberry-blonde hair, the high-cheekboned face with its tanned skin, the intelligent hazel eyes, the lean, athletic body and the sharp, trained mind—they were all the same.
