Casting Samson (6 page)

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll let you know if I get it.”

“Nice lad,” said Stan when Josh had gone.

“Yes.” She turned. “And thinking of the Towers reminds me. I saw Alan Thorpe this morning. Asked me to remind you about his offer. What’s that about, Dad?

Stan wouldn’t meet her eyes. He busied himself wiping down the worktops. “Oh, he’s offered to buy me out.”

“But that’s great! You and Mum can retire to the coast, just as you’ve always wanted.”

“Hang on now, love. It’s not that straightforward. He doesn’t want to run this place as a restaurant. He wants to turn it into one of those Happy Shamrock places, you know, those so-called Irish bars. Designer beers, fake oak beams and plastic horse brasses. That’s why I didn’t mention it to you. Even if we move away from here, that’s not what I want to see happen to this place. We’ve lived in Moreton all our lives. You were born here. We’ve lots of friends who would like to keep a decent restaurant in the village, not another pub.”

“No, you’re right,” she agreed, much struck, “that would be pretty awful. So what are you going to do?”

“Hang on a bit longer. Something will turn up.” Stan Kemerton grinned. “And going back to what we were saying, if that lad gets the job at the Towers, he’ll be around for the pageant. You should have reminded him about the Samson auditions. He looks as if he’d fit the bill.”

“
If
he gets the job. There’ll be plenty of people going for it and we don’t even know if he’s any good.” But something inside told Deb he would be.

She shook her head, thinking of the coffee-stained poster.

“Anyway, I mentioned the pageant on Thursday, when the whole group of them were in here, but they weren’t interested.” She moved away. “I’d better get ready to open up.”

***

Birdsong roused Maude from her deep sleep, and almost immediately she was aware of a dark cloud oppressing her spirits. Hugo was gone. She did not need to run to the undercroft to see for herself the empty space where his saddle and harness had been. The manor was subdued that morning, many of the men, including Lord Andrew, too drunk to find their beds and spending what was left of the night amongst the remains of the feast in the great hall. It was noon before the last of the revellers crept sheepishly away, and Maude ordered the floor to be swept and fresh summer herbs to be strewn with the new rushes. By that time she had already visited the kitchens and the stillroom and, with her household in good order, she slipped away to the little chapel, to light a candle and offer up a prayer for Hugo.

Coming out into the sun, Maude was reluctant to return to the house and went instead to the riverbank, making her way along the beaten path between the wood-and-thatch houses of the villagers. There was an air of busyness about the little settlement. Housewives carried their spinning wheels out of doors to enjoy the warm sunshine, and on the rise beyond the manor teams of oxen dragged ploughshares along the narrow strips of earth. By the river the local fishermen paid little heed to Lady Maude, their attention fixed on mending their nets. She walked along the riverbank until she reached the edge of the churchyard, and the old yew tree screened her from the fishermen and the village.

“Such a good land,” she murmured.

With a sigh she looked down at the river, wide and deep, flowing slowly just feet away. Two more steps would take her into its cool grey waters. She imagined slipping off the bank into the river, the water soaking her soft woollen robe and linen undergown until the weight of the cloth would drag her down beneath the surface. A few moments’ struggle, and her misery would be ended.

Hot tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks. It could not be. However much she wished for oblivion, she could not end her life. Hugo had done his duty, and he would expect her to do the same. Then there was Andrew, her lord. She loved him too much to inflict such pain upon him. Her death was God’s gift and she must wait for Him to summon her. Maude drew her wide sleeve across her eyes, squared her shoulders and turned back towards the manor.

From a high window, Lord Andrew watched his wife emerge from behind the yew tree. He closed his eyes and uttered up a silent prayer.

The good weather ended on Saturday evening with a tremendous thunderstorm that shook the windows of the restaurant and caused the diners to forego their coffee and hurry off to their homes. This was followed by continuous rain for the next two days, and the lowering skies reflected Deborah’s deepening depression. Although she kept herself busy in the restaurant, Bernard was always in her thoughts.

Perhaps she had been too harsh on him, rushing off without giving him a chance to explain. After all, things were different in London. They weren’t married, and Bernard had never sworn eternal devotion to her, although she would willingly have done so. Nevertheless she’d thought that when he asked her to move in with him it had been because he thought she was special.

Looking back, it was hard to believe he wanted anything other than a housekeeper. And the depressing thing was that she’d been very happy to run around after him. Between her full-time job at Appletons and her evening job as a waitress, she’d washed and ironed and cleaned that chrome-and-glass apartment as if her life depended on it. She’d run herself ragged to earn Bernard’s approval but it still wasn’t enough to make him love her, “forsaking all others.” Oh, he had praised her, told her that she was “The One,” something special in his life, and he had made her
feel
special. When he took her to bed he told her she was the best ever, and when they went out together she was on top of the world. She wanted to shout out
look at me—he could take his pick of any number of girls but he’s chosen me!

Now of course she realised that some of the looks she received when she was on his arm might have been envy, but most were merely mild curiosity to see just how long she would last. The idea that she’d turned herself into a doormat weighed on her spirits almost as much as Bernard’s defection. If she hadn’t been so weak, then perhaps he might have liked her more.

Stan Kemerton watched his daughter with growing dismay. There were dark circles under her eyes and she seldom laughed anymore. He wanted to hug her to him and tell her that everything would be all right, but she was too old for that now, and all he could do was watch and pray.

When the rain eventually stopped and the sun emerged, he took the tea towel from Deborah’s hands and turned her toward the door.

“I’ll finish off here, love. You get yourself out for some fresh air.”

“But you were going to sit with Mum…”

“Your mother’s asleep, so I may as well make myself useful here in the kitchen. And a good walk will do you good,” he growled. “Put some colour back in your cheeks.”

Deb read the concern in his eyes and didn’t argue.

“Okay, Dad.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “I won’t be long.”

She put on her trainers and walked out into the sunshine. The grey blanket of cloud had yielded to a clear sky with only a few wisps of cloud to break up the vast expanse of blue. At the gate she hesitated. The ground was sodden from the recent rain, and the track into Moreton was paved and well drained, but she would inevitably meet people that way, so she turned away from the village and set off along the riverside track.

The long grass slapped at her ankles, soaking her jeans and seeping into her trainers, but she paid no heed to it, giving her attention to a skylark trilling overhead. There was a flash of blue across the river as a kingfisher plunged into the water. Deborah remembered what it was like to walk here, her heart swelling with happiness at such sights and sounds, but now all she felt inside was a dull ache. She was trying so
hard
to be cheerful, to forget about Bernard, but every day was a struggle. She felt drained, too tired even to cry.

She walked on towards the great yew tree that had given its name to the restaurant. The ground was much more uneven here, full of grassy mounds and deep dips, evidence of old ruins buried beneath the soil. The meandering river had worn away the bank until there was just a narrow strip of grass between the track and the water. Deb’s feet slipped on the muddy path and she wished she’d worn her boots, for her trainers had no grip at all.

She was just wondering how much farther she would walk when it happened. She put her foot on the grassy edge of the path to avoid a large puddle, and the sodden ground gave way, tumbling her into the Fleetwater. The shock of the cold river made her gasp, and she inhaled a mouthful of muddy water.

The recent rains had swelled the river and it was too deep to stand. It was also moving with deceptive speed and dragging her away. Deborah reached out to grasp at the water fern, hoping to pull herself back to the bank, but the stems broke off in her hands. She was being drawn towards the centre of the river, her wet clothes heavy as lead. Roots and leaves of underwater plants washed against her legs. They seemed to be clutching at her ankles, trying to tow her under the water. It was hard to concentrate. The cold numbed her brain as well as her limbs, and she found herself thrashing about in the water rather than trying to swim.

Let go. Let the river take you
. She knew the words must be in her head, but it was almost as if someone were whispering in her ear, softly persuasive.
It’s easy, Deborah. Relax. Let the river take away your pain.

It was so much more difficult than swimming in a pool. Her clothes and trainers weighed her down. She sank under the water and fought her way back to the surface, coughing. It was such an effort. If she drowned, who would care? She was being sucked under again, but as the water closed over her head, she heard another voice, deep, commanding and much more urgent.

No, don’t give in like this. Fight, Deborah, fight.

Her arms flailed, she kicked her legs, trying to free herself from the entangling weed on the riverbed. Something buffeted her in the water. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her to the surface. Someone—a man—was holding her tight against his chest with one hand as he struck out for the shore with the other. She had lost her trainers and now she kicked her feet, trying to help propel them through the water.

They reached the bank. Deborah found herself being pushed in amongst the reeds and willow herb. Her hands grabbed at the plants while her rescuer scrambled out of the water and turned to haul her out. Soon she was lying facedown on the bank, coughing and spluttering while a large hand thumped between her shoulder blades.

“Th-thank you,” she gasped, coughing up still more river water.

“You’re welcome.”

It was Josh Lancaster, breathing heavily but grinning as he flopped down beside her. He stopped thumping but kept his arm across her, as if to prevent her from jumping back into the river.

“It—it was an accident,” she muttered, turning her head to look at him. “The bank gave way. I didn’t mean to…”

He gazed at her for a long moment, his dark eyes sombre.

“I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate to think my heroics weren’t appreciated.”

She gave a watery chuckle as she struggled to sit up.

“They
were
appreciated, very much. I think you saved my life.” She realised she was clinging to his hand and let it go, blushing.

“All in a day’s work,” he replied lightly. “Now then, let’s get you home before you catch pneumonia and waste all my efforts.” He helped her to her feet. “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”

“I can walk, I think.”

“Good. Wait a minute.” He dashed along the bank and bent to pick something up and put it in his pocket. “My wallet and phone,” he explained, grinning. “Didn’t think they’d be improved by getting soaked.”

They walked back to the restaurant, Josh keeping his arm about Deborah, who picked her way carefully over the rough path in her bare feet. When they walked in through the kitchen door, Stan Kemerton’s shocked face brought Deborah so close to tears that she couldn’t speak.

“She fell in the river,” Josh said. “The bank gave way.”

The dread in his eyes was almost unbearable.

“I slipped, Dad. Where the path narrows between the yew tree and the river.”

Without another word he bustled them upstairs to the bathroom, fear and relief put aside until more practical matters had been dealt with.

An hour later Deb and Josh were alone in the sitting room, their hands wrapped about steaming mugs of tea. She glanced shyly across at Josh, who was wearing her dad’s best dressing gown. His black hair had been plastered to his head but now as it dried it was returning to its natural state, the glossy black curls contrasting sharply with the white towelling dressing gown.

“I’m sorry,” she said, for about the sixth time. “I hope your clothes aren’t ruined.”

“We’ll know as soon as they come out of the dryer.” He grinned at her over his mug. “Don’t worry about my clothes. I’m glad I was there to help you.”

“So am I. The recent rain has made the river much higher than usual. I shall take the longer track around the other side of the yew tree next time I go that way.”

“Just give me a call to make sure I’m around. Or better still, let me walk with you.”

Deborah forced a smile. “Maybe.”

“I’m only suggesting a walk, nothing heavy.”

“I know. I’m—”

“Sorry, yes, I heard you the first time. Look, it’s no big deal. It’s just that, if I’m going to be around for a while…” She looked up and he nodded at her. “I got the job at the Towers.”

“Congratulations.” Deborah was surprised at how pleased she was about the news. “I’m sure you won’t take long to make friends up there.”

“Feeling a bit lonely, son, are you?” Stan Kemerton came back into the room, carrying Josh’s clothes fresh from the tumble dryer, neatly folded. “You should get yourself down to the auditions tomorrow night for the pageant. Good chance to meet people. And our Deborah’s on the committee.”

“Is she?” For a long moment those dark chocolate eyes rested on Deb, and she could feel the heat mounting in her cheeks. Then Josh shrugged. “I’m not really into amateur dramatics.”

He deftly changed the subject and Deborah tried not to feel too disappointed. After all, just because he had pulled her from the river didn’t mean there was a special bond between them, or anything.

Soon after eight o’clock on Wednesday evening Deborah walked into the village hall. Miss Babbacombe was arranging chairs while Alan Thorpe and Godfrey Mullett erected two trestle tables at one end of the hall

“Ah, Deborah, just in time, my dear.” Miss Babbacombe gave her a smile. “Would you mind checking those chairs are clean? The Brownies are the worst for spilling orange juice and heaven knows what on the seats. And look underneath too, dear. Chewing gum,” she added ominously.

Deborah nodded. It appeared that no one had heard about her almost drowning, or her dramatic rescue. She’d begged her parents not to mention it, but she wouldn’t have blamed Josh if he’d told his new friends at the Towers, and especially his boss, Alan Thorpe. But Alan showed no signs of having heard anything and was currently putting out five chairs behind the trestle tables.

“The vicar sends his apologies. Church meeting in Flixton tonight, but he’s confident we can manage this audition without him. Anyone seen Anne?”

At that moment the door opened and Anne Lindsay hurried in. “Not late, am I? I’ve been to the county library and didn’t get home until seven.”

“No, no, we’ve only just arrived,” Miss Babbacombe said. “There’s still a few minutes to go.” She paused, glancing round at her fellow committee members. “I suppose some people will turn up?”

By eight-thirty there were enough people to make the committee feel that their efforts had been worthwhile. There were a number of women in the hall, although whether they had come to support their candidates or to prevent them pulling out of the auditions Deborah could only guess. Alan Thorpe called the meeting to order and asked the first applicant to step forward. Kylie Tring gave her father a push, and the landlord of the Dog and Sardine strode up to the table.

“Evening, Alan, Miss Babbacombe. Saw your poster and thought I might pop along, if you’re a bit short, like. Didn’t know it was to be a formal audition.”

“Well, we like to do things by the book, Graham,” Alan replied. “Now if you’ll just give Miss Babbacombe a few details…”

He was followed by two lads from the local scout troop and Roy Mayflower, who ran the village post office. Roy beamed at the assembled committee.

“I know I’m not your regular idea of a Samson, but I could play it for laughs.”

Deborah felt a nudge in her ribs from Anne Lindsay, who was sitting beside her, and looked round to find Anne’s grey eyes twinkling with merriment. Deborah smiled back; they obviously thought the same way. A skinny, six-foot-two Samson was not what they were looking for. The next applicant was a young man from the neighbouring village, who had seen the poster in the supermarket, but when he realised they weren’t auditioning for a TV game show he quickly lost interest and left.

A pale teenager was hovering behind Roy, twisting his baseball cap between his hands. Anne Lindsay smiled at him.

“Hello, Tim. Have you come to audition?”

He nodded. “Me mam thought it’d be a good idea.”

Anne regarded him thoughtfully. Tim Gresham was about eighteen but painfully thin, and his fair hair was heavily gelled into spikes around his sallow face, giving him the look of a greasy dish-mop.

“Okay,” she said, “we’ll put you on the list—you’ll be available for that weekend, won’t you—and for the rehearsals beforehand? The first is this Saturday evening.”

“Oh yeah, sure. I’m at college now, but we’ll be finished soon for the summer.”

He went off, and before Anne could say anything to Deborah, Miss Babbacombe’s strident tones were heard to say, “Good God, Bertram Oldfield, surely you’ve not come to audition?”

The subject of her strictures was a short, round countryman in an old tweed jacket and moleskin trousers who was strolling towards them. He had a weather-beaten face with small bloodshot eyes that glared out beneath beetling brows, greying with age. He removed the pipe from his mouth and gave a juicy cough—he looked as if he was about to spit, thought better of it and turned instead to wave his pipe at Miss Babbacombe.