Chase A Green Shadow

Tamsyn’s eyes darted swiftly to Hywel Benedict’s and she encountered his sardonic gaze resentfully. He could have told her. He could have warned her of what to expect.

And yet that was exactly what he would not do. He would make nothing easier for the daughter of Laura Stewart.

‘Joanna darling,’ her father was saying now. ‘Here she is, at last. Here’s Tamsyn! Don’t you think she’s grown into quite a young lady?’

Joanna smiled and kissed Tamsyn’s cheek, welcoming her to Trefallath. In a more receptive mood Tamsyn would have glimpsed the appeal in Joanna’s dark eyes, but right now she was too absorbed with her own emotions to make anything more than a desultory response, and avoid making any obvious remarks.

‘Come, let’s go inside,’ said her father, after these preliminary greetings. ‘Hywel, you’ll come in and have a drink with us?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Hywel plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his tweed suit. Tamsyn looked at him rather desperately. Now that he was going, now that he had unloaded her cases and placed them on the step for her father to deal with, she was loath that he should go. She scarcely knew her father, after all, and during the past five hours she had come to know Hywel Benedict disturbingly better than that.

‘Er—thank you—for bringing me here,’ she said unevenly.

Hywel looked down at her mockingly. ‘It was a pleasure, bach,’ he responded.

‘Will—will I see you again?’ Tamsyn didn’t quite know why she should have asked such a question and she was aware that her father was beginning to chafe with impatience to get her inside.

‘Without a doubt,’ said Hywel, opening the door of the station wagon. ‘Your father knows where I live. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Lance Stanford raised his hand in farewell and the heavy vehicle turned and drove away. Tamsyn glanced back once as Joanna urged her inside, into the warmth and light of the polished hallway, and then gave her attention to her immediate surroundings.

She awoke reluctantly next morning, feeling the rays of the sun as it played upon her eyelids. She rolled on to her stomach, burying her face in the pillows, not wanting to remember where she was, or think of the prospect of the days and weeks ahead of her.

Her room was small but compact, with a single, spring-interior divan and oak furniture. Used to fitted carpets, Tamsyn had found the linoleum-covered floor rather chilling to her feet, but there was a soft rug beside her bed where she had undressed the night before.

The night before …

She sighed. She had not made a good impression and she knew it. She thought perhaps her father had been disappointed in her attitude, but she couldn’t be sure. Her own feelings were easier to assimilate. She had found her father the same gentle man he had always seemed to her, but she felt no real emotion towards him. And Joanna it was difficult to see in any other light than that of the woman who had broken up her parents’ marriage. It might be true that Laura had not been the ideal wife for a man like Lance, but nevertheless, that didn’t alter the fact that it had been her father who had left her mother, not the other way around. She had expected it to be difficult, coming here, but not half as difficult as it was going to be now that she had found that Joanna was pregnant.

She ought not to be shocked, she had told herself over and over again, but she was. And why? Her father was still a young man, after all, barely forty, and it was only natural that he and Joanna should want children. But if only they had not chosen this particular time when Tamsyn had to be there, to see it. She had made no comment about Joanna’s condition the night before, and nor had they. But sooner or later she would have to, and she dreaded it. She didn’t know much about pregnancies, but judging by Joanna’s size it could surely not be much longer before she had the child. And where would she have it? In hospital? It seemed unlikely when her father was a doctor. So she would have it here, quite possibly while Tamsyn was staying.

Tamsyn slid abruptly out of bed. Such thoughts were not conducive to a peaceful frame of mind at this hour of the day and she determinedly walked to the window and looked out on the scene that spread out before her.

The landscape was green and rolling, and somewhere she could hear the sound of running water. But what amazed her most was its emptiness, acres and acres of rolling moorland without a house or village spire to be seen. Away to the left, in a fold of the hills, she knew the village of Trefallath nestled, but here there was nothing but the tree-strewn marches populated by sheep and goats and the lonely cry of the curlew.

She drew away from the window and glanced at her watch. It was a little after eight, and she wondered what she should do. Go downstairs, she supposed. After all, she could hardly expect Joanna to run after her, and nor did she want her to. But she wondered where her father was. Where did he have his surgery? Surely not here, some distance from the village. How on earth did Joanna stand the loneliness?

She washed in the bathroom with its disturbingly noisy geyser gurgling away beside her and then dressed in jeans and a sleeveless sweater. She didn’t bother with make-up, but combed her thick hair into some kind of order before leaving her room.

As she descended the staircase she could hear Joanna singing in the kitchen, and she sighed. There was no point in maintaining a kind of armed truce with someone with whom one was going to have to spend a great deal of time, she decided reasonably, with a pang of remorse for her mother. But her mother was not here, she was, and nothing she said would alter the inevitable. With determined brightness, she turned the handle of the kitchen door and entered the room.

Joanna was at the stove, her face shiny from the heat of the pans. ‘Oh, good morning,’ she said, in surprise. ‘You’re up, then! I was going to bring your breakfast up to you.’

Tamsyn bit her lip. ‘There’s no need for that, really. I’m perfectly capable of getting up and making my own breakfast. Besides, in—in your condition, you should be resting, shouldn’t you?’

Joanna stopped what she was doing and looked squarely at her stepdaughter. ‘You noticed, then.’

Tamsyn coloured. ‘Yes. Where’s my father?’

‘He’s gone to see Mrs. Evans. She had a seizure in the night.’ Joanna frowned. ‘You didn’t say anything to your father last night.’

‘No.’ Tamsyn moved her shoulders defensively. ‘Look, Joanna, I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t want to come here, but my mother wanted me to, so I came.’ She sighed. ‘Last night I was tired. It was quite an ordeal coming here—alone. I—well, needed time to think.’

‘And now you’ve thought,’ said Joanna.

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t think that your father might be hurt by your not mentioning it sooner?’

Tamsyn moved her head. ‘Look—it’s difficult for me, too, Joanna.’

‘And from your expression last night it wasn’t just difficult, it was unacceptable, wasn’t it?’

Tamsyn scuffed her toe, her hands tucked into the belt of her jeans. ‘I guess so.’

‘Why? What’s so unacceptable about two married people loving one another enough to want children? Wasn’t that what your mother and father did when they had you?’

‘That was different!’ Tamsyn felt uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, I guess it wasn’t. But just give me time. I—I’ll get over it.’

‘And in the meantime your father has to worry about you, eh?’ Joanna turned back to the stove.

‘It’s not like that,’ exclaimed Tamsyn indignantly. ‘Good heavens, he surely didn’t expect me to behave as though everything was as it should be! I mean—I scarcely know him! Let alone feel at home with him!’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Why, no one’s, I guess.’

‘You blame your father for everything, don’t you?’ Joanna ladled scrambled eggs on to a plate.

‘No—that is—no, I don’t.’ But she did, and Joanna knew it. ‘Look—can’t we start again? I know it’s difficult for you, too. But if I’m to stay here, we can’t go on like this.’

‘I agree.’ Joanna came to the scrubbed wooden table that dominated the kitchen. She rested her hands on the table and looked into Tamsyn’s flushed young face. ‘All right, Tamsyn. We’ll begin again. I won’t make things difficult for you, if you don’t make things difficult for me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tamsyn frowned.

Joanna shook her head. ‘You really don’t know your father very well, do you? Do you honestly think that your attitude last night didn’t upset him? Don’t you realise that he thinks the world of you? He always has. He hasn’t seen much of you, but maybe that’s why he’s built you up in his mind into something—something marvellous, terrific! His daughter! His Tamsyn! That side of him hasn’t been easy to live with, believe me! And now you’re here, and if you think things can go on as before so long as you remain indifferent to him, you’re mistaken. You’ll always come first in his thoughts, I’ve known that for years, and after you’d gone to bed last night he was like a bear with a sore head, worrying about your reactions. He knew the sight of me had shocked you, and I think if he could have changed things there and then he would have done. But when we went in for this child we didn’t know we were going to have you to stay!’

‘Oh, Joanna!’ Tamsyn felt terrible. ‘I—I didn’t know—I didn’t realise.’

‘How could you? So far as you were concerned your father was the villain of the piece. Well, he isn’t, and he never was. But that’s another story.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tamsyn didn’t know what to say.

‘That’s all right. I just wanted to get things straight between us before your father gets back.’ Joanna straightened and turned back to the stove. ‘Do you like your bacon crisp or not?’

Tamsyn moved to the table, fingering a fork absently. ‘Do you think I could just have toast? I’m not very hungry, actually.’

Joanna clicked her tongue. ‘No, I don’t think you could just have toast,’ she retorted, but there was a faint suggestion of a smile touching the corners of her mouth. ‘And there’s no point in moping about what’s been said. You’re seventeen, Tamsyn, nearly eighteen, in fact. It’s time you grew up. As you said earlier, we’ve got to live together for the next few weeks, so we might as well make the best of it.’

Tamsyn nodded. ‘All right. I’m willing.’

‘Good. Then we understand one another.’ Joanna flexed her back muscles wearily. ‘I shall be glad when these few weeks are over, and I don’t mean because of you. I feel so big and clumsy, particularly now, in comparison to you.’

Tamsyn glanced down self-consciously. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘You’re much smaller than I am. I feel quite tall beside you.’

Joanna smiled. ‘I always wanted to be tall and slim like you. You’re lucky. You’ve inherited your height and build from your father. Do you know his hair used to be that colour once?’

‘You must tell me about him,’ suggested Tamsyn quietly. ‘I—I’d like to hear about his life before he—he married my mother.’

‘Hywel told you I knew him then, of course.’

Tamsyn felt her nerves tingle at the mention of Hywel Benedict’s name. ‘Yes,’ she said, taking a seat at the scrubbed table and resting her chin on her hands, elbows supported on the wooden surface.

Joanna scooped bacon and eggs on to a plate and put it before her. It smelt marvellous and Tamsyn realised she was hungry after all. There was crusty bread to go with it, and yellow butter that melted on the toast that followed.

Joanna joined her at the table, but she had only some toast and Tamsyn commented upon it. ‘I need to lose some weight, actually,’ confided her stepmother with a sigh. ‘We may not have much to offer here, but at least the food is good and wholesome, and I’m afraid I can’t resist hot scones with butter and lots of suety puddings.’

Tamsyn laughed. She was beginning to realise that Joanna was not at all as she had expected her to be, and she blamed herself for presupposing things she really knew nothing about.

‘Hywel Benedict is your cousin, isn’t he?’ she asked Joanna now, unable to resist the question.

‘That’s right.’ Joanna poured more coffee into Tamsyn’s cup.

Tamsyn hesitated. ‘Does he live far from here?’

Joanna looked at her squarely. ‘Not far. Why?’

Tamsyn shrugged with what she hoped was non-chalance. ‘I was curious, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t mind Hywel meeting you, did you? I mean, Lance couldn’t leave the practice without anyone to cover for him, and I was in no fit state to drive nearly two hundred miles.’

‘No. No, of course not.’ Tamsyn shook her head. ‘I guess I did at first, but then …’ She pushed her empty plate aside. ‘That was delicious. Thank you.’

‘I like cooking,’ said Joanna simply. ‘And I like to watch people enjoy their food.’

Tamsyn glanced round. ‘What can I do to help you?’

‘Do you want to help?’

‘Yes. I don’t intend to spend my days loafing around. That’s not my scene.’ Tamsyn rose from her seat and carried her dirty plates across to the sink. ‘Shall I start with these?’

Joanna rested against the table, half turned towards her. ‘If you like.’

Tamsyn nodded and filled the bowl with hot soapy water. Outside the kitchen windows she could see a vegetable garden and beyond, a path leading down through wild rose and gorse bushes to a stream, the stream which she had heard earlier. There were some hens picking about behind the back door and several outbuildings which she supposed were used to house livestock. Plunging her hands into the hot water, looking out on that rural scene, she felt a sudden sense of peace and relaxation and she sighed. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Her father returned as Tamsyn and Joanna were making the beds. He came upstairs to find them and looked in surprise at the two of them, folding sheets beneath the mattress. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his gaze going from one to the other of them, and Tamsyn smiled.

‘Joanna’s been telling me what a terror you were when you were a teenager,’ she replied, and saw her father’s gaze go swiftly to his wife’s.

‘That’s right,’ said Joanna calmly. ‘There’s no better way of getting to know someone than by working together, don’t you agree?’

Lance looked bewildered. ‘If you say so.’ He bit his lip. ‘Well, one of you come and make me some coffee. I’m sorely in need of a stimulant. Mrs. Evans has been at her most trying.’

‘The woman with the seizure?’ asked Tamsyn.

‘Seizure!’ muttered her father grimly. ‘It was no seizure. Just the result of overeating, that’s all.’

Joanna chuckled and then she said: ‘You go with your father, Tamsyn. You know where everything is now. You make him some coffee while I finish off here and then I’ll join you.’

Tamsyn hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to make the coffee?’

‘Quite sure,’ answered Joanna, straightening her back with a firm hand.

Downstairs, Lance faced his daughter rather doubtfully, and Tamsyn considered for a moment, and then said: ‘It’s going to be all right, Daddy.’

Her father stared at her anxiously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean my being here—Joanna and me! It’s going to be all right. We—we understand one another now.’ She sighed. ‘And I’m sorry I was so anti-social last night.’

Lance twisted his lips. ‘It was understandable, I suppose.’

‘You mean—because Joanna’s pregnant?’

‘Yes.’ Her father turned away. ‘I realise it’s hard for you to—–’

‘Oh, please, Daddy!’ Tamsyn didn’t want to talk about it any more. ‘Let it go, for now. How do you like your coffee? Black or white?’

Lance regarded her for a long moment and then he nodded. ‘Very well, Tamsyn. We’ll leave it. And I like my coffee black, but sweet.’

Over the aromatic beverage they discussed the details of her flight and when the conversation came round to Hywel Benedict again, she asked: ‘Does—does Mr. Benedict have a farm or something?’

Lance stared at her in surprise. ‘Hywel? Heavens, no!’

Tamsyn tipped her head on one side. ‘Then what does he do?’

‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No.’

Her father shook his head. ‘Ah, well, no. I suppose he wouldn’t, at that. Hywel’s a writer, cariad. Quite well known, he is. But you wouldn’t know that, living in America.’

‘A writer!’

Tamsyn was stunned. She remembered with self-loathing the way she had gone on about the cultural advantages of living in the city and of how she had chided him about art and music and books, almost setting herself up as an authority on the subject. How ridiculous she must have sounded to a man who was a writer himself. Her cheeks burned with the memory of it all, but her father seemed not to notice.

‘Yes,’ he was saying now, ‘he’s become more reserved since Maureen left.’

Tamsyn’s head jerked up. ‘Maureen? Who’s Maureen?’

‘Why, Maureen Benedict, of course, bach,’ replied her father. ‘Hywel’s wife!’

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