Submarine

Farge scratched his head as he surveyed the car. 'Father will be pleased,' he murmured. 'How soon can you get the parts?'

'They could send 'em up by Monday,' the garage proprietor said. 'Then I'll need half a day to fit them and to check the parallelism.'

'How long's your leave?' Lorna Prynne asked Farge.

'Monday's my last day: Taunton train, first thing Tuesday.'

'I'll take you down jo Taunton today,' she said briskly after a moment's thought. She peered at her wrist-watch, a man-sized thing with a leather strap. 'We'll be back by four, William. Okay?'

The owner of the garage nodded his head slowly. 'I might even get the job finished tonight if I work on it myself.'

She had already started the Land-Rover when Julian jumped in beside her. Her small face expressionless, she swung determinedly on to the Exford Road.

Chapter 5

Spinneycombe, 28 April.

'We'd better get down to the farm,' Lorna said, 'before the light goes. I've lit a fire to warm up the place.'

She was, Farge sensed, as reluctant as he was to shatter their final moment up on the hill above Spinneycombe.

'The time's passed so quickly,' she said softly. 'Like a dream — tomorrow it'll be gone.'

'It's been a leave of surprises,' he said, leaning down to brush the tip of her nose with his lips. 'You're freezing.' He felt a shiver from the north-east wind as she leaned against him. 'I'm worried about the lambing,' she said. 'My poor ewes, in this weather.'

He drew her inside the folds of his anorak. 'It'll snow again tomorrow,' he said while her arms encircled his waist. He felt the softness of her breasts while she stood there, watching the mist creeping up the combe. Snow clouds were building up, dark against the twilight sky.

'I'll come up here every day,' she said softly. 'I'll pray for you up here.'

'And for the boat,' he murmured.

'It's hard sometimes,' she said, 'the life of a sheep-farmer. Mum phoned this afternoon. She's coming back tomorrow.'

'I feel bad about my father,' Julian said after a pause. 'I've hardly seen him over these four days.'

They stumbled down the track, arms about each other until they reached the granite bridge beneath the beeches. He tried to halt her there, so that they could watch the silver stream dashing against the stones, to spot for the last time where lay the trout, but she tugged at his hand and led him back to the ancient stone farmhouse. 'Look,' she cried, when they passed the window, 'there's still an ember — get the fire going while I fetch the supper.'

They kicked off their boots, then Farge knelt to puff at the dying logs. Lorna drew the curtains, threw him some old slippers and disappeared into the kitchen. In seconds the wood crackled and then the flames were leaping. Lorna came back into the low-beamed, stone-flagged room, a tumbler in each hand. 'Mum and I like our rum when the weather's cold.' She laughed as she tossed back the spirit. 'I'm putting on something dry.' She disappeared through the door on the far side of the long room, while Farge relaxed into one of the old chairs and stretched out his legs before the blazing logs. He lay back, empty glass in his hand, as the raw spirit seeped through his system. So much had happened during these last forty-eight hours.

He was in love. Margot had been a travesty of this experience: he had lusted after her and she had enjoyed the chase. But Lorna… he shook his head and gazed into the fire. Their fascination with each other had sparked from the first encounter in the ditch on that first Saturday night. After the car had been fixed, they had returned to the pub. He had told her a little about himself, of his job as captain of Orcus, but no more. And she had poured out her life story to him.

Lorna was the daughter of her mother's second marriage. The first had been childless, but they had adopted a boy, Kevan. Her first husband then died, but two years after her widowhood she married Joshua Prynne, whose family had farmed Spinneycombe for two centuries. Lorna was seventeen when her father was killed: his tractor rolled over and crushed him as he was working the steep field at the head of the combe. Mrs Pyrnne, with the shepherd and her seventeen-year-old daughter by her side, had continued to farm Spinneycombe. Lorna's step-brother, the adopted Kevan five years older than her, had departed for the Navy to become an electrical technician. Lorna had swiftly become her mother's mainstay and companion on the isolated farm.

Farge, staring into the glowing embers, could remember every word, every moment of that first evening.

'You see,' she had said, smiling across at him from the deep armchair in the pub lounge, 'I'm firmly cast in the sheep-farmer's mould.' She'd sipped at her coffee, then added seriously, 'I can't leave mum now — and, anyway, I love the moor and enjoy the life.' She'd looked across at him as she put down her coffee cup. 'You're laughing at me.'

'No, I'm not. It's just that you're not my idea of a farmer.'