Secret Obsession. CHARLOTTE LAMB

      Philip had grinned at her, silently held out one of his cars.

      Nerissa had toddled over to take it and sat down on the hearthrug with a bump and had begun to push the car back and forward, making the same noises Philip was making. ‘Brrmm…brrmm…’

      She had never forgotten the moment. In a sense, it had been the beginning of her life. She couldn’t remember anything that had happened before that moment, that day.

      The first three years of her life had vanished—her mother’s face, where they had lived—every detail. All gone, as if they had never happened.

      Except that one moment, at the beginning, when she was carried into the firelit kitchen by her father. That instant was sharp and bright in her memory, beginning her conscious life.

      Her father had left the next day and never come back. He had gone to Australia, she was told, and one day he would come back for her—but he never did. When she was seven she was told he had died, in the outback, of blood-poisoning, after neglecting a cut on his arm. There had been no doctor for many miles and it was too late by the time his condition was finally diagnosed.

      Nerissa had cried when they’d told her, mostly because she felt she should, and even at the age of seven she’d had a strong sense of what she ought to do, think, feel. Her father’s death had made no real difference to her life because by then she had felt she belonged here, with her uncle and aunt and Philip.

      They were her family. She had forgotten she had ever had another one. Her life lay here, on the farm, in these remote, wind-blown hills. Their isolation threw them together more than most families; they had no near neighbours. There was another farmhouse half a mile away across the fields, but the farmer and his wife were old and their children grown-up and living away from home.

      The nearest village was nearly two miles away, and it was tiny. It had a pub, a church which was hundreds of years old and a shop which sold anything and everything. Once there had been a school; it had closed years ago and now the children had to catch a bus to the next village which was larger and still had a school.

      Nerissa and Philip had gone there, together, on the school bus which picked them up at the end of the lane running past the farm gates. In time they had both graduated to a large comprehensive, even further away, which meant a very long journey every day.

      In the school holidays, and in the evenings and at weekends, they had helped on the farm, of course; Uncle John needed every spare hand he could get.

      Farm work was hard, but it could be fun, toohelping to clear out ditches, cut back hedges, wheel barrows full of stones for mending drystone walls, prepare food for the various farmyard animals, muck out the stables, tramp the fields to check on sheep which had wandered and round them up with the help of the two sheepdogs.

      Doing it alone wouldn’t be so great, but when there were two of you—talking, playing jokes on each other, laughing—the time flew and you hardly noticed what you were doing.

      There was always something new to do, too. Every day brought a new job—help to run the sheep through the bath of disinfectant every year, hold sheep for the vet while he injected them against the innumerable ills sheep were prone to, feed chickens or the few pigs they kept, whitewash outbuildings, slash back the nettles which invaded the yards if you didn’t keep them down in summer.

      Nerissa and Philip hadn’t minded doing any of that. They’d enjoyed the variety of work on the farm; the jobs followed the seasons, changing all the time with the rhythm of the year.

      Whatever they’d done, though, they’d done together. They’d always been together—inseparable—riding ponies across the fields to take them to the blacksmith to be shod, jumping walls and ditches, or in the summer lying in the sweet-smelling hay stored in the barn, talking and arguing, or in the fields, chewing ears of wheat and watching the poppies quiver in the warm air while Uncle John drove the harvester backwards and forwards across a field, and the blue sky wheeled overhead.

      It seemed years ago. Nerissa winced, her blue eyes haunted by memories of how Philip looked now, how he had looked yesterday, in the hospital.

      ‘I hate to think of him lying there, day after day! Philip always hated sitting still. He was full of energy.’

      ‘Don’t talk in the past tense!’ snapped his mother. ‘He isn’t dead! And he isn’t going to die, so stop talking like that!’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Nerissa said. ‘It’s just…I feel so helpless. If only there were something we could do!’

      ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ his mother said. ‘Don’t let it get to you, Nerissa. You won’t help Philip by making yourself ill with fretting.’ She smiled at her again, comfortingly, then looked at her watch. ‘Let’s be on our way.’ She began to clear away the breakfast things and Nerissa got up to help.

      Maybe there would be some change! she thought as they drove to the hospital later. Sooner or later he would open his eyes, surely! He must. He couldn’t stay the way he was, a living statue, locked inside his own mind, dead to them.

      But there was no change at all. That day was much the same as the previous two had been. They talked, while Philip lay unmoving, without expression. Nerissa read to him from the day’s newspaper, began reading Treasure Island to him, because it had always been his favourite book—he had read it over and over again when he was a boy.

      John Thornton arrived and spent an hour with his son, then Aunt Grace sent them both back to the farm.

      ‘Go to bed and try to sleep, Nerissa,’ she said as they left. ‘Promise me you will.’

      ‘I’ll see she does!’ John Thornton said and his wife nodded, patting his arm.

      ‘Good lad.’

      Nerissa watched and was overwhelmed with affection for her aunt; she was an astonishing woman, proud and strong, and full of warmth and kindness. She held them all together; without her they would be lost.

      When they reached the farm Nerissa made tea, and she and Uncle John had a cup together in the kitchen before he got up, sighing.

      ‘A farmer’s work is never done, especially if he runs sheep!’ he said. ‘Stupid animals. I can’t think why I bother with them, sometimes.’

      He tramped off into a rainy mist, which had come from nowhere, and Nerissa went up to her bedroom and found to her grateful surprise that Uncle John had lit a fire in the tiny grate. She stood in front of it and undressed down to her silky white slip, bra and panties, then lay down under the old, patchwork quilt, the curtains drawn, the fire dying down a little but a few flames still making black shadows climb the bedroom walls and the soft sound of rain soaking into the garden making a gentle lullaby.

      

      A sound woke her. Her lashes fluttered, lifted. Drowsily she wondered what she had just heard—not a loud noise, a very quiet one. The sound of ash dropping through the fire grate? Or a log cracking apart in the flame? Her uncle’s tractor far away on the hill?

      What time was it? She rolled over to look at the clock and froze as she found herself looking into Ben’s eyes. For a second she actually thought she was imagining it, calling him up from her unconscious because she was so terrified of seeing him again.

      But she wasn’t imagining anything. Ben was there, sitting beside her bed, and looking as if he had been there for some time, watching her while she slept.

      Her body seemed to drain of blood. She stared into his eyes and felt like someone looking out into a winter landscape—grey and icy, impenetrable.

      She was so stunned that she blurted out stupidly just what was on her mind. ‘I thought you were going to be in The Hague for a week?’

      The cold lips parted just enough to bite out a few words. ‘So you hurried back to him.’

      She winced as if at a blow from a lash. ‘You don’t understand——’ she began, and was interrupted.

      ‘Oh,