One Summer at Deer’s Leap. Elizabeth Elgin

to hitch a lift to Deer’s Leap with everyone around pretending he didn’t exist.

      ‘But what can I do about him?’ I demanded of the coffee pot. ‘All things being equal, he just isn’t my responsibility!’

      ‘Beg pardon?’ Jeannie appeared in the open doorway, bucket in hand.

      ‘Good grief! Couldn’t you sleep?’

      ‘The birds woke me so I’ve been cleaning the car.’ She kicked off her wellies. ‘Why were you talking to yourself? They section you for that, you know!’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I was trying to straighten things out in my mind – about the airman, actually – and I’m coming to realize that what happened around these parts more than fifty years ago is really none of my business.’

      ‘No. But you’ve got yourself tangled up in it, love, so I reckon it is. And I’ll take bets that if you do the Deer’s Leap books, the last of them will be Jack and Susan’s story – or as near to it as you can get.’

      ‘You know it will, Jeannie. I’ll have to be careful, though. Wouldn’t want Susan to recognize it – nor people like Bill Jarvis and his sister. Deer’s Leap will have to have another name – right from book one – and Acton Carey too. But I’ll worry about that when Firedance is out of the way. There’s plenty of time. Did you sleep all right – apart from the birds?’

      ‘I just crashed.’

      ‘The coffee’s ready. Want to take the pot back to bed?’

      ‘No, thanks. I’ll just sit here and empty it. What did they do in your war, Cassie, about coffee? I suppose it was hard to get.’

      ‘It wasn’t my war. I’m interested in it, that’s all. Aunt Jane once said the tea rationing was awful; said you just couldn’t brew up whenever you felt like it. And they didn’t have teabags. Those came later. But coffee I’m not sure about. Tea was the drink of the masses, I believe. Coffee was more middle class in those days. I wish Aunt Jane were still here. There’s so much she could have told me – especially when it comes to writing Jack and Susan’s story.’

      I decided to talk some more to Bill Jarvis before I left; try to meet his sister too – ask her how it had been to grow up in a war. I might be really lucky, and get her to talk about Susan Smith.

      ‘Cassie – you’ve got three books to see off before you can get down to the star-crossed lovers. Don’t get too tied up with them – not until you have to. Do you find the pilot attractive, by the way?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’ If she’d expected a red-cheeked denial, then she wasn’t getting one! ‘As a matter of fact, he’d have been the type I’d have gone for fifty years ago.’

      ‘Fair, didn’t you say – Piers’s opposite. Did he put you off Piers?’

      ‘Jeannie! I’m not that stupid! Don’t you realize if he were still alive, Jack Hunter would be seventy-five, at least! He wouldn’t be young and straight and fair – and a little bit strung up.’

      ‘He had a nervous tic, you mean?’

      ‘Not exactly. But he pushes his hair out of his eyes with his left hand. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. But then I suppose most aircrews got a bit stretched at times. I know I would have.’

      ‘So he’s young and attractive and you find his nervous habit endearing. Reckon you were born fifty years too late, old love.’

      ‘Maybe I was, but the matter doesn’t arise. He belongs to Susan. After all that time, he still loves her! If Piers had cared for me like that, I’d have eaten out of his hand!’

      ‘If I didn’t know you better, Cassie, I’d say you were a nutcase. As it is, I’m half inclined to believe you – about the ghost, I mean. I envy you really, but I’m a down-to-earth Scottish lassie and things like communing with World War Two flyers don’t happen to me.’

      ‘Then be glad of it!’ I really meant it, because since that first meeting when I’d thought Jack Hunter was one of Beth’s fancy-dress guests, he’d been there, waiting to take over every spare minute of my thoughts. ‘And I think we’d better talk about the luncheon. Can I do anything to help?’

      ‘No, thanks. The car should be dry by now. I’ll just give it a bit of a polish, then I’ll ring Susanna – ask directions. Think I’ll take the pretty route through the Trough and pick up some honey on the way. If you’re making toast, by the way, I’ll have a couple of slices. Cut thick, please.’

      ‘One day, Jeannie McFadden, all those calories are going to catch up with you, and when they do, don’t come running to me for sympathy,’ I laughed, wallowing once more in the contentment that hadn’t been far away since Piers drove out of my life in a cloud of dust. ‘And if you’re to get the speaker there on time, you’ll have to shift yourself!’

      

      Jeannie got back at seven, just as I was beginning to wonder if she’d had a flat, or run out of petrol.

      ‘You took your time! Got lost, or something?’

      ‘No. We left the do at four and Susanna asked me in for coffee, then showed me her place. She’s a real love. Y’know, if I could guarantee looking like she does, I wouldn’t mind getting old.’

      ‘Yes you would, Jeannie. You’d hate it – just like Susanna Lancaster does, I shouldn’t wonder. But tell me about her – and the house?’

      ‘We-e-ll, she told me she had plans, but didn’t elaborate. I think she will start another book, but it’s up to her. That house, though! I’d kill for it. It’s just outside Lancaster and pure Regency. Red brick, white doors and windows, and seven steps up to the front entrance. I counted. She must have made a pile!’

      ‘It follows. The television dramatizations alone must have sent her sales figures soaring. Is Dragonfly Morning going to sell, do you think?’

      ‘Hope so. It isn’t her usual thing; nothing to do with mystery and murder. Seems it’s a love story. She said it could have happened to anyone born in the twenties and whose young years had been touched by war.

      ‘Someone asked her if the book was fiction or biography, and she went a bit pink and said it was a bit of both really. I’ve brought you one – got her to sign it for you and she wrote something rather nice in it.’

      ‘Thanks a lot! What do I owe you?’

      ‘I’ll settle for a sandwich. I’m starving!’

      ‘Why? Wasn’t the lunch any good?’

      ‘It was fine – but somehow we seemed to talk instead of eat. You know how it is with working lunches? You balk against speaking with your mouth full and the next thing you know it’s gone cold and they’re pushing the next course at you! I’ll just get out of these things – won’t be a minute.’

      I looked at the book she had left on the table. The jacket was stark and eye-catching; a girl on a bluff, alone against a morning sky, and shaded hills in the background. Her face had a waiting look, her eyes were anxious. The artist had done a good job. I turned to the title page.

      For Cassie, a new author,

      from Susanna Lancaster,

      an old one.

      ‘You told her,’ I asked, embarrassed, ‘that I was a writer.’

      ‘But of course! I also told her your first novel made it to the bestseller lists.’

      ‘Only just! I made a very little plop in a very big pond!’

      ‘She was impressed, for all that. She knows that most first novels don’t do as well as yours. She told me about her very first effort; said it came back so quickly from every publisher she sent it to that she was sure they hadn’t even bothered to read it. “Of course,” she said, “I know now that it just