Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

‘I know, Grandma. I’m sorry. My voice is a bit husky. Is that better?’ She cleared her throat noisily. ‘How nice to hear you. How are you?’

      ‘I am fine as always.’ The tones were clipped and direct. Celia Clifford was a vivacious and attractive woman of seventy-six who, in spite of the alternate cajoling and threats of her town-dwelling daughter-in-law and granddaughter, lived completely alone in a rambling Tudor farmhouse in the depths of Suffolk. Jo adored her. Ceecliff was her special property; her refuge; her hidden vice; the shoulder that tough abrasive Jo Clifford could cry on and no one would ever know.

      ‘You sound a bit odd, dear,’ Ceecliff went on briskly. ‘You’re not smoking again, are you?’

      Jo looked ruefully at the ashtray beside the phone. ‘I’m trying not to,’ she said.

      ‘Good. And nothing is wrong?’

      Jo frowned. ‘Why should anything be wrong?’

      There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘There shouldn’t. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any excuses up your sleeve. You’re coming to lunch here, Jo, so you’d better get ready to leave within half an hour.’

      Jo laughed. ‘I can’t come all the way to Suffolk for lunch,’ she protested.

      ‘Of course you can. Take off those dreadful jeans and put on a pretty dress, then get in the car. You’ll be here by one.’

      ‘How did you know I had jeans on?’ Jo had begun to smile.

      ‘I’m psychic.’ Ceecliff’s tone was dry. ‘Now, no more talking. Just come.’

      There was a click as she rang off and Jo was left staring down at the receiver in her hand.

      Bet Gunning turned over in bed and ran a languid hand over Tim Heacham’s chest. ‘Much drunker, and you wouldn’t have been able to make it, my friend.’

      Tim groaned. ‘If I had been much drunker, you could have been accused of necrophilia! If you have any sense of decency at all, Ms Gunning, you’ll fix me one of your magic prairie oysters in the kitchen and shut up.’

      Laughing, Bet sat up and lazily pulled on Tim’s discarded shirt over her lean figure. She wrinkled her nose fastidiously. ‘My God. This stinks!’

      ‘Sweat, I expect.’ Tim closed his eyes. ‘Your fault for getting me so excited. Stick it under the shower and turn the tap on it. You can have special dispensation to wear my monogrammed bathrobe.’ He stretched luxuriously and grinned.

      Bet gave him an old-fashioned look as she padded out to the kitchen but she said nothing. She was too content. In a few moments she was back with a tray containing two coffee mugs and a glass. She watched as Tim drank down the mixture pulling a series of agonised faces, then she held out her hand for the glass. ‘Now. Coffee and then a cold shower. That will get you compos mentis.’

      ‘Sadistic bitch.’ Tim patted her knee fondly as she sat down next to him. ‘Is this what makes you such a good editor? Rouse them, satisfy them, give them their medicine, kiss them better and send them away!’

      She laughed. ‘So you think I sleep with my staff as well?’

      ‘It’s the general word. And all your ancillary acolytes – like me. But only the men, of course, as far as I know.’

      Bet reached forward and tugged his hair. ‘Shut up, Tim! Now if you want to talk shop tell me how you are getting on with Jo’s pictures. Have you started on them yet?’

      ‘Of course. But I thought the deadline wasn’t for months.’

      ‘It isn’t.’ Bet inserted her legs beneath the sheet next to his and ran an exploratory finger across his solar plexus.

      Tim flopped back against the pillows and pushed her hand away. ‘No go, love. Don’t even hope. I’ve had it!’ He grinned at her fondly. ‘I took some super pictures of a woman being hypnotised to think she was a nineteenth-century street girl. I’ll show you the contacts. The only trouble with that article from my point of view is that however glamorous and exciting the stories these people are telling, basically they are still just Mr and Mrs Bloggs sitting there in a chair. But it is a tremendous challenge – to catch those faces and make your readers see in them the reflection of whatever character is inhabiting the person’s mind at that moment.’

      ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ Bet lay back on her elbow beside him and reached for her cup. ‘You know Jo was regressed herself once?’

      ‘Yes. She told me about it. It was a failure. All that guff Judy sounded off was jealous rubbish.’

      Bet shook her head. ‘Not so. Nick talked to me about it a couple of weeks back. He begged me to kill the article. According to him Jo nearly died under hypnosis.’

      Tim sat up. ‘For Christ’s sake –’

      Bet smiled. ‘He overreacts. It would make a better article, you must admit, if Jo could say it had happened to her. I have a feeling it could be a tremendous story when she gets round to it. Jo is nothing if not honest. If something strange happens to her she’ll write about it.’

      ‘Even if it’s published posthumously?’ Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. ‘My God, Bet! I thought you were Jo’s friend! Would you really want something awful to happen to her just to make a good story?’ He reached for his trousers and pulled them on. ‘Bloody hell!’

      Bet laughed. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. I want some action. I want to see Jo up against something she can’t debunk, just for once. I want to see how she handles an article which really stirs her up. It’ll do her good. I suspect Nick resents her success. He’s jealous of her independence. That’s why they split up, so a plea from him to call off the article comes over to me as very suspicious. She doesn’t need his help – or his hindrance. Oh yes, I am her friend, sweetie, probably her best friend.’

      ‘Then God help her.’ Tim tugged open a drawer and pulled out a black cashmere sweater, drawing it down awkwardly over his head. ‘With you and Judy Curzon for friends who else does she need!’

      ‘Well there’s always you, isn’t there?’ Bet took another sip from her coffee. ‘You wouldn’t be entertaining me so enthusiastically if you thought you could lay your sticky little hands on our Jo, would you, my love?’

      Tim flushed a dusky red as he turned away. ‘Crap. Jo’s never had eyes for anyone but Nick since I’ve known her.’ He stared into the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair.

      ‘More fool her then, because Nick is playing the field. Where are you going?’

      ‘Sunday or not, I have work to do. Are you going to cook me lunch?’

      Bet stretched, snuggling back under the covers. ‘Why not? Who were you in your previous life, Tim, do you know?’

      Tim turned and looked down at her. ‘Funnily enough I think I do.’

      Bet’s eyes grew round. ‘You are joking?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well?’ She sat up, the sheet pulled up tightly round her breasts. ‘Who were you?’

      He grinned. ‘If I told you that, my love, I’d regret the indiscretion for the rest of my life. Now, you may go back to sleep for exactly forty-one minutes, then you get up and put the joint on. I should be finished in the darkroom in an hour.’ With a wave he ducked out of the bedroom and ran down the spiral stairs to the studio below.

      The north London traffic was heavy, and Jo was impatient, but she was so preoccupied she barely noticed the queueing cars and the heavy pall of fumes under the brassy blue sky. It was not until eventually the road widened and the cars began to thin that she started to relax and look round her. The air became lush with country summer: blossom, thick and scented on the trees, rich new green leaves, hedgerows smothered in cow parsley and hawthorn, while overhead the sky arched in an intensity of