Jo had been following his Beginner's Programme religiously. Dr Heinsel said that a trainee should not begin on troubling or traumatic episodes. According to his theories, the reason you had difficulty recalling them was because the mind invariably shied away from memories like these: so you had to start with happy memories, which the mind would more willingly embrace, working your way up to the scary stuff only when you and your mind had got to grips with the Heinsel Method. Thus Jo had started off with a very happy memory indeed her first honeymoon, spent on the Isle of Wight in 1995. Saving for their deposit had not left them with sufficient funds for anywhere more exotic, but as Dom had said, 'Who needs the Caribbean, when they have palm trees here?'

Dr Heinsel was big on working through things in chronological order. Apparently the untrained mind liked to jump about, flicking from one memory to another, thereby missing important bits out, so you had to find a starting point which was a recognizable beginning, then work forward from it. Jo had chosen the ferry crossing from Lynmouth, and been surprised to find that she could piece together quite a lot. The amount she could recall about their small hotel in Shanklin astonished her. There had been a china shepherdess on the dressing table in their bedroom, a room which they had reached by climbing the steep stairs lined with an odd mixture of cheap prints, everything from Millais's Boyhood of Raleigh to dogs playing snooker. The hotelier had walked around at breakfast time, offering extra triangles of toast from a wicker basket lined with red paper napkins. Dominic had always accepted at least one extra slice.

On the first morning they had descended to the beach before breakfast, via a steeply sloping road which curved back on itself. The tide had left a band of flat wet sand where no one else had walked, so that their two sets of footprints might have marked new arrivals on a desert island. At night the stars had been astonishingly bright, and sometimes you could see the lights of big liners or cross-channel ferries, proceeding from left to right down the channel.

Each time you revisited the memory, you had to start right back at the beginning again, and try to recall a little more, pausing to take in the scene, Dr Heinsel called it, filling in the gaps. There had been stainless-steel dishes, one containing strawberry jam and one orange marmalade, on each of the breakfast tables. The chairs and tables had been made of dark wood, and each chair had a thin red cushion tied loosely on to it, which didn't quite match the red paper napkins. If you opened the bedroom door too wide it bounced back off the side of the bed. She tried to picture the host with his basket in one hand and the stainless-steel tongs with which he distributed the toast in the other, but it was very hard to put a face to people you had not known well, or with whom you'd had only brief contact, such a long time ago.

Dom she could picture perfectly. If only he had not given up on her. Life could have been so different. They could have found Lauren together Marcus had tried to be kind but he did not really understand. No one did.

In October Maisie held another fund-raiser, but Jo waited until she knew the Perrys were out they always gardened at Holehird on Wednesdays before slipping an envelope containing a scribbled apology and a ten-pound note through their letterbox. It was weeks since she had spoken to Sh.e.l.ley, whose books lay gathering dust on a chair in the office, where they had been placed in readiness for the short journey back along the lane which she somehow never got round to making.

Sean had been invited to spend half-term with his mother, the visit in summer having been a modest success. Marcus was away in Cornwall on the last Daphne du Maurier tour of the year, and with no reason to keep regular hours, Jo's days lost any semblance of rhythm. The Hideaway again developed that sense of emptiness, through which Jo flitted like an insubstantial phantom.

One night she sat up until 3 a.m., concentrating on Dr Heinsel's Method, working her way through the Isle of Wight trip, followed by Lauren's first birthday. There had been a cake in the shape of a big number one, covered in white icing edged all round in pink. Lauren had blown out the candle and clapped her hands: little stubby fingers, each with a knuckle that went in like a dimple, instead of out in the bony pattern of ridges and furrows found on an adult's hand. There had been cupcakes in spotted paper cases which peeled away to leave a sharp zigzag pattern in the icing, chocolate finger biscuits which disintegrated in small pink hands and dishes of ice cream and jelly. Later she had washed the chocolate off those little hands with a flannel, feeling each delicate digit as it wriggled and resisted the damp cloth.

By the time she went to bed her mind was bustling with memories and did not want to shut down. Was this the moment to move forward? There will come a time, Dr Heinsel advised, when your memory is so well attuned to the process that you can take things to the next level, forcing your memory to recognize and bring forward the things it has been trying to suppress.

She switched on the bedside light and propped her pillows up against the bedhead. It felt cold in the bedroom. The sun had been absent without leave for so long that a constant chill permeated everything. Marcus claimed that she felt the cold more lately because she was not eating properly which might be true, but she simply wasn't hungry. Food did not interest her, and while Marcus and Sean were away, it did not seem worth the bother of cooking. It occurred to her that she had eaten very little during the day. Perhaps if she heated that half-tin of rice pudding in the microwave, it might warm her up a bit but the thought of it made her feel sick. She had eaten the first half earlier in the day, realizing as she consumed it that she did not really like tinned rice pudding, the ill.u.s.tration on the tin being much more attractive than the reality. Instead she slipped out of bed and gathered up a pashmina which was draped over the back of a chair. When she had wrapped it around her shoulders, she slid back under the duvet, which she pulled right up to her chin.

She had never tried the Heinsel Method anywhere but her regular chair (Dr Heinsel advised that trainees should work to establish a routine in the beginning, so that the mind would learn to recognize what was expected of it), but tonight she was feeling so receptive that it did not seem to matter and besides which, it would be even colder downstairs without the duvet.

She would begin with the moment of waking up in their bed and breakfast: that would be her starting point for this new excursion into the past. They had been allocated a large, irregular-shaped room, which had odd angles and alcoves: a family room with a double bed, a single and a cot. Mrs Potter (yes Potter that had been her name) had let them have the family room at no extra charge because she said her double room was a squash with the cot. The wallpaper had been a very old-fashioned design: big blue flowers and purple grapes in a diagonal pattern, the same sequence going off in all directions. There were three different configurations of the blue flowers and two different bunches of grapes, and the pattern had repeated itself, again and again, up, down, left, right, sideways, backways, diagonal garlands of grapes and flowers, woven together with dark green ivy, which she would remember to her dying day, particularly at the place where the pattern met the empty cot and partially disappeared behind the bars. It had been an old-fashioned cot with pictures on the ends: a fluffy yellow duck at the head and a bounding lamb at the foot. She remembered sitting on the edge of the double bed much later, staring at the empty cot, unable to comprehend the enormity of what had happened.

No, no this was not the way to do it. Go back to the beginning of the day. Start with waking up, getting Lauren ready to go down to breakfast ... putting on the bright red T-shirt and the sky-blue dungarees, fastening the b.u.t.tons on the royal-blue canvas shoes.

Breakfast what had they had for breakfast? The high chair was rather tatty, with a half-moon white plastic tray which had seen better days. Lauren eating cereal, making a bit of a mess, although she was generally pretty good. Deciding to give the beach a miss that day. Strapping Lauren into her car seat ... jumping ahead there, lots of things must have happened between the cornflakes and the car seat ... Lauren flexing her legs and resisting the process. She hadn't wanted to go in the car. It was almost as if she knew something bad was going to happen no, that was silly she always stuck her legs out rigid when you tried to strap her in.

'Stop it, Lauren. Sit nicely.' How sharp her voice sounded. If only she had known. If she had realized this was their last morning their very last morning together she would have gathered Lauren in her arms and run far, far away with her.

Concentrate don't get distracted. The car is going along the lanes, Dominic is driving quite fast, as tended to be his style. Occasionally there are glimpses of the sea, flashing silver where it caught the sunbeams, but mostly it's just farmland glimpsed between high Devon hedges. There's a tape playing ... maybe REM. Focus now try to hold that moment, there in the car can you hear what's playing? Can you see the cover of the ca.s.sette?

Sod the ca.s.sette. The car is warm inside and the interior rather grubby, even when viewed from behind sungla.s.ses. There are crumbs and crushed-up drink cartons, the remnants of holiday picnics. It's going to need a good clean-out when we get home.

The car park fills up early at Barleycombe. The only s.p.a.ces left are right at the far side. There's a caravan taking up two s.p.a.ces. Caravans are a bete noire of Dom's. Statics are just about OK, but he thinks tourers are an invention of the devil. He gets the pushchair out of the boot while she leans into the car to unfasten the clasp of Lauren's harness and lift her out of the car seat. In the background 'The Laughing Policeman' is guffawing fit to bust, rocking back and forth on his heels and pointing at her as she straps Lauren into her Mothercare buggy this one last time ... no, that's not right.

There are seagulls, always seagulls at the coast, raucous, strident, the predominant noise against a background hum of cars arriving, people getting out, slamming doors, talking and laughing. Dominic buys a ticket at the machine and sticks it on the inside of the driver's window. The instructions say 'display on windscreen', but Dom takes no notice.

There's a little newsagent's next to the car park. Lauren gestures up at the window display of faded Airfix kits and old-fashioned sweet jars. 'Weeties,' she says, hopefully. They debate whether or not to buy a paper decide not to bother. They are just moving on from the shop when she notices a woman across the road; a woman who has in the same instant seen her, and who pauses for a moment but then hurries on, as if she has been mistaken in thinking that there is mutual recognition, but she is not mistaken it is Gilda that girl she was once at school with.

As they proceed down the road people have to step off the narrow pavement to make way for Lauren's buggy. Lauren is kicking her feet up and down, lifting each leg in turn, as if they are pistons powering the buggy along. They get stuck behind an older couple, who are walking arm in arm, not quite fast enough, so that Jo is afraid the buggy will catch their heels. The man's brown overcoat is somehow familiar: it's an old-fashioned garment, unseasonably warm, quite unsuited to the day. Typical of her mother, too, to be inappropriately dressed, in a faded gingham check number, which looks like part of a cowgirl fancy dress. It's a wonder she hasn't gone the whole hog and worn the hat as well and as for her father's burgundy Crimplene trousers ... but her father cannot have been there. She has got it wrong, wrong, wrong.

Rewind and start again: that was Dr Heinsel's advice. Start at the beginning and take each scene, one detail at a time, linger on everything, don't try too hard, don't rush.

She began again in the bedroom of the blue flowers and purple grapes. Dominic beside her in the double bed, enjoying the soft warmth of one naked limb against another, both of them staying quiet, not wanting to alert Lauren, because once she realized they were awake she would be clamouring to come out, toddling around the room, getting into everything. Lauren who is sitting up in the cot, burbling cheerfully to her pet cat Puddy, a grey and white soft toy which always looked grubby because it went with her everywhere.

Work through the movements of the day again: everything ... the cornflakes, the high chair, Lauren dropping Puddy as they were going out so that he nearly got left behind, the crumbs in the car she still couldn't remember what had been playing on the tape deck but when she reached the village street there was Gilda again, staring at her from the opposite pavement before turning abruptly away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

'What are you doing in here?' Marcus had spoken quietly but the sound of his voice made her jump.

'Nothing. I'm just reading my book.'

'Why are you reading in the spare bedroom?'

'I like it in here. I often sit in here to read when you're away. There's a good light from this window.'

'You're not watching The Old Forge, are you?'

'Of course not. What on earth would I want to do that for? Anyway, it's raining so hard, you can't see across the road.'

'It's so dark in here, it's a wonder you can see to read at all.'

'I'm OK.'

'I'm going now,' he said.

There was very nearly an awkward pause, but she gathered herself in time, put the book on the bedside table and crossed the room to facilitate the obligatory farewell embrace.

'Take care,' she said. 'The roads are going to be bad.'

'I know flood warnings out all over the place, and more rain forecast.'

'Rain yesterday, rain today, rain tomorrow,' she said, wearily. 'I can't remember the last time it wasn't raining.'

She allowed herself to be pressed against his shirt, receiving a kiss on the cheek. She could feel the warmth of him through the shirt. The first time he ever held her had been like an awakening on a spring morning, when the flowers open up and the birds begin to sing. It had signalled the end of a long, cold winter, that quickening of her heart. When he made love to her they had basked in the heat from the summer sun; but it was autumn now. At first she had just said she was tired, a touch unwell or merely not in the mood; lately there had been no need to say anything at all. This fundamental absence in their relationship had never been discussed. She was grateful for his silence on the matter, relieved when he did not ask her to explain the way in which desire had died; how she was always cold now, always huddled under layers of t-shirts and outsize cardigans. How she felt as if her body was held together by a skeleton of dried-up twigs which would snap into a thousand pieces if he tried to hold her too tightly, or thrust into her as he had been wont to do before.

Even these perfunctory gestures of farewell had begun to feel dangerous, so she was alarmed when, with the customary hug and peck accomplished, he did not immediately release her, only allowing her to withdraw an inch or two so that his face remained close to hers. She hated it when that anxious look came into his eyes because it made her feel guilty. She did not want him to worry about her, still less to start seeking solutions, formulating plans which involved counsellors, doctors, or taking some quality time out together. Why couldn't he just go off and sleep with Melissa, complaining that his wife did not understand him, like any normal, red-blooded male would do? She managed to exert enough gentle resistance that he let his arms fall away and she was able to take a couple of steps backwards.

'You will try to eat sensibly while I'm away, won't you?'

'Of course.' She noticed in an abstract sort of way that Marcus's hair was going grey. When had that happened?

'Because Sean told me you hardly ate anything at all last week.'

'You shouldn't listen to what Sean says. He doesn't like me, and anyway it's wrong to use a fourteen-year-old as your spy.'

'I'm not using him as my spy. He just happened to mention it. And he's had his fifteenth birthday now.'

'What does he know, anyway? He's out at school all day, then he locks himself away in his bedroom the rest of the time.'

'You're losing weight ...'

She pulled away from him. 'I thought you had to go now.'

'Jo, darling, don't let's part on a quarrel.'

'Well, don't badger me about my weight then. I'm fine. I don't need to eat any more than I am doing. I don't need to see a doctor. I don't need a referral to a psychiatrist '

'Who said anything about a psychiatrist?'

'No one.'

They stood looking at one another. He forced a smile and held his arms out to her. When she did not move, he stepped forward and enveloped her in another hug. 'Come on, Jo,' he said. 'We're going to get through this.'

'Of course,' she said. 'Of course we are.' Just as soon as I get Lauren back.

'I have to go now.'

'I'll come to the door with you.'

'No need. You stay warm and dry. Shall I put the light on, so you can go on reading your book?'

'No I'm coming downstairs now.'

She followed him down to the hall. He shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his laptop bag which was waiting by the door, then paused to give her hand a parting squeeze.

'Goodbye, Marcus.'

'Goodbye, darling. Take care of yourself.'

The rain continued to fall steadily. When she switched on the television it was dominated by reports of flooding, with c.u.mbria seemingly bearing the brunt. The ground was saturated, of course. There was simply nowhere for the water to go.

When Sean came in from school his trousers were soaked to the knees. 'It's right up over the road at the bridge,' he said. 'I had to wade through it to get here it was really dodgy.'

'G.o.d, Sean! You should have rung me.'

'You wouldn't have got through it in the car. There's water rushing down the lane as if it was a river. I had to walk up using the verge. If this keeps up I won't be able to go to school tomorrow because we'll be cut off.' It was impossible to tell whether he was more enthused by the drama of the situation, or the possibility of an unscheduled day's holiday.

She could hardly believe it. Even when the beck was in spate after heavy rain, it never got anywhere near as high as the bridge. Driven by doubt and curiosity, she put on her over-trousers, wellingtons and cagoule, rustled her way to the kitchen door and set out into the downpour. The first thing she noticed was the noise of running water. On windless days you could hear the musical note of the beck in the distance, but she could never recall its being audible over the sound of heavy rainfall before. The sight and sound of running water was everywhere, pouring down drainpipes, overflowing from gutterings, but in the background she could also hear a muted roar of the kind she normally a.s.sociated with large waterfalls. When she reached the lane a surreal sight met her eyes. A circular drain cover opposite their gateway, a hitherto seldom-noticed object over which one walked or drove without a second thought, had turned into a fountain with a perfect circle of jets each firing to a height of several inches, while a complimentary circle of water oozed up around its rim, all of it merging into the tide of water which was flowing steadily down the lane towards the bridge.

Although the water was no more than an inch deep, it was flowing fast, and Jo decided to follow Sean's example, picking her way along the verge, until she got within sight of the bridge. He was absolutely right about that, too. Only a fool would attempt to negotiate it in an ordinary vehicle. The beck had overflowed the bridge on either side, spreading itself across the tarmac for several feet in either direction and out on to the bridge itself, where the two channels from each side almost met in the centre. The water was moving at speed, rippling across the stones and other debris which had acc.u.mulated in the road. The boulders around which the beck normally picked its way had entirely vanished beneath the dirty brown torrent which was roaring down the gulley. It crashed against the old stone archway, throwing up a spray which was unnaturally white against the gloomy backdrop of wet tree trunks and drooping ferns.

Jo decided not to venture any nearer. When she had retraced her steps to the gates of The Hideaway, she decided to test the strength of the flow by placing one foot cautiously on to the tarmac. This caused the water to surge angrily over the toe of her boot, creating a bow wave from verge to verge. A shout made her look up. Sh.e.l.ley was hurrying towards her, clad in a dripping anorak and pastel-coloured wellington boots. The thought of that pile of unreturned books flickered momentarily, but Jo could tell from the urgency of Sh.e.l.ley's approach that the Pre-Raphaelite Movement was probably the last thing on her mind.

'Is Marcus at home?' Sh.e.l.ley called out, when she was still some yards away.

'No. He left about four hours ago.'

'd.a.m.n. I was coming to see if he would help.'

'Why? What's wrong?'

'You know the little stream that runs through the field at the back of us? It's normally just a trickle but there's ma.s.ses of water coming down it. It goes through a sort of culvert under the track up to High Gilpin and the culvert's almost blocked, so the water's starting to find other places to go, and if we don't do something it's going to be into the Perrys' bungalow soon and maybe Honeysuckle Cottage and The Old Forge as well. There's some big stuff blocking the culvert that we urgently need to shift. I rang Mr Tyson to see if he could bring his tractor, but he's already out helping some motorist who's in trouble. Brian reckons we could do it between us if we had a bit more help he's down there now, with Fred Perry.'

Jo did not hesitate. 'We'll come. I'll get Sean.'

It took her only moments to explain the situation to Sean, who appeared to relish the idea of action and could scarcely be restrained long enough to don suitable clothing. They splashed along the road together, turning in through the gap in the stone wall where the track went up to High Gilpin. From here they could appreciate the problem at once. Just as was happening with the main artery down at the bridge, so this normally insignificant vein of water had trebled or quadrupled in volume, and was haemorrhaging across the field towards the dry-stone wall which marked the perimeter of the Perrys' back garden. The channel which marked the stream's pa.s.sage was deep enough to contain the water until it reached the culvert, where the blockage was starting to divert it elsewhere. Not only Brian and Fred, but also Sh.e.l.ley, Maisie and Gilda were labouring up to their ankles in water, prodding and poking at the edges of the obstruction with various implements brought out for the purpose. Brian was using his weight to lever a crowbar against something. His hood had fallen off to reveal a red knitted hat, which had taken on the appearance of a tea cosy fresh out of the washing machine and ready to peg on the line. When Sean and Jo reached the water's edge, the source of the problem became apparent. A large section of branch perhaps six feet long and half the circ.u.mference of a pillar box was lying within inches of the culvert, where an ever-growing acc.u.mulation of smaller debris was forming a dam against it.

'I still think the only answer may be to get my chainsaw,' Fred was saying. 'If we could reduce the size of the log, it would be easier to pull it away.'

'It'll take a long time to saw through it,' said Brian. 'And I'm not sure how it could be done, with the water level as it is. It certainly wouldn't do your chainsaw much good. Let's try to shift as much of the other stuff as we can, so that we're not pulling against that as well; then we'll have another go at shifting it.'

During this pause to discuss strategy, Jo could see that a climbing rope had been tied around the rogue branch where one end protruded from the water and some of the smaller branches and stones had already been dragged clear.

'The trouble is, there's more debris coming down all the time,' said Sh.e.l.ley.

'We need to get as much away as we can if we're going to have any chance of dragging that big branch out of the way,' Brian said.

'If we all work together, I believe we can do it.' It was the first time Gilda had spoken since Jo's arrival. She sounded brisk and sensible.

A variety of implements, rakes, a draw hoe, a crowbar and a mattock had already been a.s.sembled, but when all seven of them set to with a will, it immediately became clear that if serious injury was to be avoided, some degree of organization was required. Brian divided the process into three stages with himself, Fred and Sean standing in the water to drag the debris loose and shunt it in the direction of Maisie and Gilda, who then pulled it to the edge of the shallows where the two smallest women shifted everything right back from the water, so that there was no possibility of its being swept back against the log. They worked mostly in silence, with Brian grunting occasional instructions and Maisie reminding Fred to be careful on account of his dodgy hip.

'It's working,' said Sh.e.l.ley. 'There's less water coming across here than there was a few minutes ago.'

'It's only temporary,' said Brian. 'Unless we can get this big b.u.g.g.e.r shifted, it will all build up again in next to no time.' He leaned on the crowbar for a minute then said, 'Let's have another go at it, shall we?'

Brian organized them along the rope, making everyone stand well apart. 'We don't want to step straight back into one another,' he said. 'We'll have the men at the front, where there's more chance of losing your footing.'

Jo experienced an unexpected stab of pride as Sean took a place between Brian and Fred. He had worked as keenly as any of them in fact, if she had not known any better, she would have thought he was enjoying himself. She found herself immediately behind Gilda, looking straight at her broad shoulders and back. Gilda's wet cagoule shone like newly laid tar: she was in black from head to foot, cagoule, waterproof trousers and, singularly among the women, old-fashioned black wellingtons. (Jo and Maisie had country-dweller green, while Sh.e.l.ley's were pink with pictures of sheep on them.) Although they had exchanged no words directly, Jo knew that for the moment at least there was no animosity between herself and Gilda. All that mattered was curbing that rushing water before it got too far across the field and invaded people's homes and gardens.

'Take up the slack,' Brian instructed, sounding for all the world like the captain of a tug o' war team. Jo sensed that, in an odd sort of way, Brian was enjoying himself too. His voice echoed across the open ground, reducing the rain to a whisper, putting the beck on notice that it might not be having things all its own way for very long. 'On three. One, two, threeee ...'

'I wonder if it's worth trying Mr Tyson again,' mused Maisie, not really loud enough for anyone but Jo and Sh.e.l.ley, who were nearest, to hear.

'One, two, threeee ...'

'I don't think we're going to do it without the tractor.' Maisie's voice was much louder this time, and carried more conviction.

'Rubbish,' Brian bawled back. 'How do you think people managed before there were telephones and tractors? Really put your backs into it this time.' His voice rose to a roar. 'One, two, THREEEE ...'

Whether it was a collective determination not to be outdone by pre-industrial man, or fear of Brian on the warpath, there was a different feeling on the rope and all of them even Sh.e.l.ley, who was right at the rear felt a movement on the end of the line.

'That's it,' yelled Brian. 'We've got it moving now. OK, Sean, me lad? You all right Fred? Ready? Again one two, threeee ...'

'That's got it this time,' cried Gilda, who, unlike Jo, could see the end of the obstructing branch. 'We must have moved it a good six inches with that last pull.'

'Everyone move round. Change the angle.' Brian shouted, waving an arm to indicate the direction in which they needed to move. 'We've got the b.u.g.g.e.r. Now we need to shift it sideways, so that it starts to swing round this way, right out of the beck. We've already freed up a lot of the channel. Come on, let's have another big effort ...'

It took perhaps fifteen minutes of steady work before the huge branch was dragged into a satisfactory position. The Easter Bridge tug o' war team had been victorious in its first and only contest, and with the task accomplished there was almost a reluctance to abandon the site of battle. They nodded to one another in the near darkness, sharing their moment of triumph.

Jo's back and shoulders ached horribly, but in spite of this she felt renewed. The task seemed to have galvanized those brittle twigs inside her into sinew and solid bone. Looking round at the faces of the others, she knew that whatever mysterious energy had seized her, they were gripped by it too. Fred had forgotten that he was seventy-two; Sh.e.l.ley was grinning in spite of the rain trickling down her face and neck; Sean looked shyly pleased with himself and at least an inch taller.