Echoes of the Dance by Marcia Willett Page A

Walkhampton Common towards Sharpitor.
    There – how many years ago? – she’d stood with Alex Gillespie, shivering under frosty stars, blind with moonlight, taking the first steps away from an empty marriage into her one true love affair.
    â€˜. . . I think I love you. I know you’re not free. I know there are all sorts of problems. But do you want to try to resolve them . . . ?’
    â€˜I’m afraid. If I start, I’m afraid that I shan’t know how to stop.’
    The climbers were beside her now, exclaiming at the view and beaming at her, including her in their pleasure. She smiled back at them and paused to speak to the dog – a large boisterous person of an indeterminate breeding – before beginning the descent to the car.
    Halfway home she remembered that Monica was coming to tea. Kate cursed briefly and glanced at her watch; she’d spent much longer on Pew Tor than she’d realized. Yesterday she’d met Nat and Monica at the pub for Sunday lunch and, hearing that Nat had arranged to keep the following morning free but would be working in the afternoon, she’d invited Monica to tea. The invitation had been accepted readily enough but Kate had noticed a preoccupation that seemed to be exercising an unusual restraint on Monica’s typically sharp observations regarding Nat’s work or Janna’s shortcomings. Only when Kate began to talk about Floss did Monica begin to look more alert; asking how Roly was and saying that she intended to visit him.
    â€˜We thought we’d go down one evening,’ Nat had agreed, ‘if I can finish early . . .’
    â€˜Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Monica had interrupted rather vaguely. ‘I’ll just pop down on my own. After all, you can see him almost any weekend. I’ll go down on Tuesday, perhaps.’
    Nat’s look of surprise hadn’t escaped Kate and she’d turned the conversation away to her own dilemma of whether or not to sell her house, hoping that this would keep them on less controversial subjects until lunch was finished.
    As she parked the car and hurried into the house, Kate gave thanks that she’d got into the habit of keeping a few emergency supplies in readiness for the arrival at short notice of Guy and Giles with their young families: scones and cakes in the freezer; baked beans and pasta in the larder. Monica certainly wouldn’t want baked beans but perhaps some scones with crab-apple jelly followed by a slice of Victoria sponge might be acceptable. She hurried about, putting out her prettiest china, knowing that Monica would notice – would expect a certain amount of effort to be made.
    That air of expectation was odd; a belief in some kind of divine right that other people should put themselves out on her behalf.
    And the really odd thing, thought Kate, was that this absolute sense of what was due to her was so strong that you found yourself dashing about finding long unused tea-sets and linen napkins. If it had been Cass, say, you wouldn’t have hesitated to give her a perfectly ordinary mug and a piece of paper towel. It was even worse than that. You found yourself responding to some deeper need in Monica, an emptiness that was so intense that you actually wanted to fill it in some way.
    â€˜Which is crazy,’ muttered Kate crossly, scooping butter from the carton into a dish. ‘What can she possibly need? She has a devoted husband and a villa in Portugal; a lovely son and loads of money. Even Roly can’t bear to upset her . . .’
    Washing her hands, drying them on the roller towel, she found that her momentary irritation had passed and she was smiling a little. The thought of Roly and Bevis, and Uncle Bernard in his drawer, brought her some measure of calm: imagining them in that strange barn of a house by the ford soothed her. Ever since David had died she was becoming aware of the quality of Roly’s undemanding constancy