The Way We Were_ A Novel - Marcia Willett [5]
Yet all the while the formless panic grows and clutches at her heart and churns in her stomach, and it is with instinctive misgiving that she plunges down the narrow lane between high banks; a black tunnel where the remaining twilight is shut out and the headlights reflect back off the dancing snow, almost blinding her. Another cattle grid, with a high wall to the left and the snow-covered verges strewn with huge boulders; and almost too late she sees the lane leading off to the right. As she hastily manoeuvres the van she feels its huge bulk begin to skid out of control, and she stamps on the brakes, screaming with terror as it slides side-ways into one of the granite blocks.
Trembling violently, not capable even of comforting the Turk who has been flung to the floor and is whining piteously, Tiggy covers her face with her hands. She is rendered powerless by fear, unable to move lest something more terrible should occur; yet all the while she has the impression that Julia is beside her, comforting and encouraging her. She raises her head and sees a distant light shining steadily through the blizzard that whirls across the high moor: Trescairn.
Slowly she stretches her cramped muscles, breathes deeply, and turns to reassure the Turk. She realizes that the engine is still running; with trembling limbs she presses her left foot down gingerly on the clutch pedal and very carefully pushes the stick into bottom gear, then treads gently, very gently, on the accelerator. Vibrating loudly, its wheels spinning to get a purchase on the small stones and slippery surface, the van slowly begins to move; still shaking, Tiggy steers carefully into the mouth of the lane, heading into the blinding snow and up on to the moor. The five-bar gate stands wide open and with little sobs of relief she turns on to the smoother surface of the drive and up towards the house.
As she comes to a halt beside an open-fronted barn, the front door is flung open, light streams across snowy yard, and Julia is beside her, opening the driver's door, almost dragging Tiggy from her seat, embracing her.
‘Oh God, I've been so worried,’ she cries. ‘I thought you might be stuck somewhere … I hoped you might telephone … could have warned you about the snow …’
With Julia's arm around her, supporting her, her voice in her ear, Tiggy is assailed by another strong sense of déjà vu. All this is familiar.
‘Come on,’ Julia is saying. ‘Let's get inside and give you something to eat and drink. Everything's all right now you're here. Oh, there's the Turk. Good girl, then. Come on,’ and they all cross the yard, heads bent against the wind and the snow, and go together into the house.
The little room is filled with an eerie light: snowlight. It reflects off the pale walls and flows across the narrow bed where Tiggy is curled beneath the quilt with the Turk comfortably asleep on her feet. Tiggy raises herself on one elbow, frowning at the square of window, puzzled as much by the deep silence as by the quality of the light. Pushing back the quilt she steps shivering out of the bed and goes to the window. Holding aside a curtain in each hand she stares out in amazement at the scene. The moor flows away from the house in a snow-covered tidal sweep that washes against grey granite peaks and laps at green-black stands of fir. Almost hidden in a fold of land, the square tower of St Breward's church stands starkly outlined amidst bare tree-tops and, beyond again, a sinuous curve of silver water snakes its way out to the distant sea.
The tranquillity and beauty of the scene hold Tiggy spell-bound; gradually she is possessed with a profound sense of peace and contentment. Here, in this immense landscape, the barriers between past and present, the living and the dead, seem non-existent and, unexpectedly filled with this new joyful awareness, she believes that she is on the brink of discovering a great truth: something that will