The wind was rising; it plucked restlessly at the
storm-weathered stone walls and breathed in the
chimney. It stroked the seaโs glittering moonlit surface to
little peaks and rustled drily amongst the stiff broken
bracken on the cliff. The row of coastguard cottages turned
blank eyes to the long rollers that creamed over the sand,
sinking away to a delicate salty froth at the tideโs reach.
A cloud slid across the moonโs round bright face. On the
steep, slippery, gorse-plucking cliff path, a yellow
light flickered and danced and disappeared.
Drifting between uneasy sleep and wakefulness, Cordelia
startled wide awake, eyes straining in the darkness. As she
slipped out of bed and crossed to the window the moon rose
free of the cloud, laying silver and black patterns across
the floor. Out at sea, the brilliance of its shining path,
fractured with light like splintered glass, cast the water
on each side of it into an oily blackness. Once she would
have pulled on some clothes and climbed down the steep
granite staircase to the tiny cove below the cottage; now,
common sense prevailed: she had a long journey to make in
the morning. Yet she lingered, bewitched as she always was
by the unearthly magic; watching the black swirl of the tide
round the shining rocks.
Was that a figure on the path below or clouds crossing on
the moon? Alert, she stared downwards into the shifting,
shadowy darkness where shapes thickened and dislimned as
vaporous mist drifted and clung along the cliff edge. Behind
her the bedroom door swung silently open and a large pale
shape loomed. Sensing a presence, glancing backwards, she
muffled a tiny scream.
โMcGregor, you wretch. I wish you wouldnโt do that.โ
The tall, gaunt deerhound padded gently to her side and she
laid her hand on his rough head. They stared together into
the night. To the west, beyond Stoke Point, the squat,
bright-lit ferry from Plymouth edged into sight,
chugging its way to Roscoff. No other light showed.
โYou would have barked, wouldnโt you? If anyone were out
there, you would have barked. Well, you can stay here now.
No more wandering round the house in the dark. On your bed.
Go on.โ
The great hound obeyed; collapsing quietly onto a blanket of
tartan fleece, his eyes watchful, glinting. Cordelia climbed
back into bed and pulled the quilt up high, smiling a secret
smile; thinking about the morning. Even after thirty years
as a journalist she was still excited by the prospect of
journeys and new assignments, and this one promised to be
fun: a drive into Gloucestershire to find an ancient soke
and to interview its almost equally ancient owner โ and a
meeting on a narrowboat with her lover.
© 2003-2026