A Week in Winter: A Novel Page 17

  Travelling back to Winchester, Posy was thinking about Hugh. She’d had a massive crush on him when she was fourteen, which even now embarrassed her when she remembered it. Fortunately, Hugh had handled it with such tremendous tact that she still wasn’t quite certain whether he’d really been aware of it. She reminded herself that she’d been so sensitive about it, so anxious lest she made a fool of herself, that it was perfectly reasonable to believe that Hugh had noticed nothing. Being at school in London, only able to visit Devon occasionally, the infatuation had soon dwindled for lack of sustenance but she’d retained an affection for him. Perhaps it was the romantic setting which kept him at the forefront of her mind, especially now with all the upheaval going on at home. To live in the country with dogs and horses had always seemed like heaven and, just lately, she’d felt that she and Hugh were growing closer. He always seemed so pleased to see her, to really care about her, and he’d been so sweet when she’d poured out her fears about her father. Knowing that Hugh was very reserved when it came to personal matters, she was secretly very proud that he’d told her about his guilt over Charlotte’s death as well as describing the way he’d felt about Lucinda. It had strengthened the bond of friendship between them, enabling her to confide in him.

  It was already dark outside and Posy stared thoughtfully at her reflection in the window. Of course, it was silly, really, to imagine anything romantic happening between them. After all, he was nearly fifteen years older than she was. To him, she must still seem like a kid. For some reason Posy found herself thinking of the girl she’d met at the Mill on Saturday morning. How marvellous to look like that; to have those wonderful cheekbones and green eyes, and that clever way of twisting her scarf round her head. She’d had such style, such confidence. Of course, she was probably twenty-six or seven, had some brilliant career in the City and a host of admirers. Posy sighed enviously, dragged her book from her holdall and settled down to read.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The agent was already waiting for Melissa. His hatchback was in the yard and he was standing by the gate in the cold, bright sunshine. He raised a hand to her, swung wide the gate so that she could drive in, and then hurried round to open her door for her. She smiled at him as she climbed out, noting the fresh, newly scrubbed complexion and floppy fair hair. He wore a Barbour over his dark suit and his silk tie was adorned with dancing polar bears.

  ‘Mr Cruikshank.’ She shook his hand as he beamed at her. ‘What a fantastic morning.’

  ‘It’s simply perfect, Mrs … er, Miss Clayton.’

  He hesitated questioningly but she made no attempt to clarify the matter, leading the way through the smaller gate into the front garden whilst he followed, fumbling with the keys. She waited impatiently as he fitted the key into the lock, opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

  ‘I’m not too good at the official bit,’ he told her. ‘It always seems a case of stating the obvious, so I tend to let the client decide which room he’s looking at, if you see what I mean.’ He glanced at some papers he held. ‘You’ve brought the details with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She was looking down the hall, noting how the stairs were placed. ‘I do agree with you, actually. It’s so irritating to be told what a kitchen is. Or a bathroom.’

  He looked pleased, flattered that she agreed with him so readily. ‘Well then. I’ll simply say that the whole place has just been thoroughly renovated. No expense has been spared. New wiring and plumbing …’

  She went before him into the sitting room, pulling the scarf from her hair, and stood rapt with delight, imagining a huge log fire burning in the massive granite fireplace.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he remarked, but when she didn’t answer he mistook her silence and began to speak about gas fires. ‘They can look quite real, you know, and they’re frightfully efficient. Removes the back-breaking bit and cuts down mess…’

  She glanced at him absently and, with a last look about the room, crossed the hall to the study. He followed her, watching as she wandered about. She touched the woodburning stove and snatched her hand away quickly, frowning.

  ‘ … quite sensible to install a woodburner,’ he was saying now. ‘More economical. Perhaps that would be a good idea for the sitting room …’

  ‘Is this the way to the kitchen?’ Melissa asked, striding down the hall, flinging open a door. ‘Ooooh …’

  Mr Cruikshank stood at her shoulder. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it? Imagine looking out at that every morning.’

  Melissa felt obliged to contribute something; to reassure him. ‘It’s utterly wonderful,’ she said sincerely—and he gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘The stove is fantastic,’ he said, happy now that he’d had a positive reaction. ‘It heats the water too, and supplies a heated towel rail in the bathroom and a radiator in the master bedroom. Lady Todhunter very sensibly keeps it alight so as to keep the house aired.’

  ‘It feels very warm.’ She glanced round the huge kitchen. ‘It’s north-facing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wonderfully cool in summer,’ he said quickly. ‘This slate floor is a masterpiece. Now, at this end there’s the old dairy which has been converted to a larder and utility room. The other side, over here, is the office and a loo and a storeroom. Plenty of space. Did you say you had a family, um, Mrs Clayton?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have a family,’ she answered airily, looking into the office. ‘May I see upstairs?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘Back into the hall. Lovely old original oak staircase.’

  She ran up lightly before him. The staircase turned to the right and opened into a passage with a room on each side. On she went; up two steps, round a corner, down three steps. She stopped, enchanted. There was a wide landing and a big window with a deep seat, where one could sit and stare out at the moor.

  ‘ … five bedrooms,’ he was saying as he caught her up. ‘One’s very small but the biggest room has windows both east and south. Here we are …’

  ‘No en suite bathroom?’ she asked idly, teasingly, as she followed him into the large, sunny room.

  ‘Rob Abbot stuck his heels in.’ He sounded almost vexed. ‘And Lady Todhunter agreed with him. She said it was a farmhouse not a hotel.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Melissa, strolling over to the window and staring down into the lane. ‘But there are two bathrooms?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied quickly. ‘One’s tiny but it’s there.’

  The rooks were still busy in their tree, their raucous cries ringing in the peaceful, icy air. She leaned her forehead against the pane of glass, aware of a deep happiness.

  ‘I love it,’ she said dreamily. ‘I absolutely love it.’

  A short silence.

  ‘Well.’ Mr Cruikshank sounded confused. ‘Well, then. Miss… er, Mrs—’

  ‘I’d like another look,’ she said, turning swiftly round. ‘Alone. I need to be quite alone.’

  His startled expression made her want to laugh. ‘Of course. I quite understand. I’ll be downstairs. Take all the time you need.’

  He went away, across the landing, along the passage, down the stairs. When she could no longer hear him she gasped, a huge, deep breath, and whirled lightly on her toes. Sunshine splashed on the warm cream wall and flowed down on to the bare varnished boards. Quickly she went from room to room, learning them, imagining them furnished and lived in, and when she could delay no longer she went downstairs. She saw the front door close tactfully behind the agent and paused in the hall before going once more into the sitting room and study, and finally the kitchen.

  Presently she went to find him. He was on the lawn, examining the shrubs, but turned as she approached, watching her eagerly.

  ‘It’s … perfect,’ she said.

  He smiled blindingly at her. ‘I have to say I agree with you. If I had the money I’d buy it myself.’

  ‘Would you?’ She smiled back at him. ‘You don’t look like a countryman, Mr Cruikshank.’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s what Rob Abbot said.’ He was too shy to insist that she should call him Ned. ‘I do love the country but actually I’m transferring to the London branch. Should be fun …’

  ‘Rob Abbot?’ She was frowning, not really paying attention. ‘You mentioned him before. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s the chap who did all the work on the place. Lady Todhunter had terrific faith in him but he likes his own way, does Rob. He’s a great guy, though. We’ve become good chums since the key business.’

  ‘Key business?’

  Standing in the shelter of the tall shrubs, warm in the sunshine, he told her about the mystery of the keys, the locked rooms, the fear of a squatter.

  ‘How strange,’ she murmured. ‘How very strange.’

  ‘All done with now, though,’ he said quickly, fearing that he might have given her a distaste for the house. ‘It all came to nothing. It’s a wonderful position, isn’t it? So peaceful.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She turned away from him, biting her lip.

  ‘Well.’ He didn’t want to sound too eager. ‘Seen enough inside? Want to have a look at the outbuildings?’

  ‘What I’d really like,’ she said persuasively, ‘is to spend some time getting to know the place. I live a long way away, Mr Cruikshank, and I can’t simply pop up and down. Do you think I could have the key, just for a couple of days?’

  He looked dismayed. ‘I don’t think I could do that. Company policy …’

  ‘After all, the place is empty, isn’t it? It’s not as if I’m going to make off with the furniture.’

  ‘We’re simply not allowed, you see …’

  ‘It’s a lot of money …’

  Another pause.

  ‘I could come again, any time you like,’ he said unhappily. ‘I’m honestly not being difficult.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ she said wistfully. ‘You see, if I could have the key I shouldn’t bother to go and see all the other houses I have lined up. I’m certain I should just settle for this one. On the other hand …’

  She shrugged and he stared at her desperately.

  ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’

  ‘But didn’t you say that you were transferring to London?’

  He looked alarmed. ‘Same company …’

  ‘But a long way off. When are you leaving?’

  ‘Well, this weekend, actually.’ He brightened. ‘Listen. Rob Abbot has a set of keys. He sometimes shows clients round only I couldn’t catch him this morning. Supposing I arrange with him—’

  ‘What a good idea,’ she interrupted swiftly. ‘You can say that Mr Abbot has mislaid his keys and you’ve left yours with him so that he can show people round. Meanwhile I’ll take my time, measure a few things, and then leave the keys with Mr Abbot. Brilliant! How clever you are, Mr Cruikshank.’

  ‘Well.’ He hesitated, his intention having been quite different but somehow finding it impossible to say so. She was certainly very keen and, after all, it wasn’t a bad story and he’d be gone by the weekend. ‘I suppose so. But you mustn’t drop me in it at the office.’

  ‘As if I would.’ Her smile was brilliant. ‘Now, how can I contact Mr Abbot? I promise I shan’t keep the keys a moment longer than I need.’

  She accompanied him into the yard, promising to be in touch very soon, and went out into the lane to wave him off, shutting the gate behind her, the keys held tightly in her hand. When the noise of the engine had died away, and the only sounds she could hear were the rooks’ strident conversation and the high, thin cries of the lambs, she turned very slowly and looked up at the house.

  Rob Abbot locked the door of his mobile home, which was parked in the corner of the farmer’s field, climbed the stile and set out over the moor. The house stood above him washed warm by the evening sun, the grove of trees creating a dark backdrop. It was becoming more difficult, with spring drawing on, to make his entrances and exits unseen but he’d dropped a few hints that he was caretaking the place and hoped that this was enough to satisfy any inquisitive eyes. He knew that he was obsessed but he simply couldn’t help himself; from the earliest days the house had charmed him. He remembered standing in the damp empty rooms, seeing all the character and beauty beneath sagging wallpaper and peeling paint; envisaging the grain and sheen of oak beneath scratched paint and dull varnish. The vision had remained before him as he’d worked, as each room had responded to his loving care. After a while he’d been unable to bear to leave the house. It had been impossible to imagine anyone else living there. He’d needed to return, once he’d dropped the men off, so as to be alone in the house, to feel the peace settling on it again after the hammering and sawing and general busyness of the day. He’d park the pick-up by his caravan and, packing up a few necessities, he’d slip away, over the stile and across the moor in the shadow of the thorn, letting himself in by the side door.

  Pausing in his climb, staring up at the windows which reflected the blazing fire of the sunset, he laughed as he recalled how he’d fought a rearguard action with Lady Todhunter and the wretched Ned Cruikshank. Ned was easy meat, of course, but Lady Todhunter was quite a different kettle of fish. He could still remember the shock he’d had that morning when he’d come round the corner of the house and found her standing in the yard. Rob blew out his lips, remembering his fear that she might guess what was going on. He’d suggested she should move her car into the yard, so as to give him time to dash back into the house and hide all obvious signs of occupation, but at every step his heart had been in his mouth.

  ‘It doesn’t feel as cold as I’d expected,’ she’d said, drinking her tea, ‘and what’s that smell. Bacon?’

  He’d had to think on his feet with that one and he’d come out with a feeble suggestion of ghosts. It had distracted her—but only momentarily—and he was ready for her when they got to the sitting room and she’d asked if he’d been lighting fires. Nevertheless, it had been a very nasty moment. Once she’d agreed that he should keep an eye on the place, light up the Esse, make certain that the place was warm, it had made life much easier, giving him an excuse for being around at odd moments—but he’d lost his secret, private quarters. The office, with the loo and storeroom, had made a perfect base within the house. He’d been able to keep his bits of furniture, a cache of food, some blankets, well out of the sight of prying eyes. How his heart had pumped when she’d suggested breaking the door down while she watched. The idea of squatters had been a brilliant one; it had bought him the time he needed but that was all. At least he’d been given the opportunity to carry on working on the office, of staying in the house, but with Ned Cruikshank rolling up with potential buyers his peace of mind was shattered. Fortunately, nobody as yet had asked to see what was inside the locked cupboard under the stairs.

  Striding over the sheep-nibbled turf, Rob smiled to himself as he thought of how eagerly Ned had accepted him as a caretaker, as someone responsible enough to show clients round. The fact that Lady Todhunter trusted him was enough for Ned, always glad to be saved the long drive from Truro, and how easy it had been to drop a word, here and there, to put those clients off and frighten them away. For how much longer, he wondered, could he hold out before someone made an offer and pipped him to the post. His fists, driven into his pockets, tensed with frustration. He’d almost exhausted his list of cash-raising possibilities and time was running out. Oh, it was easy to deter potential buyers with horror stories of the climate when the rain was lashing down, or you couldn’t see ten feet beyond the window because of rolling mist, but with the summer ahead it would be much more difficult.

  Glancing up, as he neared the house, he frowned, narrowing his eyes. He thought he saw someone standing at the kitchen window, staring out over the moor. Instinctively he drew back into the shadow of the thorn, watching. The sun was settling lower now and the dark window seemed to frame a pale, insubstantial form; a woman looking out. He’d imagined it before, and his stories of ghosts weren’t quite without foundation, but his ghosts were simply t
he kindly echoes of those who had gone before and he did not fear them. He mocked at himself—he was letting the house get to him, he knew that—and when he looked again there was nothing there. He covered the last few yards swiftly, swung himself over the ring fence, checked that Ned Cruikshank’s car was not in the yard and finally let himself in through the back door.

  The kitchen felt warm and welcoming and he breathed more easily, relaxing as usual now that he was home. He took the frozen dinner from his backpack, peeled off the lid and put the silver foil dish into the oven of the Esse. Next he stood a carton of milk on the draining board and pushed the kettle on to the hotplate. A china mug stood upside down on the draining board and he placed it the right way up and took a tea caddy and a bag of sugar from the cupboard under the sink. He laid the backpack on the floor, first removing his mobile telephone, and then stood for a moment, looking at the mobile and frowning. Laying it beside the mug he went out into the hall, taking a key ring from his pocket as he went. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated, trying to identify the faint, elusive scent which lingered, drifting in the cooler air of the hall. Shaking his head, wondering if Ned had been round earlier with a client, Rob unlocked the small padlock and opened the cupboard door. First he brought out a gateleg table, then a rickety, cane-seated chair, and finally two large beanbags. He took the table and chair into the kitchen, set them up beside the Esse and then went back through the hall and into the sitting room. Here he picked up a long, heavy, cast-iron poker, pushed together the remains of burned wood and hot ashes and then carefully placed other logs on top. From the pile of wood, stacked at one side of the inglenook, he drew out a pair of bellows and began to blow new life into the ashes. Presently, when he was satisfied that the fire was well alight, he went out into the hall, returning with the beanbags which he put together before the fire.

  As he straightened up he paused, listening intently. Was that a footfall in the big front bedroom overhead? He glanced at his watch, shrugging off his jitters, and then out at the twilight, wondering whether to fasten the shutters. Unwilling to close out the quiet, gold-flushed evening, he went back to the kitchen and made himself a mug of tea. Stirring in the sugar, he stood looking out over the flowing, rippling moorland, enjoying the last of the sunset, listening to the blackbird who was singing in the garden. He sipped the hot sweet tea with pleasure, filled with a poignant sense of undefined longing which these very early spring evenings often induced, aware of the house breathing around him, echoing with former lives and other passions. With a sigh, he set down the mug and went back to build up the fire.