‘We mustn’t,’ she sighs, but already her fingers are tugging at the buttons of his shirt. She parts her legs and his hands move under her skirt, his fingertips grazing the bare skin above her silk stockings.
‘Do you want me to stop?’ he asks, his breath hot against her neck.
But she draws him to her again, pressing her mouth against his ear to whisper her answer. ‘Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.’
Part Two
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It’s in the shadows of the night that I move most freely. The watchman, patrolling his domain, walking the corridors, moving silently from room to room. It’s in the dark that I take up the mantle. I rest on their chairs, spray their cologne, taste their wine and touch their fine things. Lost in sleep, they do not know how I move through their world – how I occupy their space.
Perhaps it’s innocence – blind trust – or just a naive surety of their place in this world – that makes me invisible to them. Maybe it’s simple arrogance; what the hierarchy demands. Whatever the reason, they assume – blindly – that they go about their lives unseen – that their whispers slip away unheard and that their deeds pass unnoticed. But a good watchman sees it all. A good watchman notices everything.
Something moves in the darkness; the softest tread of feet moving on wooden floorboards. I fall back into the shadows and a figure hurries by, travelling with such haste they do not notice me here. They do not know that I see them tapping at the door, pushing on the door handle, sliding into the darkened room. They do not know that I stand here in the corridor, a witness to their soft sighs, the creaking bed springs, the sounds of the forbidden.
But I am here . . . I am watching . . . I am waiting.
Chapter 14
‘Come on, you piece of junk,’ Maggie murmurs, twisting the key again in the ignition, listening to the car engine turn over until with a last choked gasp, it springs to life. She presses her foot on the accelerator and revs it hard. Thank God. She’s not sure she can deal with another dysfunctional thing right now.
She knows the errand is a ruse on Jane’s part, but she has decided to play along, to prove to herself as much as to Jane that she isn’t hiding from the world. If Jane needs butter to make pastry for her treacle tart, then butter she shall have. A short drive to the village shop, some polite small talk with Mrs Abbott behind the counter and then home again. How hard can it be?
She releases the handbrake and steers the car up the rutted drive, passing beneath the tall beech trees then out through the iron gates. Bursts of pink foxgloves and dandelions sway on the verge as she passes. Overhead, perfect white clouds dot an even blue sky. Even Maggie’s lack of sleep and preoccupations with the house can’t hide the beauty of the day.
Taking a bend in the lane, her heart skips a beat as she spots a familiar figure dressed in cricket whites walking a little ahead of her. She doesn’t know what to do. It would be rude to barrel past him, but she doesn’t know how Will might react if she stops. In the end, good manners prevail. She slams on the brakes, jerking to a halt beside him. ‘Hello,’ she waves. ‘On your way to a match?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift.’
He hesitates, but after a moment shakes his head. ‘No thanks. I’m fine walking.’
She can’t read his expression behind his sunglasses but something about his cool delivery annoys her. She didn’t have to stop for him. ‘But I’m going right past the green,’ she says, the exasperation evident in her voice.
Will looks up and down the lane before throwing up his hands and opening the passenger door. ‘Thanks,’ he says, sliding in beside her, but she notices how he keeps his face turned straight ahead. ‘Did the plumber get the tap sorted for you?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, 150 quid later.’
Will winces. ‘Ouch.’
‘I’m glad to see you, actually,’ she says, pulling away from the verge, deciding it might be best to keep their conversation strictly business. ‘I’ve been going through Gran’s paperwork.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Not really.’ She pauses, wondering how much to say before deciding she might as well come right out with it. ‘Being straight up, we’re in a bit of financial difficulty. But I think you probably knew that already?’
‘I had my suspicions.’
‘Well in the short term, it would be great if you’d stick around and help us out . . . if you want to, that is?’ she adds quickly. ‘I’ll make sure you’re paid.’
He shrugs but keeps his face fixed on the road.
‘I’d really like it if you did,’ she adds, pushing him for something more.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’m happy to see through my commitment to Lillian.’
She changes gear, taking a bend in the road just a little too fast. Will slides in his seat towards her before quickly adjusting himself.
‘I’ve got a bit of a job keeping Cloudesley solvent and habitable for Lillian. She’s absolutely determined to stay on here . . . says the only way she’s leaving is in a box. But, as we both saw first hand the other night, the house is in dire need of some repairs.’
‘Right.’
She’s beginning to overshare, and Will’s inscrutable manner is unsettling, but she can’t seem to stop herself. It’s either that or they sit together in awkward silence. ‘I was wondering about the stables, whether we might rent them out to local riders, to raise a little capital. What do you think?’
Will shakes his head. ‘They’re in a bad way. You’d need to do some significant work before you could put animals in there.’
‘I was afraid you were going to say that. Still,’ she says, hating the forced brightness in her voice, ‘it was just one idea. I’m sure there will be others.’
After another silence, Will clears his throat. ‘The land is valuable. The meadow could be good for grazing livestock, if the retaining wall were repaired. You could sell it, or rent it out to a local farmer.’
Maggie nods. ‘It’s a good idea, but one field is never going to raise the kind of money I need to carry out the necessary work on the house. I was wondering about offering bed and breakfast . . . but really, who’s going to want to come and stay here with the rooms in their current state? “Welcome to Cloudesley – please excuse the damp, the leaks, the faulty electrics and the resident mice.”’
She falls silent as they pass the old stone church and carry on towards the pub at the edge of the village green. The usually sleepy lane is filled with cars. Red and white sun shades stand to attention in the pub garden. Children play on the green in the distance. ‘How much money do you think we’ve spent in that place over the years?’ she asks, nodding at the Old Swan, trying for a change of tack. ‘Between the three of us I think we must have funded that fancy new dining conservatory out the back. We were in there almost every Friday night, as soon as I turned eighteen.’
Will nods, pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead. ‘Gregory was a stickler for the ID, wasn’t he?’
‘Do you remember the night Gus persuaded him to let him serve behind the bar? We had that lock-in.’
‘Oh God,’ groans Will. ‘Don’t remind me. The “cocktails” Gus made. I was so ill.’
Maggie laughs. ‘Wasn’t that the night you lost your key and tried to break into Damson House through the downstairs bathroom window?’
‘And Dad phoned the police not realising it was us,’ he finishes for her. ‘Yep. Same night.’
Maggie laughs. ‘Your dad’s face.’
Will glances at her, the smile still written on his face, but as their eyes lock, his face seems to freeze.
‘I can still picture it,’ she says.
Will nods but he is looking away again, now at the green, surveying the busy scene ahead. ‘Why don’t you drop me here,’ he says.
‘I’ll take you up to the pavilion. It’s no tr
ouble,’ she says.
Will doesn’t reply but she can see his glance at the crowds milling in the distance, the sudden tension in his jaw, and she understands. He’d rather not be seen with her. ‘Oh. Of course,’ she says, flushing red with the realisation. ‘Here?’
He nods and lowers his sunglasses again. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘No problem.’
He slides out of the car without a backwards glance but just before she disappears around the bend in the road she glances in her rear-view mirror and sees him standing on the grass verge, exactly where she left him. It’s hard to tell, but it looks as if he is staring after her. She shakes her head. Inscrutable Will.
She drives on through the village, past the community tennis courts, the allotments and the tiny redbrick primary school she’d briefly attended before boarding school, until she finds herself at the shop, a sign advertising a local ice-cream brand swinging in the breeze and the parish noticeboard fluttering with adverts and notices. A poster for the annual flower show is tacked to the inside of the door – a colourful design drawn by a local school student.
Inside, Mrs Abbott is sitting behind the till, flicking through a catalogue and punching numbers into a calculator. Behind her are rows and rows of candy jars lined on shelves, giving the place the feel of a curious, old-fashioned apothecary. ‘I’ll be right with you,’ she calls without looking up from her sums. Maggie heads straight to the back of the store and finds the butter she needs before returning to the counter. She waits a moment, bracing herself.
‘Right then,’ Mrs Abbott says, lifting her head and giving Maggie a smile. Maggie watches as recognition dawns, the woman’s eyes widening slightly, the smile faltering, then rushing back, brighter, more exaggerated. ‘Oh, hello, love. I didn’t realise . . . you’re back, are you?’
‘Yes,’ says Maggie with a faint smile. ‘I’m back.’
‘Helping your grandmother up at the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was sorry to hear she’d been poorly. How is she now?’
‘She’s OK. Getting stronger.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
There is an awkward silence. Maggie fidgets at the counter then reaches for a packet of mints. ‘Just these and the butter, thanks.’ She rummages in her purse. ‘I see the flower show’s on again soon,’ she says, searching for small talk.
‘Every year, like clockwork. Will you be sticking around for it?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
Mrs Abbott nods, and then rolls her eyes with good humour. ‘I swear there is more and more to do for it each year. The committee want to add an old-fashioned carousel and an inflatable Wipeout course this year, I ask you.’
‘That sounds like a lot of work.’
‘You’re telling me! And I’ve still got the marquee and furniture hire to sort . . . and all the signage, not to mention the permits to chase with the local council.’ She lowers her voice slightly. ‘Patricia Lovell up at the vicarage wants everything “vintage” themed this year. She wants it all 1950s Country Living style. You know the sort of thing: pastel bunting, flowers in jam jars and mismatched teacups.’ She rolls her eyes, showing Maggie exactly what she makes of that idea.
Maggie thinks for a moment. ‘I could help with the flowers. We have masses at Cloudesley. They’re just going to waste in the garden. I could arrange them in jam jars for the tea tent and deliver them on the day. How many would you need?’
Mrs Abbott looks thoughtful. ‘Well, I don’t know. Twenty, maybe thirty small arrangements.’
Maggie nods. ‘Let me do it.’
‘Are you sure, love? That’s awfully nice of you and it’d be a huge weight off my mind.’
‘Leave it with me,’ says Maggie, feeling pleased to help. ‘I’d like to contribute.’
The bell over the door rings, announcing a new customer. Maggie turns, her smile fixing awkwardly as she comes face to face with a tall woman in a blue chambray dress, her grey hair cut into a neat bob, a wicker basket slung over one arm. Maggie swallows. It’s as though the air in the tiny shop has suddenly been sucked out. ‘Hello, Mary,’ she says.
The woman stops in the entrance. ‘Maggie.’
Maggie can feel the shopkeeper’s gaze flickering between them, though Mary keeps her eyes fixed on Maggie as the awkward silence deepens. ‘Will told me you were back,’ she says at last.
‘Yes.’ Maggie tries to resurrect her smile then shrugs. ‘Here I am.’ The words sound flippant, her nerves twisting them into something cold and brusque and she sees Mary Mortimer flinch.
The similarity between Mary and her two sons is suddenly laid bare to Maggie in a way she has never noticed before. She sees the echo of both Gus and Will in her almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones, the proud chin.
‘I was sorry to hear about your grandmother,’ Mary says, her voice still cold. ‘Do pass on my regards.’
‘Thank you.’ She notices that Mrs Abbott has turned away and begun fiddling with her calculator again, clearly embarrassed and seeking distraction from the soap opera playing out in her store. Maggie swallows, knowing that the stage is now hers, feeling the long-awaited apology hanging over her. ‘I – I wondered about coming to see you and David. I wanted to, but . . . I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.’
Mary doesn’t give anything away; she merely raises an eyebrow.
‘I wanted to explain . . .’ Maggie blunders on. ‘To tell you why . . . well, you know . . . to apologise.’ Mary still doesn’t say a word, the only sign of any emotion the two spots of colour burning on her cheeks. ‘I am really sorry for what happened. I never meant to hurt Gus. I’d really like it if we could find a way to put it behind—’
But Mary Mortimer has reached the limits of her patience. ‘Don’t, Maggie. We’re way past that, don’t you think?’
But now that she’s started talking, Maggie can’t seem to stop. ‘I miss you. All of you. I wish we could go back to—’
Mary’s eyes blaze with anger. ‘I don’t think you realise, Maggie; you don’t get to wish for things to be how they were. You gave up any right to that last summer, remember?’ Maggie swallows and drops her gaze. ‘We considered you a part of our family. David and I, we welcomed you into our home and loved you like a daughter. But you threw it all back in our faces.’
‘I’m sorry,’ blurts Maggie, full of remorse. ‘I never meant to hurt him. I never meant to hurt any of you.’
Mrs Abbott still has her face averted but Maggie can tell from the way her hands have fallen still over the calculator that she is transfixed by the car crash happening on the other side of her counter and can only imagine the gossip that will work its way around the village. ‘Perhaps we could chat somewhere a little more private?’
But Mary lets out a sharp laugh. ‘You want to spare our blushes, is that it?’
‘I messed up, I know. But I only ever wanted to do the right thing. I thought it would be better in the long run . . .’ Her excuses sound pathetic, even to her ears.
Mary’s eyes are glittering with fury and looking at her, Maggie realises she has never seen this side of the woman before. Like a mother bear, prodded and poked, her maternal rage is a quiet yet terrifying sight. ‘The right thing?’ she spits. ‘Don’t make me laugh. What you did was shameful. The way you left . . . without a moment’s thought for Gus or his feelings.’ Maggie hangs her head but Mary isn’t finished with her yet. ‘Now, here you are, sauntering around Cloud Green as if you haven’t a care in the world, expecting us all to forgive and forget? Twelve months.’ She shakes her head. ‘Is that all it takes? Is that long enough, do you think, to mend broken hearts and rebuild trust?’
‘No . . . I don’t expect—’
But Mary cuts her off. ‘Well forgive me, Maggie, if I don’t feel like throwing you a welcome-home party. You seemed a nice girl, a little lost, a little confused, but I thought you had a good heart.’ She shakes her head again.
‘I – I’m sorry.’ Maggie stares at Mary. She doe
sn’t know how to fix this. She doesn’t know how to appease this woman’s anger, how to make any of this right again. Mary is right. She is selfish. She was a coward. She can stay here muttering her apologies, but in the face of Mary’s anger she knows there is nothing she can say that will undo any of the hurt she has caused this woman and her family. Her face blazing with shame, she darts past the woman and bursts out into the bright sunshine, the bell on the door jangling noisily behind her.
Unable to face the stifling atmosphere of Cloudesley, she leaves her car outside the shop and races down the lane, fiercely blinking back tears until she finds herself at the entrance into the rec. She pushes through the swing gate and heads down the grassy track weaving between the allotments, past freshly tilled plots of earth and canes heavy with tangled beans and tomatoes, hollyhocks and carrot tops bursting from the soil. She runs out of steam at the children’s park at the very bottom and settles herself on one of the three empty swings dangling from the metal A-frame.
Nothing much has changed in all the years she’s been coming here. The swings are still old and rusty, creaking on their chains. The metal slide winks at her in the June sunshine. Behind her the huge old tractor tyres lie sunken into the dirt as climbing equipment. Perhaps it is no accident, she realises, that she finds herself here; for it was here that she first met Gus and Will over a decade ago.
Back then, the beech trees had been a spectacular copper colour and she’d kicked her way through deep drifts of leaves to reach the park. She’d returned to Cloudesley from boarding school, for the October half-term holidays, a sulky teenager, deep into a short-lived Goth phase, returning home with ripped tights and dyed black hair and violent purple nail varnish that had made her grandfather’s eyebrows shoot skywards and Lillian’s lips press into a thin line. She’d expected ‘a serious talking to’ but Lillian had merely directed a slight shake of her head at Charles where he sat in his wheelchair, and she’d known then that the topic of her appearance wouldn’t be mentioned. Well good, she’d thought, slinking away to wander the village; it was high time they saw her as the grown-up she almost was. In her pocket was a pilfered packet of cigarettes and an old lighter, both of which she’d found hidden at the back of her grandfather’s desk. She’d played with them, flipping them over and over in her deep coat pockets, until she’d finally found herself in the park.
The Peacock Summer Page 14