For a moment, he was quiet. “We need to get out of this mud,” he said eventually, and I nodded. He managed to stand and release his boots. He grabbed mine and then reached down for me, and I scrambled to my feet.
“Oh, Lizzie,” Ronan said, he started to laugh again. We didn’t stop laughing as I walked in just my socks back to the house.
We met the chimney sweep on the drive. “What the…?”
“Mud,” was all I could manage.
He grinned. “I can see that.”
Maggie came to the door, to greet the chimney sweep but gasped when she saw us. “Oh my Lord. Whatever happened?”
“Mud,” was all I managed, again. I could feel the tears of laughter roll down my cheeks, and I imagined they had created a nice clear track through the dirt.
“She needs hosing doon,” Charlie said. I was being stared at by the three of them, and that made me laugh harder.
“At least go round the back,” Maggie said, and I noticed she had, for once, mopped down the front hall floor. Trouble was, going round the back was another ten-minute hike in soggy socks and a chill wind.
Ronan wrapped his arm around my shoulders. Despite the fact I did have a coat, it was my face—a head covered in wet muddy hair—my hands and feet that were cold. I wasn’t about to complain, though. When we reached the courtyard, he ran ahead and grabbed another pair of boots. They stunk, and I made him put his hands in them in case they contained a nest of toe-eating spiders. I even jumped on the front to be sure. When I was confident I wasn’t going to be munched on, I slipped them on. Not ideal, but they gave me something clean to enter the kitchen in.
“You might as well strip here,” Ronan said. I stared at him. He clarified, “Take your socks and jeans off, and the coat, Maggie can wash them.”
“I’m not walking around in my knickers. The chimney sweep is here,” I hissed.
I hadn’t cared that he would see my pants, and I struggled to remember if I was wearing my big girl Tena pants or the pack of Brazilian ones from Marks & Spencer that I didn’t know which way round they went. They were either an oversized thong or had a skinny front.
“Wrap a blanket around yourself,” he said, grabbing one from the chair.
As he held it out with one hand, he unbuttoned his jeans with the other. I grabbed the blanket and turned my back. Not because I thought he might prefer the sight of my arse, I didn’t want to see his… Well, you know.
Anyway, I flicked off the wellies and peeled off my socks and jeans. Thankfully, the coat was near my knees, and it gave me time to peer at my knickers. I breathed a sigh of relief, whatever ones they were, they were pink and pretty, and they covered my hooha. I gave a subtle feel just to make sure nothing was escaping the sides of the material before I pulled off the coat and wrapped myself in the blanket in mere seconds.
I gathered up my clothes, and his jeans and boxers, blushing at the thought of his nakedness under his blanket and dumped them in the linen basket. I wouldn’t expect Maggie to wash my clothes, but I would need some help with the ancient washing machine.
“Tea?” Ronan said.
“I need—”
“You need to sit and warm from the inside before you have a bath, you’ll get chilblains,” he said, all authoritative-like.
I’d never had chilblains, but the word was scary enough to make me sit in my jumper and knickers and wait for tea. I was glad I did. The blanket that Ronan had around his waist was dragging on the floor, and a couple of times he’d tread on it, and it pulled loose, showing off part of his backside. I’d only seen Joe and Harry’s, and neither was as tight as the one in front of me. I pretended to be digging out dirt from under my nails when he turned and placed the filled teapot on the table. I grabbed mugs from the centre and poured as he sat.
“What a fucking day,” he said, as he pulled his mug towards him. “Lizzie, if you could see yourself…” He chuckled as he raised his mug to his lips.
I had suspected my face would have mud on it. I could feel the tightness to my skin as it had dried, although I could never have imagined exactly how much but I discovered after I’d drunk my tea and headed to my bathroom. The bath would take too long to draw, so I opted for the shower. I’d need to wash my hair anyway. I reached in to turn the handle hoping, by the time I’d removed my jumper and knickers, the water might be running warm.
I then faced the mirror and screeched. I could see my eyes and my mouth, obviously. I could see the two clean tracks down my cheeks, but I couldn’t see any more skin. My whole face was covered in dried and cracked mud. I looked like a beauty victim with the worst facemask. Scary. I dragged the jumper over my head, feeling the crackle of the dried mud in my hair, and wrenched down my knickers. I left them all lying in a pile on the floor with the blanket, and I climbed into the shower. The water was warmish—not enough to stop me shivering—as I washed and rewashed my hair. By the time it got to conditioning, I was standing under a cold stream. I rinsed as best I could with chattering teeth and then turned it off. I wrapped a towel around my body and one around my head, and I sat at the antique dressing table to look at myself in the slightly distorted and coloured mirror. My cheeks were rosy, and my eyes were shining. Maybe there were some special minerals in the mud. Perhaps we shouldn’t immediately ditch the naked spa idea. I plastered on some moisturiser, flicked a little mascara over my stubby eyelashes and dressed. I was back down in the library that was doubling up as our office in no time.
“What do you think?” Maggie said. She held some red brocade material over the threadbare sofa.
“I like it,” I said running my hand over the material feeling its softness.
“I think I could re-cover these myself. I found this material in one of the attic rooms; there are reels of material up there. We might be able to do some curtains as well.”
“I think the colour is perfect for in here,” I said as I glanced around picturing how it might look.
The room had wooden panelling to one side, broken only by the floor-to-ceiling French doors. The opposite wall held the bookcase, which was the length and height of the room. Some of the books were behind glass and some exposed. I’d wondered whether to make a list of some and see if there was anything of value gathering dust there. I didn’t want to come across as someone who was looking for everything to sell, but I wanted Ronan to know he had options. If there was a rare book or two, was it insured?
“Can you help me get the sewing machine down?” Maggie asked. “Charlie has gone to cut down some trees.”
“Cut down…”
“If we’re going to have fires all the time, we’re going to need lots of wood and Ronan is still with the chimney sweep, although I made him put some trousers on,” she said.
I laughed as we made our way up the stairs and along the hall. There was a further staircase at one end that took us up to more rooms that clearly hadn’t been opened up for years. In one, alongside an old Singer sewing machine was a crib and the most stunning dappled grey rocking horse. I had a romantic idea that Ronan had slept in that crib or rode that horse but judging by the age and decline of both, it could also have been Verity herself.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Maggie said. I was sure she’d said that before. “I used to cry when another room got shut off because it fell apart.”
“It’s a stunning house. Ronan has to sort things with Rich, but he’d love to keep it going,” I said, hoping I wasn’t divulging something not true.
“Now there’s a pest if ever I saw one.” Maggie shook her head as she spoke.
I lifted the sewing machine and made my way to the door, frowning at her as I passed.
My confusion must have been evident as she continued, “Rich was trouble as a child, a teenager, and then an adult. Bled his mum dry, he did. It’s why half the rooms got shut off sometimes. She couldn’t afford to keep it all going after bailing him out time and time again.”
What Maggie had said had differed slightly from Ronan, but I wasn’t goin
g to nit-pick the details. I suspected Verity did bail out Rich, but I also believed she had no thoughts about money, no regard for it, which, in one way, was an enviable position to be in. We carried the sewing machine down to the kitchen where it was dusted off. Maggie expertly threaded some cotton, and we tested it on a tea towel. It produced a neat line of stitches, so the re-covering of the sofa and some new curtains were planned. I made notes while she measured because I had no idea how to work out width and depth and height and whatever.
“We’ve got a venison stew in the oven for dinner,” she said, somewhat randomly.
“It smells lovely already,” I replied.
“I’ll tell you because some townies don’t like to eat venison.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ve eaten it before. Is it from here?” I asked. She nodded.
I wasn’t daft. I knew where my meat came from. Living in London had its advantages in that every corner had an organic-free-range-gluten-free-know-its-name butchers, bakers, coffee shop and every other thing artisan. And we had the French market and fuck knows what they were selling, but it was often delicious. It was a sales thing, obviously. But it did also mean that we ate some wonderful meat with stickers from stately homes; not see-through meat that should have come from a chicken twice my height, such was the size of breasts, filled with more pharmaceuticals than Pfizer had.
“Who shoots them?” I asked, remembering the man I’d seen in the courtyard but never seen since.
“Charlie and Ronan, mainly. Manuel, he was Verity’s friend…” Maggie even did the quotation mark fingers, and I stifled a laugh—who did that anymore? “He’s the part-time estate manager, when he gets off his arse.” She did it again! However, I got the distinct impression she wasn’t a fan.
“I think I saw him, Manuel you say?” I asked.
“I don’t know if that’s his real name.” She leaned towards me—not that there was anyone else in the room—and whispered, “He’s a gigig.”
I stared at her. “A what?” I asked.
She waved her hand around as if it would make things clearer. “You know… A gigi…whatsit.”
I wasn’t sure how I kept not only a straight face but stayed put on my chair when she crooked her arms at the elbows, closed her fists, and thrust her hips back and forwards.
I pursed my lips trying to compose myself. “Gigolo?”
“That’s what I said. He’s probably from Wales,” she spat. At that, I did laugh.
She grinned, clearly enjoying the gossip. “I think he fakes that accent. He hasn’t got a clue about estate management, but Verity took him on. He lives in one of the cottages.” She took the pad and pen from my hands, collected the material, and headed back to the kitchen.
“You look bemused,” I heard. When my eyes came into focus, I noticed Ronan standing in the doorway.
“Maggie, gigolos, and curtains,” I said, turning back to my makeshift desk.
“Ah, Manuel. I haven’t introduced you yet.” He strode into the room and smiled as if it was perfectly normal to have a gigolo called Manuel, who was probably from Wales, living in a cottage on his estate.
Ronan sat and told me that all the chimneys had been done, I nodded, expecting to hear something more about the gigolo from Wales. Nothing. Perhaps Maggie had been right, and Manuel was Verity’s lover. That could very well be why Ronan didn’t want to talk about it and why he seemed to have kept his distance.
For the rest of the day, we went through the pictures and photographs. We selected what our untrained eye thought were the better ones. When the packaging arrived, we would box up what we thought should stay behind and take the others to London.
Dinner was delicious. Maggie was an outstanding chef and, I felt, completely wasted at the house. She could have a restaurant in the city. Instead, and in addition to her role as housekeeper, she’d been making tea and sandwiches for the nude artists that frequented one weekend a month from spring to autumn, weather dependent, of course.
I’d followed Ronan to a cellar of wine prior to dinner, and he’d selected a couple of bottles. After helping Maggie clear the dishes and adding a new dishwasher to the list of essentials, Ronan and I settled back in the library with the bottles of red.
I don’t think we intended to drink them both, but with the ambience created by the open fire and the dust free room, we both curled up on the decrepit sofa, one at each end, and we chatted.
We spoke about childhood, and I began to realise one thing; all the money, the big house and the acres of land, the horses and dogs, and deer and shotguns didn’t make for a wonderful upbringing at all. Ronan had been—and I got the impression still was—exceptionally lonely.
“Dad was always either working, in the States, or fucking one of his many mistresses,” he told me, adding a bitter laugh and another slug of his wine.
I looked at my glass. I was on my second refill but only just. One bottle was empty and the other about to be as Ronan shook the bottle to get every last drop into his glass. “I’ll go and get another,” he said, and although not slurring, his accent was more prominent.
“No need. I’ve had enough,” I said. I didn’t insult him by telling him that I thought he had as well. I hated when people did that. It was his hangover—his choice.
“I haven’t,” he said as he placed his glass on the coffee table and stood.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked, conscious of the fact he could fall down the stone stairs.
“You’re too nice, Lizzie. I thought that the moment I met you. You’re funny and kind, and I think it’s easy to take advantage of you. That makes me sad,” he said as he walked across the room.
I stayed in my seat.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by any of his comments and hoped that it was just the drink. If he thought I was easy to take advantage of, was that what he was doing? Was he telling me, actually informing me, that he was taking advantage?
“Can someone be too nice?” I whispered to his retreating back.
Ronan had the capability to give whiplash. I was glad that I’d started to hold back a little. Thankfully, my heart still had that layer of protective bubble wrap that kept me conscious of further hurt.
I gave him five minutes before I went to find him. He was slumped in a chair in the kitchen having partly made a pot of tea instead of making it to the cellar for more wine.
I finished off making the tea and then nudged him awake. “How about we get you to bed?”
“That’s a nice offer. I’ll take you up on that,” he said, with a laugh.
“Let me rephrase. How about I help you get into your own bed alone?”
“Shame, but a drunken fumble probably won’t enhance our friendship, will it?” His laugh made me smile.
“No, and I’m pretty sure that Joe had instructed me never to sleep, or fumble, with anyone even slightly tipsy.”
“Good ol’ Joe. Did he tell you never to make a cup of tea for a drunken man?”
“No, that was my mother. Let’s get you upstairs, and then I’ll bring you up a cup.”
Ronan wasn’t drunk enough that he couldn’t make the stairs, but he was a little wobbly, and the last thing I wanted to do was clean up blood after he’d cracked his skull on the stone floor once he’d fallen down them. Also, the beautiful carpet on the treads could get ruined.
I walked behind him up the stairs, not that I would’ve been able to hold him should he have fallen backwards. I slowed as we reached the landing and watched him weave his way down the hall to his bedroom. Once he had entered I went back down. I picked up the glasses and empty bottles from the library and then worried about the fire.
I decided, stupidly, water was the best way to douse it. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to leave it going overnight. I grabbed a filled jug of water from the kitchen and threw it into the fire. It spat, hissed, cursed me, I was sure, but more importantly, it smoked. I ran to close the library door to stop the smoke escaping and then to the French doors. I rattled,
tugged, called it a fucker before it finally opened and I could waft the smoke out.
The curtains, I knew, were going to be replaced, so I wasn’t worried about grabbing one and using it to wave fresh air around. By the time I thought the fogginess had cleared, I was freezing. I managed to close the doors and, satisfied the fire had died down, I headed back to the kitchen.
The Aga specialist was visiting the following day, and as I looked at the contraption, I hoped that he would be able to fix it. I could imagine putting a ‘real’ kettle on the hob and waiting for it to whistle.
I poured the tea and carried two mugs up the stairs, hesitating outside Ronan’s bedroom door. I couldn’t knock; I didn’t have a free hand, so, called out instead. He didn’t reply. I used my foot to push the door open a little and then stifled a laugh.
Ronan was lying naked, on his back and sporting a very impressive hard on. I left his tea on the bedside table and, after another study of his cock, left the room. I had placed my tea on my bedside cabinet when I realised I couldn’t leave him that way. He’d freeze his balls off, so I walked back. He hadn’t moved, obviously, and even though I was sure he was dead to the world, I still tiptoed around.
I wasn’t strong enough to roll him and pull the duvet from underneath so scanned the room for blankets. I pulled open his wardrobe hoping to find some there. On the top shelf was a spare duvet. Although without a cover, it would keep him warm. I pulled at it. As it slid from the shelf, a framed photograph fell to the floor, and the glass shattered on impact.
“Shit,” I whispered, and then stared at Ronan.
His cock twitched, and I wasn’t sure if that was because he was waking. He mumbled and moaned. I crouched down to pick up the broken glass when I heard him moan again. I turned my head and stretched my neck up to see over the end of the bed.
I gasped.
Ronan had his hand around his cock and was stroking slowly.
“Oh, God,” I muttered, and ducked down further. He wouldn’t have seen me where I was, but he would notice the open wardrobe door.
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits Page 14