“Hmm, sniffing toxic substances, eh?” Dan came to stand beside her. “Surely that’s a city habit? You’ll have to find some other vice now we’re out here in the boondocks. Magic mushrooms, perhaps, freshly picked.”
“I can’t wait to get painting. It’s going to take a while to get rid of all the dust in here, though. I might try doing some work outside while the weather’s good.”
“Maybe you could just incorporate dust and bits of hay into your next batch of paintings.”
“Oh, very bucolic. Not quite what I had in mind, though.” She paced about, picking up a broom and sweeping ineffectually at the floor. “These cobbles are beautiful but not very practical. Setting up an easel is going to be a challenge.”
“Don’t get too settled in. We’ll have to have some fairly major work done before winter, or you’ll freeze to your paintbrushes out here. God knows where one finds a reliable builder in these parts.”
“I’ll start asking around. There’s bound to be someone local. But I don’t want them to change it. I love it just the way it is, dust and all.”
“OK, you can keep the ‘authentic features,’ but you will need more than one lightbulb. And some heating. Not to mention a sink, water, doors, that sort of stuff. Probably cost a fortune. Sure you wouldn’t rather take up flower arranging and work in the kitchen?”
“Dan, you have the soul of an accountant. Don’t worry. It won’t cost much. Besides, it’ll be an investment. I’m going to do my best work here. I can feel it. My next exhibition is going to blow people’s minds, you wait and see.” She smiled at him and could see her own excitement and happiness reflected in his face as he watched her.
He stepped forward and put his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck. “Mmm, you smell deliciously warm and…”
“… grimy?”
“I was going to say dirty, but I thought I might get my face slapped.” He kissed her forehead gently then looked at her levelly, his face serious.
“Don’t look so worried,” Laura said. “We are going to be happy here, you know that, don’t you? Whatever happens, whatever doesn’t happen, you and me … this is going to be good for both of us, yes?”
Dan nodded, “Of course,” he said. “Come on,” he took her hand and pulled her toward the doorway, “let’s go for a walk together.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now.”
“But Dan, we haven’t finished here yet. I want to get everything set up.”
“Just a couple of hours, come on. It’s a gorgeous day, we’ve views waiting for us that come straight out of National Geographic. If I’m going to live halfway up a bloody mountain I have to at least have a go at walking on the thing. We’ve been here four days and we haven’t so much as trodden in sheep shit yet. I’ve got to go back to work on Monday. What am I supposed to say to everyone in the office when they ask me how much yomping I’ve done?”
“I don’t think it’s actually called yomping.”
“Whatever. Let’s get on with it. I know what you’re like. Once you get dug into your studio, such as it is, I’ll never get you out. You can hole up in here once I’m back in London. OK?”
Laura smiled, glad Dan was at least trying to show enthusiasm for something their new home had to offer, and keen to encourage him.
“OK, but wait a minute. I’m not going without my sketchbook.”
She rootled through a box and pulled out a small, leather shoulder bag. She checked there were plenty of pages left in the block inside, slipped some fresh charcoal and another pencil into the front pocket, and slung the bag over her shoulder. She and Dan were both equipped with all-terrain sandals. The weather continued to be reliably hot, and they had both quickly become accustomed to wearing shorts and T-shirts. Dan fetched a hiker’s plastic container of water, which he clipped to his belt. They didn’t bother to lock up the house before setting off, so complete was the illusion that there was nobody else for twenty miles around. They climbed the bank behind the house following the footpath signposted. Within moments they were through the boundary gate and onto open hill. The bracken was fully grown now, chest high, forcing them to stick to a narrow sheep track that traversed the hill. After twenty minutes’ steady walking, they broke free of the ferns and found themselves on short springy grass. Farther on low whinberry bushes jostled for space with tough heathers. The sun was high and hot, and Laura realized she should have grabbed her hat before they left. She stopped, turning to take in the vista that stretched out for twenty miles below them. Dan let out a low whistle.
“Wow,” he said. “Just bloody wow.”
Laura’s mind was already racing with the creative possibilities presented to her. She whipped out her sketchbook and started to work away with a stump of charcoal, trying to capture the sweep of the hills and the patterns made by the blocks of light and dark. She half closed her eyes, the better to appreciate the variations in tone and depth. She was astonished to find just how brash and vivid and wonderfully discordant colors in nature could be. At this time of year there was no sense that things were attempting to blend or mingle or go unseen. Every tree, bush, and flower seemed to be shouting out its presence, each one louder than the next. On the lower slopes the leaves of the aged oak trees sang out, gleaming in the heat. On every hill bracken screamed in solid swathes of viridian. At Laura’s feet the plum purple and dark green leaves of the whinberry bushes competed for attention with their own indigo berries. The kitsch mauve of the heather laughed at all notions of subtlety. She turned to a fresh page and began to make quick notes, ideas for a future palette and thoughts about compositions. She jotted down plans for color mixes and drew the voluptuous curve of the hills and the soft shape of the whinberry leaves. Above the cacophonous colors rose the constant, sweet whirring of the skylarks. Laura had to shut her eyes for a moment to enjoy the birdsong without the distraction of the view.
“Look down there,” said Dan. “That must be the nearest cottage to us.”
She opened her eyes and squinted into the high end of the valley where Dan was pointing. Set close to a shallow stream, amid larch, silver birch, and rowan trees, sat a small stone croft. Even its roof was of stone, so that it looked almost as if it had been chiseled from the rock of the hill itself. Three black hens pecked about. A man stepped out of the cottage and into the sunlight. Even from so far away, Laura could see he was tall and lean. He picked up a hoe and began to work at the dry soil in the garden, moving with light, easy actions.
“And that must be our new neighbor,” said Dan. “Wonder who he is? No sign of anybody else with him. And no road to the place. Must be a bit of an oddball, living all the way up here on his own.”
As Laura watched, the man suddenly stopped and turned, looking in her direction, as if sensing that he was being observed. Although she knew the distance made it impossible, she felt as if he were looking straight into her eyes. Her pulse quickened and she became strangely disturbed by his gaze. Beside her, Dan waved. The man paused, then raised his hand slowly, the gesture somehow solemn, not the lighthearted greeting Dan had given.
“Right, let’s press on. I want to get to the top of that ridge over there before you start fretting about your studio and nag me to go back.” Dan leaned into the hill and walked on.
Laura lingered, finding it hard, for reasons she did not understand, to pull herself away from this curious connection with the solitary stranger.
* * *
BY SIX O’CLOCK the next morning Dan was in his best suit and ready to leave. He stood in front of Laura.
“How do I look?”
“Like a supersharp businessman no cutting-edge charity could afford to do without.” She brushed a speck of dust from his lapel as she spoke. She was not yet dressed and felt Dan’s hand slipping beneath her kimono. “Now, now,” she chided him with a smile. “This is not your usual commute. You’ve got the better part of three hours’ driving ahead of you. Save your energy.” She gave him an affectionate kiss.
He turned to leave and then hesitated.
“You will be all right here? On your own, I mean.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yes! I can’t wait for a bit of peace so I can paint, so will you please bugger off?”
“I’ll phone you when I get there.”
“Fine. Good. See you Friday night. And don’t go getting too used to your part-time bachelor existence—this is only temporary, remember?”
“I’m sure you won’t let me forget.” He kissed her again. “Bye then.” He turned and hurried on his way.
Laura could tell by the set of his shoulders and his purposeful step as he walked to the car that already his mind was focusing on work. It would be good for him to get back to the office and be involved in doing what he did best. It would be good for both of them. All the same, it would be hard. They were not used to being apart, and although a part of her was thrilled at the prospect of peaceful painting time, uninterrupted by someone else’s needs, she knew she would miss him. Still, it was, as she had reminded him, a temporary solution. A price worth paying in the long run.
She watched him go, then went to take a shower. They were still waiting for the telephone to be connected, but at least they now had electricity. The small en suite alongside the main bedroom was simply but prettily decorated with crisp white walls and powder blue woodwork. The rough, painted stonework and lathe and plaster did not allow for much in the way of tiles, but the shower itself was lined with an attractive mix of plain and patterned ones showing tiny harebells.
Laura turned on the water, slipped out of her robe, and stepped beneath the warm cascade, sighing as the water soaked her hair until it was heavy, then letting it course over her sleepy skin. She thought of how early residents of Penlan would have had to fetch water from the spring, and would no doubt have been horrified at such reckless use of it. She smoothed a light shower gel over her skin, breathing in the smell of neroli as she enjoyed the caress of the water. A sound, or rather, the sense of a sound, made her start. She looked around, but the room was empty, save for herself. She listened, waiting, but heard nothing more. Then, once again, she had a powerful impression that she was no longer alone. Her whole body tensed, alert, nervous, unsure of what might come next. Before she could move or react further, she felt again the overwhelming excitement she had experienced the day they arrived at the house. This time, Laura felt unnerved by the sensation. She switched off the shower, grabbed a towel, and walked quickly into the bedroom. Still the feeling persisted, as if some unseen lover were accessing the very core of her being, arousing her without her consent. She fought conflicting emotions—one telling her to run, the other wanting to stay and experience more. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the experience stopped, and Laura knew she was alone again. She stood waiting for her breathing to steady before slipping into a simple sundress. She let her wet hair hang loose about her shoulders and went barefoot downstairs.
“Laura Matthews,” she told herself as she entered the living room, “you are letting your imagination run riot here. Get a grip.” She allowed herself to consider the possibility that such an old house might be haunted but quickly dismissed the idea. She had never been remotely sensitive to such things. A more likely explanation, she felt sure, was a mixture of erratic hormones and the emotional disturbance involved in moving. Not to mention the unspoken hope and expectation which she was still refusing to allow herself to think about. Even so, a small part of her believed it would not be unreasonable for such an old house, a house that had been home to so many people, to have at least a memory of those people still alive within it.
She set her mind to painting again and headed for her studio, pulling open the heavy front door of the house. The sight of someone standing in the doorway was so unexpected she gave an involuntary shout.
“Oh! God, you startled me.”
Laura recognized her visitor instantly as the man from the croft. Up close he was indeed tall and lean. His hair was raven black and fell almost to his shoulders. His face was strong and angular with a naturally stern expression, but it was his eyes that were the most remarkable thing about him. Laura had seen blue eyes on a dark-haired person before, but not like these. She tried to imagine how she would capture the color on canvas. Ultramarine with a dash of zinc white? Cerulean blue? She was so absorbed she barely noticed the lengthy silence between them. At last she realized she was staring at him and looked away.
When he spoke his voice was softer than she had expected.
“Hi,” he said with a sinfully attractive smile. “I’m Rhys, from a little way up the hill. Just thought I’d come and introduce myself, and welcome you to our magical valley,” he said.
“Laura Matthews,” she said. “Laura.” She found herself smiling back. There was something catching about the casual confidence this man exuded. “We are neighbors, then,” she said. Now she became aware of the fact that Rhys was staring at her, openly appraising her. She felt a little vulnerable under his gaze, all freshly showered and barefoot. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she heard herself ask. It sounded a ridiculously polite and formal thing to say. To cover her embarrassment, she turned and walked to the kitchen, leaving the door open. The kitchen was comfortably equipped but otherwise had changed little for centuries. The original flagstones provided an uneven but practical floor. The low ceiling was supported by heavy beams and joists of oak cut from the nearby woods generations ago. On the wooden lintel above the window in the far wall, lovers’ initials had been carved inside a heart and worn into the wood over hundreds of years. The centerpiece of the room was an antique wooden table, a proud find at an auction shortly before the move to Wales. The green Aga stove stood gleaming, waiting for winter, when it would be the warm heart of the home.
Rhys followed her. “You’ve settled in quickly by the look of it. Good for you. I’m sure you’re going to love it here.”
From the corner of her eye she watched him as she fixed the tea. He looked around the room, taking in every detail. At first she thought he was simply admiring the old place, then it dawned on her that he was looking with the eyes of someone familiar with his surroundings. Someone remembering. It made sense. After all, he was a neighbor.
“Did you know the people who had the place before us?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No. But I do know this house. I have been here before. Many times.”
“We love it. Still can’t believe it’s ours.”
“Do you believe a person can own a place? Have you never considered it might work the other way around?” he asked.
Laura was not sure how to respond. It seemed such a strange question. She wondered for a moment if he might be a Welsh Nationalist harboring resentment for yet another English home buyer. But somehow that didn’t fit.
“Well,” she said, holding out a mug. “We shall see, won’t we?”
He stepped forward to take the tea, standing very close.
“The people who had the house before you only used it for holidays, you know? They never really fitted in. I’ve a feeling you will.”
As Rhys took the teacup from her his fingers brushed her hand. She took a step backward and turned away, pretending to search for a spoon.
“Sugar?” she asked, feeling strangely unsettled.
When she turned back again Rhys had moved away and was leaning against the Aga.
“No, it’s fine like this. Thank you,” he said, sipping his tea. Then he met her gaze and smiled again, another irresistible smile which transformed his naturally rather stern features.
She relaxed a little, making a mental note to register with the local doctor so she could get her unpredictable hormones reined in. She had suffered from bouts of disturbing premenstrual tension for years, a fact every consultant had reminded her of during her quest for a child. It was quite probable that the change in her life circumstances now had knocked things out of kilter once more.
“So,” she said, making a
concerted attempt to behave sensibly. “Have you lived here long? You have a gorgeous little cottage up there. And a garden, too. Don’t suppose we’ll ever get around to planting much more than a few bulbs ourselves.”
“This has been my home for a long time,” said Rhys. “And I garden because I like to eat what I grow, and sometimes I sell stuff. I’ll bring you some vegetables. Next time.”
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey Page 4