by Cross, Amy
Father would be so proud.
Getting to my feet, I make my way between the trees, while still looking out for more chanterelles. After just a moment, however, I hear a grunting sound nearby, and I stop just in time to see that there is a common man on the ground, picking mushrooms on our property. He looks thin and dirty, and his clothes are frightfully scrappy, and it takes a moment before suddenly he turns, startled, to look at me.
“Who are you?” I ask, my heart pounding as I take a step back.
“I...”
He seems frozen, but after a moment I see that he has a small cloth bag next to him. Evidently he must have scaled the wall of our property, and now he is stealing mushrooms from our land.
“Get out of here!” I stammer, trying not to panic even as thoughts of rape and murder fill my mind. “I shall scream if you don't! The house is full of men and -”
Hearing another scratching sound nearby, I turn and see a young boy coming toward us. He, like the man, is very thin and gaunt, and he looks as if he hasn't eaten a good meal in some time. The sight is quite distressing.
“Are these them, Pa?” he asks, eyeing me with caution as he heads over to the man and holds out a trembling hand.
The man watches me for a moment, before turning to look at the boy's collection of mushrooms.
“These and these,” he says, picking out two chanterelles, but then he holds up a different type of mushroom, “but not this. This would make your gut hurt for a day and a night, and then some.”
The boy hesitates, before dropping the chanterelles into his father's bag.
“I'm sorry,” the man continues, getting to his feet. He takes a cloth cap from the top of his head. “We're just passing through. I know this is private property but, well, we hoped to forage. We need food, see.”
“You can't just come onto our land and take whatever you desire,” I point out.
“No, you're right.” He pauses. “It was wrong to come here, and I'm truly sorry. We'll leave what we picked. I'm sure we'll be able to find something else in the forest, beyond your walls. It's just that we're so hungry, and we were passing your gate when I happened to spot a patch of chanterelle mushrooms, and they looked so beautiful in the sun so...”
His voice trails off.
“Pa?” the boy whispers. “What are we to do?”
“We're to leave this fine lady in peace, Joe,” the man replies, turning to lead the boy away. “It was wrong of us to trespass.”
They look so wretched and poor, worse than anything I've ever seen before in my life. I'd heard that such people existed, of course, but I always believed they were confined to the cities. I never expected to encounter them here, not in the grounds of my own home.
“You might as well take those!” I call after them finally.
They both turn back to me.
“The mushrooms that you already picked,” I continue, horrified by the thinness of the boy and feeling that he must surely starve if he doesn't eat soon. “I am not cold-hearted, nor am I immune to the difficulties suffered by the lower classes. Take the mushrooms, but on the condition that you never steal from our land again. Is that clear?”
“Are you sure?” the man asks. “We have no means to pay you.”
“Just take them,” I tell him, “and leave. And if I ever see you on my family's land again, I shall have the dogs set on you. Is that understood?”
We have no dogs, of course, but the man has no way of knowing that. He nods, mutters something about gratitude, and grabs the cloth bag. Then he and his painfully-thin son head to the wall and climb over, until they are gone.
Leaning against a tree, I try to calm my racing heart. I am exceedingly lucky that I did not end this day in a bloody heap on the ground, but I suppose my act of generosity won those two ruffians over. They are clearly homeless drifters, and I should have sent them on their way without the spoils of their thievery. It's just that the boy looked so lost and scared, and I couldn't bear to think of him starving. Besides, I would never eat mushrooms that their dirty hands had touched. Why, I might catch some awful disease.
Hearing the main gate starting to swing open, I turn and see that a carriage has arrived at the house. With a sense of relief, I realize that at long last my portrait has arrived.
***
“Finally!” I mutter, as I make my way toward the hallway. “I can't understand what took the old man so long. He's been working on the painting for the best part of a year. I was starting to worry it wouldn't be ready in time for the wedding!”
“You mustn't fret so much,” Pippa replies, huffing and puffing a little as she struggles to keep up with me. “My dear sister, you're liable to make yourself ill at this rate!”
Ignoring her, I start walking faster, hoping she won't be able to keep up.
“Besides,” she continues, sounding a little out of breath, “if you'd paid the artist more, I'm sure he would have prioritized his work for you.”
“Everything must be perfect!” I hiss, finally reaching the hallway, where the painting rests against the far wall. It is covered in brown paper, but a moment later the paper is pulled away by the delivery men, and I finally see the finished work. “There'll be time to relax after I'm -”
Stopping suddenly, I'm struck by the beauty of the image that stands before me. Not the painting itself, of course, which is rather common and poorly done, but the figure is quite outstanding. I must have posed two-dozen times for the artist during the past year, and he has very faithfully recreated my elegance, my grace and my poise, not to mention my extremely slim and attractive figure. Why, my waist alone is a thing of great beauty, and I'm sure all the ladies of London would turn green with envy.
“It's nice,” Pippa says, having stopped next to me. “Really nice.”
I cannot answer her. I am too enthralled by the sight of my own beauty.
“Really, really nice,” she continues. “That's one of the nicest paintings I've seen.”
“Nice?” I whisper finally, taking a step closer to the painting, unable to stop staring at the picture of my own form. “Is that all you have to say? Nice ?”
“It's lovely!”
Hearing a cough nearby, I turn and see that the delivery men are waiting for something.
“I think they want paying,” Pippa whispers. “For bringing it out here.”
“Nonsense,” I reply loudly, offended by such a suggestion. “Get out of here, both of you! If anyone is to pay you for your work, it should be Henry Canterwell, the painter! I certainly won't be giving you so much as a shilling!”
The two men seem startled.
“Get out of my house at once!” I shout. “Out!”
They turn and scuttle out through the front door, although they have the temerity to grumble to one another.
“Why must the lower classes always be so fixated upon money?” I mutter, before turning back to look once more at the painting. “They should be honored to have transported such a fine and powerful work of art. In fact, I've half a mind to call them back here and demand that they pay me for the privilege! Look at me! I am absolutely exquisite!”
“Yes, Katinka,” Pippa says demurely, although she sounds her usual soppish and uncertain self. “It's a lovely painting, really! Very nice and... Very striking!”
“It must hang in pride of place,” I whisper, stepping closer to the canvas. “It must dominate, so that it cannot be missed by visitors. Sometimes, dull minds must be forced to recognize the qualities of their betters.”
“I'm sure,” Pippa mutters. “Whatever you say. You'd better ask Mother first, though.”
“Nonsense. It's none of her concern.”
“But she -”
“She is only in charge for another week,” I add. “After that, the house belongs to Charles and I. Mother had better get used to that fact.”
“I suppose,” Pippa replies, although she doesn't seem to share my enthusiasm. “Still, perhaps you should still ask her before you hang the painting.
Just as a courtesy.”
“I'm so beautiful,” I continue, tilting my head slightly to get a better view of the painting. “Sometimes even I forget. I shall make the most wonderful bride next week. And then Ashbyrn House will be saved. No longer will there ever be any danger of it leaving the family.”
Chapter Three
Owen - Today
“You're moving where ?” Charlie asks as I set my briefcase on the desk. “Cornwall? Why the bloody hell would anyone ever move to Cornwall? There's nothing there!”
“Exactly,” I reply, opening the case and taking my papers out. It's two weeks since I was down visiting Ashbyrn House, but finally everything is signed and the place is mine. I paid extra to have all the paperwork expedited, and now I just have to pick up the keys. “Well, there are still some people , but I've found a house with big-enough grounds and it's a little way out of the nearest town. I'm hoping to bump into other people as little as possible.”
“But Cornwall ! That's hundreds of miles away! You'll go crazy!”
“I'll go crazier if I stay here in London,” I mutter, glancing at the window and watching for a moment as traffic roars past the office. Even right now, from this vantage point on the first floor, I can see twenty, maybe thirty people in the street. If I play my cards right once I'm in Cornwall, I might only see twenty or thirty people each year. I can't wait to leave London far behind.
“How about we go to the pub and discuss this?” Charlie says, coming over to join me. “You might be jumping into things a little too soon.”
“I've made my mind up.”
“But isn't Cornwall where people go to die?”
“I'm not sure it's quite that bad.”
“What's the biggest town in Cornwall? Do they even have towns? Or is it all villages and hamlets and old tin mines? Do they have electricity?”
I glance at him. “You haven't left London very often, have you?” I point out.
“I certainly haven't ever been to Cornwall,” he replies, as if the mere idea is ludicrous. “I've never needed to. There's nothing there.” He pauses for a moment, watching as I sort through the paperwork I completed on the train. “You're really going through with it, aren't you?” he asks after a moment. “You've been saying for a while now that you want to get away from people, but I always thought you were bluffing. This house you're moving to... I'm going to take a wild guess that it's secluded.”
“Very much so.”
“But you don't drive, Owen.”
“There'll be nowhere I need to drive to .”
“Is there at least a pub nearby?”
“I believe so. In the local town.”
“And will you be going to it, by any chance?”
“If I feel the need for human company. Which is unlikely. To be perfectly honest, I imagine I won't speak to anyone apart from whoever delivers my groceries once a week. I'll be pottering about at Ashbyrn House all alone.”
“House? The place has a name like that ? How big is it?”
“Too big, but I can deal with that. I'll just stick to one part of the place. I didn't want to waste time searching for somewhere else.”
“So you spent all that money you got from the film rights to your last book?”
“Some of it.”
I continue to work with my papers, but Charlie is still watching my every move and after a moment I feel my temper starting to simmer.
“What?” I ask finally.
“Is this because of Vanessa?”
I turn to him.
“It is, isn't it?” he continues. “Owen...”
“This is what I want,” I tell him firmly, hoping to avoid yet another torturous Vanessa-focused conversation. “I'll still be in touch with the office via email, and I'll have a phone. I'm not even averse to the occasional visit, but I'm done with London, okay? I've been here long enough. I'm almost forty-five years old now, and I think I've earned the right to live my life the way I want it lived. I've tried being social and pretending I want to be around other people, but that way of doing things just doesn't work.”
“You were social when you were with Vanessa.”
“For her sake. I hated every moment of those bloody parties.”
“Liar. You were happy.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I'm just worried you're retreating from life,” he says with a sigh. “I've been worried about that ever since the whole Vanessa thing blew up.”
“Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.” I head to the door, before turning back to him. “And for your information,” I add, “I won't be alone at Ashbyrn House. I have it on good authority that there's a ghost rattling around the place. Not that I believe in such things, but I know others do. Now listen, I know I agreed to come out tonight for a few drinks, and I'm sure you're already planning to turn this into a leaving party for me, but I'm honestly not interested in getting drunk. A few beers and then I'm heading home, okay?”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he replies with a grin, as he comes over to grab his jacket from the hook. “Just remember that a leaving party isn't just for the person who's leaving. It's also for the poor arseholes who're getting left behind. And believe it or not, Owen... Some of us are actually gonna miss you! Even if you have been a grumpy bugger over the past six months. The place just won't be the same without you.”
I watch as he heads along the corridor, and for a moment I feel a hint of regret in my chest.
“I can't cling onto the past,” I mutter, before turning and pulling the office door shut. “London's over for me.”
***
Opening my eyes, I'm shocked to see the gray morning sky outside my flat. I blink, trying to remember how I got here, but then I start to sit up and I immediately feel a twist of nausea in the pit of my stomach, along with the flickering of an immense headache.
Whiskey.
Charlie got me drunk on whiskey.
Letting out a low, pained groan, I look around and see that I must have passed out on my sofa. The last thing I remember is going to a bar in Soho, and letting Charlie get a round of drinks. After that, I have a few little flashes of memory, but nothing very concrete. I think I threw up in a pub bathroom, and I think someone asked me if I was okay. I certainly don't remember how I got home, although a moment later I spot a take-away bag on the table, so I guess I stopped off somewhere to grab some food. Looking down at the front of my shirt, I see a brown stain, and I feel even more nauseous as I realize I can smell curry.
“Great,” I mutter, hauling myself up and almost toppling over in the process. I pause for a moment, just to steady myself, and then I stumble around the sofa and through to the kitchen.
I freeze as soon as I see that one of the cardboard boxes is on the table, with its contents strewn all over the counter-tops. Even before I wander over, I know what I'm going to find. I packed some of Vanessa's items into this box, intending to stow it away in a storage place when I move away to Cornwall, but evidently drunk-me decided to pull everything out again last night and take a look. Sure enough, a couple of framed photos are next to the cooker, and I feel a flash of sorrow as soon as I see Vanessa's smiling face.
“What the hell was I thinking?” I whisper, quickly grabbing the photos and placing them back in the box, face-down.
And then I see the two wedding bands on the floor.
“Oh God,” I say with a sigh, realizing that I really must have allowed myself to get mawkish last night. Heading around the table, I groan slightly as I reach down and pick the bands up, and then I stop for a moment to stare at them as they rest in the palm of my right hand.
I remember the day I proposed to Vanessa.
I remember her smile.
I've never seen anyone look so happy. She actually cried. I thought people never actually cried from happiness, not in real life.
Closing my hand to form a fist, I head back over to the box and drop the wedding bands inside. I've been through all of this too many times in th
e past, and I sure as hell don't need to go through it again. I was half-wondering before whether I should take this box with me to Cornwall, but now it's abundantly clear that I should leave it behind. The last thing I need, once I'm bumbling about in Ashbyrn House all alone, is to have another drunken night and start dragging the past back out. Frankly, I'm tempted to take this box, add a few bricks, and drop it into the Thames, but I know deep down that I should be a little more mature. I'll put the box in storage, along with all the other crap I'm not taking to Cornwall. Out of sight, out of mind.
Suddenly I hear a groan nearby. I turn, startled, before realizing that I recognize the groan.
Sighing, I head through to the hallway and then I stop at the bathroom door, where I find Charlie slumped on the floor. He's finally starting to stir, but frankly he looks to be in an even worse state than me, which is some consolation. Typical Charlie. No matter how drunk I get, I can always count on him to be much, much worse.
“Water,” he gasps. “God, I need water.”
“Fetch it yourself,” I mutter, turning and heading back into the kitchen. “I have to take some boxes to the storage locker. By the time I get back, at least try to look human. Then we can go to Wetherspoon's and have one last hungover breakfast before I leave this goddamn city far behind.”
***
Why am I keeping all this stuff? Seriously, what's wrong with me?
Reaching up, I slide the box full of Vanessa's items on top of several other boxes that I brought to the lock-up last week. I always thought I was a pretty light spender, someone who never accumulated 'stuff', but I've somehow managed to fill sixteen large boxes and there's still more to go. I guess living with Vanessa for so long meant that I began to pick up more items here and there, to the extent that I ended up owning three different bedside lamps.