As winter had drawn in, again Posy had felt the familiar frost of loneliness. Due to the time of year, her beloved garden was sleeping and there was little she could do until the spring. Without the comfort of that to bury herself in, Posy knew she had to find something urgently to fill the void. So she’d taken herself off into Southwold and managed to find herself a part-time job. Three mornings a week she worked at an art gallery. Even though modern paintings were not really her kind of thing, the job brought in some pin money and kept her busy. She had never admitted to the owner how old she really was and ten years later, Posy was still working there.
‘Almost seventy,’ murmured Posy as she put the cake mixture into the Aga to bake and set the timer to take with her. As she left the kitchen and headed for the main stairs, Posy thought what a Herculean task being a mother was. However old her two sons had become, she had never stopped worrying about them. If anything, she worried more; at least when they were small she had known exactly where and how they were. They’d been under her control and of course, as they had grown into adults and fled the nest, that was no longer the case.
Her legs ached slightly as she climbed the stairs, reminding her of all the things she tried not to think about. Even though she was of an age where she could legitimately start to complain about her health, she knew how lucky she was to be so fit.
‘But,’ she said to an ancestor whose image hung on the landing, ‘just how long will it last?’
Entering the bedroom, Posy walked towards the windows and drew back the heavy curtains. There had never been the money to replace them and the original pattern on the fabric had bleached beyond recognition.
From here, she had the best view of the garden she’d created. Even in early autumn as nature was preparing itself for sleep, the oblique rays of the afternoon sun caressed the leaves of trees that were slowly ripening to gold, and the last of the roses hung heavy with scent. Fat orange pumpkins sat in the kitchen garden, and the trees in the orchard were laden with blush-red apples. And the parterre, immediately below her window, looked simply stunning.
Posy turned away from the beauty outside and faced the enormous bedroom, where generations of Andersons had slept. Her eyes skimmed over the once exquisite chinoiserie wallpaper that was now peeling surreptitiously in the corners and spotted with damp, the threadbare rug that was past recovering from so many spills, and the fading mahogany furniture.
‘And this is just one room; there are another twenty-five that need a complete overhaul, let alone the actual fabric of the building,’ she muttered to herself.
As she undressed, Posy knew that over the years she had done the bare minimum to the house, partly because of money, but mostly because, like a favourite child, she had thrown all her attention at the garden. And, like any neglected progeny, the house had continued crumbling away unnoticed.
‘I’m living here on borrowed time,’ she sighed, and admitted to herself that this beautiful old house was beginning to feel like a yoke round her neck. Even though she was fit and able for a woman who had seen sixty-nine years, just how much longer would she be? Besides, she knew that the house itself was edging to the point of no return if it didn’t receive serious renovation soon.
The thought of throwing in the towel and moving to somewhere more manageable appalled her, but Posy knew she had to be practical about the situation. She hadn’t mentioned the idea of selling Admiral House to either Sam or Nick, but perhaps, now Nick was returning, she should.
Undressing, Posy saw her reflected image staring back from the cheval mirror. The grey in her hair, the wrinkles around her eyes and the flesh that was no longer as taut as it used to be depressed her, and she averted her gaze. It was easier not to look, because inside, she was still a young woman full of youthful vigour, the same Posy who had danced and laughed and loved.
‘Golly, I miss sex!’ she announced to the chest of drawers as she searched for her underwear. Thirty-four years was an awfully long time not to feel the touch of a man, his skin against hers, caressing her body as he rose and fell inside her . . .
After Jonny had died, there had been men who had crossed her path occasionally and shown an interest, especially in the early days. Maybe it had been that her attention was on the boys, and later the garden, but after a couple of ‘dates’, as her sons would call them, Posy had never found the enthusiasm to pursue a relationship.
‘And now it is too late,’ she said to her reflection as she sat down at her dressing table and dabbed the cheap cold cream – the only beauty routine she regularly pursued – onto her face.
‘Don’t be greedy, Posy. To find two loves in your life is more than most people are ever granted.’
As she rose, Posy put both dark and fanciful thoughts out of her head and concentrated on the far more positive thought of her son returning home from Australia. Downstairs, she took the cake out of the Aga, emptied it from its tin and left it to cool. Then she walked through the kitchen door into the rear courtyard. She unlocked her battered Volvo and drove along the drive, turning right onto the road that would lead her on the ten-minute journey into Southwold.
She headed towards the sea front, and despite the chilly September wind, rolled down her window to breathe in the briny sea air, mingled with the perpetual scent of fried doughnuts and fish and chips from the shop by the pier, which reached out into the North Sea, a steel grey under a hazy blue sky. Smart white terraced houses lined the road, the shop-fronts beneath them filled with beach bric-a-brac, and seagulls patrolled the pavement for stray pieces of food.
The fabric of the town had hardly changed since she’d been a child, but unfortunately, its old-fashioned seaside quaintness had inspired hordes of affluent middle-class families to invest in holiday homes here. This had driven up property prices to obscene levels, and, although good for the economy of the small town, had undoubtedly altered the dynamics of the once tight-knit community. The second-homers flocked into Southwold in the summer, making parking a nightmare, then left at the end of August like a pack of vultures who had finished feasting on a carcass.
Now, in September, the town felt dead and deserted, as if all its energy had been sucked out by the hordes and taken away with them. As Posy parked in the high street, she saw an ‘end of season sale’ poster in the boutique, and the bookshop no longer had its trestle tables offering second-hand novels stationed outside.
She walked briskly along the street, nodding good morning to those who passed and acknowledged her. The sense of belonging gave her pleasure at least. Stopping at the newsagents, Posy collected her daily copy of the Telegraph.
Coming out of the shop with her nose buried in the headlines, she bumped straight into a young girl.
‘Pardon me,’ she apologised, lowering her gaze to meet that of the brown-eyed child in front of her.
‘That’s okay,’ the girl shrugged.
‘My goodness,’ Posy finally responded, ‘do forgive me for staring, but you look awfully like someone I used to know.’
‘Oh.’ The child shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Posy moved aside so she could pass by her and step inside the shop. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’ Posy turned and walked up the high street towards the gallery. As she did so, a familiar figure came running down the street towards her.
‘Evie? It is you, isn’t it?’
The young woman stopped dead in her tracks, her pale face reddening from embarrassment.
‘Yes. Hello, Posy,’ she said quietly.
‘How are you, dear girl? And what on earth are you doing back in Southwold? Visiting old friends?’
‘No.’ Evie studied her feet. ‘We moved back here a couple of weeks ago. I . . . we live here now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Posy watched Evie as she continued to avoid making eye contact. She was far thinner than she used to be, and her lovely long dark hair had been chopped into a short crop.
�
��I think I may have seen your daughter just now outside the newsagent. I thought she looked very like you. Back for good, the three of you?’
‘The two of us, yes,’ answered Evie. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Posy, I’m in a terrible hurry.’
‘Of course, and,’ Posy added, ‘these days I work in Mason’s Gallery, three doors down from The Swan. Any time you fancy a spot of lunch, you know I’d love to see you. And your daughter, whose name is . . .?’
‘Clemmie, she’s called Clemmie.’
‘Short for Clementine, I presume, like Winston Churchill’s wife.’
‘Yes.’
‘What a lovely name. Well, goodbye, Evie, and welcome back.’
‘Thank you. Bye.’
Evie headed towards the newsagents in search of her daughter, and Posy walked the last few yards down the road to the gallery. Feeling more than a little hurt at Evie’s obvious discomfort in her presence, and wondering what on earth she had done to garner such a negative reaction, Posy took the keys to the gallery out of her bag.
As she unlocked the front door, entered and fumbled for the light switch, she thought about what Evie had implied: that Brian, her partner of all those years ago, was no longer in her life. Inquisitive to know more, Posy thought it unlikely she ever would. From Evie’s reaction, it was more likely that she would probably cross the street to avoid her the next time they met.
However, the one thing she had learnt in her almost seventy years on this earth was that human beings were a queer lot and constantly surprised her. Evie has her reasons, Posy mused as she went to the office at the back of the gallery and switched on the kettle for her ritual second cup of coffee.
She only wished she knew what they were.
Chapter 2
‘Please, Jake, go and find your shoes, now!’
‘But Mummy, I haven’t finished my Coco Pops and . . .’
‘I don’t care! We’re going to be late. Now shoo!’
As Jake left the kitchen, Amy Montague wiped four-year-old Sara’s cereal-smeared mouth with a cloth and knelt down to put on her shoes. The fronts were scuffed and her daughter’s feet barely fitted inside them. Sara’s nose was running, her hair was still tangled from a night’s sleep and the pair of trousers passed down from Jake ended midway up her shins.
‘You look like a gypsy child,’ Amy sighed, grabbing a brush from the detritus on the sideboard and attempting to pull it through Sara’s mass of blonde curls.
‘Ouch, Mummy!’ screamed Sara justifiably.
‘Sorry, darling, but Miss Ewing will wonder what kind of mummy I am if I send you to school looking like this.’
‘I’m going to school?’ Sara’s face fell. ‘But I hate it, Mummy.’
‘Oh sweetheart, your teacher says you’re settling in really well, and Josie will pick you up and take you to her house with Jake afterwards. Mummy will pick you both up from there when she’s finished work,’ Amy added.
‘But I don’t like school and I don’t like Josie. I want to stay with you, Mummy.’ The little girl’s face crumpled and she began to cry.
‘Sara, darling, you do like school and you like Josie. And Mummy will get some chocolate cake for tea, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Sara nodded, somewhat pacified.
‘Jake?! We’re leaving now!’ Amy shouted, pulling Sara into the hall. She put on her daughter’s anorak and her own coat, then fumbled for the keys in her bag.
Jake came crashing down the stairs, his shoes in his hands.
‘Put them on, Jake.’
‘But I want you to do it, Mummy. Is Daddy still asleep?’
‘Yes.’ Amy knelt and tugged Jake’s shoes onto his feet. ‘Right, let’s go.’
‘But I want to say bye-bye to him,’ whined Jake as Amy took Sara’s hand and opened the door.
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s tired. Now let’s get a move on!’
Having dropped the children at their school, Amy drove to the garage to leave her car for the repairs it needed, having recently failed its MOT. Walking briskly home, she realised she only had an hour before she left for work; an hour in which to tidy the kitchen, do the washing and make a shopping list. How she was going to manage without a car, she really didn’t know, but a difficult life was going to be rendered almost impossible. Besides that, she had no idea how they would pay for the repairs, but they’d have to find the money somehow, it was as simple as that.
Amy turned into the front path of the miserable little house which had become their home six weeks ago. Situated on a road on the outskirts of the town and with only the marshes between it and the sea, it was essentially an overgrown beach hut and utterly charming when the sun shone. It was only really intended for summer use and Amy knew its thin clapboard walls and huge windows would provide scant protection against the elements in the coming winter. There was no proper heating except a temperamental woodburner in the sitting room that, when she’d tried it last night, had smoked more than it gave out warmth. The house had only two dank bedrooms upstairs that were so cramped that most of their possessions stood in boxes in the shed in the back garden.
Even though she knew Sam’s pride had taken a terrible knock when lack of money had forced them out of their last house, and she didn’t want to upset him any further by telling him how much she loathed their current home, Amy was finding it hard to maintain her usual positive attitude. She knew her husband tried so hard for all of them, but he seemed to have endless bad luck, with one business venture after another folding. How could she tell him that Sara needed some new shoes, how small Jake’s winter coat was for him, or just how exhausted she was trying to run the house and provide food on the meagre amount she received from her job as a receptionist at a local hotel?
Sam was in the kitchen wearing his boxer shorts and yawning as he switched on the kettle.
‘Hello, sweetheart. Sorry I was so late last night. Ken and I had a lot of things to thrash out.’
‘Did the meeting go well?’ Amy looked up at him nervously, noticing his blue eyes were bloodshot and inhaling the smell of stale alcohol from his breath. She was glad she’d been asleep when he’d come in.
‘Extremely.’ Sam looked down at her. ‘I think I’m going to be able to restore the fortunes of the house of Montague very soon indeed.’
Usually, such comments were enough to lift Amy’s spirits, but this morning, Sam’s words had a hollow ring to them.
‘Doing what, exactly?’
He pulled away and held her in front of him by the tops of her arms. ‘My darling, you are looking at the official managing director of Montague Property Development Limited.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Want a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. So, how much will you get paid a week?’ Amy asked hopefully.
‘Oh, not very much, I don’t think, but of course, all my expenses will be covered.’
‘But surely, if you’re the managing director, you have to pay yourself a salary?’
Sam dropped a tea bag into a mug. ‘Amy, this is all about speculating to accumulate. I can’t really ask for a wage until I’ve proved myself and got a project under way. Once that happens, I’ll get fifty per cent of the profits. And that will add up to a heap of cash.’
Amy’s heart sank. ‘But Sam, we need money now, not in a few months’ time. I understand that this might make you rich in the future, but surely you realise that we just can’t survive on what I bring home from the hotel?’
Sam poured boiling water into his mug and slammed the kettle onto the work surface with unnecessary force. ‘So, what do you suggest I do? Go and work in a dead-end job in a shop or a factory to bring in an extra few pounds?’
This was exactly what Amy wished he would do. She took a deep breath. ‘Why do you have to view regular work so negatively, Sam? You’ve had a good education, lots of experience doing different things and I’m sure there’s no reason why you couldn’t get a perfectly well-p
aid office job—’
‘Which will get this family nowhere in the long term, Amy. I have to look to the future, to finding a way to provide the lifestyle we want and deserve. We both know I won’t do that working for someone else in a crappy office job.’
‘Sam, at present, all I care about is keeping the wolf from the door on a day-to-day basis. Personally, I think part of the problem is that we’ve looked to the future too often and speculated.’ Amy swiped her blonde hair away from her face in agitation. ‘It’s not like it was when we first met. We have to realise we have responsibilities, children to house and support and we just can’t do that on thin air.’
He stared at her as he sipped his tea. ‘So, what you’re trying to tell me is that you’ve lost your faith in my ability to pull off the big one?’
‘No . . .’ Amy saw the look in his eyes and knew it spelt danger. ‘Of course I believe in you and your business ability, but wouldn’t it be possible to do this project in your spare time and combine it with something that would give us some extra cash now?’
‘Christ, Amy! You obviously have no idea how business works. If I’m going to get this property company off the ground, it’s going to take up every minute of every day.’ Sam’s face was now red with anger. He grabbed her arm tightly as she walked across the kitchen to the sink. ‘I am going to do this, darling, because unless I do, you and I and the kids are going to be stuck in this crappy little house for the rest of our lives. So, rather than criticising me for doing my best to dig us out of this hole, I’d appreciate it if you would support me as I try to turn things around!’
‘I . . .’ she said as the grip tightened on her arm, ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’ Sam let go of her, then picked up his mug of tea and walked to the kitchen door. ‘I’m going to get dressed, then I’m going out.’
Amy sat down, nursing her sore arm and staying very still until she heard Sam climb the stairs, then, five minutes later, retrace his footsteps back down them. The whole house shook as the front door was slammed behind him.
The Butterfly Room Page 5