Don't Look Back

by Ben Cheetham

  Adam opened the balcony doors in their bedroom, letting in the moon and the murmur of breaking waves. Ella got into bed and massaged her shoulders. “I’m aching all over.”

  “You’d better get used to that feeling if you’re going to do the housework and gardening.”

  “It’ll do me good. I’ve spent too many years at a desk.”

  Adam slid under the duvet. Ella kissed him and switched off the lamp. He gazed around the moonlit room. His eyes came full circle to Ella. She was already asleep. A strong urge – almost a compulsion – came over him.

  “Winifred Trehearne are you here?” he asked.

  He’d only meant to whisper, but his voice seemed so loud that he glanced nervously at Ella. She didn’t stir. He listened to the house. The only sound he heard was the creak of cooling wood. Chuckling under his breath, he closed his eyes and focused on the lulling murmur of the sea.

  Chapter 12

  Day Two

  Adam awoke to the chatter of gulls. For the first time in months, he’d slept the night through without disturbance. He wondered if he’d been so tired that he simply hadn’t heard Henry crying. Or was it possible that Henry had slept through too? He was tempted to wake Ella and find out if she’d heard anything, but she looked so peaceful he couldn’t bring himself to. He got out of bed and went onto the balcony. The breeze was sighing in the sycamores. A pink glow was dividing the sea from the sky. He thought of the dreary view from the bedroom in Walthamstow and promised himself he would never take this one for granted. He wanted to watch the sunrise, but his mind wouldn’t allow him to. It was whirring with words demanding to be let out. He put on his dressing gown, left the room and padded to Henry’s door.

  Henry was sleeping soundly. Adam hardly dared breathe for fear of disturbing him and spoiling the image.

  He crept away. The house was cold, but not unpleasantly so. A sense of stillness hung over it as soft as the light trickling through the windows. He sat down at the study desk and made to turn on his computer, remembering as he did so that he couldn’t plug it in. Until he got his hands on some adaptors he would have to go old school. He reached for a pen and a ream of printer paper and jotted down the sentence that had come to him last night. Others followed, slowly at first, but with gathering speed until he was writing in a fast scrawl. Usually he worked in a tightly controlled style, but this was almost a stream of consciousness. It was as if a dam had cracked inside him and all the words that had been held back were gushing out. He lost himself totally in the story, leaving behind all the grief and guilt of the past ten months.

  He looked up with a start as Ella entered the room. She placed a steaming cup on the desk. “Sorry for interrupting. I thought you might need some caffeine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You looked like you were really back in the groove.”

  “I was.” Adam put down his pen and flexed aching fingers. He flipped back through the paper. He’d filled over twenty pages. Many of the words were semi-legible, sentences rose and fell like waves. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost eight.”

  He shook his head in astonishment, unsure what to make of this see-sawing from one extreme to the other. “All this in two hours. I’ve never written so fast. If I keep going like this I’ll have the first draft finished by the end of next week.”

  “There’s no rush. Better to go slow and get it right. That’s what you always say.”

  “Yeah, but I’d be crazy not to take full advantage of this while it lasts. I could dry up again.”

  “I’m sure that won’t happen. It’s just going to take a while to get your confidence back.”

  Adam took Ella’s hand and feathered his thumb over it. “How do you always know what to say to me?”

  She smiled. “Because I know you better than you know yourself.”

  Adam sipped his coffee, looking at her over the rim of the cup. Her eyes were clear and the surrounding skin was less dark. “You look as if you slept well.”

  “I woke a few times worrying about Henry. I looked in on him once but he was fast asleep.”

  “He was the same when I poked my head around his door before starting work. Do you think it means–”

  “I don’t know,” broke in Ella.

  It would take more than one night of unbroken sleep for her to allow herself to believe Henry had shaken off his night terrors. Just as it would take more than one wildly productive writing session for Adam to believe he’d truly broken through his block.

  “What about you?” asked Ella. “How did you sleep? Any bad dreams?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.” Adam greeted the realisation with strangely mixed feelings. He despised the gut-wrenchingly lucid recurring dream in which he saw Jacob die over and over again. He usually faced sleep with dread because of it, but there were also times when he closed his eyes in the hope that it would come. No photograph could capture his son’s face so perfectly.

  Ella’s face reflected Adam’s uncertainty. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a smile and nodded. “Is Henry awake?”

  “Yes, he’s playing in his room. I’m going to take him up some breakfast.”

  “I’ll do it. I need a break.”

  They went to the kitchen. A pan of porridge was bubbling on the Rayburn. Ella ladled some into a bowl and put it on a tray alongside a glass of orange juice. Adam took the tray upstairs. The morning sun glowed in the rear windows. Birds were chirping over the barely audible but ever-present sound of the sea. His smile vanished as he neared Henry’s door. He stopped so abruptly that the juice slopped over the tray. Henry repeated the words that had halted Adam in his tracks.

  “Come here, Jacob. Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

  As if afraid of what he might see, Adam tentatively opened the door. Henry was stooping by the open window with one hand stretched towards a robin on the threshold of the sill. As Adam entered, the robin fluttered away. Henry jerked around as if he’d been caught doing something naughty.

  “Was that Robin the robin?” asked Adam.

  “Yes.” The quickness of Henry’s reply gave away his lie.

  “Sorry for frightening him off.” Adam set the tray down on the bed. He watched his son gulp down the juice and set to work on the porridge. He stroked the soft curls at the back of Henry’s head. “Are you alright?”

  “Uh-huh. Can I go out in the garden?”

  Adam nodded.

  Henry handed back his empty bowl and bolted from the room. His footsteps echoed along the hallway and down the stairs. Adam sat for a while with a line between his eyebrows before following him. Ella was busy sorting through the kitchen cupboards, making space for the crockery they’d brought with them. She smiled at Adam. “Henry just came through here like a whirlwind. He said he’s going to find his friend. I assume he means Robin.”

  Adam wondered whether he should tell Ella the robin’s real name. He decided against it. He knew she would insist on talking to Henry about the robin. Henry had been so unhappy for so long. If it made him happy to call the robin Jacob, then why not let him do so without the awkwardness of having to explain himself? What harm could it possibly do beyond that which had already been done?

  Adam took a bowl of porridge to the study. He sat staring at the toy car, his mind too full of Jacob for writing. Voices outside attracted his attention. Ella had thrown on some clothes and was chasing Henry around the lawn. She caught him and they collapsed in a laughing heap. The smile returned to Adam’s face. He headed upstairs and set a bath running. After soaking away the aches of the previous day, he went in search of Ella and Henry. Ella was in the orangery, trimming dead fronds from a palm tree. A fine mist bloomed from the hose system that snaked across the richly black raised beds and around the terracotta pots.

  “How about a walk into Treworder?” he suggested. “I’d like to introduce Henry to Rozen.”

  Ella pushed her lips out uncertainly. “There’s so much
to do in the house.”

  Adam caught the note of unease in her voice and guessed what it was about. He glanced around to ensure they were alone. “Don’t worry, I’ll speak to Rozen first and make sure she knows not to say anything to Henry about the houses other residents.”

  “OK. You lock up. I’ll find Henry.”

  “He’s going to find out sooner-or-later, Ella. Probably sooner. He starts school in a few days. Someone’s bound to say something.”

  “I know and we’ll talk to him before then. I just want him to settle in first.”

  Adam made his way around the ground floor locking doors and closing windows. It hardly felt necessary. The house was so hidden away. The only people who passed anywhere near it were hikers on the coastal path. Ella and Henry were waiting at the back gate. Henry was clutching a bunch of flowers. “I picked them for Miss Trehearne,” he said.

  “That’s really thoughtful of you,” said Adam, unlocking the gate. They descended through the tunnel of hedge and turned left onto the narrow cliff top path. The sun sparkled on the white tips of waves far below. Gulls soared gracefully on currents of air high above. Maybe half-a-mile offshore a fishing boat bobbed on gentle swells.

  Henry reached for his mum’s hand despite his newfound bravery. “It’s a long way down.”

  “You walk between Mum and me,” said Adam. “And remember to watch where you’re putting your feet.”

  The well-worn path followed the contours of the cliffs, undulating like the sea. It curved around a corner sheltered by gnarled gorse, passing a semi-circular sign bearing the oak leaf logo of The National Trust. “Satan’s Saucepan,” read Adam. “Sounds ominous.”

  They emerged from the gorse at the rim of a dizzyingly deep bowl-shaped indent several hundred metres in circumference. The steep sides of the bowl were carpeted in coarse grass and tangles of bracken. Its base was a jumble of boulders. Waves rolled through a towering rock arch, bubbling and hissing on the boulders.

  “It looks like boiling water,” said Henry.

  The path curved around the landward rim of the bowl. At the far side, it swung inland through a small carpark. A lane snaked down past cottages huddled into the valley side and joined the road they’d entered Treworder by on their previous visit. Henry peered over the sea-wall at the deserted little sandy beach. There were a couple of dog walkers on the larger shingle beach to the other side of the rocky promontory. A few people were sauntering around between the art gallery, gift shop and fishmonger.

  “It’s a bit different to the last time we were here,” remarked Adam.

  “Thank god,” said Ella.

  “Can we go to the beach?” asked Henry.

  “After we’ve seen Miss Trehearne,” said Adam.

  They strolled along the seafront. Henry eyed-up the fishing boats, obviously itching to go exploring. Adam uneasily recalled the crowd that had been gathered around the corner from The Smuggler’s Inn. He half-expected to see a few desperate characters still loitering, but the street outside Boscarne Cottage was empty. At the whitewashed garden wall he said to Ella and Henry, “You wait here. I’ll see if Rozen’s in.”

  He knocked and, after a brief wait, Rozen opened the door. She was wearing what appeared to be the same turquoise dress. Her smile was in place, but her rouge and berry-red lipstick were absent, revealing a sallow complexion and thin lips. She touched her cheek as if conscious of this.

  “Hello, Rozen. I thought you might like to meet my son. We can come back another time if this isn’t convenient.”

  “No, no, Adam. Now is fine.” Rozen gestured for them to come inside.

  As Ella and Henry approached, Adam lowered his voice and said quickly, “We haven’t told him about your mother yet. We’d appreciate it if–”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” Rozen assured him. She turned her attention to Ella. “So lovely to see you again.” A twinkle played in her eyes as she looked at Henry. “And you must be Henry. What a handsome boy. Just like your father.”

  Blushing, Henry held out the flowers. “These are for you.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Rozen reached for the bouquet, but hesitated. “Did you pick them from Fenton House’s garden?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile held firm, but the twinkle flickered like a candle in a breeze. She pointed to the doorstep. “Just put them there.”

  Henry did as she said. They followed her through to the living room. The pug eyed them from the rug and yawned as if bored by the sight. “Come and say hello, Edgar,” said Rozen. Edgar struggled upright and shuffled over.

  Henry bent to stroke him. “He’s cute.”

  “And extremely lazy,” said Rozen. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” said Adam. “We just wanted to say how grateful we are for what you’ve done for us.”

  “Thank you for choosing us to live in your house,” said Henry.

  “It’s not my house anymore, darling boy,” pointed out Rozen. “And I didn’t choose you. Your dad is a very special man. It’s because of him you’re living in Fenton House. Do you like it there?”

  “Yes.”

  “We all like it there,” said Ella.

  Rozen directed an ear-to-ear smile at her. “So it’s won you over too.”

  Ella returned the smile. “I admit I wasn’t convinced this was the right move for us, but now we’re here, I feel... Well, I feel at home.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” Rozen held out a thick-knuckled hand. Ella took it. Rozen gave a gentle squeeze and let go.

  “If you ever need anything – help around the house or whatever – just give us a call,” said Adam.

  “Thank you, Adam, I will.”

  There was a moment of silence. As if he’d done his duty, Edgar trundled back to the rug and flopped down.

  “We’ll leave you both in peace,” said Ella.

  Rozen accompanied them to the front door. As they stepped outside, she touched Adam on the arm. “May I speak with you alone for a moment?”

  “Of course.” Turning to Ella, Adam added, “I’ll catch you up.”

  Ella gave him a quizzical glance, but followed Henry out of the garden.

  Rozen smiled after Henry. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” she said, seemingly as much to herself as to Adam.

  “You were right, Rozen. This place really seems to be working its magic on him. He’s already like a different boy. We thought he might be scared of such a big house, but he’s not at all.”

  “And he has no reason to be. Mother will look after him. She always wanted a boy of her own.”

  Adam made no reply. What was there to say to that?

  Rozen pointed to the flowers. “I can’t accept those.”

  “I assumed it was OK to take flowers from the garden.”

  “It is, but I’ve taken everything that was mine from there. The rest is for someone else.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, to be honest, no. I’m not sure I ever will either, but if that’s how you want it to be, then that’s how it’ll be.” Adam retrieved the flowers. “Bye for now, Rozen.”

  “Bye Adam. Say hello to Mother for me.”

  “I… I will do.”

  Ella and Henry were turning from view by The Smuggler’s Inn. Adam hurried to catch them up, pausing to put the flowers in a bin. He didn’t want to have to explain to Henry why Rozen had returned them. He caught up with Ella and Henry in front of the pub. “What was that about?” asked Ella.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Adam thumbed at the pub. “Fancy a bit of lunch?”

  Beyond a little beer-garden a door with a porthole led to a cosy bar – beamed ceiling, stone fireplace, half-a-dozen small round tables, barstools lined up at the counter. The walls were crowded with photos of Treworder’s fishing fleet and the men who operated it. Loops of rope hung from the beams as if on stormy nights the room rocked like a boat at sea. The bar was empty except for a ma
n enjoying a quiet pint and a newspaper at one of the tables. A tonsure of greying hair encircled the man’s shiny bald head. Black-rimmed glasses were balanced above a neatly trimmed goatee. He looked up from his paper and his gaze lingered on the newcomers as they bought drinks and took them to a table. Adam recalled seeing a group of similar scholarly-looking characters outside the pub on the day of the interview, but couldn’t be sure if the man had been amongst them. In London he would have ignored him, but here it seemed like the right thing to smile and nod hello. The man took it as an invitation to stand and approach them.

  “Am I right in thinking that you’re the new residents of Fenton House?” he inquired in a softly spoken Scottish accent.

  “That’s us,” said Adam.

  “Welcome to Treworder. I’m Doug Blackwood.”

  Doug extended his hand and Adam shook it. “Adam Piper. This is my wife Ella and my son Henry.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m relatively new to these parts myself. I moved down from Edinburgh in June.”

  “It’s a beautiful place to retire to,” said Ella.

  A smile pulled at Doug’s goatee. “Do I really look that old?”

  “Oh I’m sorry, I just assumed–”

  Doug wafted away her apology. “I came here to work.” He laughed as Ella’s eyebrows lifted. “You look surprised. Perhaps you’re wondering what sort of work an old boffin like me would find in these parts. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” said Adam.

  Doug fetched his pint and drew up a stool. “I’m an author.”

  “Oh really,” said Ella. “Adam’s an author too.”

  “I suppose that’s one of the few benefits of being a writer,” said Adam. “You can work wherever you want.”

  “Actually that’s not true for me,” said Doug. “Unlike you, I don’t write fiction. I have to go where my subject demands. In this case that means spending a few months in Treworder. Which is no great hardship.”

  A faintly cautious note entered Adam’s voice. “How do you know I write fiction?”

  “Well, you see, I have a professional interest in Fenton House. I’m researching a book on local history and I’m particularly interested in–”