The silence hangs as though weighted. The church seems to hold its breath and even the gulls outside are quiet. I know this is fanciful but it’s so noiseless amid the old stones and prayers that I half belief even Nature stops to mourn. I watch the dust motes dance around shards of light, and when the brightness hurts my eyes I lower my gaze to the shelf in front of my pew, where the prayer books are kept. The wood is worn smooth from centuries of hands passing over it. Still lost in thought, I caress the cool surface – and then my hand discovers a ridge.
I frown. That’s odd. Why is there a scratch in the wood? My fingers journey along and the first ridge leaps into another and another. I look more closely. Carved into the wood is the small but unmistakeable shape of a daisy.
Chapter 6
Chloe
The church quietens as the congregation makes its way out through the arched doorway into the sunshine. Voices recede, feet tap over the flagstones and the organist gathers up his sheet music and heads outside, after which a perfect stillness falls.
I sit in the pew and trace the carving with my forefinger, following the crude lines over and over again. The edges feel rough beneath my fingertips, in contrast to the smooth wood. The design’s been scratched in with a penknife. I know this because on one of our first dates Neil scratched our initials into the bark of a tree. When I close my eyes I see that moment frozen in time, the letters bald against the scarred trunk as Neil tilts my chin and brushes his mouth against mine.
“It’s written down now, so you’d better not leave me now, Chloe Hughes,” he’d whispered. In response I’d laughed, called him an idiot and promised I wasn’t going anywhere. I think that was the moment I knew I loved him: I realised I could no more walk away from Neil Pencarrow than I could stop myself from breathing.
“I’ll never leave you,” I’d said.
I never broke my word either. As it turned out, Neil left me – something neither of us ever imagined. Sometimes I wonder what happened to our initials. Is the tree still there? Did the bark repair itself? Or does the faintest scar remain as evidence of a long-ago promise?
I reopen my eyes and the simple daisy’s still there but, even so, I’m not sure I trust my own judgement. I’m only too aware that these days I see things because I want to see them and not because they’re real. Neil, for instance, and maybe daisies too? Is Mum right? Am I not quite myself?
“Chloe? Is everything all right? Are you feeling unwell?”
Sue’s opposite me and her gentle face is full of concern. I must look odd, sitting here all alone long after everyone else has left and staring at the front of my pew.
“Look at this,” I say, pointing down at the carved daisy.
She leans over the pew.
“I take it you didn’t whittle that because you were bored during my sermon?”
I laugh. “Absolutely not!”
“You’re meant to say that my sermon wasn’t boring,” Sue sighs. She slides into the pew and sits beside me, then runs her hand over the carved flower.
“How odd. Until you pointed out the daisy in the window I’d never noticed it, and now there’s this. You do have sharp eyes, Chloe.”
“Tell me I’m not seeing things?” I plead. “That’s a daisy, isn’t it?”
“Certainly looks like one to me, although I must warn you that gardening, a bit like cooking, isn’t my strong point!”
It’s good to know I’m not hallucinating. “And you’ve never noticed it before?”
“No, definitely not. But then I wouldn’t have, would I? I’ve never sat here. Far too busy at the front trying to entertain my congregation! Anyway, this looks to me as though it’s been here a while, so maybe one of my predecessors wasn’t quite as hot on the old PowerPoints and visual aids?”
“Maybe that’s it? Somebody scratched it here because it reminded them of something?”
Sue looks doubtful. “It could just be that somebody sat here and copied the daisy from the window? A bored teenager maybe, passing time during a service? Or somebody artistic like yourself?”
She could be right but somehow I don’t think so. The scores in the wood aren’t fresh: they’re age-darkened and grimy. The scratched image has been here a long, long time. Maybe as long as the window? Or longer? Perhaps it even came first? Whatever the answer, I feel certain this image meant something once.
It meant everything.
“This meant something to somebody,” I say firmly.
“It’s a mystery, that’s for sure,” Sue agrees. “I feel a bit dim actually for not being able to tell you much more about the daisy in the window. I must mug up on my history – once I’ve got to grips with the cooking and the gardening! And talking of cooking, my husband will be wondering what’s happening to Sunday lunch. I’ll call you about that pizza.”
She stands up, robes swirling and her thoughts miles away from strange symbols and half uncovered mysteries. Now her mind is on roast beef, bubbling pans and a kitchen filled with steam. Her chubby toddler will be perched on the hip of the smiling man who’ll greet her with a kiss. She’ll pull off her dog collar, change into her jeans and be a mum and wife for a few hours before it’s time to return for evensong. A dart of envy makes me catch my breath. Neil loved preparing a Sunday roast. It was the only meal he ever cooked, but he did it with such love and such attention to detail – from the crispy potatoes, to the beef still pink in the middle, to the gravy made with meat juices. He’d roll up his sleeves and stand at the hob, stirring and chatting away while I sat at the kitchen table with the Sunday papers. Looking back, those simple Sundays were some of the happiest times of my life. I wish I’d known then just how special they were.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Sue adds, probably catching the sadness flickering over my face. “We always make far too much, and Tim will get even fatter if he polishes it off. We’ve opened a nice red too.”
One day I will eat Sunday roast again, but not just yet. I want to join Sue and her family. I want to sit at the kitchen table and hold Caspar on my lap, drink wine and chat away. One day. But not today. Not for many days yet.
“That’s really kind but I’ll pass today.” I stand up too and slip my bag onto my shoulder. I need to get going before she tries to change my mind. I can’t hold it together enough yet to face a family Sunday lunch.
“Are you sure? You’re very welcome. Tim’s dying to meet you.”
“Another time. I thought I’d walk over to Rosecraddick Manor and see if there’s anyone about to ask about Kit Rivers. The place was deserted yesterday.”
“I expect Matt was with his kids,” Sue sighs. “Poor guy. I have no idea how he juggles everything. He’s doing his best to help with the family business and be a good dad to the twins as well as working for Kernow Heritage Foundation.”
“Do you think he’ll be there now?”
“I imagine so. He was wreath-laying this morning with the local councillor but he’s bound to be there at some point, so you may be in luck. He’s a historian, and he’s local too – so he might be able to shed some light on things. Let me know if you find anything out about our vandal! Now, I’d better get these robes off and scoot home or I’ll be in big trouble!”
We part company, Sue striding briskly through the nave on her way to get changed and me slipping quietly outside into the early afternoon. The wind’s got up, whipping the waves into a canter and making me shiver in spite of the sunshine. I gather my coat around me and walk into the village, flattening myself against a hedge when Sue’s battered Focus zooms by. She waves and hoots and I wave back, smiling because her energy and enthusiasm are as much a blast of fresh air as the bracing wind. These days I feel as though I’m on autopilot, dragging one foot in front of another to make it through the day, and Sue reminds me of the person I used to be – the Chloe who went running before school, managed the Art Faculty, visited galleries, had a growing career as an artist and adored her husband. That Chloe brimmed with life and I hardly recognise this husk of myse
lf.
And neither would Neil. He’d be horrified.
Well, you’re not here! I shriek at him silently. You went away and left me! It’s your fault!
But this time there’s no answer. There’s only the calling of the gulls, which never seems to end. I think there’d be a metaphor in this if I could only find it.
I’m halfway to Rosecraddick when the sun vanishes and the world turns grey. Rain starts to fall, lightly at first as it sweeps in from the sea, but growing heavier and heavier with each moment. I haven’t got a hood on my trendy city jacket and by the time I reach the Manor I’m drenched. Fortunately the gates are open today and there’s a light shining from one of the lower ivy-cloaked windows. Encouraged by this, I trudge along the drive.
You’ll only get wet once, I tell myself as I press on and do my best to dodge the puddles in the pock-marked drive. This is some downpour. So much for the sparkling frost and sunshine of the morning. Now it looks as though the village has been smothered by a grey dishrag.
Lacklustre as the weather is, even the rain doesn’t detract from the beauty of the house. I sprint up the cracked steps and knock on the door while water drips through the porch and splashes onto the tiles. Ivy’s growing through the gaps and I have the peculiar feeling that nature’s creeping up on me. If I turn my back for the briefest moment, I’ll be caught by stealthy green fingers and smothered by foliage.
The thought makes me shiver and I’m glad the door’s wedged open with a pair of muddy boots.
“Hello?” I call, into a dark-panelled hall where two moth-eaten stags’ heads regard me mournfully from above an empty fireplace. “Hello?”
My voice sounds hesitant and thin. There’s no reply, so I step over the boots and try again.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
There’s still no answer and it feels as though the house is holding its breath. The vaulted hall is deserted and as I step inside the floorboards groan beneath my feet. The air is ripe with the smell of damp and mould, and now the only sounds are the ping of droplets falling into buckets and the drumming of rain on the roof. Unsure what to do next, I look around, taking in the light patches on the walls where once upon a time portraits of the Rivers family must have gazed down on visitors with the haughty confidence of ownership. Dreary light slides in through the ivy-snarled windows but does little to dispel the gloom. It feels as though nobody’s been here for decades.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you knock. Hang on a minute.”
A figure emerges from the shadows and strides across the room to flick a switch. Instantly the hall fills with harsh electric light. This highlights mould and cobwebs, the crumbling plasterwork and treacherous holes in the floorboards – but it isn’t these that make me gasp.
It’s the identity of the speaker.
Standing in front of me, and totally at ease in Kit Rivers’ childhood home, is none other than the log-delivery man.
Chapter 7
Chloe
“Hello again,” he says, not seeming the least surprised to find me here dripping rainwater all over the floor. “I do hope you were warmer last night?”
Thrown, I can only stare.
“The logs for your range?” he prompts when I fail to reply. “You did manage to light it, didn’t you? Please say yes. I feel bad enough that I didn’t offer to do it for you. I know we talked about girl power but I still ought to have been more of a gentleman.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you. I did and I was very warm,” I say, dazed. “The logs are great and you’ve got nothing to feel bad about. It was all fine.”
“Phew. That’s a relief,” he says. “It’s always good to pass quality control too! My uncle will be delighted. Now, can I offer you a towel?”
I’m puddling water all over the floor and am soaked to my knickers. Just to add to my joy, my hair’s frizzing and my nose is running. I must look a state. Then again, what does it matter if I do? I don’t care about any of that stuff anymore.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m not that wet.”
We both know this is blatantly untrue. I look as though I’ve been swimming. A towel won’t even come close to drying me off.
Log Man raises an eyebrow. “You’re drenched. I know this makes me sound like my granny, but you’ll catch your death of cold like that. I’ve already got not lighting your wood burner on my conscience, so you’re not catching pneumonia on my watch.”
Before I can protest he’s stretching up and pulling off his hoody. As he tugs it over his head I catch a glimpse of taut stomach and dark whorls of hair tapering to the waist of his jeans, and I feel hot with something that could be embarrassment. Well I hope it’s just embarrassment, anyway. Luckily he’s wearing a plain white tee shirt underneath the hoody, otherwise I’d have had to flee the room like a coy Victorian maiden. Since Neil, this is the closest I’ve come to seeing a man’s body and it feels… odd. Wrong even.
Guilt stipples my skin and my face is flushed. Yesterday I caught myself thinking he was attractive – and he really is, in a smouldering Ross Poldark kind of way. I look down at my wellies. Oh look! Aren’t the pink and yellow spots cute?
Fortunately for me, Log Man is unaware of my thoughts and thrusts his hoody into my arms with great enthusiasm.
“There you go. Mop yourself up with that.”
I stare down at the garment that I’m now clutching against my chest. The fabric’s warm from the heat of his body. It smells of maleness and fabric conditioner and a lemony aftershave. Just holding it feels intimate and wrong.
Like I’m cheating on Neil.
“Honestly, it’s fine,” he assures me, understandably misinterpreting my silence as a reluctance to use his clothing as a mop. “It really is. The hoody’s ancient and I’ve got a jacket upstairs too. Besides, I’m really warm. I’ve been lugging furniture about for hours. It’s hard work but I keep telling myself it’s good for me to get some exercise at my age. I need to keep up with my kids. They already think I’m practically a geriatric.”
In the harsh electric lighting I see he’s older than I’d thought. Early forties maybe? The dark hair is sprinkled with grey at the temples, there are lines of sadness etched about his mouth and he looks tired. Then he smiles and the years melt away with the boyish twinkle in his eyes. He’s being kind, that’s all. I’m overreacting. He’s lending me his hoody, not asking to sleep with me.
This thought really makes me blush. I’m not thinking about sleeping with him. It was just a turn of phrase.
“It’s clean,” he adds. “Fresh on today.”
I feel ungrateful now, and a bit daft. Perky Pippa would love to examine my conflict about accepting help from a handsome man. She’d want to explore and validate every detail. Well, no thanks. It’s just an offer of a hoody. No big deal.
“Thanks,” I say and begin to dab at my face and hair.
“So, I’m assuming you haven’t come to complain?” the log-delivery man continues while I pat myself dry. “I have to level with you – I really don’t fancy having to unstack that lot if you want to return it! If you keep the hoody, maybe we could be quits?”
He smiles and I’m struck again by the perfect teeth and the lines fanning out around his eyes like stars. I like his sense of humour.
“No, the logs have definitely passed quality control, so you’ve nothing to worry about. Your hoody’s safe.”
He mimes wiping his brow. “I’m relieved. Uncle Larry will let me out again and my souvenir from the nineties can continue to give my age away!”
Slightly drier now, I hand him back the soggy garment and tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Thanks for that. No, don’t worry; I’m not here about logs. I’m actually looking for Matthew Enys? Sue Perry said I might find him here.”
Log Man holds out his hand. “The Reverend Sue is rarely wrong. We haven’t been formally introduced but I’m Matt Enys.”
“You’re Matt? You work for the Kernow Heritage Foundation?”
I can�
��t hide my surprise. I’d been expecting a much older man, an academic type in tweed maybe and with long grey hair, but not this muscular guy who lifts logs as though they were matchsticks and wears faded Levi’s and Iron Maiden hoodies. His dark wavy hair brushes his shoulders, his jaw’s shadowed with stubble and an earring glints in his left ear. His torso, or what little I’ve just glimpsed of it, is ripped too and he looks more like a rock star than an academic. Why didn’t Sue mention he was hot?
This thought makes my face grow warm again. Did I just label Matt Enys as “hot”? I guess I did but in a purely objective way, the same way I can still appreciate Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt. Luckily, Matt can’t read my mind. He’s draping the hoody over the back of a massive cast-iron radiator and chatting away easily as he does so.
“I certainly am and, yes, I work for the Kernow Heritage Foundation when I’m not moonlighting for my uncle.”
“I’m really sorry. That sounded dreadfully rude,” I say. I think there’s a part of me that’s broken; I don’t seem to function socially like I used to. I guess I’m out of practice.
But Matt doesn’t appear offended.
“I should look like Dumbledore to really be the part, shouldn’t I? Still, I promise you that if our budget for this place gets slashed again I’ll soon have white hair just like his. This project is certainly responsible for all my grey! I’m a historian and I’m in charge of putting exhibitions together for the Foundation – easier said than done on a shoestring. Anyway, I’ll stop prattling on. I take it you’re here because you’re interested in Kit Rivers?”
I nod. “Sue’s been telling me a bit about Kit. I’m afraid I didn’t know anything about him before.”
“Don’t apologise. That’s totally understandable. He’s not particularly well known, although I’m really hoping that will change soon. He’s such a lost talent. The tragedy is that so much of his work and story died with him. He died far too soon.”
The Letter Page 6