‘Good. I shall fetch some twine to repair this cover,’ said James, rising to his feet. He placed the book on the desk and disappeared from the room.
Idly Gloria’s hands fiddled with the bindings of the copy of The Master of the Scrolls that she had brought with her, which still lay next to her on the sofa where she had deposited it. She picked it up and opened it to the back cover, and saw with some surprise the tight stitching, which was holding together a rip in the binding.
‘My God,’ she said softly, ‘it really is the same book. On the outside at least’
She sighed deeply. ‘Oh how I wish I was back home, safely tucked up in my own bed where I belong!’
James returned moments later to find the room empty. For one wild moment, he feared that Samuel Wylams had snatched her.
Then he smiled. ‘Of course… she has returned whence she came. It matters not how.’
However, his smiled vanished when he saw the open unfinished manuscript still lying where he had left it on the desk. He rushed over to it, fingering the open slit, half relieved and half terrified to find the parchments still there.
His troubles were far from over!
June 1987
Louise Barncroft stood outside Snowfield House, hammering on the door in frustrated fury. To say she looked a mess would have been an understatement. Her clothes, normally impeccable, were dishevelled, her usually immaculate hair was lank and unkempt, partially hidden by a baseball cap, and oversized dark glasses hid much of her pale face.
Having flown direct from Los Angeles and driven immediately from Heathrow, desperate to seek solace from her best friend, it had not occurred to her that Gloria would not be home. She glanced at her watch, which read just gone half past ten. Gloria surely could not still be in bed. Had she perhaps gone shopping?
Moving away from the front door, Louise peered in through the living room window, then stepped back, craning her neck to peer up at Gloria’s bedroom window. The window was open slightly, the curtains closed.
‘Gloria?’ she called, her voice wavering several different octaves as she uttered the name. She stamped her foot on the neatly mown lawn in impetuous irritation. ‘Where are you when I need you, Gloria? You can’t still be asleep. You mustn’t be out!’
It was against Gloria’s nature to sleep past nine, even when she had been up burning the midnight oil on her latest novel. How many times in their youth had the pair been out partying till the small hours, collapsing into bed half dead with fatigue, only for Louise to be rudely awakened by Gloria’s cheerful whistling two hours later? It was like an obsession with Gloria, who deemed it incredibly loathsome to spend mornings in bed when there was so much else one could do. Time had always been precious to Gloria: night was the time for slumber; daylight hours were for living.
Gloria was also such a creature of habit that she never left her curtains drawn in the daytime, and always closed her windows when she left the house, even at the height of summer.
Quickly forgetting her own troubles, Louise became concerned. Something must be wrong for Gloria to be in bed still at this time of morning. One thing was certain: she was not in bed with Allan, for he had called whilst she was in Los Angeles to inform her that his photographic assignment would not be over until early July.
Perhaps Gloria was ill… or worse, dying!
‘Morning, Miss Barncroft,’ said a deep, heavily accented male voice from behind her.
Startled, Louise turned to find George Palmer standing on the stone bridge on the other side of the gate. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t creep about like that, Mr Palmer!’ she snapped, realising that if she did not move quickly she might possibly be stuck here with him for hours.
George Palmer could talk forever about the most inane things, and Louise despised anyone who could not control their tongue enough to engage their brain first. In spite of the fact that she made no secret of her feelings towards him, George nevertheless appeared oblivious to her antipathy, always insisting she call him George and not Mr Palmer.
‘Sorry, Miss Barncroft; didn’t mean to startle you,’ George sighed. He liked Louise, in spite of her openly antagonistic behaviour towards him, and he lived in hope that one day he might possibly elicit a smile from her.
‘It’s all right, Mr Palmer.’
Louise realised she was being particularly unfair to the man yet again. Incessant inane chatter or not, he was actually quite a personable man really, and always had a smile for her. He was always polite, no matter how rude she was towards him, and he weathered her stinging verbal snubs with precious little dented pride, usually responding with a polite joke, with which he invariably purposely mocked and ridiculed himself. Sometimes she even found herself quietly laughing along with him – though she made certain he did not notice.
‘Mr Palmer, I was wondering whether you have seen Gloria this morning?’
George shook his head. ‘No, Miss Barncroft, not seen Miss Schofield since before she left for Scotland.’
Louise could not hide her surprise. ‘She’s gone to Scotland, to see her grandmother?’
‘Aye, that’s right, Miss Barncroft, she’s gone to Ravenscreag.’
‘I find that hard to believe. She never goes up there! She hasn’t been to that accursed place since… well, since we last went together… thirteen… fourteen years ago!’ Louise shook her head, her mind troubled with memories of that visit. She felt more than a little fear at the very mention of the house. No, it simply was not possible: Gloria would not have gone up to the house; she could not have gone up to that house!
The fact that he only ever told the truth was another facet of George’s personality that frustratingly annoyed Louise, although she could not stand people who incessantly told lies. She herself told the odd white lie here and there, and Gloria, who in Louise’s eyes was pretty much perfect, also told a few white lies when it suited her purpose. George, however, was devastatingly blunt about everything, no white lies ever passed his lips to help dent a harsh truth or cushion a cruel blow. When George Palmer had to impart bad news, it was uncompromising blunt truth all the way.
No. If George said Gloria had gone to Ravenscreag Hall, then as unlikely as it seemed, that indeed was where Gloria had gone.
‘You all right?’ asked George.
Already pale, tearstained and dishevelled, Louise had turned even whiter still and trembled with suppressed anxiety at the thought of Gloria and that house, especially considering the devastating effect it had on her during their last visit. ‘Yes,’ she whispered as she walked slowly down the path towards the gate, pausing only to retrieve her heavy suitcase and flight bag. ‘I’m fine, but I’m not so sure about Gloria. Damn it, what possessed her to return to that Godforsaken place?’
‘Don’t know what happened to Miss Schofield during your last visit to Ravenscreag Hall, Miss Barncroft,’ George said as Louise approached him, ‘but I can assure you she sounded well on the telephone last night after she returned.’
Louise looked up sharply. ‘So she is back then?’
George nodded. ‘Called me to come and mow the lawns, which I done this morning. Just come back to collect the rest of the cuttings from out the back.’
‘Well if she’s back, why can’t I get an answer?’ demanded Louise, her irritation returning.
George shrugged. ‘Gone to the village, perhaps?’
Louise shook her head. ‘The bedroom curtains are closed and the window is open. You’ve known her long enough to know she’s a creature of habit!’
A mischievous smile twitched across George’s lips. ‘Maybe she’s got a fella up there!’
‘Wash your mouth out!’ snapped Louise testily. The very notion that Gloria could be unfaithful to Allan was unthinkable. Then again, so too was the thought of Gloria returning to Ravenscreag Hall. Yet that she had apparently done!
Louise shook her head. No, she thought, Gloria would not do that, not to my brother... she loves him too much!
‘If you can’t get no answ
er from the door, why not ring her. She’s got a phone in her bedroom, after all.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Miss Schofield told me once that the phone in the bedroom is turned up loud so she don’t sleep through no important calls. Worth a try, don’t you think?’
Louise nodded. ‘I don’t have any change for the phone. Could you lend me some?’ She frowned. ‘Come to think of it, where is the nearest phone box?’
George chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about no phone box or coins, Miss Barncroft; you can use my own phone. I only live just down the lane.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, I won’t be putting you to any trouble?’
George shook his head. ‘Lordy no, ain’t no trouble at all! Grass clippings ain’t going nowhere. Besides, I still have a key to the back door. If you don’t get no answer on the phone we can come right back and get in to make sure nothing’s happened to Miss Schofield.’ George took Louise’s suitcase from her, hefting it as though it was half its actual weight.
He is, as ever, the perfect gentleman, even if he does talk like a yokel, thought Louise, chiding herself for being an uncharitable snob. She nevertheless followed him down the lane at a discreet distance, not wishing to be associated with such a man.
Oh come on, Lou, face it – you actually quite like him!
Deep down, secretly it was true.
She ran slightly to catch him up and together they continued down the hill towards his own cottage, walking side by side and chatting.
*
Mary Turner awoke in a strange bed and wondered fleetingly where she was. She was certainly not at home, for this most definitely was not Ravenscreag Hall. She sat up as fast as her ninety-six year old body would allow, staring around anxiously. The room was quite small and sunlight streamed in through thin, unlined floral print curtains.
Most impractical!
The curtains matched the bed linen, which also bore more than a vague resemblance to both the wallpaper and the carpet.
Totally tasteless!
It was a friendly room, bright and airy, yet clinically clean and tidy. Though cheap and lacking in style, it remained quite prettily cheery all the same.
Mary relaxed, realising where she was as she recalled the long, tedious and mentally exhausting journey down from Scotland the previous day. Struggling from the bed, she slipped her woollen shawl around her shoulders and shuffled across the spotless floor to the window, tugging the curtains, which though thin, were heavy in her frail old hands.
Thankfully, her daughter had seen fit to place her in one of the spare rooms at the back of the house, commanding her views over the rear gardens instead of looking out across the parked cars in the road to the identical houses opposite. Though small by her standards, postage stamp sized compared to the grounds of Ravenscreag Hall, Rachel’s was nonetheless impressive compared with many other inner City gardens.
While, in Mary’s opinion, Rachel might lack taste when it came to decorating the interior of the house, when it came to the outdoor area she was unsurpassed. The split-level garden was filled with graceful curves; magnificent borders bloomed with multifarious flowers of varying heights and colours; carefully placed bushes, shrubs and trees broke up the expanse even further, while glorious climbers draped elegantly over the bordering walls. It was quite the prettiest garden visible from the window. The adjoining gardens, filled with straight lines and sharp angles, had narrow borders with little colour or texture and lots of gloriously green but boring lawns. Compared against Rachel’s, the neighbouring plots appeared positively plain.
Mary nodded agreeably. Yes indeed, it was a well-designed and imaginatively planned garden. A great deal of thought had gone into arranging the layout, and an enormous amount of time, effort and love had quite clearly gone into making the plan a reality.
Mary’s attention drifted to the typical four storey townhouses that dominated the near horizon. Her attention fixed in particular on the second floor windows belonging to the strikingly atypical property backing directly onto Rachel’s property. The entire rear wall of the second floor seemed to be one complete expanse of glass, and totally lacking in modesty behind that glass, in full view of many of the neighbouring houses, stood a stark naked man, sipping a glass of juice as he gazed out into his own garden.
Mary Turner had seen a great many things in her lifetime to make her completely unshockable, but nothing could have prepared her for this sight, and she found herself unable to drag her eyes away. The man was undeniably good looking, with a kind of squat powerfulness about him that was clearly visible, even from a distance. He was quite young, around thirty Mary supposed, and quite blond. Her eyes travelled down his muscular physique. Oh – his hair was bleached!
As she continued to observe the man, an equally naked woman joined him, kissing him on the lips, leaning into him as she fed him a slice of toast. Mary’s voyeurism disgusted her, yet excitement thrilled her as she watched the pair kissing and caressing each other. She wanted to turn away, but found to her shame that she could not. It was so beautiful watching two young people, so obviously in love with one another, enjoying each other with such unashamed brazenness. In her day, such a union would have taken place in the dark within the woman’s boudoir, accompanied with much fumbling beneath the bedclothes. Times had certainly changed!
She blinked, unsure whether she had seen correctly. The couple had ceased their kissing and were staring in her direction – waving at her! She blushed violently and turned away sharply. She felt as though the young couple were laughing at her. She glanced cautiously over her shoulder, and was relieved to see that the pair had disappeared.
A gentle knock on the door startled her. ‘Yes?’ she said, turning as the door opened to reveal Rachel, carrying a tray laden with breakfast.
‘Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?’
‘Thank you, dear. What time is it?’ Mary returned to the bed as her daughter opened the small fold down legs of the tray designed for breakfast in bed.
‘It’s nearly eleven. I thought you might like a lie in this morning, after all, it’s a tiring journey down from Scotland.’
‘Not nearly as exhausting as what I’ve just seen a couple doing through the window of the house at the end of your garden,’ said Mary, arching an eyebrow.
Rachel sighed, glancing out through the window. ‘Are they at it again? That would be Lesley and Jack Standish, Bohemian show-offs, I’m afraid. They are exhibitionists… naturists, but a nice couple, even though they love being naked. When we go round there they always try and get Jeremy and me to take our clothes off.’ She caught sight of her mother’s amused smile and could not help but laugh. ‘We always refuse of course!’
Oh but if things were different, I would leap at the chance to be naked with Jack Standish; if I were thirty years younger; if neither of us were married.
Rachel chastised herself for her shameful thoughts. ‘I just hope Gloria doesn’t behave like that. She’s always been a bit of a free spirit.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ said Mary in between mouthfuls of toast and marmalade. ‘Wilful she might be, but she’s quite conservative really. You brought her up very well.’
‘Thank you, Mother. I like to think so.’ Still giggling inwardly like a little school girl at the thoughts of Jack Standish and her together, Rachel made her exit. ‘I’ll let you finish your breakfast in peace. Just call if you need anything.’
‘Thank you, dear. Do you mind if I use the phone a little later. I’d like to call Gloria.’
‘Sure, treat the place as your own while you’re here,’ Rachel called over her shoulder as she left the room.
*
Less than an hour later, when she had finished her breakfast and after she had washed and dressed, Mary slowly made her way down the stairs. She was grateful that Rachel had placed her on the first floor and not the second or third, for these stairs were narrower and far steeper than those at Ravenscreag Hall, which were wide and gently inclini
ng.
She reached the ground floor in time to see Rachel just inside the front door, kissing her husband, and then Jeremy left the house.
Rachel stood in the doorway, waving farewell to her husband, a smile of contented bliss on her face. As she softly closed the front door, she found Mary standing directly behind her.
‘Where’s Jeremy off to?’ Mary asked innocently, not meaning to be nosy. Despite his apparent coldness towards her, and in spite of her equally frosty rejoinders, Mary was actually really rather fond of her son-in-law. Whilst staying with them in London she was determined to make more of an effort to get on with him. Of course, the reason for the chilly atmosphere between them was clear – she should have visited them during their formative years of marriage instead of awaiting their infrequent visits to her when their hectic lifestyle allowed.
Rachel smiled. ‘I rather think he’s jumping on an already overcrowded bandwagon.’ Taking hold of her mother’s spindly arm, she propelled the old woman gently in the direction of the front drawing room.
Mary frowned as she settled her weary bones into one of Rachel’s comfortable sofas, waiting for her daughter to sit next to her before speaking. ‘I don’t understand.’ Perhaps I am becoming senile with old age, she pondered as she struggled to recall whether Rachel had told her something that she had already forgotten. She was clearly having difficulty following even simple conversations if that was the case.
‘He’s discovered that Daniel Barncroft is writing a book, so he’s decided to write one too,’ laughed Rachel, obviously incredulous at the very notion. ‘One writer in the family is enough. When Gloria is in writing mode, nobody gets a look in. Anyway, just because Gloria has an affinity for telling stories, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Jeremy has untapped talents!
‘Well, good luck to him, I say!’
Rachel’s incredulity increased. ‘Is that a tone of genuine sincerity I detect in your voice, Mother?’ she questioned as she plumped up several cushions and tried to insinuate them behind Mary’s back.
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