‘Yes,’ Ranald replied. ‘Yes, of course I’ll do it, Douglas.’ Then, with a note of resignation: ‘It was always going to be a yes.’
‘Right. Excellent. I’ll fire off the contract. Usual thing. Print off the last page, sign and stick in the post, yeah?’
Ranald hung up and sat back in his chair, more than a little surprised at his reaction to this offer of work. Until now he’d been devoid of ambition – more than happy to take these scraps of work that would help pay his bills. Where was this desire to write creatively coming from?
He swung round on the chair and looked out of the window. The sun was high and strong. He could almost see heat rising from the grass.
A walk. He stood up. A walk round his garden. He should get out of the house and survey the property properly instead of spending all this time surrounded by these stuffy books. He looked at the nearest shelf and sent a silent apology.
Even a former flat-dweller like him could appreciate the time, effort and organisation that had gone into this garden over the years. The place was gorgeous, he thought as he stood under the shade of a towering rhododendron and its profusion of pink blooms. Birds sang overhead, the warm air was like a balm on the skin of his arms and face, a butterfly even flitted past on the breeze.
It was like he’d been transported into a Disney movie.
He heard footsteps and turned to see Danny walking towards him. He was wearing green overalls; his single nod to the warm weather was rolled-up sleeves.
‘Afternoon,’ said Ranald, as he watched the older man move towards him. For someone so slight he moved as if he possessed a larger, more muscular body.
‘Aye,’ Danny agreed when he got closer. He looked up at the rhododendron. ‘Must be a hundred year old, that. At least.’
Ranald almost said, Is that how long you’ve been here?
‘Been out in the cars yet?’ Danny asked as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the inside of his wrist.
‘Cars? There’s cars?’ Ranald asked.
Cars? What other surprises did this house have in store for him?
Danny must have deduced from Ran’s look of bewilderment that he had not seen the cars, because he gave him a frown that said, what kind of man are you? And beckoned him on.
Ranald followed Danny along a well-rutted path, one car wide, with only a fraction of the pebbles that graced the drive at the front of the house. It moved beyond the giant rhododendron and between a pair of giant fir trees, with reddish, wide trunks.
‘Mr Alexander got the cars – one in the eighties and one in the nineties,’ said Danny over his shoulder. ‘Must have been a mid- or late-life crisis. Barely used them. Told me it was because he couldn’t read while he was driving.’ Danny shook his head at the total nonsense of it. ‘But he did get them serviced regular like. And he asked me to be sure to turn the engines over every other day.’ Danny stopped as if he’d had a thought. ‘Here. You can drive, can’t you?’
Ranald laughed as he nearly collided with the man. ‘Never needed to learn, to be honest.’
‘Dearie me,’ said Danny. ‘What a waste.’
They reached a wide outbuilding with tall, green double wooden doors. Above them stretched a crow’s foot gable end in the same stone as the main house. Danny pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
‘Gimme a hand here, son,’ he said to Ranald, and began to pull at one door, indicating he should pull on the other.
When he saw what was being unveiled, Ranald gave a low whistle. He peered left and right, looking into each windscreen.
‘They’re nice.’
He thought Danny’s expression of pleasure at the unveiling deserved more enthusiasm, so he nodded several times and added, ‘Beauties.’
‘You don’t know anything about cars, eh?’ said Danny, clearly reading the truth of his indifference in his tone. ‘The dark-blue one with the low roof, two doors and long bonnet. That one is a Ford Capri. 1980 model, three-litre engine, just under twenty-five thousand miles on the clock…’ As he talked, he walked into the garage and round the car, trailing his fingertips over the body, with a touch that would please a lover. ‘A car similar to this went for just under fifteen grand recently.’
‘And who owns it?’ asked Ranald, thinking how that cash would come in nicely at this point.
‘You do,’ said Danny. ‘The will did say the house, the grounds and everything in it – apart from the stables – should go to you.’
Ranald stood in front of the Capri, hand resting on his forehead. Bloody hell. He looked at the other car. ‘And this is a Mercedes. Even I recognise the symbol.’ He admired the gleam on the chrome. ‘You’ve obviously looked after them over the years.’
‘Just doing my job, Ranald.’
It was more than just doing his job, Ranald thought. There was a good deal of love gone into the care of these vehicles.
Then he had a thought: ‘Where are the keys?’
Danny nodded to a small, black metal box fitted into the wall. ‘Should be unlocked,’ he said.
Ranald walked over, opened it and pulled out two sets of keys. He juggled them from one hand to the other, feeling the weight of them.
‘Which car do you prefer?’ he asked Danny.
‘Oh, that’s difficult,’ Danny replied. He scratched his neck. ‘If I was to be forced to say, I’d go for the Capri. That was a real moment in time, so it was.’
Ranald looked down at the keys resting on each palm. Read the Ford symbol and threw those keys over to Danny.
‘It’s yours.’ He shrugged. ‘One car’s too much for me. After all these years of looking after them, you might as well get some pleasure.’
‘Mr McGhie, I really don’t know what to say.’ Danny’s face had grown a beautiful shade of pink, and his eyes had moistened a little. ‘I really can’t accept this—’
‘Sure you can,’ Ranald interrupted. ‘I’ll get on to Quinn and ask him to draw up the paperwork. Frankly, I’m disappointed that old Fitzpatrick didn’t think of this himself.’
‘Now, Ranald … I won’t hear a word said about your uncle. He was a great man.’ Then Danny went back to studying the car keys resting in his palm. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say thanks,’ said Ranald, and feeling rather pleased with himself, he walked out of the garage and towards the house. But halfway across the lawn, looking up at the ranks of windows, knowing there was no one behind them, he realised he couldn’t quite face going back inside. So he changed his direction and headed for the road to the Cross and the café.
His street-side table was taken, so with a slight huff in his step, he pushed open the café door and took a seat at the back of the room. When he sat down, he felt something in the thigh pocket of his shorts, knocking against his knee. He undid the flap and pulled out one of the moleskin notebooks he’d found in Alexander’s desk along with a pen. He didn’t remember putting those in there.
The waitress approached him. He ordered a coffee and while he waited for it tried to recall when he could have picked up a notebook and put it in his pocket without realising it.
Then, sitting by the window, he spotted the War and Peace girl from his first visit. Her head was down, her eyes focused on the page of her book. Ranald tried to guess if she was much further on from the last time he saw her and wondered if he should go over and speak to her. But she looked so engrossed in the passage she was reading, he felt it would be rude to interrupt her.
He opened the notebook in front of him at a clean page, and, glancing over at the girl again, he felt words starting to form in his head. He picked up the pen, and soon they were making their way onto the pristine paper. They were without form or rhythm, but he savoured their pull and allowed them to take him, like a feather borne on a rising breeze.
His drink arrived. The musical chink of teaspoon on china enough to pull him from his imaginings.
He looked down at the page and read what he’d just written:
I watch from here
, you are there,
unseeing behind a curtain of quiet.
Your silence disturbs me.
Makes me want to intrude.
Extend a finger and prod that space under your arm,
where nerve meets laughter.
He assessed his words. Some nice ideas. Needed work though. He sipped his coffee. Looked over at the reading girl then back down at the page.
The café door opened and an old man walked in: light-blue raincoat and tweed flat cap. It was the old fella he’d almost tripped over at the crossroads on the first day he arrived. The man stared at him a moment, so he offered him a small smile. But he made a sour face and negotiated his way round the tables to an empty seat at the far end of the room.
Suit yourself, thought Ranald, and returned to his poem.
Minutes later he heard footsteps and someone came to a stop in front of him.
‘Hi, Ranald. Come here often?’
He looked up to see Liz smiling down at him.
‘Sorry about the other day,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what got into me.’
She was looking good. He felt himself smiling. ‘Been sunbathing?’ he asked.
‘How can you tell?’
He pointed to the bridge of his own nose. ‘Some new freckles coming in through the tan.’
‘My, aren’t you the observant one.’ She crossed one leg behind the other, as if rubbing her thighs together, and leaned over him. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ she said quietly.
Ranald wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but his body felt a jolt of pleasure.
‘I saw you in the window as I walked past,’ she murmured. ‘Thought I’d come in and say hello.’ She glanced around to see who was looking. Decided no one was. ‘And use their loo. There isn’t one on this street.’ She laughed, and leaned further forwards. ‘Just give me a minute. One knock and I’ll let you in.’ She winked, stepped away and turned down the corridor that led to the toilet.
Was that a genuine invitation, wondered Ranald, or was she just having a laugh? He looked around the café. Someone had to have noticed their exchange. But no, everyone else was locked into their own world.
He counted to sixty. Then another twenty, because the sixty was a bit too fast. That would amount to a minute, right? As he counted, anticipation of the pleasure to come almost made him dizzy. Was he really going to do this? It wasn’t something he’d ever pictured himself indulging in. Not him. Not difficult, quiet, anxious Ranald. When he stood up his thighs were weak and his pulse hammered in his throat. He wasn’t sure how he would make it down the corridor, let alone…
He found himself knocking on the door of the toilet. It opened and Liz reached a hand out and pulled him inside.
Once they’d finished she kissed him on the cheek and with a delighted grin said, ‘I’ll go out first. Count to twenty, then follow me out, okay?’ She gave him another peck and left the tiny room.
Ranald pulled up his pants and shorts, then stumbled over to the large mirror on the far wall and, leaning over the sink, stared into his own eyes. Did that really just happen?
He left the toilet and returned to his table, expecting Liz to be sitting there. But she was nowhere to be seen. The waitress walked past just as he sat back down. He tugged at her arm. ‘Did you see the woman I was talking to earlier? Did she leave a message for me?’
‘No, son,’ the waitress said, with what Ranald thought might be a knowing smile. He felt a blush rise on his cheeks and turned his face down to his notebook, mumbling, ‘Thanks.’
He reached for his still-warm coffee and, with his mouth at the lip of the cup, he looked round the room. No one was staring. No one was looking at him and laughing.
Bloody hell. He sat back in his chair.
Finishing his drink, he picked up his notebook and pen and walked to the counter, paid the waitress, leaving a generous tip, and left the café, feeling uncommonly relaxed.
Enjoying the press and heat of the sun overhead, he walked past the Cross and onto the winding road that would take him back to Newton Hall, a little swagger in his step. For the first time in days, his mood was carefree. He couldn’t help but feel that Liz’s attentions were bolstering him. How could he have been so wary of his good fortune? He should be revelling in it.
As he rounded a bend and caught sight of the tower of his house – his house – rising above the trees, he thought it was time he properly investigated the whole house – all of its nooks and crannies. And as he picked up his pace, he couldn’t think for a moment why he had been holding back. What was the worst that could happen?
12
By the time he arrived back at Newton Hall his thighs were burning, his calves were tight and his breathing was laboured. He hadn’t realised how unfit he’d become recently.
Pausing before he entered the front door, he became aware that the sun’s power had weakened, and on the far horizon, across the fields, he saw a battalion of clouds. It seemed like he’d got home in good time. Once inside, to allow his breathing to slow, he walked slowly across the hall and down the long corridor past the ballroom and library towards the lift. His usual path was to ignore the small passage to his left here in favour of turning right, and on to the kitchen and fitness suite.
Trying to ignore a sudden sense of unease and to hold on tight to the decision he’d made on his walk back from the Cross, he forced himself to turn left. As he did he traced the wall on his right with his fingertips. Behind this wall the lift waited. He shivered at what he’d experienced just that morning. Don’t go there, he told himself.
Ignoring things had worked so far, right?
He could feel his reluctance build. A low level of discomfort grew into something bigger as he pressed on towards the bottom of the narrow staircase. He felt his shoulders rise as he tensed … in preparation for what? He’d felt like this when he was here with Martie, and they’d found nothing untoward. So why was he now so skittish?
He put a foot on the first stair, like a child might test a parent on a dare, fearing a word of warning.
A shadow flitted across the landing above him. His heart thumped.
‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Anyone there?’
He waited.
‘Mrs Hackett?’
You’re imagining things, Ranald, he told himself. That was just a cloud passing the sun, and Mrs Hackett was finished for the day. Steeling himself, repeating that he was being stupid, that this was his home, he began to move up the steps.
The staircase was cramped and dark, the walls seeming to crowd in on him as he slowly climbed higher.
As a small boy, he was terrified of going upstairs at his parents’ house whenever there was no one else up there and it was all in darkness. He even started going out to the back garden to pee, such was his concern that scary things were waiting for him in the dark of the first floor; that was until a neighbour spotted him outside and reported him to his father.
You’re not ten, Ranald, you’re nearly thirty. And there are no demons, and paranormal events are limited to the TV and film world.
Then another voice in his head said, Tell that to the woman in the lift.
When he reached the landing, he looked around and paused for breath, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He willed his anxiety to settle, seeking comfort from the luxurious feel of the place, but it appeared to him now as a luxury born of darkness and oppression. Even the air felt heavier here. But see, he told himself looking around, there was no one about. He saw the lift door for this level and made himself approach it, holding out a hand. It was simply cool and smooth, as it should be. There was no life in there. It was just an empty space.
This was his house, he thought. He would not be cowed by it.
The one room he had been almost comfortable in when he was up here with Martie had been his grandmother’s sitting room. Perhaps if he went in there for a moment or two it would reset his anxiety and allow him to relax into the rest of his investigation.
He pushed op
en the door and stepped inside. Making his way over to the window, he looked down into the garden and saw Danny on his knees by a flower border, his attention focused on what Ranald guessed must be weeding.
This moment of normality helped his pulse regulate, and he looked around the room, determined to take in more than he did when he was last here with Martie. Tucked away in a far corner he spotted a small desk with a high-backed chair. He made his way across and sat down. Hands on the smooth wood he imagined his grandmother at work here. Did she have a habit of writing a journal, like her older brother? He pulled open the central drawer just under the desk top, but found it empty. He heard something shift inside, ducked his head to look and spotted a small key in the back. He closed the drawer and checked the others. They were mostly empty, with just a pen in one and a small trinket box in another. The bottom drawer on the right was however locked.
He pulled on the handle again. It refused to give. Why would one drawer on a desk that contained almost nothing be locked?
Guessing it might fit, Ranald retrieved the key from the centre drawer and inserted it into the tiny lock. He gave it a twist and pulled the drawer opened. With a pang of disappointment, he saw that it was empty. But then his eyes adjusted and he realised he was looking at a cardboard folder that filled the bottom so neatly it was like lining paper.
Using the nail of his index finger he reached under and prised it out. It was thick – something plumped it out in the middle. Why had someone locked this away up here?
Feeling a little trepidation, he walked to the nearest sofa and sat down. What was he worried about? Surely there was nothing. He opened the folder.
Inside there was a small pile of what looked like letters, handwritten on small rectangles of cheap notepaper, yellowed with age. The writing was in black ink, tight cursive letters that looked like they’d been written by someone young. Why that was his impression, he had no idea; yet without even reading the words, he could tell a young person wrote these. Had his grandmother received them? Had she written them? Why would she save them all these years?
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