by Barker, Ashe
My bemused expression must be a picture, because Mr Darke is apparently moved to explain himself. “Rosie keeps a couple of pet chickens round the back—Tracy and Beaker. Useful for eggs, and she likes to keep pets. One of them—Beaker?”—he shrugs—“has got broody and spent the last month sitting on a clutch of eggs. But there’s no cockerel here, so no way they are ever going to hatch. Rosie got upset, worried her hen was going to die of a broken heart or something, so for a quiet life I asked Tom if he had any eggs that might be fertile that we could swap for the duds.”
I’m astonished. “Will that work?” I ask. “I mean, won’t the hen…er, won’t Beaker notice?”
“Should be fine,” says Tom. “Chickens aren’t the brightest things on two legs. If one or two of these hatch out she’ll be happy enough, and no questions asked.”
Apparently deciding that explanations and pleasantries are at an end, Mr Darke interrupts my flow of questioning on the intricacies of poultry husbandry. “Thanks for the eggs. Rosie will be delighted. Now, we’re busy, so are you staying long?”
I just gape at him, cringing at his bluntness. My mother would be horrified. Tom is unimpressed, however, sitting easily at the table with his coffee in one hand and bacon in the other, and a wide smile across his face. Clearly he has more to say and is going nowhere just yet.
“So, city slicker—I saw Jack Barlow earlier this morning towing your Porsche down the lane. Looked a bit bent. What’s the story on that then?”
“Don’t ask.” He glowers at me, and I cringe. I had hoped that was all behind us now, but apparently he still harbours a grudge.
“I am asking.” Tom is persistent, worse luck.
“Fucking hell, you yokels miss nothing, do you?” Striding to the sink to throw the dregs of his coffee away, Mr Darke flings the explanation back over his shoulder. “I pranged it last night, in the rain. I called Jack first thing to get up here with his tow-truck.”
“That’s not like you, bending your precious car. Anyone hurt?”
“Not yet.” His voice is soft, not quite menacing but getting on that way. He turns and leans back against the sink, watching me intently, and I feel that butterfly thing start up again, the clenching deep down. And the wetness between my legs is back. I lean forward so that neither of these overly perceptive men can stare at my breasts as my nipples swell and harden. Christ, this is getting awkward.
“Ah, I see.” Tom obviously recognises the signs and can apparently make sense of what is going on here.
I wish I could.
It seems he’s satisfied that he’s got me, my employer and the bent car sorted in his head, so Tom moves on. “Well, I found Rosie and that bloody mutt of yours on my top meadow. Rosie said you were here, that you turned up late last night, and Eva, of course”—a nod in my direction—“so I offered them a lift back. I thought I’d pop over for a chat, drop off those eggs while they’re still fresh enough to do the job, say hello to Eva. And I need to borrow your field again. And your quad bike.”
“For the festival?”
“Yup, second weekend in September, next year. Same deal as before, okay?”
“Fine. Email the details over to me, if you can get any sense out of that old steam-driven contraption you call a PC. And what’s up with your quad?” Coming back to the table, Mr Darke picks up my empty cup and Tom’s—which I notice is still half full—then takes them over to the sink and drops them in.
“Busted clutch. Jack’s working on it but I need yours for a few days. Okay?”
“Yeah, no problem.” Mr Darke wanders over to the kitchen unit and opens a drawer, then pulls out a set of keys that he tosses to Tom. “You know where to find it. And you’ll find Rosie, and the hen-run, out the back. Can you see yourself out? I need to show Eva round before I go.”
He turns to me, holding out his hand. “Time for your grand tour, Eva. Shall we begin?”
“What was all that about a festival?” Tom long gone, the three of us—four, if you count Barney—are strolling across the meadow below the house, towards a stream at the bottom where Rosie insists a troll lives under the bridge. The stream is fast-flowing and full, swollen by all the water running off the surrounding hills and I suspect any trolls have long since been washed away. Rosie seems happy enough when we reach it, though, splashing around in her wellies, assisted by a very wet Barney.
“Every couple of years, Tom holds a music festival on his land. It’s a big draw, attracts thousands of people over the course of the weekend. But the council health and safety folk insist on there being at least three exit routes to manage the traffic, so he needs to send some of the vehicles across my land.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you. To help him out, I mean… And you lent him your quad bike, as well.”
“Not kind—good business. Tom’s a business partner. I have shares in Greystones so it’s in my interest to help him, make this venture profitable. But you’re right, Tom’s my best friend as well. Even if he is the village idiot most of the time.”
Calling to Rosie and Barney, he turns back towards the house, booted feet swishing through the long, still-wet meadow grass. From this distance I can see that Black Combe is more than just the converted farmhouse I had first thought it was when we arrived last night. It looks to have originally been a substantial house, one or two cottages and a large barn, now all integrated into one huge conversion. There are six bedrooms, at least two bathrooms as well as whatever en suite facilities there might be, the huge kitchen I’m already very familiar with plus three other rooms downstairs. Mr Darke has an impressive home office housed in a corner room on the ground floor, with two walls made entirely of glass. He obviously likes to be able to see out.
I have learnt on my ‘grand tour’ that the house stands in thirty acres of farmland, and the property includes several outbuildings. Most of the other buildings are still derelict, as Black Combe itself was until Mr Darke bought the place four years ago. He undertook the repairs and conversion to create this beautiful home for himself and his family. An architect himself, Mr Darke designed the house and supervised the conversion personally to make sure he got exactly what he wanted. I suspect he usually does.
One smaller barn, possibly a stable block in a previous life, has been refurbished for use as a garage, and is home to a Land Rover Discovery, an Audi A3 and a fire engine red MG Midget. An empty space is obviously the usual berth for the Porsche, now conspicuously missing. And I saw no sign of Miranda when he showed me the garage earlier.
As we stroll back across the gravel towards the back door we can hear the sound of an approaching car, and moments later Mrs Richardson’s stylish little Renault Clio comes into view. After pulling to a stop by the kitchen door, she hops out and pops the boot lid, then starts to unload bags of shopping. Obviously she’s taken the opportunity to pay a visit to Sainsbury’s and looks to have bought enough to withstand a siege.
After waving her inside to put the kettle on, Mr Darke grabs a couple of bags in each hand and starts towards the kitchen door. I decide to help out as well, and follow the pair of them inside, a bag of shopping dangling from each of my hands. I dump mine next to Mr Darke’s on the kitchen table as he heads back outside for the rest. I turn to follow him, but by the time I reach the door he’s already coming back in.
“That’s the lot,” he announces as these last bags join the others on the table. “I need to get back to Leeds,” he continues. “I’ve got meetings this afternoon. Wasn’t really intending to come home last night—sort of spur of the moment thing. Still”—his inscrutable gaze fixes on me—“it gave us time to get acquainted. So I’ll be getting off soon. I’ll take the Audi.”
Turning to me, he holds out his hand. “It’s been interesting, Miss Byrne. I’ll leave you in Mrs Richardson’s safe hands. You can get better acquainted with Rosie and her violin. And stay out of the rain. Don’t want you getting your hair wet again.” Leaning in so that his words are murmured directly into my ear, he continues, for me alone,
“Or anywhere else.”
He strolls out of the kitchen, then reappears a few minutes later dressed for work. The casual jeans and sports shirt are gone, replaced by a smart, black and grey pinstriped suit, pale grey shirt, dark grey tie and highly polished leather shoes. His hair, which had been loose and waving attractively around his neck, is now pulled back into the severe ponytail I saw last night when he leapt out of his battered Porsche. With a glance and a nod in my direction, he heads for the back door. His hand on the doorknob, he stops, then turns, comes back to stand beside my chair. I look up at him, puzzled.
He smiles and reaches down to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. I jump, flinching involuntarily under his hand.
“Relax, enjoy yourself. I look forward to hearing all about your progress at the weekend.” Ignoring my obvious nervousness, he places his left forefinger between my eyebrows and gently smoothes the skin there. “You frown too much, Miss Byrne,” he murmurs. “That’s a bad habit of yours. We’ll have to work on it. Till Friday, then.”
And he’s gone.
Chapter Four
On my second morning at Black Combe, I’m astonished when a delivery courier arrives at the front door, asking for Miss Byrne. He thrusts a brown cardboard box into my hands before leaping back into his bright red van.
Puzzled, I carry the box through to the kitchen to find scissors. Three fascinated pairs of eyes watch me attacking the thick parcel tape. And I’m even more amazed, when I get it open, to find a beautiful Rohan hiking jacket nestled inside, fully waterproof, breathable, top of the range. Under the jacket is a pair of ladies’ hiking boots, also Rohan, also superb quality. Both are in a fetching combination of purple and lavender. I absolutely love them.
There’s a note.
It would be such a pity to lose our violin teacher to exposure. Enjoy. ND
“Oh, how kind! But they must have cost a fortune. I’ll have to pay him for these.” I blurt the words out without thinking.
Mrs Richardson shakes her head. “No need, love. They’re a present. Mr Darke asked me to check in your room to find the right shoe size. Just say thanks when you see him.”
I gaze at her, at Rosie. A present? For me? And such a thoughtful gift. So perfect. No one has ever given me anything so beautiful before. I hug the jacket to me as I rush upstairs to admire myself in my wardrobe mirror.
The couple of days since Mr Darke left have flown by. Rosie and I have settled into an easy routine of walking the moors with Barney in the mornings, and violin practice in the afternoons, also with Barney in attendance. Mrs Richardson has made it her mission to ‘fatten me up’ so I am eating like a horse—healthy and wholesome stuff for once, instead of my more customary junk food. And I absolutely love it.
My mother has hardly been off the phone, desperately concerned at my sudden flight for pastures new and threatening to come and check that I’m okay. Quite what she expects to find, or what she would do about it anyway, is beyond me. I’ve pleaded with her not to follow me, just to trust me and let me be. So far she has. I am thinking very seriously about getting a new mobile—no budgie trilling ringtone and a new number—but that would be just too mean. She cares, and that’s sort of nice, really.
Rosie is quite a talented little violin player, and a joy to work with. She is eager, enthusiastic, keen to learn and loves to practise. She is determined to learn to play ‘Boléro’ so she can perform it for her father like I did—well, maybe not quite like I did—so I have broken the piece down into manageable chunks for her to work on a bit at a time.
Despite her practical abilities and natural aptitude, she has never been taught to read music, so I am working on that with her too. On Thursday evening we borrowed Mr Darke’s iPad to download some musical scores of popular pieces, stuff that Rosie knows. ‘Jar of Hearts’ is a particular favourite, of hers and mine, and she is starting to be able to follow it, seeing how the notes on the sheet work to instruct the player on how to produce the melody that the composer intended. We have also had a go at composing some little practice exercises ourselves, bringing in the techniques Rosie already knows and adding one or two new skills to build up her repertoire.
By Friday suppertime we are feeling rather pleased with ourselves as we sit around the kitchen table, helping ourselves to Mrs Richardson’s chunky turkey and stuffing sandwiches.
The crackle of tyres on gravel followed by the slam of a car door has all our heads turning to the kitchen door. It opens, and he is back.
“Daddy!”
With a shriek and a deep woof respectively, child and dog launch themselves at Mr Darke the instant he comes through the door, and he catches Rosie, swinging her up for a kiss as Barney jumps around his legs. Mrs Richardson bustles around to find him a cup for his coffee—he never drinks tea, as far as I can see—and starts to conjure up a few extra sandwiches. I just stare at him, realising suddenly how much I’ve missed him whilst he wasn’t here. As he puts a beaming Rosie back on her feet, he glances at me. “Still here, Miss Byrne? And still frowning, I see.”
Sitting beside me at the table as Mrs Richardson plonks a generous plate of turkey sandwiches in front of him, he looks splendid, as usual—handsome as sin, and super-sophisticated in a sharp, charcoal grey business suit. It’s been handmade by the look of it, and I bet he had no change out of five hundred pounds a metre for that cloth. My own black T-shirt and jeans, even more faded than usual owing to them being slung in the washing machine every day, look even sloppier in contrast to his immaculate appearance. I see that his hair is loose now and just brushing the collar of his jacket. I feel the urge to reach out, touch him, but restrain myself.
Gathering my wits and making a conscious effort to appear rather more collected than I feel, I try to answer normally. “Yes, still here. We’ve been working hard and Rosie has something to show you. When you’re ready, obviously…” The poor guy has just got in and not even taken his jacket off yet, and already we’re crowding him.
Rosie is not one for waiting, though. Hopping from one foot to the other in excitement, she’s at him straight away. “I can play that tune, Daddy, the one Miss Byrne played when she first came. Well, the start of it anyway. I’m doing the rest next week. And I can read the notes on the page. We used your iPad to look them up on the Internet.” He glances up at me at the mention of making free with his property, but says nothing…yet. “Can I play it for you? Now? Please, Daddy, please?”
Shrugging off his jacket—which Mrs Richardson immediately grabs, presumably before it slips onto the floor to become a doggy bed—he smiles at her, his chocolate eyes alight with warmth. God, he really adores that kid. That’s so nice… “Wouldn’t miss it, princess, go get your violin. And could you fetch Miss Byrne’s as well? You wouldn’t mind entertaining us again, would you?” He turns to me, one eyebrow raised.
“Of course not, I’d be delighted.” Anything for you.
Rosie and I scrape out a passable, but in fairness not remarkable, rendition of ‘Boléro’. She is delighted with herself and the proud father declares himself suitably impressed. I perch my glasses on my nose to read the music. Should I be thinking about contact lenses? I wonder. Strange, I never have before.
We continue to show off with a short practice piece I wrote with Rosie one morning when it was too wet to go out, designed specifically to try out some new techniques and develop her skills.
“What shall we call our tune?” Rosie wonders.
“How about ‘Sweet Rosie’?” I suggest, shoving my glasses back into their case before starting to extract my violin from its flouncy chiffon skirt, while she clambers up onto her father’s knee.
“’Sweet Rosie’—sounds good. Did you really compose this, Eva?” he asks, peering around Rosie at the untidy, scribbled musical score she has tried valiantly to smooth out after digging it from her back pocket.
I don’t want to take all the credit—it was a joint effort, more or less. “Well, we both did. It’s not easy finding just the right sort
of music to practise and learn. We needed something that had new stuff Rosie hasn’t done yet so that she can add new techniques, but also to build on and practise what she does know. So now I’ve got the hang of where she is with her violin playing, I can help her to write new pieces that are just right for her now.” Oh, no. Do I sound like a crusty old academic—as usual? “It’s important to be able to read the music, to understand the structure of a melody as well as to play by ear.” I shut up at last, realising I sound like my old music lecturer and I must be getting boring.
“Amazing, Miss Byrne. You certainly give us our money’s worth, don’t you?” he says softly, his eyes warm. Ah, not bored apparently…
They are all looking at me expectantly, waiting for my next party piece. Mrs Richardson and Barney complete my audience, as before.
Again standing in the middle of the kitchen, I shuffle into a comfortable, grounded stance and position the violin under my chin. Closing my eyes, I take a couple of deep breaths—in, out, in, out—and give myself over to the music.
This time I have chosen ‘Romanza’, a modern piece by Donald Martino, composed specifically as a violin solo. My audience is silent, listening, appreciating, and once more I am in my element, in control, gliding through the haunting melody, sometimes coaxing, sometimes forcing the music out.
I finish and remain standing as the piece fades into the air. After a few moments’ silence, they all three stand, clapping.
Mr Darke walks towards me. Stopping right in front of me, he gently takes my violin and bow and places them on the table. “God, you’re good, Miss Byrne,” he whispers as he lowers his head to kiss my cheek.
Stunned at the intimacy—although perhaps I should be getting used to his possessive ways by now—I freeze in place and forget to shrug him off as he turns and easily puts his arm over my shoulder to face the rest of his household. No one but me seems at all surprised by this familiarity—and it feels strangely good.