by Unknown
‘Come in, darling – the front door’s unlocked. I’ll be down in a sec.’
Ellen waited in the huge downstairs room, battling to keep Hamlet’s snorting nose out of her dressing-gown until Pheely appeared through a door that was almost hidden in the tongue-and-groove beside the fireplace.
‘Daddy’s secret lair,’ she explained, yawning widely and wading through the clutter in the direction of the kettle. ‘It would be very romantic to think he bedded local damsels in there, but actually he pickled onions. It was a bit of a passion of his – he’d pickle all sorts of fruit and veg when he needed a break from sculpting. I’ve never been able to get rid of the smell – stick your head round and have a sniff. Doesn’t bother me, but Dilly hates it.’
True enough, the hidden lobby behind the chimney reeked of vinegar. It led to a tiny spiral staircase that curled up to the little bedroom. Beneath it, another doll’s-house room – the one that Ellen had seen outside – was accessed by a door no bigger than a coal hatch.
‘What time is it? Ten? Eleven? God, I’m hung-over.’ Pheely yawned, as she filled the kettle from the workshop sink; the one in the kitchen was still heaving with dirty pans.
As she swept back to the Rayburn, Ellen saw that she was still wearing the same velvet top that she had been the night before and had wrapped a bed sheet around her waist as an ad hoc sarong. ‘I think it’s a bit earlier,’ she hedged guiltily. ‘I’m sorry about this – Snorkel jumped on the door and closed it. I need to call a locksmith, and I remembered you had my mobile.’
‘Of course I do.’ Pheely stretched her arms above her head, shook back her hair and went in search of her handbag. ‘Who’s Richard, by the way?’
‘My ex-boyfriend. Why?’
‘Can he be my text boyfriend? Your phone kept beeping with text messages from him when I got home last night. The only way to stop it was to send a reply. We had quite a jolly chat in the end. Oh, damn.’ She looked at the phone. ‘The battery’s flat. Do you have a charger?’
‘Yes. In the cottage.’ Ellen was looking at Pheely curiously. ‘Why didn’t you just turn it off if the text alert irritated you?’
‘Couldn’t work out how.’ Pheely handed her the useless phone. ‘Richard’s made it to Cairns and it’s raining nonstop. Apparently the apartment’s great, although the sea’s full of jellyfish and he misses Snorkel.’ She went in search of mugs. ‘He’s thrilled that you’re settling in so well here and have made such a gorgeous new friend, and he agrees that you shouldn’t be in any hurry to move on. Stay and relax, he says – and I agree. Seems a lovely chap. Shame it went wrong for you two, but I gather the rot set in a long time before you told him it was over. Tea or coffee?’
For somebody who couldn’t figure out how to turn off a Nokia, she was a whiz at reading and sending text messages on it. Ellen was too furious to speak, glaring out of the tall windows at the clay hobgoblins and elves, hating Richard for being so perennially indiscreet, and hoping that he got stung by jellyfish in the non-stop rain for at least a month as punishment for talking to Pheely out of context. His text had been a con. Ellen hadn’t been the one to say it was over. The truth was far more complicated and messy.
‘Can I use your phone?’ she asked eventually.
‘Of course.’ Pheely waved her towards an ancient, clay-encrusted trill phone on the wall.
‘Do you have a Yellow Pages?’
‘I have a lot of yellowing pages, darling.’ She laughed, looking around. ‘There might be a Thomson’s around here somewhere, if you have a dig . . . Doesn’t the estate agent have a set of keys?’
‘I don’t think they’ll be open.’
Pheely was tipping instant coffee straight from the jar into two deep bowls. ‘They always open on a Sunday through summer round here, darling – catching all that passing tourist trade.’ She splashed hot water on to the granules. ‘You would not believe how many people come to visit the Cotswolds for a day trip around a wildlife sanctuary and a cream tea afterwards, then head back home having bought a weekend cottage. Give them a ring.’
‘It’s . . . er . . . a bit early.’
Pheely splashed milk into the bowls of coffee and glanced up at a lopsided cuckoo clock. The next moment milk was cascading all over the quarry tiles. ‘Aggggh!’
It was twenty to eight. Even accounting for half an hour wandering around the Lodge’s lost gardens, Ellen was an early riser.
‘Okay,’ Pheely said, when she had recovered her composure. Hamlet began to clear up the spilled milk as she carried the bowls of coffee across to the phone. ‘In that case, try Dot. She’s always up at dawn.’
‘I have the Wycks’ only set of keys.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ Pheely gave her a wise look. ‘One of Reg’s nephews works at the heel bar in Market Addington. That couple literally have the keys to the village. Call them. The number’s here somewhere . . .’ She searched through an ancient roto-card device by the telephone. ‘Dot used to clean for Daddy – they still lived at Wyck Farm then, but they kept the number when they moved . . . Hang on – here!’ She reeled off a number.
Ellen started to dial, then paused at the last digit. ‘I’m not sure about this, Pheely. What about the Shagger thing and the fact they’ve not been looking after the house?’
‘No need to mention it,’ Pheely said breezily, throwing open the windows. ‘What a beautiful morning! I really must get up before lunchtime more often – thank you for reminding me how lovely summer is, my darling. Mmm. It smells so – early!’
The phone rang at the other end of the line, and Ellen braced herself.
‘Yeah?’ The voice was deep, gruff and angry, and accompanied by a splenetic roar in the background. ‘Shut up, Fluffy!’
‘Er . . . is that the Wyck household?’ Ellen asked, because she wasn’t sure which of the family she was talking to, and because she always sounded just like her mother on the phone – Hyacinth Bucket meets Margo Leadbetter, with a touch of Clarrie Grundy.
‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t wanna buy it, all right?’
‘Oh, I’m not selling anything. This is Ellen Jamieson – Theo and Jennifer’s daughter.’
‘Who?’
Clearly not Saul, then. It had to be Reg.
‘From Goose Cottage?’
‘Yeah, I know it. What about it?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve locked myself out and I understand you might have a spare set of keys.’
‘You already got them, aincha?’
‘Er . . . yes, but I was really hoping you might have another set?’
‘No.’ The reply was very defensive.
‘Oh, I see. In that case, I’m sorry to have bothered you, but while you’re on the phone perhaps we could arrange to meet this coming week?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I couldn’t help notice that you and Dot haven’t . . . er . . . managed to do much around the house lately.’
‘I am Dot.’
‘Oh, God, I’m really—’
‘Reg ain’t got up yet, and when he does he’ll be straight down the— He’ll be indisposed. It is a Sunday, you know. We don’t work on the Lord’s Day, nor do we take his name in vain.’
Ellen felt her face burn. Not only had she mistaken Dot for her husband but she’d offended the poor woman’s religious principles to boot. ‘Of course you don’t work on a Sunday,’ she said, mentally adding or any other day, as far as I can tell. ‘I only mention it now so that I don’t have to bother you again. It is rather urgent. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow.’
‘You accusing us of summit?’
‘No, of course not. But we need to have a chat about the state of the house, don’t you think?’
‘You need to talk to Reg. He runs that side of the business. I’ll tell him you called.’ With that, the line abruptly went dead.
Ellen replaced the receiver, noticing as she did so that Pheely was standing stock still on her terrace with her arms outstretched and her face tilted upw
ards. Apart from the bowl of coffee in one hand and the cigarette in the other, she looked surprisingly like the Angel of the North.
Ellen joined her outside and drank her coffee, passively smoking the cigarette with deep, grateful breaths and fretting about Snorkel as she told Pheely about the rose-petal message and the horseshoe.
‘God, why didn’t you come straight over here, my darling? I’d have been terrified.’
‘I think I’d find getting lost in your garden in the dark even more frightening,’ Ellen confessed. ‘Besides, the message was quite apologetic, if you think about it.’
‘Hmm – “thanks” for letting us treat your house like a squat for several weeks? Hardly. And Spurs is definitely behind that horseshoe. Ugh. How creepy.’ She shuddered dramatically, spilling coffee and ash.
‘Do you think so?’
Pheely wiped sleep from her big green eyes and fixed Ellen with an intense gaze. ‘I mean it – steer clear of him. He’s poison. Look at all the bad luck you’re already having this morning! That’s after just a few hours. Throw that horseshoe away, darling. Do it now.’
‘I need to get into the house first,’ Ellen reminded her. ‘Maybe I could borrow a ladder?’
‘Mmm, good idea,’ Pheely agreed distractedly, stooping to pull lichen from a stone goblin. ‘I’m sure Giles has one – he’ll even hold it for you and look up your dressing-gown as you climb.’
‘Even if I get inside the cottage, I still don’t know if there are any more keys to the bunkhouse there.’ Ellen sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘I’ll have to get a locksmith.’
Having unearthed a three-year-old Thomson’s Local Directory from its hiding-place beneath a pile of old box files, Ellen found herself flipping past a huge full-page advert for Seaton’s. She dialled the number listed for their Morrell on the Moor office, hoping that there was an answer-machine.
‘Lloyd Fenniweather, Seaton’s. Hello?’ said a surprised male voice.
Equally surprised, Ellen recognised his name as one of the contacts her parents had given her. Now that she was away from the horseshoe, it seemed that her fortunes were changing. ‘Am I relieved somebody’s in the office!’ She laughed. ‘I need to talk to you about Goose Cottage – you see—’
‘Very nice property,’ Lloyd butted in, sounding like Tim Nice-But-Dim – killingly posh, gushy and softly spoken. ‘Needs a lot of work, of course, and probably overpriced, although I have to warn you the owners won’t budge in that department. Then there’s the neighbourhood disputes and the rather unfortunate right of way.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Ellen was astonished.
‘We at Seaton’s pride ourselves on our honesty,’ he announced breathily. ‘To mislead is to miss out, that’s our motto. But GC really is very pretty. Would you like a brochure? We have no colour ones left, I’m afraid, but I can run you off a photocopy. You’re lucky you caught me – it’s usually only weekend staff here today and they’re not in until ten, but I have a viewing this morning and need the keys.’
‘So do I. I need the keys to Goose Cottage.’
‘We don’t allow unsupervised visits, I’m afraid – I might be able to squeeze you in later this coming week.’
‘I live there.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s vacant.’ Lloyd’s voice – which to Ellen sounded affected now, like that of a bad disc jockey – was teasing.
‘No – I think you’ll find I’m living there. My parents did tell you. My name is Ellen Jamieson. I am the owners’ daughter, and I have accidentally locked myself out of the cottage. I’m calling you from a neighbour’s house, but I obviously need to get in. Your agency has the only set of spare keys in the UK, and I really need to borrow them.’
Lloyd was super-soothing. ‘Ellen! Of course. How foolish of me. Not a problem at all – if you come into the office with some ID, I’ll make sure the staff here let you have the keys for half an hour.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. All my ID is locked in the house, along with my car keys, my dog and my clothes. I’m only wearing a dressing-gown. I’d really appreciate your help. Can you just detour here quickly with the keys?’
‘No can do,’ he said, in the same placating tone. ‘I have a VIP client viewing a thousand-acre estate at nine thirty. It’s an all-morning appointment. I know the properties in this area like the back of my hand, and there really is no other man for the job, otherwise of course I’d send a deputy ahead to greet the man’s helicopter so that I could personally let you into your house.’ His oily tone failed to mask the openly arrogant sarcasm.
Ellen bristled, although she knew that it wasn’t his fault she was in this predicament. But his ‘overpriced’ and ‘unfortunate right of way’ slips played on her mind so she let her anger bubble through her voice. ‘In that case, I’ll sort it out myself. But I do need you to meet me at the cottage tomorrow morning to discuss Seaton’s representation.’
‘I don’t actually have my appointments diary with me at this juncture.’
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ Ellen told him. ‘At this juncture, it’s the back of that hand you know so well. So grab a biro and write “Ellen Jamieson, nine o’clock, Goose Cottage” on it. I’m sure you’re aware that you have a great deal of explaining to do, and I’m giving you the opportunity to do it. To misjudge is to miss out, which is why I will see you tomorrow morning. If you’re not there promptly, I shall make my dissatisfaction abundantly clear to your superiors. Understood?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. I look forward to meeting you.’
‘And I you.’
Ellen hung up. ‘Toffee-nosed idiot.’
‘You are so utterly, utterly cool, darling!’ Pheely had been listening avidly, now eating chopped fruit from her coffee bowl. ‘I’d have burst into tears.’
Ellen glared at the phone. ‘Stuck-up twat. Trust my mother to appoint an estate agent who sounds like he’s swallowed enough silver spoons to measure J. Alfred Prufrock’s life into very old age.’
‘Gosh, you are refreshing to have around the place.’ Pheely giggled. ‘Oddlode hasn’t seen a Commie since Archie Worthington came home from his first term at university with a Socialist Worker T-shirt.’
‘I’m not a Communist.’
‘No, but you are an estate-agent provocateur.’
Thank goodness for Pheely’s infectious ability to cheer.
AAAAIIII Locksmiths of Market Addington were more than happy to take a Sunday-morning call-out – at triple-time plus VAT plus expenses – and promised that Ellen would be their top-priority emergency.
‘Just as soon as they’ve had a fry-up and read the sports section of the News of the World,’ Pheely warned, as she saw Ellen out of the garden. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I promise they’ll be hours. Remember, you’re on Cotswold time here.’
‘I’d rather wait at the cottage.’ She had more faith in the AAAAIIII boys. ‘Thanks so much for getting up and letting me hog your phone.’
‘Worth it for the dew, my darling.’ Pheely took a deep, indulgent breath at the garden door, which was somewhat tarnished by her ongoing cigarette. ‘I might pop by with the Dane later to see how you’re doing. We can perv around the village spying on weekenders if you have time . . . although you may still be in your dressing-gown then, of course. I once called a local emergency plumber who said he’d be with me in ten – I didn’t realise he meant ten days later. Hamlet and I were floating around on the furniture.’
It wasn’t a hopeful prognosis.
With Snorkel gazing at her from alternate knee-height windows, Ellen sat in the Goose Cottage garden in her dressing-gown and watched the village wake up, an eye trained at all times for a black and white cat and a locksmith’s van.
First to emerge was Hunter Gardner en route to the village stores for his Sunday papers. He gave her a hearty wave as he passed and Ellen – who had been trying to hide behind some lupins – managed a vague smile in return.
‘Wonderful morning!’
> ‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘You tidying up that garden? Awful mess.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘Rather an odd choice of gardening attire, hum?’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
Thankfully this banter lasted only until he had marched beyond the garden wall and started down the Goose Lane hill towards the village green. Ellen had a nasty feeling that he had spotted her loitering in her dressing-gown earlier, which was why he was going the long way round.
Then, half an hour later, came the rather surprising sight of Giles Hornton in very skimpy nylon shorts and a Flora Marathon T-shirt jogging past, sweat already dripping from his moustache.
‘Fancy joining me for a run, O sporty new neighbour?’ Even at speed he managed to ooze slow, calculated charm as he leered at her over the hedge.
‘Another time.’
‘I’ll hold you to that!’
The white teeth flashed, the moustache glistened, and he tightened his buttocks as he ran on.
While Ellen paced the garden, batting grass with her hand and huffing impatiently, the village soon emerged in force – the hung-over dog-walkers impatiently rustling empty poop bags in their pockets, the kids on micro-scooters or ponies, youths on bikes, mothers with pushchairs, and ramblers with upside-down Landranger maps. Ellen lurked behind the lupins and watched the shadows shortening, trying to work out how long she had been waiting. It felt like hours. Her skin itched with the heat and frustration. Never a patient person at the best of times, she was starting to harbour fantasies about sledge-hammering the door.
She took yet another lap of the house, hoping to find a way in that she’d overlooked earlier. The hatch to the cellar seemed promising, until she spotted the huge padlock hidden in the weeds that had sprung up between the cracked paving stones around it. She peered through every window in case the automatic locks hadn’t engaged, but it was like Fort Knox. She could see the rose petals still lying on the sitting-room floor, her half-drunk mug of tea in the kitchen and the horseshoe on the dining-room window-sill.
Pheely was right. The horseshoe had brought her nothing but bad luck so far. She looked at the twisting nails poking out of it and something occurred to her. She could try to break in. Even though she couldn’t pick a lock to save her life, there were other ways . . .