by Lulu Taylor
‘Well, that would be very nice,’ Emily said, her heart sinking. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be paraded to the neighbourhood quite yet. She was enjoying this quiet healing time with just her and the children. Visits and invitations . . . I’m not ready for all that yet.
‘And if you need me’ – his face was grave – ‘any time of the day or night, you can ring me. Here’s my card.’ He fished a crumpled piece of cardboard out of his back pocket. ‘I get reception if I’m up on the hills or at the top of the house. Otherwise, call the landline. They can always get a message to me.’
‘That’s very kind,’ she said, taking it. ‘But I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
‘Just in case.’ He smiled, his open, pleasant demeanour returning. ‘I’d feel happier knowing that you’ve got me to call on. Now, I’d better get back to mending that fence.’
The engineers arrived to put in her internet service. They fixed a satellite dish to the side of the barn in a discreet out-of-the-way place, and ran the wires into the house through the hole that had been drilled for the old aerial cable.
Emily stood watching as they set it up. I swore I’d never have a dish on my house. But I’d be waiting about fifty years for them to lay cable all the way up here. So a dish it has to be.
It meant that she could have all the things she was used to in London: catch-up on the television, dozens of channels, most of them rubbish, and a decent internet service. As soon as the engineers left, the children spent two hours in front of cartoons in the study, while she set up her computer on the morning room table and went through her crammed inbox. Even though it was lovely to reconnect, she was a little wistful for the calm and peace of those few days when she’d been separated from all of that. With nothing much to watch on the telly, she’d been going to bed early with a book. The children had been playing with toys they’d ignored for years, and listening to story tapes rather than sitting dazed in front of the rapid over-bright images on the children’s channels.
Polly had sent several emails begging for news, the last one threatening to arrive on the doorstep with all three children if Emily didn’t get in touch soon to let her know how things were going. Emily typed a rapid apologetic response, explaining why she hadn’t been able to answer. She downloaded some of the pictures she’d taken of the house on her phone, and posted them on her Facebook page so that she wouldn’t have to send them out dozens of times. Almost at once, the replies started, exclaiming over the beauty of the place and the house, and telling her how much she and the children were missed. She enjoyed reading them, even though it felt as though she was being deceptive. How could those pretty pictures of the house all tidy and cosy tell the real story of their arrival here, and everything she’d gone through? How could it explain the feeling of isolation, or the majesty of the hills and the scenery and how it both refreshed and unburdened her, making her problems seem small and fleeting in comparison to their age and grandeur?
Just then her computer chirruped and a chat box opened. It was Tom.
There you are. Hello, stranger. Was beginning to get worried. How are the kids?
She typed back rapidly.
Sorry. I’ve been offline and no phone reception either. I should have called to let you know we’re all right but we are. Settled in. Kids v happy.
Great. How is it?
Gorgeous. You should come and see it.
I’d like that. In fact, was thinking of coming this weekend. I’m handing in the finals of my designs for that pitch tomorrow, so thought I’d catch the train up to Carlisle first thing on Saturday. Would that suit you?
She paused. A visitor already. It felt far too soon. But it was Tom – family. She typed:
Yes, of course. Please come. Bring wine, though – I don’t have any yet. Must find a supermarket. Let me know your train time and we’ll collect you from the station.
Great. I want to talk to you about something. See you on Saturday.
The next moment his name showed that he’d gone offline. Emily stared at it, feeling a little strange. The phrase about wanting to talk to her about something sounded ominous, as though he was planning to discuss something that wasn’t altogether pleasant. She thought back to the evening when she’d told him about her inheritance. He’d been eager to hear all about it and when she’d explained that the lady artist had actually left her her house, and that she intended to live there, he’d been as astonished as she had been in the solicitor’s office.
‘But . . . why?’ he’d said bewildered. ‘Why you? Are you sure you didn’t know her?’
‘No. It was because of Aunt Cressida. Catherine Few left me the house because I’m her relative. It once belonged to Cressida apparently.’
There was a pause as Tom absorbed this. Then he said, ‘But I’m her relative too.’
‘I know.’ Emily looked at him and said hesitantly, ‘I did say that in the lawyer’s office. But Mrs Few specified a female relative. She was very clear about it. Even if I hadn’t wanted it, another female relative would have taken priority.’ She knew she wasn’t being entirely honest; Mischal Diwani had said that there was nothing really binding in the specifying of a female relative being next in line. Emily was free to leave it to whomever she liked.
Tom was frowning, tracing his fingertip around the pattern of dots on the table’s oil cloth. ‘It’s just a bit weird, isn’t it? It sounds sort of sexist. And I mean, why not give the house back to Aunt Cressida?’
Emily shrugged. ‘She must have assumed she’s dead.’
‘Perhaps she is.’ Tom made a face. ‘No one’s heard of her for years, have they?’
Emily shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. Perhaps Uncle Harry would know but I’m sure we’d have some idea if he’d ever been in contact with her. Dad barely mentioned her; I’m sure they weren’t in touch. I wonder why on earth they were so disconnected. Perhaps she did something awful and they couldn’t forgive her for it.’
‘Maybe she ran away with someone unsuitable,’ Tom suggested with a small smile. ‘Gave her daddy a heart attack or something.’
They were both silent. They’d never known much about their grandparents on their father’s side, both dead before they were born. Their mother’s parents had been the only grandparents they’d really had.
‘Well, I expect she’s long gone,’ Emily said finally. ‘And the house is back in the family, like Catherine Few wanted.’
‘Back in your family,’ Tom had said, a sharp edge in his voice.
‘Our family,’ Emily said. ‘We’re all we’ve got now, remember?’ She smiled at him, wanting to make peace. ‘You must be a part of it too. I can’t help thinking about what you said about the universe sorting things out. I feel like I sent up a big cosmic prayer in my hour of absolute need and, like some kind of miracle, back came this. A house. Just right for me and the kids, far away from all the bad things that have happened.’
Tom softened and he smiled properly. ‘You’re right,’ he said sincerely. ‘You deserve a break after all the shit you’ve been through. I’m glad this house has come to you.’ He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. ‘Maybe you’re right. The universe has answered your prayer.’
After that, things had moved so swiftly she hadn’t had time to think again about how Tom had taken the news. There had been so much to do – the legal issues to sort out, emptying out the London house and selling all her extraneous goods. The probate had taken longer than the completion of the house sale, and everything had gone into storage while Emily and the children had squeezed in with Polly, her husband Frank and the children for a chaotic few weeks. Then, somehow, all the hundreds of tiny things that needed doing had been done, and the jigsaw pieces fell into place – the bank was paid back and her bank account safely held the profit from the sale; the probate was passed, the taxes settled and the bills paid; and the deeds of the house were transferred to her name. Then came the day that the moving van arrived to load up all their things and off they set on the road.
She looked at him and was filled with a magnificent triumph. ‘I’ve done it!’ she said, power coursing through her, igniting her blood with strength. ‘I’ve saved us. I’m taking the children and we’re leaving. We’re going far away where you’ll never find us! So get used to being alone here in this coffin of a hospital bed. It’s what you wanted and it’s what you’ve got!’
He lay unresponsive for a moment as she relished her triumph over him, feeling free of him and all the evil he’d brought on them. But at the moment that she felt most victorious, she saw his arm quiver, then move. It went to his face and began to pull out the tubes from his nose and mouth and rip away the tapes. His eyes flicked open, hard and furious, then his mouth opened too and the most terrifying sound she had ever heard issued forth from it: a harsh satanic roar, like a demon’s voice. As he roared, the room filling with the awful sound, he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
Trying to scream, she backed away to the door as he began to walk stiffly towards her, his eyes demonic and that ghastly bestial roar issuing from his open mouth. The door wouldn’t open until his fingers were almost at her throat, and then she stumbled out into the corridor and began to run and run and run as fast as she could, knowing that Will was following her, determined to catch her . . .
She woke shuddering and shaking, a scream still in her throat, and had to rush to the little bathroom next door and throw up violently.
That had been the last nightmare. Surely there were no more.
Chapter Sixteen
The school was in a fizz of excitement as the holidays approached. Every classroom was decked in something Christmassy – cut-out snowflakes, strings of paper chains, handmade Christmas cards. Attention on the lessons waned and instead thoughts of Christmas fairs, the carol concerts and end-of-term celebrations were on everyone’s minds.
Cressie felt detached from it all. She couldn’t get excited about the end of term because she already felt as though she were not really a part of it. She would not be coming back next year. She had failed at her great project.
Her father had been delighted to hear that she would not be returning to Fleming in the New Year. ‘You gave it a good stab,’ he said condescendingly. ‘But if you really want to work in a school for a few more months, I could have a word with the head of that girls’ prep down the road. That would do nicely until you get married and have a family yourself.’
She felt deflated by this rescaling of her ambitions to something neat and manageable, nothing to cause any stir. She had meant to leave her own comfortable world, not embed herself ever more firmly in it.
‘Perhaps,’ she’d said wearily. ‘I don’t know. I think I need a rest from it all for a while.’
‘Absolutely, you must rest. I’m sure you’re tired out,’ her father said. ‘And what about this portrait of yours? Is it finished? You seem to have been sitting for months now.’
‘It’s finished, yes. Almost. Just the varnishing to do, and the frame if we want them to frame it for us.’
‘What’s it like? Is he any good, this Few boy?’
She thought of Ralph, sitting so intense in front of the painting, of the hours he’d devoted to it and the luminous beauty he’d given her. ‘Yes,’ she said wretchedly. ‘He’s very talented. The picture’s wonderful. I think you’re going to love it.’
‘That’s good,’ said her father, taking up his paper again. ‘Because his wife wrote to me asking for another instalment on the money owing. I was rather surprised as I’ve not seen it. But if you think it’s decent, then I’ll send her a cheque tomorrow.’
The next day, on her way out of the house, Cressie picked up a letter addressed to her that she must have missed the previous evening. On the train east, she opened it and read the elegant, sloping hand.
Dearest Cressida
Where have you gone? We love you and you’ve abandoned us! Your portrait is so nearly finished it’s trembling on the brink of completion, but we want you back so that we can pronounce it done. There is champagne waiting, of course, for the great moment. We can’t open it without you, our angel of art. You were ill and we are praying that you’ve recovered and are ready for the very last session.
Please write or telephone and we’ll arrange our next rendezvous.
With love and anticipation,
Catherine and Ralph
She felt the sickness of guilt as she read it over twice. She could imagine Catherine curling up to write it, sitting on the sofa, a book on her lap as a table. The light from the arched window fell on her pale complexion and touched the glints in her dark hair. Nearby Ralph was saying, ‘Perhaps we should leave it, Cat. She doesn’t want to return, that much is certain. Let’s send the picture to her dad, get the last of the money and forget all about it.’
‘No, no,’ Catherine insisted as she wrote. ‘We can salvage this. She’s scared about something but we can calm her down and win her back. Perhaps I told her too much when I mentioned your heart. Perhaps our little argument over the colours distressed her. She’s evidently very sensitive. Don’t worry. I know how to reach her.’ She waved the letter to dry the ink. ‘This will do the job.’
Cressida folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. She would send a pleasant letter in return, saying how sorry she was that she couldn’t come back to Blackheath for the foreseeable future. They must finish it without her. It was already marvellous; there was no need for her to be there.
At the school, as she made her way to the first class, she was startled to be stopped in the hall by a small, slight figure standing in her way.
‘Oh, hello, it’s you, Baxter.’ She smiled down at him. He was the only person who could cheer her up at the moment.
‘I wanted to thank you, miss,’ Baxter said in his high voice. ‘The postman brought a terrific parcel around last night an’ I opened it. So many beautiful books. You’re an angel, miss, you really are. An’ I got your card too. I will read ’em all, I promise, an’ I’ll do my very best in Australia.’
Cressie’s smile grew. She wished she could have witnessed Baxter’s pleasure when he opened the box she’d ordered to be sent to his house. ‘I’m so glad you like them,’ she said happily. ‘There are some wonderful books in there, some you might not like at once but you will one day, I’m sure of it. What did your mother think?’
‘Well . . .’ Baxter’s glance slid away with a touch of embarrassment and then he said, ‘Well, she did say that she wished you could of sent something useful, like the money all them books cost. But she was dead impressed that you thought enough of me to send ’em all. And she’s said I can keep some of ’em with me for the trip. The rest’ll go in our boxes that follow along afterwards.’
‘That’s excellent news.’ Cressida laughed as she reached out and ruffled Baxter’s hair. ‘I’m going to miss you, Terence. I hope you have a marvellous life in Australia.’
‘But . . .’ He looked up at her hopefully. ‘Miss, will you let me write to you? I’d be ever so honoured if you would.’
‘Write to me? Goodness . . . why not? All right. You write to me if you like. I would like to have a friend in Australia. You’d be my first.’
‘Thank you, miss. Where shall I write to?’
She thought for a moment. Where would Baxter always be able to find her? Not at her father’s house. Surely, before very much longer, she would move out and start to stand on her own two feet. She was beginning to feel that living in that great house in Kensington was stifling her. To where would she always be connected? On impulse, she ripped a page out of the notebook she was carrying and pressed it against the
wall so she could write the address. ‘Here. You can always reach me here, at December House. It might take a while to get a reply from me, but eventually you will.’
Terence took the scrap of paper reverently, looking at it with wide eyes before he folded it up and slid it into his pocket. ‘I’ll never forget you, miss,’ he said in a whisper.
Her eyes stung suddenly with unexpected tears. ‘I’ll never forget you either, Terence.’ She put out her hand. ‘Pals for life?’ she asked.
He took it eagerly and shook it. ‘Yep. Pals for life, miss.’
When Cressie arrived home, the doctor was just leaving. He nodded to her in the hall as he put on his hat, but didn’t stop to talk to her.
‘Is everything all right, Ellen?’ she asked anxiously when the maid had shut the door behind him.
Ellen looked at her gravely. ‘The nurse has been worried today but I’m sure it’s nothing serious. The doctor’s left another tonic and apparently your mother’s sleeping now and she’s a little better.’
‘That’s good.’ Relief coursed through her. She knew it would come eventually, but she’d never wanted to peer too hard into the darkness of life after her mother died. ‘I’ll look in on her later, once she’s awake.’
Ellen bustled past her on the way to the kitchen. ‘Can I get you anything, miss?’
‘Oh no, thank you. I don’t need anything till supper.’ As she spoke, there was a knock on the door. Ellen turned to answer it but Cressie held up her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll answer it. Look, the doctor’s left his gloves. He’s probably just noticed and he’s back to collect them.’ She scooped up the gloves. ‘I’ll give them to him.’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Ellen disappeared into the passage.