by Lulu Taylor
He stared at her. She had never used such a commanding tone with him and she could see the surprise in his eyes. You’d better get used to it. You won’t be able to bully me any more. She turned on her heel and went out. She must pack, prepare to leave. She would send a telegram to Ralph and warn him that Catherine could know where they were and to be ready.
As she turned to dash up the stairs, her eye was caught by a white envelope propped up on the hall table. It had her name on it in block capitals, but there was no stamp. It had been hand delivered. Ellen must have seen it on the mat and picked it up. Cressie went over to it, tore it open and pulled out the sheet inside. It was written in simple capital letters but each one was deeply impressed in the paper, almost piercing it.
I WILL NOT LET YOU KILL HIM
Chapter Twenty-Three
The night of the dinner party at James’s house, Emily had a powerful dream but not the nightmare she’d been dreading. Instead, she was back in James’s house, alone with him in a bedroom, and they were, without any awkwardness, lying together on the bed, clothed, and their bodies entwined, their hands tightly clasped. They were talking quietly in a state of perfect friendship and yet she knew that very soon he would kiss her, and the thought filled her with intense pleasure. His scent filled her nostrils again, the sweet woody smell of maleness, and she found it deeply comforting and pleasurable. She didn’t feel passionate desire but a closeness that came from the ability to be completely herself with him. He accepted her as she was, and in her dream, she knew with certainty that he loved her.
She woke before anything physical happened, but nevertheless, the dream left her agitated, constantly blushing hard at the memory, and gripped by a wistful yearning to feel in real life that deep contentment, and to experience the pleasurable prelude to a promised joy that she had felt in the dream.
Oh God, she thought, as she stood in front of the mirror, seeing her cheeks flush red again at the thought of it. I don’t fancy James. This is very embarrassing. I must put it out of my mind and forget about it.
But the memory of the warmth and pleasure of being close to James stayed with her all morning. When his car roared up in front of the house later that day, she instantly recalled the whole thing in a vivid rush and as he got out, she was appalled to find herself feeling trembly and awkward. She could hardly meet his gaze.
‘How are things?’ he asked cheerfully as he strode up to her and dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘I hope you’ve recovered from last night.’
‘I hope you have,’ she returned. ‘It looked as though it was going to be a late one.’
‘It was. Three a.m. before they finally got on their way. You should see the empties outside the back door.’ He made a face. ‘Felt a trifle vinegary this morning, I can tell you. Now, I was just sorting through a drawer and I thought Joe might like these.’ He uncurled his hand to show three small battered Matchbox cars in his hand. ‘Seventies memorabilia. I think they were mine. Would he like them, do you think?’
‘He’d love them,’ Emily said. She was suddenly possessed by a powerful urge to step forward and bury her face in James’s soft wool jumper and inhale. That scent – picked up during their awkward kiss and then again in her dream – seemed to awaken a strong response in her, but quite what it was, she couldn’t tell. I don’t fancy him! she scolded herself. And to remind herself of the fact, she stared hard at his pink cheeks and friendly blue eyes. He was so far from Will’s eagle-ish handsomeness and hard, gym-taut body. He wasn’t her type at all, apart from the height.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, aware that she was staring at him.
‘Oh yes. Fine. Sorry. Thanks for the cars, it’s very thoughtful of you. Would you like a cup of tea or something? The children are watching telly, then we’re going for a walk after I’ve pegged out the washing.’
‘No, I’d better not. I’m behind after a late start anyway.’ James smiled at her, a shy look coming over his face. ‘Thanks again for coming last night. It was lovely to have you there. You should come again.’
‘Yes. That would be very nice,’ she replied. It hadn’t been too bad, she thought. After that rocky start.
‘I hope you didn’t hate my friends too much. They’re all right really, when you get to know them.’
‘Of course I didn’t hate them.’ She was relieved to feel the urge to press herself up against James diminishing. Stupid dream. The sooner I can forget about it, the better.
A thought occurred to him. ‘Did Wilson come by to see you?’
‘Yes. He sent a quote, it was pretty reasonable. I’ve asked him to start on the cottage as soon as he can. My brother’s going to use it once it’s finished. Mr Wilson said it won’t take long.’
‘Your brother?’ James nodded, smiling. ‘That’ll be nice for you. I worry that you’re on your own so much.’
‘You really don’t need to. I’m fine.’
‘I know. You’re very self-reliant, I’ve guessed that.’ He grinned at her. ‘Right, I’d better be on my way. Bye, Emily. See you soon.’ A moment later, the car was disappearing out of the driveway and she went back inside to check on the children.
Tom called while they were finishing up lunch. ‘Hi, Em. How’s things?’
‘All right,’ she said, scooping up a forkful of pasta and getting it into Joe’s mouth before he could look away. ‘You?’
‘I’ve just been looking at that picture I took away with me – you know, that one of the snow.’
‘Yes, of course I know it. I worked out it was the view of the back garden. It looks different because of the angle.’
‘That’s what I realised too. But the thing that’s strange is that there’s something poking out of the snow on my picture – something that must be quite tall as it comes out of the drift. I can’t remember anything like that in your garden. Is there something out there?’
Emily stared out through the window to the garden. ‘Just trees, I think.’
‘It’s not a tree.’
‘Well, I don’t think so then. But it’s hard to see clearly from here. I’ll have a look afterwards and let you know.’
When they went for their walk, Emily headed for the direction shown in the painting in her room. She’d gone up after Tom’s call and examined it carefully in the daylight, holding it by the window, and she could see that there was something poking out of the snow under a large drift and the spiky top of a bare tree. Of course. I noticed it myself. But what is it? She had squinted at it but could make out only a grey smear that could have been anything. As they set out, she oriented herself so that she was facing the same view as in the painting, with the mountain in her vision exactly as represented on the canvas. She saw that the position of one of the large drifts exactly followed the line of the old stone wall that lined the boundary of the garden. Beyond it was the paddock and that marked the far boundary of the land belonging to December House.
As Emily strolled in the direction of the wall, the children running off and circling back to show her odd-shaped twigs or interesting stones that they’d discovered, she worked out that if she were right, then there ought to be something – whatever that grey smear might be – in the space between the edge of the property and the tree on the edge of the orchard, which was the only tree that could possibly be in the painting. But there was nothing at all that she could make out.
If whatever it is emerged above the snowline, it must surely be fairly tall. And there’s absolutely nothing there.
She wasn’t mistaken, she was sure of it. Perhaps something had been removed in the intervening years. There was no reason why it mattered really, but her curiosity was piqued.
‘That’s strange,’ Tom said when she called him back. ‘So it’s in your painting too? Go up to the attic and see if it’s in the other pictures as well. I’ll keep trying to work out what it is.’
‘Okay. I will.’ She made a mental note to go and take a look in the crate as soon as she could.
Mr Wilson had
a cancellation and he and his team were able to start earlier than expected, which meant Emily spent some long evenings in front of websites, working out costings for a kitchen and a bathroom, and getting everything ordered so that it was on site for when the builders needed it.
She emailed Tom:
Great news! They’re going to start right away on Keeper’s Cottage and Mr Wilson says it will take around three weeks. I’ll keep you up to speed on progress but I’m sure it won’t take much longer than that. Apparently it’s very straightforward (but there’s bound to be at least one hitch). I’ll send pics as they go along.
Tom wrote back:
Fantastic! Can’t wait to get in there. Shall we discuss the ownership issue? I think we’ll need to get a lawyer involved if we’re going to get title deeds, etc. drawn up. I don’t know much about it – I’ll talk to someone and see what I can find out.
Her heart sank when she read that. He was determined to get possession of the cottage. She’d known he would be. It had been naive to think that Tom, who was remarkably stubborn when he set his mind to something, would just forget about it. Owning Keeper’s Cottage seemed to mean something important to him and she worried how he would react when he learned what she meant to do.
She didn’t reply directly to his email, just sent some pictures of the builders putting up their scaffolding, but she knew she couldn’t avoid him forever. He sent her persistent messages about getting a legal agreement of the transfer of ownership of Keeper’s Cottage drawn up.
I should call him and discuss it, she thought wanly, but she chickened out and instead wrote an email saying that she’d thought it over very carefully and had decided that it was best for Keeper’s Cottage to remain part of December House. She would maintain it and he could treat it as his own for as long as he wanted. Perhaps, if she ever sold the house, they could work out a way for Tom to share some of the proceeds to make up for it. She hoped he understood and sent her love.
She was filled with apprehension as she pressed ‘send’ and checked her email every few hours afterwards, waiting for a response. But nothing came.
The work on the cottage kept her busy over the next couple of weeks but she didn’t mind. It was a pleasure to walk over there with the children, with the sun warming them and the countryside bursting into life around them, and see what the builders were up to. There were always new problems to sort out – lights that didn’t fit, faulty goods, a space that was too small or too large, a rotten beam that needed replacing, plaster that was blown – but everything was resolved eventually, after much standing around and staring and drinking mugs of tea, with Emily phoning merchandisers or tile suppliers or heading home to fire up the internet and send off emails. Gradually the little place was becoming brighter and cosier, with a sound roof, a small but efficient bathroom, and a kitchen installed with a decent cooker. Radiators had gone up too, and a wood-burning stove with a round pot belly was sitting snugly in the small sitting room fireplace.
James came along to check on progress and was very admiring. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job,’ he said as he looked around the new kitchen.
‘Well’ it’s Mr Wilson really,’ Emily said modestly but she was proud of what she’d achieved. She’d never been so hands-on with any building work before and she’d enjoyed it much more than she’d expected, despite the frustrations and niggles.
‘You should do this full-time,’ James said, nodding as he looked about. ‘It’s very nice indeed. So when does your brother move in?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ she said haltingly. It was now nearly two weeks since she’d heard from Tom and she was beginning to worry that she’d caused a rift between them. Sometimes she considered ringing him up and telling him he could have the damn place if it was going to cause so much trouble between them, but something always stopped her. She had a very strong sense that she couldn’t give the cottage away, even if she’d wanted to. And the truth was, she didn’t want to and she didn’t really understand why.
It was a relief when at last an email arrived.
Hey Em
Sorry not to write before. I’ve been working flat out finishing a project, hardly had a minute to myself. I understand what you’re saying about the cottage. I’m planning to come up and take a look so I can see what furniture, etc. I might need. Maybe we can talk about it then.
I’ll let you know when I’m on my way but I hope to be there pretty soon.
Love
Tom
P.S. did you look at the other paintings?
She released her held breath, and smiled with relief. It was going to be all right. Tom was still her familiar, loveable brother, a kind and reasonable man who would try and see her side of things. She relaxed, realising that she’d been retaining a nasty anxiety for a while now. Tom’s email had put her mind at rest. She tapped out a reply immediately.
Come whenever you like! We’re here (of course) and would love to see you. I’ve put a bit of furniture in the cottage already so you can use it right away. Mr Wilson is just doing snags now. It’s liveable as soon as you’re ready.
E xxx
P.S. I’ll go and look at the paintings now.
But she kept forgetting and didn’t go up to the attic at all.
The dream about James and her strange reaction to it seemed nothing more than a slightly embarrassing private joke. Emily saw him quite frequently and she always monitored her reaction to him just in case. As he climbed out of the Land Rover and headed her way, sometimes with a bunch of flowers from the garden, a cake baked by his mother or some old toys for the children, she would test how she reacted at the sight of him and was relieved to find that it was quite normal.
But it isn’t the sight of him that’s the problem.
If he stood too close to her, that odd feeling would creep over her: a deep yearning to press herself against him and soak in the strength and comfort he could offer her, and to revel in that scent of his.
What does he wear? she wondered. She caught elusive hints of it when he was near and she found that it would send a tremble along her skin and set off a strange dizziness in her brain. Thoughts about what his aftershave might be started to preoccupy her, and she found herself imagining how she might sneak into his bathroom and look in his cupboards, and planning a trip to a department store in Carlisle so that she could sniff the sample bottles in the perfume section. She imagined spraying a pillow with it so that she could sleep with it in her nostrils. Then she would catch herself up and laugh. I’ll just ask him, she told herself. One of these days. But it was quite a personal question and she found she never could. Maybe I can ask Harriet or Georgie, she thought. The invitations to coffee and lunch had followed after the dinner party and she’d decided to take them up as soon as the cottage was finished. It was time to start making some new friends.
It was only when a letter arrived from Diana that she realised with a shock that she hadn’t thought about Will for days, if not weeks. This place was so gloriously untouched by any memories of him, and she felt so free since the nightmares had stopped, that she had been able to close him off almost completely, as though his role in her life was finished, and he was relegated to a closed box of memories.
Dear Emily
I’m sorry not to have heard anything from you recently. You sent that nice card with your address and the children’s pictures and there has been nothing since then. You have not even rung to find out how Will is doing. If you are interested, he continues as he was, with little change. The doctors are still monitoring him and I remain convinced that he will wake eventually, no matter what they say to the contrary.
I can’t pretend to be anything but appalled by your coldness towards your husband. You have your reasons, but Emily, where is your Christian charity? How can you act so callously towards the father of your children, and the man you swore to love through richer, through poorer, in sickness and in health?
I refuse to beg, Emily, but I hope you will find it in your heart to
reunite a man who has made foolish mistakes with the children he loves. It is his hour of need. I have always esteemed you and thought highly of your character. I hope so much that I will not have to revise that opinion.
I too would like to see the children. Please contact me and perhaps we can discuss a time for you to visit.
With my best wishes
Diana
Emily kept the letter with her and read it over several times, each time with a rush of horror and outrage. She had almost succeeded in blotting out and forgetting the frightful image of Will in his hospital bed, but Diana had brought it all flooding back; brought back the guilt and fear and sense of desperate terror.
What should I do? she wondered, the letter burning in her pocket as she read the children their bedtime stories, pulled the curtains shut against the still light sky, and kissed them goodnight. Do I take them back to London?
The thought made her feel suffocated.
Should I see Will again? I know I should but . . .
She wouldn’t think about it now. She’d talk it over with Tom and see what he thought.
When there was a knock at the door at mid-morning the day after Diana’s letter arrived, Emily half thought it might be Tom, arriving after taking the first train on an impulse. She was expecting him any day now that the cottage was finished.
She pulled open the door ready to greet him, but it wasn’t Tom on the doorstep. Instead, she found herself staring into a pair of cheerful bright blue eyes set in a tanned face under a mop of dark brown hair. It was a man who looked in his late twenties, stocky and brown-limbed, dressed in a T-shirt, shorts and sandals, a small backpack hanging over one arm. In the drive beyond Emily could see a motorbike parked with a helmet dangling off the handlebars. She hadn’t heard him pull up outside but then the washing machine had been on its spin cycle, so maybe that was why.