He could not have known how much Xanthe wished only to avoid such a thing.
“Good to know,” she said, walking away. “Let me know what I owe you for the part when you find it.”
“Will do,” he said. She felt him watching her as she went and then he called out, “Hey, you didn’t give me your name.”
She paused. “It’s Xanthe,” she told him. “Xanthe Westlake.”
“Well, Xanthe Westlake, welcome to Marlborough.”
* * *
On returning to the shop Xanthe found her mother downstairs, sitting on the red brocade chaise, covered in the contents of a box of jewelry she had bought as a job lot at the auction.
“You look very regal like that,” she told her. “Marie Antoinette surrounded by her jewels.”
Flora laughed. “I don’t think there’s anything here quite in her league. Though there are some good gold chains, and one or two brooches.”
“Seriously? Do people even wear brooches anymore?”
“They are coming back in, haven’t you heard? Oh, and here, look at this.” She held up a short rose-gold chain formed of wheat links, which were one of Xanthe’s favorites. From it dangled a small locket in the same gold. It was completely plain, but instead of this rendering it dull, it left the warmth of the gold to glow. The simplicity of the oval was a joy.
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
“I want you to have it.”
“What? No, it’s worth a fair bit, and I’ve just splashed out all that money on the chatelaine.”
“That’s business. Once you’ve found out its story I know you will sell it. This is different, this is for you to keep.”
“It’s lovely, really lovely, and it would sell quickly,” she protested.
“I don’t care. Someone named ‘the golden one’ should always have a drop of gold, don’t you think? Call it a moving-in present, from me to the best daughter in the world. Come here.” Xanthe knelt in front of Flora so that she could fasten it around her neck. “I found it here; bit of local glamor for my girl in her new life. I couldn’t do without you, you know that, don’t you?”
Xanthe ran her fingers over the locket. It felt wonderfully smooth and precious. “Mum, stop. We don’t have time to get sentimental,” she said, giving her a hug. Flora rarely said such things, and Xanthe knew she meant them, but they were both too emotionally fragile to risk giving way to their feelings. She got to her feet, picking up the shopping bags. “Now, dig yourself out of that lot, because I am going to cook us a full English breakfast.”
“Did you get brown sauce?”
“For someone who doesn’t shop, you can be very picky you know,” she told her and then grinned, pulling a bottle of her mother’s favorite sauce from one of the bags.
* * *
As soon as they had eaten, Xanthe helped Flora install the computer on a small Victorian bureau in the sitting room and left her tackling the task of getting them online. Outside, the day had become noticeably hotter. Xanthe found that the sun had moved off the chatelaine, which had dried to a wonderfully gleaming finish. The decoration worked into the silver had come up better than she could have hoped. She noticed that it felt calmer in her hands this time. She wandered onto a sunnier part of the lawn, and immediately it began to sing again. This treasure was behaving unlike any Xanthe had found before. Why on earth should it react to the sunshine? To be certain, she stepped back into the shade. Sure enough, it quieted again. Holding it carefully she walked around the lawn, listening closely to when and where it became more active. At length she realized it was not the sunlight that it was reacting to, it was a certain position in the garden. It vibrated more strongly, and sang louder, when moved toward one corner. She went as far as was possible in that direction, until she was standing with the toes of her boots up against the dense brambles and ivy that covered the little stone shed. She leaned closer to peer at it, and in doing so stumbled, falling forward. Instinctively, she put out her hand to stop herself landing among the thorns. The instant she touched the leaf-clad wall of the building she experienced a swamping sense of sadness. She heard her own sob in reaction to this wave of sorrow sweeping over her, and to that was added the heart-wrenching sound of someone weeping.
Xanthe staggered back, staring at the muddle of stone and plants that made up the insignificant-looking building. “Well,” she said to it, “what is so special about you, I wonder. I think I need to take a closer look.”
Wrapping the chatelaine up again, she set it carefully to one side upon a low stone bench at the edge of the lawn, before fetching the garden tools they had brought with them. Armed with thick gloves, a large pair of garden clippers, and a rake, she set to work. It was tough going. The brambles were sturdy, grown thick over years, evidently left undisturbed by the previous owner and quite possibly several before him. As Xanthe hacked and chopped, she sustained countless scratches to her legs and arms, and the hot sun made sweat trickle down her back, but she was a woman entirely focused on the work at hand. There was something about that shed that she needed to discover; something that set off the chatelaine, and she was not going to stop until she found out what it was.
It took nearly an hour to uncover the building sufficiently, for it to begin to look as if it were actually made of stone rather than vegetation. To her surprise, she found the walls were rounded. Only the part where it was set into the external wall was flat. She worked hard to clear the tangle covering the door. It looked very old and extremely solid, with a tiny grilled window near the top. It even had metal bolts studded through it and a hefty lock. Why would anyone put such a lock on a garden shed? It seemed all wrong for keeping chickens or pigs in, so she decided it must have been for storage of some sort. At last she was able to get hold of the loop of metal that served as a door handle. Taking a firm grasp, she heaved and pulled and could feel movement. If the lock had ever worked, it wasn’t working now. Suddenly, with a clunk and a creak, the door opened. The ground was too uneven for it to swing free, so that there was just a gap about two feet wide. Xanthe peered inside, but the windowless space was in utter darkness, save for the sliver of sunlight she was letting in through the doorway. It would have been possible for her to squeeze through, but something caused her to hesitate. The air in the shed smelled dreadful. It was damp and musty as if it had been shut up for many, many years. Would she find a few rotting mice, perhaps? Some moldy fungus growing in the dark? She stood still and quiet, listening, but there were no sounds at all. Instead, there was something else. A sense of foreboding that instantly stirred a memory in Xanthe. A memory of a bad time, when she had been frightened and alone. More than that, she felt sorrow emanating from the inside of the building, so powerful, so heavy, it made her gasp.
Without properly considering what she was doing, she fetched the chatelaine. Unsure of what she was expecting, she knew only that she needed to move it closer to those dark, weighty stones. As she approached, holding the silver in her slightly shaking hands, she heard the weeping again, louder this time, mournful and despairing. Carefully, but with determination, Xanthe stepped through the doorway.
It was then that she felt herself falling. Her balance went, and she had the sensation she was tipping backward, yet she would later be unable to recall hitting the ground. Her eyes were open, she was certain of that, but she no longer saw the garden. Instead, the image of the dense woodland filled her vision, complete with the tiny birds among the twisting plant tendrils. Even as she was swamped by this vision, she did not feel panic, but was struck by the fact that it appeared to be night. She could see the tree trunks, vines, and brambles, but their colors were muted and dark. Why were the birds still up if it was nighttime?
All at once, she could hear the sound of someone breathing, fast and hard, as if they were running. She attempted to turn, not certain if she was in fact moving at all. Everything had taken on the quality of a lucid dream. She could now see open ground. Fields, sweeping away, flowing into the distance, and beyond
them a stream. Was it she herself who was running? Was that her own labored, frightened breathing? No, she could see someone else. A girl in a long dress, tearing across the grass as if she were being chased.
“Wait!” Xanthe called. “Wait!”
But the girl kept running. Then, as if she heard her calling, she hesitated and began to turn. Xanthe then felt a curious connection. Something she could not explain. She wanted to see the girl’s face, to know who she was, to speak to her.
But everything grew fainter, the sounds quickly becoming distorted and more distant, until they faded to nothing and were replaced by a deep blackness into which she fell.
5
Xanthe was not certain if she had lost consciousness, or if she was merely shaken by the particularly powerful vision. It had felt so very real. Why on earth was the chatelaine reacting so strongly to a forgotten building at the bottom of the garden? Shaken, she put it back in its wrapping and stepped unsteadily out of the shed. As she did so a new sensation assailed her. A cold shiver descended her spine, and she knew at once that this was not caused by what she had so recently experienced. This was quite clearly provoked by a presence, as if someone were standing directly behind her. Xanthe froze. Unlike when she had seen the girl in her vision, she had no desire to see the face of whoever it was she was convinced now stood only feet from her, silent and still in the gloom of the oppressive building. This was an entirely different manner of presence, and it carried with it real menace. She remained in the doorway of the shed, the chatelaine still clutched tightly, wanting more than anything to run but determined not to give in to the impulse. Suddenly, as quickly as it had arrived, the presence was gone. Xanthe waited for her pulse to return to a more normal rhythm and then, still with a quick glance behind her to assure herself there was nothing there, she walked briskly across the garden and into the house, slamming the back door behind her. She needed to share this with her mother, to say out loud what she had experienced if only to test that it did not sound like the ravings of a mad woman. Flora was accustomed to her daughter connecting with things, of course, but this one was different from the others. She needed her mother’s calm view of what had happened. She found her at the desk in the sitting room, staring at the computer screen.
“We are connected to the world of the web,” she announced, “for all the good it will do us.”
It was then that Xanthe noticed the strained expression on Flora’s face.
“What is it?” she asked. “Are you OK? Do you need more painkillers?”
“Sadly I don’t think this can be put right with a handful of aspirin.” Flora gave a sigh and rubbed her temples. “After getting us online, I tried to set up the banking for the shop. You know, move some money into the new account so we can start getting the place redecorated, buy some advertising space here and there, more stock…”
“And…?”
“Your father has had our joint account frozen.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish. I called Roland. It’s because he’s contesting the settlement. All jointly held assets and accounts have been blocked until it’s sorted out.”
“But that could be months.” Xanthe closed her eyes in an effort to bring her mind to bear on the real and the practical, pulling it back, with effort, from the very unreal events in the shed that had left her so shaken.
“Until then, we have my savings account, which I all but emptied to buy the shop, the contents of my purse, and whatever you’ve got stuffed under your mattress.”
“Bloody hell.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve got about three hundred pounds.”
“Snap.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
Xanthe sat next to her and put a hand on her arm. “It’ll be OK,” she told her, receiving a wan smile in reply. She hated to see her mother being put through more struggle. It was so unjust. She saw then that this was not the moment to burden her mother with all the frightening and inexplicable things that had happened to her in the garden. Flora had more than enough to contend with. Practical, solid, sensible, and important things. Things a mother could reasonably expect a daughter to help her with.
“We don’t need decorators,” Xanthe said. “I can fling some paint around.”
“There is a bit more to it than that, Xanthe, love.”
“And we can print our own fliers for the opening.”
“Well, I suppose we can just about afford the ink.”
“And there’s loads of stock here. Just needs a bit of cleaning, or fixing.”
She patted her hand. “You’re right. Who needs money?” She picked up her crutches and pulled herself to her feet. “Right, I’ll shut myself in the storeroom with the things that need cleaning or fixing. Don’t let me out until I’ve spun straw into gold,” she told her.
“And what will I be doing?”
She smiled, showing a glimmer of her more usual determination and grit. “You will be in the shop flinging paint around.”
Xanthe helped her mother get set up in the storeroom and then turned her attention to the shop. It was clearly going to be some time before she could begin repainting the room; there was so much by way of preparation that had to be done first. It took the remainder of the day for her to finish emptying the space. She had to stack some boxes in the middle of the room and work round them as she commenced the task of washing and scrubbing. The filth of years of trade and indifferent housekeeping was stuck to every bit of skirting board, or window sill, or picture rail, and the old vinyl on the floor was mostly rotten, so that she had to tear it out in moldering chunks. As there was no money to hire a Dumpster, all the rubbish had to be hauled out into the garden to await sorting before she could take it to the dump. At least the taxi would be up to that job.
Each time Xanthe stepped out into the garden she felt the pull of the mystery of the tiny stone roundhouse and what she had seen there. She took a moment to photograph it on her phone so that she could try to look it up on the internet later. She reasoned that she needed clues, background information, about both it and the chatelaine itself. She could not shake off the feeling that there was an urgency to this story. As if she were being shown something that was happening now. As if somebody needed her help. At the same time, she was also unable to rid herself of the memory of that other, darker presence. She knew in her heart that she would not be able to help the first, without facing up to the second, however frightening the prospect.
By the time she had finished the windows, woodwork, and door and was rinsing off the walls of the shop space dusk was falling. She stood in the bay window, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, pleased that the glass was at least now clean enough to see through properly. A figure entered her field of vision, waving and cheerful. Even on such scant acquaintance, it was clear Gerri was the sort of friend whose company could lift a mood.
“I know you’re not open yet,” Gerri said, “but I saw you beavering away in here and couldn’t resist a peek. Do you mind?”
“I’m glad of the excuse to stop cleaning, but there’s not much to see yet, I’m afraid,” Xanthe said, letting Gerri in and waving her arm to indicate the mostly empty room.
“Oh, but you’ve already worked wonders! I remember what this place was like when Mr. Morris had it. Lovely man, but a stranger to the vacuum cleaner. Ooh, is that a piece of Minton I see poking out of the top of that box?” She gently tugged at the wrapping paper and then lifted out a creamy tea plate decorated with exquisitely painted Lily of the Valley flowers and leaves. “So pretty!” she said, running her finger around the fluted edge. “And in such good nick, too. Is there more?”
“I think so. Dig a little deeper.” Xanthe knelt beside the box and helped her pull out more and more pieces. The tea cups were turned with a small foot and double loop to the handle, giving them a charmingly delicate appearance. The glaze had not crackled despite the china being at least sixty years old, in Xanthe’s opinion. She uncovered two more tea
plates, three cups and saucers, and a tiny creamer.
“That’s a dear little thing,” Gerri murmured, turning it this way and that, holding it up to the fading light of the day. “It was what gave me the idea for my tea shop, the fact that I can’t stop collecting beautiful china. I had so much of the stuff, it seemed to make sense to put it to good use.”
“I’m not sure I’d risk some of these with customers,” said Xanthe.
“It’s surprisingly tough. Though you’re right, it is hard to watch people using some of the lovelier pieces carelessly. When I first opened I was quite jittery about that, but I learned not to watch. Now I’m too busy to hover over a favorite set anyway!”
“How long have you had the cafe?”
“A couple of years. Ever since I became newly single, actually.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t a happy marriage, and I’d never have thought of setting up my own business if circumstances hadn’t prodded me into it.”
Xanthe thought about how similar her own situation was. It was encouraging to see someone who had taken the plunge and made a success of a venture in the town.
“So what made you choose Marlborough? Had you heard it was a good place to start up a business? Did you do any market research?”
Gerri laughed at this. “Nothing so professional! My children go to the primary school here. I needed to move closer to live and work nearby. Being a single mum brings out the practical side in everyone, I suppose.”
“Wow, children, too. It can’t be easy, running a business and bringing up a family on your own.”
“Thomas and Ellie are very easygoing. It’s just normal to them now, me being busy with the tea shop, constantly baking. I think the endless supply of cakes and biscuits helped win them round to the idea.”
“Well, if you need any more china, you won’t have to go far, once we’ve got ourselves organized.” Xanthe sighed, sitting back on her heels, the enormity of the task striking her once more.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 5