‘Napoleon,’ Naomi said.
‘I imagine he’ll need to go out before he comes in, if you see what I mean. Let your man take him down near the cut and we’ll go inside, shall we?’ She took Naomi’s arm and, with a confidence that Naomi found oddly reassuring, led her across what Naomi’s feet told her was a cobbled yard and into the sudden warmth of a farmhouse kitchen. ‘Here, sit yourself down and I’ll see to the tea. Jim, this is Naomi Friedman, her husband’s just seeing to the dog. Give him a hand with the luggage in a minute, will you?’
‘Welcome. Did you have a good journey? We made you up some sandwiches in case you were hungry when you got here.’
‘Thank you.’ Naomi was surprised by the thoughtfulness. ‘That’s really nice of you.’
‘Oh, no bother. Good to have folk staying this end of the year.’ He went out, the door closing quietly. This was a big room, Naomi thought, but very full of stuff, sounds muffled and softened as though by heavy curtains and soft furnishings. If the chair in which she sat was anything to go by, there were probably a lot of cushions and hand crocheted throws – her fingers identifying the peculiar patterns particular to crochet squares. A fire spat and crackled and gave off the scent of resinous wood. The door opened again and Napoleon pattered in, followed by Jim and Alec in conversation; Jim seemed to be explaining the layout of the farm to Alec and telling him about the food at the pub next door, which, it seemed, had something of a local reputation.
‘We’ll give you a good breakfast, but we don’t do the evening meals any more. Not worth it with the pub being next door, especially not at the back end of the year. Ah, tea, good. Sandwiches on the table, help yourselves now.’
Later, settled in the warm, lilac-scented bedroom, Naomi felt that this decision had definitely been the right one. Alec lay on the bed, flicking through channels on the television, and she could feel that he was already more relaxed. The room wasn’t large, but the bed was comfortable, tea and coffee making facilities were to hand, and there was an en suite that could easily be found because the door lined up directly opposite the corner of the bed.
Alec had put their cases on the ottoman by the window, suggesting they leave the unpacking until morning.
‘How old is this place? It feels really old.’
‘I don’t know. Old enough to have the original sash windows. Ones before they had the counterweights. Did you hear Bethan when she was telling me about them?’
‘No, I missed that.’
‘Ah, well, apparently these pre-date the ones with the box sides and counterweights. You open the window and then wedge a very special stick into a groove at the side to stop it falling back down.’
Naomi laughed. ‘Sounds very health and safety.’
‘Old buildings can get away with it. They have special dispensation,’ Alec said. ‘If you only want the window open a crack then there are these fellows.’ He slid from the bed and she heard him cross to the window. He placed something glazed and heavy in her hands. Naomi felt it, guided by Alec’s fingers and explanatory words. ‘Look, there’s a high bit at both ends and the window fits into that valley in the middle. It’ll hold the window open a couple of inches and let the fresh air in. Bethan told me these are Victorian but she said the design is much older than that.’
‘It has a face on it,’ Naomi said, feeling the unmistakable shape of a nose and what felt like elaborately coiffed hair.
‘It does,’ Alec agreed. ‘There’s a pair of them, that’s the female half of the partnership. Her old man’s lost his nose. But I don’t think he was ever a looker.’
‘And is she?’
Alec took the window prop from her. ‘Only if you like bright green glaze and rather bulbous eyes. I like this place,’ he added. ‘Not a straight wall anywhere but it’s got that sort of feeling that it could be here forever, you know what I mean? I’d like something like this.’
She was taken aback by the announcement. Alec had never really been into old architecture. Their house, which had been his before they married, was standard nineteen thirties, with a bay window at the front and an extended kitchen at the back. He had never seemed to hanker after anything else. Recently, his uncle had willed his house to Alec. A large and rather beautiful Edwardian place that Alec had loved largely because of the happy memories it had held. He had thought briefly about keeping it, but in the end had sold it to a local antique dealer who had been his uncle’s friend. It meant there was money sitting in the bank that they had yet to direct anywhere in particular.
‘You’d want to move somewhere this rural?’
She heard the clunk as he set the ceramic lady back on the windowsill and then he flopped down beside her on the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ve been thinking lately it might be time for a change. Time to do something new.’
‘New? You mean, as in leaving the force?’
She felt him shrug. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I suppose something Mac said got to me.’
Ah, she thought, so he was finally going to talk about what was really bothering him. ‘And that was?’
‘He said he was tired of putting himself and those he loved at risk. Of not feeling settled. No, that’s wrong. It was because he was settled, because he now had someone he cared about and people he felt at home with, and, well, I think Mac’s like me. It’s only after we got together that I started to feel I could ever settle down.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘Late starters, both of us, me and Mac.’
‘Alec, what’s this leading to?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Kids, maybe,’ he said. ‘You know we always talked about it, but . . . well, I’m not getting any younger and . . .’ He paused, clearly waiting for a response. Pushed on. ‘But I want to be there for them, you know. Not have the job intruding every five minutes. Not have . . . Naomi, do you think you could say something? I’m feeling a bit out on a limb here.’
She took a deep, steadying breath. True, they’d talked in the abstract about having children, and both of them loved spending time with her sister’s two boys, but this was the first time he had seemed to be trying to establish an actual concrete plan for a family.
‘So,’ she said lightly, ‘you want to leave the force, move to a house like this and have kids?’
She felt him nod. ‘Yes,’ he said, serious now. ‘I suppose I do.’
She reached for his hand and held it tight. ‘Sounds good,’ she said softly, wondering how much she actually meant it.
Extract from Roads to Ruin by E Thame:
The night Catherine Kirkwood left her father’s home, she knew, despite his assurances, that she’d never see him again. The last battle had been fought and the Kirkwoods had chosen the losing side.
Catherine’s brother, Thomas, had ridden out ten days before to join the forces of the Duke of Monmouth as he headed north. He had taken with him a dozen men from the estate and, more importantly, gold, especially struck for the occasion. More of the same – little medallions in silver and gold commemorating a victory they had been so certain of – remained at Kirkwood Hall and now they had to be disposed of.
Henry Kirkwood knew he must stand his ground. He still had powerful friends at court, friends who might still be prevailed upon to protect him, to speak up for him. He must have known, anyway, that he was far too high profile a figure to get far should he try to run. Locally, everyone knew Henry Kirkwood; knew his face and his affiliations. He had nowhere left to hide. The best he could do was to limit the damage and retain as much of his wealth as he could before the King’s men came to claim it, as he knew they would. Henry Kirkwood had committed something close to treason, backed the cause of James, Duke of Monmouth, in his play for the English throne. He knew it was an act not about to be forgiven. His friends might help him to stay alive, but he’d have nothing other than that: no land, no house, no wealth.
News arrived at Kirkwood Hall at about seven o’clock on the morning of July the sixth, 1685, just an hour or two after the battle of Sedgemoor had ended a
nd Monmouth fled the field. Henry’s son was dead. One man returned to the estate to give news, but the others were either felled or fled. The returning man, we know from Catherine’s letters, was Elmer Grove, and he seems to have been a trusted servant and an educated man. It is possible he was even Henry’s secretary or similar.
Whatever he was, Henry acted fast. He told Elmer Grove to change his clothes and burn what he’d been wearing on the battlefield. To get himself a fresh horse and saddle it with the pillion behind the saddle, and within the next hour, or so Catherine states in her letters, she and Elmer Grove, together with much of the Kirkwood wealth, were sent out to get as far from the scene as possible before the King’s men arrived.
I don’t imagine they were the only family to take such measures or the only people on the move that day, hoping to escape recriminations, but at that point no one could possibly have foreseen the widespread and callous bloodletting that would follow this little uprising or know that more lives would be claimed in the aftermath than had been lost in all the battles and skirmishes of the campaign, combined.
So, when Catherine and Elmer left that day, they must have known that things would be bad, that they would have to use their wits and their skills to talk their way through the King’s lines and reach safe haven in the Scottish lowlands, where the Kirkwoods still had close kin, but they could not possibly have known just how bloody and cruel events would be, and Catherine could, I’m sure, never have foreseen just how her father would meet his death.
TWO
They spent their first holiday day like tourists, Naomi in her new striped wellingtons climbing Glastonbury Tor and coming down breathless and windswept. The conversation of the previous evening had been set aside, almost as though Alec was now back-pedalling and the conversation had been the result of a momentary impulse. Naomi wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she let things lie. Alec was happy, laughing, joking, describing the wonderful carving high on the walls of the ruined abbey, commenting on the prices of assorted crystal displayed in the shop windows, delighting in the wood panelling in the medieval inn, The George and Pilgrim, where they ate their lunch. The rain had held off, though the air was damp and chill and Alec said the sky was solid grey.
‘What you said last night,’ Naomi started as they waited for their dessert – a sure sign that Alec was in a happy mood; he rarely indulged in puddings.
‘I meant it,’ he told her, suddenly serious again. ‘Naomi, I’ve enjoyed my life so far, loved my job, met you, have good friends in the force, but suddenly it isn’t what I want any more. I want more of . . . this. More of us. More of just being happy, I suppose.’
‘Sounds to me like you’re just feeling burnt out,’ she said quietly. ‘The job gets to you, we both know that. Even in a place like Pinsent, which isn’t exactly crime central. Alec, you might feel totally different in a week or two, and I don’t want you, don’t want either of us, to . . .’
‘Rush into things? No, of course not and I’ve thought of all that, about feeling burnt out and tired and just, as I said, thoroughly pissed off. And I know I’m reacting to what might have happened to Miriam. I know I’m wondering what I’d have felt if it had been you, but Naomi, love, I’m not just reacting to the fear, I’m ready for a change and I think, I hope, that you are too?’
Beneath the table, Napoleon harrumphed, and conversation paused as the waitress delivered chocolate brownies and cream. Naomi felt for her spoon and poked thoughtfully at the cake. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I do think I am, but Alec, let’s take it slow. Decisions like this shouldn’t be made in anger or out of frustration. Let’s make a deal. We take this time just as holiday, enjoy it, and in a week or two, when we’ve both had time to think, we talk it all through again.’
‘Deal,’ Alec said. ‘Eat your pudding and we’ll drive to Wells. I want to see the cathedral.’
‘You do know we don’t have to do it all in one day,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh, but I have a list,’ he said. ‘You want to hear it?’
She heard him rustling about, exploring his coat pockets. Heard the sound of paper being unfolded. Several sheets from the sound of it. ‘How long is this list?’
‘Oh, long enough, a couple of pages. This is an interesting part of the world, you know. Abbeys and battlefields and fossils and—’
‘Alec, when did you write this list?’ Naomi felt caught between amusement and concern.
‘Oh, this morning.’
‘No, you didn’t. We got up, had breakfast and came straight out. When this morning?’
Alec hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what time it was,’ he admitted. ‘Naomi, love, I couldn’t sleep. There were all these guide books and tourist pamphlets in the drawer and I thought, well, I didn’t want to wake you up, so I made a list.’
‘Alec . . .’
‘Naomi, don’t. Please. I just made a list. Just enjoy it with me and let me work the rest out for myself.’
‘It shouldn’t just be for you. Two of us in this, remember?’
‘I know and I’m not trying to shut you out. I’m just . . . I don’t know what I am.’
Naomi hesitated, questions jostling for position, so many things she felt she ought to say. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a leftover habit from her sighted days. She felt Alec tense, knew he recognized the ancient tic and what it meant. ‘OK,’ she said finally, trying to keep her tone light. ‘No questions, no discussion, no mining of the psyche.’
‘Glad to hear it! You probably need a license for psyche mining.’
‘For now.’ Naomi finished firmly. ‘I’ll go along with whatever you feel you need to do. We’ll work our way through your list and we’ll pretend nothing else matters. You never know, by the time we reach page three – Alec, I can hear the difference between unfolding two sheets of paper and three, so don’t try and kid me. By the time we reach the bottom of page three, maybe nothing else will matter any more. But if it does, we have to talk. We really do.’
‘Deal,’ he said. He seemed to be using that word a lot lately, Naomi thought. She fixed her attention on her brownie, wondering where all this was leading to and what on earth Alec, a career police officer, could find to do that would fill such a massive place in his life.
THREE
Their days fell into an easy pattern. Leaving the B&B after a very substantial breakfast, working through the items on Alec’s list, eating lunch in a rural pub and then returning to the B&B in time to shower and change before going next door to The Lamb for their evening meal and a drink or two.
The Lamb was a friendly place, mostly locals at this time of the year but also a few diners from round and about. They found that its reputation was well founded and the food was simple but all locally produced and tasty. The company was good too; Susan, the manager, a woman in her mid thirties, Alec judged, was a fount of local gossip and information. The next village having lost its pub in the latest round of rural closures, The Lamb served quite a broad local community – essentially anyone within walking or staggering distance home. By the second night, Naomi and Alec had been apprised of the effects down on the Somerset Levels of three bad summers, the lack of tourists adding to the loss of crops and grazing:
‘Had to get the boat out and pull three sheep off the island. Lost another when the rhyne spilled over.’
‘Rhyne?’
‘Dykes, big drainage ditches.’
‘Oh, those.’
Had been shocked to find that Susan had never even climbed the Tor:
‘What would I want to go scrabbling up some damned great hill for?’
Had been apprised of the merits of the various vineyards in the immediate area and the local microbreweries; had been informed of the best cider makers; and knew the debate from both sides regarding the sale of a now unused local church:
‘What damn fool would want to buy a place you can’t even convert?’
‘Convert, that’s a good one. Church, get it?’
‘Tied up
with covenants. No electric, no water except that tapped-off spring. And whoever buys it has got to allow access for the graves.’
‘Graveyard still in use then?’
‘Up to a couple of year ago, yes.’
‘Why can’t it be converted?’ Alec asked.
‘Bishop of Bath and Wells says not, I suppose.’
‘A church should stay a church,’ someone else said, putting in their tuppence worth, ‘especially one that’s got recent burials.’
‘But it’s going to rack and ruin up there on the mount. There’s not been a service there in years. Not even a burial in the last twenty years that I know of.’
‘Mount?’
‘That bit of a blip, just before you have to turn left by the pink house at the crossroads. Half a mile before you get here. It was an island before the drainage. Site of an earlier church, some say, but it’s a little brown Victorian jobbie up there now.’
‘Right.’ Alec could picture it now; he had noticed it but not taken any particular notice. He smiled at the last speaker, left the ongoing debate and took his beer back to the table, thinking how nice it was to be able to go out for a drink and not have to worry about either getting home or getting up for work the following morning.
‘What kept you?’ Naomi asked, though she had overheard the debate. ‘And, no, Alec, we’re not buying a disused church. That’s going just a bit too far.’
‘Well, from the sound of it, unless you’re planning on starting a cult, it wouldn’t be a lot of use anyway. What can you do with a disused church except use it as a church?’
And then there was ‘Eddy’ and his map, sitting in his accustomed corner night after night, nursing a pint for as long as he could make it last. Generally, Alec observed, one or other of the locals would buy him a second at some point in the evening and only then would the first glass be drained. He rarely seemed to join the conversation, though he listened with careful attention.
Blood Ties Page 2