by Kathy Shuker
‘Well, there were a few things really.’ Claire waited for an invitation inside but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. ‘I wanted to catch up with a couple we used to know. I’ve lost touch with them and I wondered if you could help. They used to live over there.’ Claire pointed to a house across and further up the road. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve forgotten their names. He was an accountant. I think she worked for the council. He had a moustache, was a bit gingery. She was dark-haired. Do you know them?’
‘Do you mean Richard and Meg Poldreen?’
‘Yes. Of course. Silly of me to forget.’ Claire smiled. ‘Do they still live there?’
‘No dear. They moved to Lostwithiel - just after you left. Meg works at the library. They’ve got three children now.’
‘Really? That’s great. Thank you. And there was something else too…’
‘Beattie? Who is it?’ George’s voice resounded clearly down the hall to the door.
Beattie twisted round and called back. ‘It’s Claire, from next door as was, you know’. She turned back. ‘I’m sorry, I really should be going.’ She edged the door a little more towards the frame.
‘Please,’ pressed Claire urgently, ‘can I just ask: didn’t you leave some things in the garages for the bric-a-brac stall at last year’s fête? Did you see anyone else leaving things there?’
‘No, dear, I didn’t go to the garages. George took them for me. I only took something on the day of the fête because I’d forgotten to put it in the bag.’
‘Then maybe George might have seen someone? Would you mind asking him?’
Beattie froze for a second, then shook her head.
‘He’d have said. And he went early ‘cause he doesn’t sleep very well.’
‘Beattie, can you remember the day Gilly disappeared? She went to play with her cousin but maybe she came back to the estate. She often used to play on the drive. Did you see Gilly go anywhere or maybe see someone hanging around? Anything odd at all?’
‘No, no, nothing. I saw nothing. I told the police at the time. And of course, it’s such a long time ago now, isn’t it? I don’t remember anything. I’m sorry I can’t be more help but it’s nice to see you, dear.’ She closed the door firmly before Claire could respond.
Left on the doorstep, Claire stood and rubbed her fingers over her forehead, cross at her impulsiveness. How stupid of her to fire off all those questions like that – desperate and avid, like a woman possessed. But then maybe she was. This quest consumed her, her thoughts dwelling on it several times a day, every day, like flies buzzing round a festering wound. She quickly turned away and headed for home.
Walking up the path to the house she found a box of eggs on the front doorstep, a couple of feathers still attached to the shells. Eddie must have left them. It brought her back to earth. Surprised and touched by the gesture, she took them inside.
*
The February days were lengthening. Up at the vineyard, Phil had started pruning: working his way up and down the columns of vines, cutting back the previous season’s growth and choosing the canes which would form the basis of the new shoots for the coming season. Occasionally Julia would go along and help but mostly she left him to it. It was where he was happiest, come rain or shine, and he did the bulk of it himself. There were few other people he trusted to do it right so he preferred it that way.
‘Screw this job up,’ she had once heard him remark to Chris, ‘and you’ll mess up the plant for the whole season and reduce the yield. And that costs.’ He’d painstakingly shown the young man how to pick the suitable canes then carefully snip off all the others. ‘See, you can’t rush in, cutting any old thing.’ For someone who mostly preferred his own company and who tolerated fools badly, he could be a surprisingly patient teacher if he thought someone was genuinely interested. And he never cut corners. Julia admired both his doggedness and his work ethic. To prune the whole vineyard took him weeks and, by the time he’d finished, the sap would be rising in the canes, making them easy to handle and bend, and he’d go back to the start, looping them down and tying them up. Phil was nothing if not conscientious.
But, with Neil’s imminent return, Julia foresaw friction ahead. Phil had never got on with Neil; they were chalk and cheese. They had managed to rub along when they had both worked at the vineyard before, largely because their paths had rarely crossed but time had moved on, new habits had formed. It wasn’t going to be easy to turn back the clock.
It was the end of the third week in February when, having worked his notice and taken the last of his annual leave, Neil arrived back in Bohenna. He brought a couple of cases of clothes with him and moved back into his old room at The White House. On the Monday morning he tagged along with Julia around the winery, reading the wine notes and asking questions. Unsure if the red wine was clear enough, she was toying with racking it one more time but didn’t ask his opinion, determined not to give the impression that they needed him. She found herself looking for a turn of the lip, waiting on his criticism. Neither came.
In the afternoon, when he’d gone to look at the accounts and the restaurant side of the business with Timothy, Julia made her way down into the vineyard. She came across Phil on the newer slopes up above the house, engrossed in examining the shoots, pinching out the buds he didn’t want to grow. He looked up as she came up to join him.
‘Problem, Jules?’ he asked.
‘No. I just came to find out if you were all right. I didn’t hear you come in last night and then went out early this morning.’
‘Did I disturb you?’
‘Not really.’
‘I had to go for a drink, girl. That ridiculous ‘reunion dinner’ last night with Eve fussing all over Neil… If I’d stayed much longer I’d have said something I shouldn’t.’ He looked at her bleakly. ‘Sorry Jules. You know I don’t get on with him.’
He turned back to his task.
‘He won’t stay.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I can’t see it. He’ll get bored. This place won’t be big enough for him any more, not after that huge vineyard in Kent.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ He moved onto another vine.
‘Though we could do with the help really.’
‘Help, yes. Interference, no. The problem with Neil is: he always has to know better.’
‘He won’t interfere with you though. It’s the winemaking he’s after doing.’
‘Yeah, not the hard work. All he wants is the glory bit.’
‘I work hard too, Phil.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He straightened up and looked at her. ‘I know you don’t see it as the glory bit but he does. Anyway, you do the winemaking great. Look at all those awards you’ve won.’
‘We’ve won. All of us. We’re a team. But that is what he wants to do. That’s what Eve wants too: her favourite son as the chief winemaker, his name in the papers. The Pennyman name. She’s the one that encourages him. Neil’s OK really.’
He snorted and started work again. ‘Oh come on, Julia. Why do you always have to defend him? Just because he’s family.’
‘Well…you know; that’s what families are like.’
‘Mine wasn’t. My brother would’ve stabbed me in the back, soon as look at me.’
Julia sighed, edging slowly along the vines with him as he worked.
‘It’s because of Claire that he’s come back,’ she said. ‘It’s her fault.’
Phil looked up, frowning. ‘Claire? But I thought that was all over.’
‘Have you seen them together?’ Julia shook her head. ‘It’ll never be over between them. Even if they only argue forever. Believe me, it’ll never be over.’
Phil stared at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Nah. You’re just being romantic.’
‘Romance has nothing to do with it. They got past romance by the time they were twenty. Did you see them together at Christmas? They just…are. Like they’ve got a cord stretched between them or something, holding them togeth
er.’ She shrugged and, seeing a weed growing near the trunk of a nearby vine, she bent over to pull it out, uncertain who she was trying to convince, herself or Phil. ‘You notice his new romance with Samantha didn’t last long?’ she added caustically. ‘He dumped her like a shot when he was invited to come back here.’
‘That means nothing. She was probably just a rebound or something.’
For a few minutes they were silent again but Julia couldn’t leave it alone.
‘I don’t know if Claire engineered for him to come back here or if it was just inevitable once she decided to move down.’
Phil grunted in a non-committal way, shifting his stocky frame further along the line of vines.
‘She’s been seeing that artist bloke,’ he said.
Julia frowned. ‘Who? Adam?’
‘Yep. Him. They’ve had lunch together in the restaurant. And they were in the pub together the other night. So maybe she has finally had it with Neil.’
‘That’s surprising. I wonder what Neil’ll think about that. Still, I don’t suppose it’ll last.’
Phil didn’t respond.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it you’re not telling me, Phil?’
He snipped at a cane, more savagely than usual. ‘I heard a rumour.’
‘What?’ He was silent. ‘What, Phil?’
‘Apparently Claire’s been poking about again.’
‘In what way?’
‘I heard it in the pub. She went asking Beattie Foster a load of questions. Odd questions, George said, about the day Gilly disappeared. He was cross, thought she was making accusations. Then Nick Lawer pitched in, said he’d found her in his garden a while back, trying to get into his sheds.’
‘Has she been pestering Danny again too?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Good.’ She kicked with the toe of her boot at a broken piece of wire on the ground. ‘If she comes asking us, we must both stick to the same story we gave at the time.’
He stopped working and looked up at her blankly.
‘You do remember?’ she said. ‘We said we were both together having tea at the house around the time Gilly disappeared.’
He stared at her another minute, then bent to his task again.
‘I remember.’
She watched him but he clearly wasn’t going to say anything more.
‘Are you coming up to the house for tea today?’ she asked.
He shook his head so she left him to it, wondering as she often did what exactly he did remember of that day. And if what he remembered made him as concerned as she was about Claire’s questions.
Chapter 12
‘I miss you,’ Adam said softly into the phone.
There was silence. He waited, breath held tight in his throat.
‘I miss you too,’ said Zoe.
Adam hesitated. It was the first time that Zoe had responded to one of his calls - or his desperate messages - in weeks. She sounded upset; she sounded like she cared. He ached to reach out and touch her.
‘We had some great times,’ she said.
He winced. That sounded so final.
‘Maybe we could meet,’ he suggested cautiously. ‘Perhaps somewhere neutral, you know? It would be so good to see you. We could talk.’
Again there was silence. ‘What’s the point, Adam? What would we talk about? I mean, we’ve been over it, haven’t we – everything - again and again? Have you changed your mind about anything?’
‘Is it all about me?’ he said, voice rising. ‘Am I the only one who has to change?’
‘Look Adam…’
‘I have been thinking about everything you said,’ he added quickly. ‘I have, really. But there’s a lot to think about.’
‘I don’t think you want to have children,’ she said in a flat, resigned voice. ‘You’re not just putting it off; you don’t want it to happen.’
Adam stopped walking up and down and stood, facing his reflection in the dark window pane, eyes unnaturally large and staring. The man looked a little like him but it wasn’t him.
‘I don’t know, Zoe. I’m being honest. I don’t know.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I guess I’m scared.’ He’d never admitted it to her before. He had barely admitted it to himself.
‘Then I guess that’s the problem. Anyway, I have to tell you I’ve met someone else.’
He felt like someone had punched him in the head; he was stunned. His thoughts whirled pell-mell.
‘Someone else? What someone else? Is it serious?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to see. I want to find out.’ She paused. ‘I think you should stop ringing me, Adam. Please.’
He said nothing because he couldn’t think of anything to say. He began walking again.
‘Adam? Did you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t and pressed the close call button.
He stared at the phone as if it was culpable in some way, then threw it onto the sofa, the tatty old sofa which still had one of Zoe’s throws over it, masking the worn patches and a large wine stain. She had said she didn’t want it back. She had left all sorts of things in the bungalow which she didn’t want back, any more than she wanted him back. They were all - him included - cast-offs, goods for which Zoe had decided she had no further use. And it hadn’t taken her long to find someone new so maybe he had been right all along when he had accused her of two-timing him; maybe she had met this guy ages ago and the whole thing was just a lie. He would be better off without her in that case. She had clearly just been playing him along, an amusement, a convenience.
He needed a drink. There was a bottle of wine open in the kitchen but he’d barely got as far as the kitchen door when the phone rang again. He’d installed the theme tune to the Indiana Jones movies - some of his favourite films. Just at this moment it really annoyed him. Everything annoyed him. He grabbed the phone, hoping it was Zoe ringing back to say how sorry she was. He thought maybe he would give her a piece of his mind.
‘Yes?’ he said, savagely.
‘Hi Adam,’ said a female voice. ‘It’s Claire. Is this a bad time?’
He mumbled an indistinct negative.
‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking over what you said when we had that meal together, you know, about people who were close? I realise now it would be useful to talk it through. You were right. Would you mind? I thought perhaps you could come here one evening? I could cook us something if you like.’
Adam frowned. His heart was still racing and his body tingled with suppressed anger, frustration and a host of other emotions he couldn’t identify.
‘Adam? Are you there?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m here.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘So what do you think? Would you mind?’
‘No.’ He found he was shaking his head. He didn’t mind at all. It would be a relief to do something different, to have company, female company at that, and somewhere else. His heartbeat started to settle. ‘That’d be fine,’ he said. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘I’m off this weekend so how would tomorrow be?’
*
Claire walked into the bathroom and checked her reflection in the mirror. She’d heard that Neil had returned and was now living up at The White House. He’d been back a few days apparently though she hadn’t seen him herself yet. Given their conversation, she couldn't claim to be surprised but it did feel a little surreal having him in Bohenna too, in the place where they had started out together. First Jane returns, then she did, now Neil. Was that poetic in some way, part of some bigger plan which had brought them all together again? She pulled a face at her reflection. What nonsense.
She fingered a curl of hair off her forehead, wondering if he’d heard yet that she had been out with Adam. It didn’t matter that her relationship with the painter was completely innocent and platonic - the whispering voices would be sure to make it
something it wasn’t.
She checked her watch. Adam would be here in a few minutes. After the bizarre and unsatisfactory conversation with Beattie, she was keen to talk her thoughts through with someone and there wasn’t anyone else. In any case, he was a newcomer and a stranger to the whole situation and, even if he did treat Gilly’s disappearance as some kind of light distraction, his objectivity could be useful.
He arrived promptly and brought wine though she could already detect the faint smell of alcohol on his breath. They ate at the little table in the kitchen which she had taken the trouble to dress up with a jaunty cloth and napkins and a tiny vase with a couple of daffodils from the garden. She’d made a beef casserole and roast potatoes and the chocolate cake for dessert came courtesy of the supermarket in Bodmin. She needed his help and this was the only way she could think of repaying it.
While they ate, she tried to break the ice with small talk but Adam was quieter than usual, his expression pinched and taut.
‘Is there something the matter?’ she said, at length.
‘No, everything’s just fine.’
‘Good,’ she replied doubtfully.
It wasn’t until she cleared the plates and put the cake on the table that it occurred to her.
‘You’ve heard from Zoe,’ she said.
Adam let out a brief, bitter laugh. ‘Oh yes. I’ve heard. She finally got round to answering one of my messages. Big of her.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She’s met someone else,’ he said, exaggerating every word.
‘I am sorry.’
‘Well, don’t be. I’ve decided I’m better off alone. There’s no-one to tell me what I should do or how I should do it, no-one to complain about the way I draw the curtains or how I put my clothes away or where I put the dishes. Hell, I can go days without washing the dishes with no-one to chew my ear off. It’s great.’
‘Really?’ She put a large piece of cake on a plate and handed it to him. ‘You don’t look like you think it’s so great.’
He turned a jaundiced eye on her. ‘Thank you. So how should I look? See, that’s the problem with women: you always have an opinion on how a guy should be - or not be, how he should look - or not look. It gets very tiring…and impossible to get right.’