Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  ‘Of course.’ Lorna pulled her hand back and twisted further round. ‘What kind of subject matter do you want? Landscapes? Sheep?’

  Sam shrugged. He wasn’t even pretending to care about content this time. ‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ he said. ‘Some big, some small. Whatever goes with Calico White. You know the budget – email me the invoice.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Calum as Sam strode off towards his parked car.

  ‘Yeah.’ There was no need for that. Lorna watched Sam’s retreating back with mixed feelings, then reached for her bag. ‘So, tapas?’

  It pained Lorna to admit it, but Sam had done a decent job on the holiday homes around the farm’s estate. Over the summer, tradesmen had stripped and rebuilt the stone cottages: the walls had been replastered and painted milky white and sky blue, and the floorboards sanded and oiled to a honey-coloured smoothness. The sash windows were repaired and hung with curtains in oatmeal linen, and if the claw-footed baths and brass-framed beds upstairs looked authentically Victorian, the original farmhands certainly wouldn’t have recognised them as anything they’d have used.

  The final touch would be, of course, some local art. Since Sam had made it clear he didn’t care what she brought, as long as it filled the walls of the three-bed cottage, Lorna cleared the gallery out of all the remaining cow close-ups, large flowers and other ‘waiting-room mindwash’, as Joyce put it. This would put her in the black for the month and they weren’t even halfway through, which would leave her free to focus on organising the knitting workshops and events that were happening around town.

  Hattie had started coming every other weekend to work in the gallery, and Lorna was glad of her help; another pair of hands, especially nimble ones like Hattie’s, were always welcome. It was nice to have Hattie around, sharing in the business side of things and teaching her snippets of art history here and there. It gave her something to do, and, Lorna hoped, something to think about other than her mysterious half-sister; everything seemed to have gone quiet on that front, and she wasn’t about to start asking questions. That afternoon, she’d helped Lorna wrap up Sam’s paintings, ticking them off against the invoice, then cross-referencing with Mary’s archaic filing system.

  Lorna parked outside Nightingale Cottage, as per Sam’s instructions, to unload the plastic crates of bubble-wrapped art. The curtains were open, revealing the newly painted sitting room with its leather sofa, and piles of plastic packaging from a luxury bed were heaped on the mown lawn.

  She tried not to think what sort of state Rooks Hall was in right now. Whether Sam had rollered bland magnolia over Joyce’s colours, each room’s different mood razed to a monotone neutral throughout. Whether the garden had been bulldozed for Gabe’s double drive; whether the fireplace had been filled with a prosaic wood-burning stove.

  No one answered when she knocked on the door, so she turned the handle and pushed it open. ‘Hello?’ The smell of brand-new tiles and fresh gloss rushed out at her. ‘Anyone in?’

  A voice came from somewhere at the back of the house. ‘Kitchen.’ It sounded like Sam. Lorna lugged the first box in, and down the hall.

  Sam was by the back door to the pantry, fitting new lights. When he saw her, he climbed down off the chair he was standing on and put the screwdriver in his back pocket.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Art delivery, as requested.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  It was awkward, and she knew why. Lorna had never told Sam she was going on a date with Calum; but then he’d gone off to London for an interview, and never even told her what the job was.

  ‘Sorry if I interrupted your date the other night,’ he said. ‘I take it that was Calum from the council?’

  Lorna nodded, and was going to say, It wasn’t really a date; then she thought, No. Why should I? It had been a date. And more to the point, it had been fun. ‘Don’t worry. He was impressed to see me getting orders even out of shop hours. Where do you want your paintings?’

  ‘Wherever. Do you need some help hanging them?’

  ‘Not really. Do you want to choose what goes where?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re the expert.’

  So it was going to be like this. A corner of Lorna’s heart shrivelled. ‘Leave it with me then,’ she said, and went to get her hanging kit from the car.

  They worked for half an hour or so in different rooms, Lorna in the hall hanging a crop of framed bird studies up the stairs, and Sam in the kitchen, banging nails in and occasionally swearing. Aware of each other, probably listening to one another, but neither speaking.

  Lorna had been intending to confide in Sam about Joyce’s illness but something was stopping her now. She didn’t want to tell him anything. Her mind worried away at those interviews, and what he’d done up in London; it shifted the balance between them, until yet again he was the one who was escaping while she was stuck here, outside everyone’s plans.

  She’d just hooked the final bird on its string when a car pulled up outside, and a minute or so later, footsteps crunched up the path.

  ‘Hello?’ Lorna smelled Gabriel before she saw him. Old sweat and a faint trace of cows. She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Not sure about that.’ He was standing right behind her, too close. ‘Shouldn’t they be in a line going up the stairs, like?’

  ‘No.’ Lorna had hung the birds gallery-style on the wall, in an asymmetrical flock. They were originals and, in her opinion, a bargain. She’d had to talk herself into letting Sam have them for the cottage. ‘They work better in a group.’

  ‘I prefer them in a line.’ He stared at her, challenging her to disagree.

  ‘You want me to take them down?’ She nodded at the wall. ‘It’ll spoil the plaster. I’ve knocked nails in.’

  Gabriel looked thwarted. ‘I could charge you for replastering, I could. Should have waited on instructions from the boss.’

  The boss. The idea of Gabriel being the boss when Sam left made Lorna’s skin crawl. He’d love that. He probably walked by the byres every morning to remind his dad’s cows that he was in charge.

  Something made her twist the knife. ‘I did get instructions from the boss. Sam told me to hang everything as I thought right.’

  ‘Did I say Sam was the boss?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam appeared from the kitchen, looking between them. ‘Gabriel? Everything all right?’

  ‘You like these paintings like this?’ He gestured contemptuously at the chaffinches and swallows. ‘Seems messy to me.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘I’m not the expert, Lorna is. We’re aiming for that boutique feel. It’s the style.’

  Gabriel pulled a face that suggested that such people hadn’t a clue, then turned back to her. ‘Anyway, now you’re here … I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Really? About what?’ She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, that sly ‘I know something you don’t know’ gloat. ‘If it’s about invoicing for the paintings, let me know if you want the bill made out to a management company, rather than a personal address.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Oh?’ She leaned against the banisters, hammer on her hip.

  ‘Our nan had an interesting conversation with your friend Tiffany the other day,’ Gabriel went on. ‘When she was visiting her in her residential home.’

  ‘Up at Butterfields? Yes, Tiff mentioned she’d been in to walk some dogs.’ Lorna glanced over at Sam. Tiffany was good with the older residents, very chatty and unfazed by physical quirks. ‘Wispa, isn’t it? Your grandma’s collie?’

  Sam nodded, but seemed reluctant to join in. Lorna’s friendly expression faded into a quizzical one, but he didn’t respond.

  ‘Tiffany was telling Nan that that Rudy of yours is quite a wealthy sausage dog,’ Gabriel went on. ‘Earns more than she does, Tiffany reckons.’ He paused and the sly look intensified.

  Oh, right. Lorna knew where this was going, but she pretended she didn’t. ‘That’s not hard. Tiffany’s not earnin
g anything at the moment.’

  ‘Rudy’s got his own bank account, I hear,’ Gabe persisted. ‘Enough to pay for anything his new owner requires. Very generous for a little dog. I expect he eats quite well, does he? Fillet steaks and such like.’

  ‘Stop right there.’ Lorna raised her hand, the one without the hammer in it, trying to keep her indignation under control. She knew he was trying to goad her, and she didn’t want to look defensive. ‘Someone’s got their wires crossed. Rudy’s owner, Betty, left money in a trust to cover his insurance and his food. Nothing else. Nothing for me, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. ‘And how did you get to know this Betty?’

  ‘Through a volunteering scheme. In a local hospice, not that it’s any of your business.’ Lorna resented the implication. She could feel Sam staring at her, and her cheeks started to burn. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘No point. Just that it’s a bit of a coincidence that you’ve got another old lady with a dog in your house now. Not saying we know much about Mrs Rothery’s finances but I wouldn’t be surprised if her dog came with a pension plan too. In the event of him being in need of a new home.’

  That was outrageous. Mrs Rothery. As though Gabriel was concerned about her!

  ‘Oh, for …’ Lorna turned to Sam. How could he stand there listening to this with a straight face? ‘Sam, explain to your brother that I don’t go round targeting old women to steal their money by befriending their dogs.’

  ‘No one’s saying that.’ His voice was even, but Lorna realised, to her absolute horror, that he didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘I told Nan to mind out with Wispa,’ Gabriel went on, in his mirthless ‘banter’ tone. ‘She don’t want your mate bopping her on the head to get hold of Wispa’s stocks and shares. Not that he’s got any, like. So you can cross him off your list.’

  ‘Sam?’ Lorna ignored Gabe; she couldn’t believe Sam wasn’t saying something. Had they discussed this already? Normally Sam didn’t take any notice of Gabriel, but his jaw was set firm and he was looking at her in a strange way.

  He uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again. ‘Out of interest, what is the arrangement with you and Joyce? Is she paying you rent?’

  ‘You know what the arrangement is. She’s waiting for a place at Butterfields, so she can take Bernard with her. Until then …’ Why am I even telling him this, she wondered? Because it was better to be open, since she had nothing to hide. ‘Until then, she’s giving me a couple of paintings, and advising me in the gallery. She’s not paying me a penny.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Gabriel, clearly relishing his new role as moral policeman. ‘I’m not sure what the taxman would say about paintings, would you, Sam? Especially valuable ones like Mrs Rothery’s.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘It’s a grey area. But I’m sure Lorna knows what she’s doing.’

  Lorna’s head swivelled between the two of them, unable to believe what she was hearing. As if Gabe suddenly had financial knowledge of the current art market. As if he cared.

  ‘You’re insulting me, and you’re insulting Tiffany.’ She started packing her kit up, before she hammered nails into Gabriel’s fat hands. ‘You can tell your nan that any help offered with looking after Wispa is done with nothing but the purest intentions. I’m outraged that you could think I’m trying to exploit Joyce.’

  Lorna glared at Sam, barely controlling her furious shame, and he had the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘I’m also surprised, given that you’ve both dealt with Joyce, that you even think she’s capable of being exploited,’ she added spikily.

  ‘We’re only looking out for vulnerable old people,’ said Gabriel, with a pious shake of the head. ‘It’s part of our remit as responsible landlords.’

  ‘Ha!’ Lorna stopped, midway through shoving the hammer back in her bag, and the laugh burst out of her. ‘You wouldn’t even be a landlord if you hadn’t fallen under your own baler. And if your dad didn’t own the farm in the first place.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ she said to Sam, with a nod towards Gabriel. ‘Must be a relief to know that you’re bailing out of the family business and leaving your holiday cottages in such experienced, diligent hands. I’ll email you the invoice for the artwork.’

  ‘To me, please, Lorna,’ said Gabriel, pointing at himself. ‘I’m the estate manager now.’

  ‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘I’ll make sure I get it absolutely correct. I’d hate to undercharge you and get you in trouble with the taxman.’

  Her phone started ringing when she was nearing the outskirts of Longhampton, and she ignored it at first.

  Lorna didn’t want to talk to Sam. She was too furious. How could he even think that of her? Even if Gabriel had put two and two together and made fifteen million, Sam should have put him straight.

  But the phone kept ringing, and eventually she pulled over outside the church at the top of the hill and answered it.

  It was the gallery number, not Sam. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Lola.’ It was Tiffany, and she was doing her ‘everything’s fine’ voice, which set Lorna on edge at once. ‘I don’t suppose Hattie’s with you, is she?’

  ‘No.’ She frowned. ‘I’ve just left the cottages. Why?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ There was an unmistakeable ‘you’re not going to like my next comment’ pause.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, the thing is … you know she went out for lunch just before you left?’ said Tiffany. ‘Well, now it’s half four, and she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Tiffany, for the hundredth time. ‘She told me she was just nipping out to get some lunch, which seemed perfectly normal, and then the gallery was busy, and quite a few people came in for wool and patterns because they’d seen that article about you in this week’s paper, and suddenly it was half four and I realised she hadn’t come back and …’

  Lorna held up her hands. ‘Stop apologising. She might just be drifting round the shops. You know what teenage girls are like.’

  ‘There aren’t four hours’ worth of shops in Longhampton.’ Tiffany chewed her lip. ‘And when I went up to the flat to see if she was there, I noticed her rucksack had gone too.’

  ‘Oh.’ That put a rather different complexion on things.

  They stared at each other for a moment; then Lorna flipped the shop sign over to Closed and steered Tiffany towards the back stairs. ‘Let’s make a cup of tea and think about this logically.’

  Upstairs, the kitchen table was covered in knitted sweet peas, laid out on the crocheted trellis so they could get an idea of how many would be required for a whole wall. The effort of folding it up was too much for Lorna to bear so she made the tea and then took it through to the sitting room, where Hattie had been sleeping on the sofa bed.

  Despite being immaculately turned out, Hattie moved through life leaving a trail of make-up, discarded socks, nail varnishes and mugs with soggy herbal teabags behind her. There was nowhere to put their tea, or even sit down.

  ‘Let me tidy up a bit,’ said Tiff, seeing Lorna’s tense expression. She swept the magazines off the coffee table so she could put the cups down, and grabbed the duvet, left in a heap. But as she moved it on to the other chair, something fell out – Hattie’s iPad, which she’d left bundled up in its folds after watching Netflix late into the night. It fell on the wooden floorboards with an ominous crack.

  Tiff tsked. ‘We could have sat on this! These screens smash so easily.’ She picked it up, checking that it wasn’t broken. ‘Honestly. She doesn’t know how lucky she is, having stuff like this …’

  ‘Ryan gave her it,’ Lorna said. That’s why it was so carelessly treated, unlike the precious make-up Hattie bought with her shop wages. ‘You can’t say he isn’t trying to buy her love back.’

  ‘It’d work with me,’ said Tiff. ‘This is one of the brand-new ones … Oh.’ The iPad buzzed, and she looked do
wn at the screen, then looked at Lorna. Then she handed it to her, without commenting.

  The screen was locked, but a conversation in messages was clearly visible: Hey P! On my way! Be with u abt 6 xxx

  Someone – Rosie , according to the icon – had replied: Bus stop? xx

  Cool! xx

  Hattie. That was Hattie texting, presumably from the phone she had with her. She must have linked up her phone and her iPad messenger – well, Lorna knew she had, she’d seen her FaceTiming Jess from her iPad.

  Lorna held it in her hands, staring at the messages, feeling torn. Her over-riding instinct was to turn it off – it was wrong to pry into her niece’s private messages, of course it was – but at the same time a black hole in the pit of her stomach was opening up and it made her freeze.

  Hattie’s icon showed three little ‘thinking’ dots, then: Bus is so rank sitting next to a total weirdo haha xx

  Dont talk to him! U know what happens when u talk to weird men! Lol xx

  Hattie was on a bus next to a weirdo! Lorna felt sick. Why hadn’t she said? If she’d wanted to go and meet a friend all she had to do was ask; she wouldn’t have forced her to stay, just taken a contact number and asked when she’d be home.

  The name of the other person kept flashing up over the dots: Rosie . The icon was a blonde girl, Instagram pretty, with a glossy pout and Snapchat cat ears. But Hattie had said, Hey P!

  ‘Who’s Rosie?’ asked Tiff, reading over her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know. She’s never mentioned a Rosie. I don’t understand why she didn’t just tell me she wanted to meet a friend. Do you think it’s a boy? Why’s she been so secretive?’

  ‘She obviously doesn’t want you or Jess to know, so the obvious answer is …’ Tiff grimaced and pointed to the Hey P! message. ‘Do you think she’s arranged a meeting with her sister? And she’s called her Rosie because Pearl’s quite a distinctive name Jess might spot?’