Kate's Progress

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Kate smiled. ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever meet him.’

  ‘Oh, everybody meets everybody eventually in this place.’

  ‘But I’m going to be busy doing my cottage – speaking of which, I should get back to work.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ve got to pick up the kids in a bit. Well, it’s been real nice chatting to you.’

  ‘Likewise. And thanks for the lunch.’

  ‘No, my pleasure. Made a nice break in my day. And like I said, any time you get sick of the place and want to come over, you just come. You don’t need an invitation. It can’t be very nice having to live where you work, let alone the dust and everything.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Kate said again, and in a spirit of reciprocation added, ‘and any time you and Darren want to go out, I’ll come and babysit for you.’

  Kay’s face lit up. ‘You mean it? You’re so nice! It’d be lovely to have a night out with Darren some time, even if it’s only going down the Royal for an hour or two. We don’t get out much.’

  So with goodwill all round, Kate went back to her new home and started straight in, stripping wallpaper. By the end of the day the sitting room was down to the plaster and she had taken the hardboard off the doors – they were panelled underneath, and not in bad condition, which was a relief – but she had a big pile of the resulting rubbish in the middle of the floor, waiting for the skip.

  It was supposed to come first thing the next morning, but it didn’t appear. It was a lovely sunny day outside, and so in between ringing the skip company and getting either an engaged tone or an answering machine, she took her work outside and began rubbing down and making good the window frames. She eventually got through to the skip firm, who said they hadn’t had one available but would bring it the first thing following morning.

  But again it didn’t arrive, and she had a repeat of the previous day, rubbing down in the sunshine, waiting for the skip, and having abortive telephone calls.

  Which was the point when the Angry Man – surely a local nutter? – turned up, and she decided to walk down to the village and try out one of the pubs for lunch.

  Not, she told herself, that I shall be eating out as a regular thing. She couldn’t afford it, so she shouldn’t get in the habit. And she shouldn’t skive off, either. The sooner she got the boring basic work done, the sooner she could get on to the fun bit, making the place pretty; and also the sooner she could live in a place just a tad less filthy, which was definitely a priority.

  She had a quick wash and changed into a less revolting T-shirt and jeans, and walked down School Lane with a healthy worker’s appetite. If the skip came when she was down there, she told herself crossly, they could damn well come and find her. They had her telephone number. They needed to get it through their heads who was the customer around here. Of course, it was a hopeless attitude to take with skip firms, who were a law unto themselves, and only marginally less autocratic than scaffolding companies. But it felt good while she was thinking it, and it was all part of her new assertiveness, or so she told herself. The new Kate wasn’t going to take crap from anyone – especially not a member of the male half of humankind.

  Four

  The two pubs, the Royal Oak and the Blue Ball, sat on opposite sides of the main village road, and could not have looked more different. The Blue Ball presented a long, elegant Georgian stone frontage to the road, three stories high, with the name in large gold letters along the facade. It had very posh hanging baskets, already in full flower, and a cobbled strip in front, divided from the road with white-painted staddle stones and some large wooden tubs containing smartly-clipped box bushes.

  The Royal Oak was also three storeys, but there the resemblance ended. It was a tall, narrow, crooked building, evidently an ancient cottage on to which various additions had been tacked over the centuries, straggling up the slope behind it. It sat on the corner where the valley road crossed the main road. No hanging baskets; the pub sign, swinging in the breeze from a metal bracket between the first-floor windows, was a very amateurish-looking painting of a tree with a crown on top. The window frames, Kate noticed, were painted the same maroon as her own, signifying that it was, or had been, part of the same estate.

  Given her general scruffiness, it was to the Royal Oak that she took her custom that first time. Inside, it was all low beams, wooden floors, high-backed settles and mismatched wooden tables. There was the usual selection of old sepia photographs and dim pictures on the walls, and odd bits of china, ornaments and copper objects on shelves and across the mantelpiece of the brick fireplace. There seemed to be three bars, all on different levels. To her left as she entered was a slightly smarter area where two couples, obviously tourists, were sitting at tables, quietly conversing, while they waited for food. Straight ahead was the public bar, and three men in working clothes were seated on stools along it, pints before them. One had a dog lying at his feet, and that decided her. She went up to the bar, and the dog, a collie, heaved itself to its feet and looked up at her, swinging its tail politely.

  ‘Lovely dog,’ she said, bending to caress its head. None of the three looked at her, but she deduced that this was shyness rather than unfriendliness. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Gyp,’ said his owner, addressing the beer in front of him.

  ‘Working dog, is he?’

  The reply was a sort of strangled grunt. But the man behind the bar, who had been at the other end washing glasses, had spotted the danger and came hurrying down to the rescue.

  ‘Help you?’ he said. He looked about sixty, and was short and burly with a wide, flat red face under a shock of white hair. He gave her the sort of smile you give strangers who are also customers, the one that doesn’t touch your eyes.

  ‘I’d like a pint, please,’ Kate said. ‘Which is the local beer?’

  ‘Well, there’s the Cotleigh Tawny,’ he said, tapping the pumps, ‘or you’ve got your Hewish IPA, that’s from Weston.’

  ‘I’ll try the Cotleigh, thanks. And can I get something to eat? I’ve been fancying a ploughman’s.’

  ‘Cheddar, Stilton or pâté?’

  That was the tourist influence. Years ago the question wouldn’t have been asked. ‘Cheddar, please. Is it local?’

  He seemed, just discernibly, to approve of the question. ‘Just up the road. This side of Exton. Broad Farm Cheddar.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ Kate watched him put the food order through a hatch behind him and draw the pint. Her three companions had their heads down, contemplating their glasses so as not to have to look at her.

  ‘Where’ll you be sitting?’ the landlord asked, placing her glass before her.

  ‘Oh, I’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘Got to make myself at home, now I’ve moved in to the place. This’ll be my local.’

  Now he looked at her properly. ‘Moved in?’

  ‘I’ve just bought Little’s Cottage.’

  The three heads came up and turned, like a line of cattle at a trough. The landlord, now examining her thoroughly, said, ‘I heard it was sold. Thought it must be a mistake. So that was you, was it? You actually bought the place – not rented it?’

  ‘Bought and paid for,’ she said firmly. She stuck out her hand. ‘My name’s Kate Jennings.’

  He took it, though rather cringingly. ‘Dave. Doing it up, are you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then what? Selling it? Holiday cottage?’

  She had enough sense to know this was a leading question. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking of settling in the area. I used to come here as a kid. My dad’s from Exford.’

  ‘Is that right? Local girl, are you? Well, I hope we see a lot of you. Can do with some more young people settling round here. These three characters are Ollie, Wayne and Kev. You’ll see a lot of them if you’re in much.’

  They gave her shy smiles, and she beamed back at them. ‘So tell me,’ she said to Dave, ‘why were you surprised I’d bought Little’s Cottage?’

&
nbsp; ‘Never even heard it was for sale,’ Dave said. ‘No sign up or anything. Kept it quiet, didn’t they? Then Terry from over the Blue Ball comes in and says did I hear Little’s was sold. I said, “You must be mistaken, old son.” But he says, fact.’

  ‘Ed Blackmore, he swore they’d never sell any more of the estate,’ Kev piped up from the end of the bar. ‘Promised his dad he’d keep it together.’

  ‘See, it’s hard for local people to find somewhere to live,’ Dave amplified. ‘Cottages that used to be for rent, incomers buy ’em up for holiday places, and push the prices up so locals can’t afford ’em any more.’ He gave her a hard look as he said it, which she withstood as steadily as she could. ‘And then, the Blackmores have owned the land round here time out of mind. Be a terrible shame if the estate was broken up and sold off and the family went. Piece of history gone, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Kate. ‘Well, I can see why you were surprised. But it’s all true – I bought it fair and square.’

  ‘Course you did,’ Dave said, exonerating her. A plate appeared in the hatch and he turned and retrieved it and placed it in front of her. ‘Sure you’re all right here?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘It looks lovely.’ It did – a big, crusty half of a French loaf, a slab of Cheddar, the smell of which was already making her mouth water, pickles, pickled onions, an individual dish of butter and a little mound of salad. Just what she had been fancying.

  While she ate, she got her companions to talk, starting off with the dog, going on to local breweries, drawing them out on the village darts tournament, and ending up with whether Minehead would beat Bridgwater in the Somerset Premier League final.

  And as they got over their shyness they asked her about her father’s family and her local connections, and were interested and impressed that she was doing the work in the cottage herself. Ollie said she could get herself a lot of jobs as a handyman if she needed the money. Wayne was able to give her the phone number of a chimney sweep, and Ken knew a good plumber who, he said, could also put her on to an electrician. They seemed genuinely friendly, and altogether it was a very useful half hour: lunch, so to speak, had paid for itself.

  She was just getting to the bottom of her pint, and thinking regretfully that she really shouldn’t have another if she was going to do any work that afternoon, when the door opened and a man came in.

  Kate, glancing over, thought it must be another tourist, because he was very smartly dressed in a good suit and tie. He was in his forties, she guessed, and with a firm, alert look about his face that suggested intelligence. His hair, prematurely silver, was very short, well cut and contrasted with his tan. The only point against him was an expensive camel coat over the suit, and leather gloves he was just taking off, but that was simply a personal prejudice: she didn’t like camel coats and leather gloves – at least, not on men.

  But that he was not a tourist was immediately proved when Dave looked across at him and said, ‘Hello, Phil. Didn’t expect to see you in here this time o’ day.’

  The man came forward, sparing Kate one hard, all-encompassing glance and then dismissing her, to stand between her and Ollie and say, ‘Give me a G and T, Dave. Make it a double.’ His mouth was set hard, as though he had something on his mind. He was heavyset and broad shouldered, and with his thick wool coat he took up a lot of room, forcing Kate to shrink back a little on her stool. As he changed balance to reach inside his coat for his wallet, he must have stepped on the dog, for there was a little yip and a scuffle of movement. The man looked down briefly, and Ollie said, ‘Come out of there, Gyp,’ reaching down to take the dog’s collar and pull him to the other side of his stool.

  Putting the glass in front of him, Dave said, ‘What’s up, then, Phil? You don’t look your usual cheery self.’

  ‘Ach,’ he said, a formless expression of disgust. ‘I’ve been all the way to Taunton on a wild goose chase, that’s all. People mucking me about. I’ll get to the bottom of it, though, and when I do …’ He threw back half the gin and tonic in one gulp, put the glass down, and said, ‘You know you heard that rumour about Little’s Cottage being sold?’

  Dave gave him a warning glance and said, over-heartily, ‘More than a rumour, my old son. We’ve got the new owner sitting right here. Came in to introduce herself, which I call very friendly and civil.’

  The man’s head swivelled round so sharply that Kate was afraid he must have ricked his neck, and the hard eyes were fixed on her in a penetrating stare that made her feel, for a moment, quite uncomfortable. She was aware that she was not presenting herself at her best, and simple pride made her think that if she’d met this man in London with her glad rags on he wouldn’t have looked at her like a prefect looking at an inky new kid. She could have taken him on on his own terms.

  ‘I’ll do the honours, shall I?’ Dave went on, evidently thinking the stare was not conducive to a happy bar atmosphere. ‘Kate, this is Phil Kingdon. Phil, Kate Jennings, who bought Little’s. Phil’s the land agent for the Blackmore Estate.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Kate said coolly, keeping her end up.

  But suddenly everything changed. The man smiled, his eyes crinkling, the hard stare was history, and a hand was being offered. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. Sorry if I was a bit abrupt before – I’ve just had a long drive for nothing, so I was feeling a bit ratty. So, Little’s new owner? Let me buy you a drink, introduce you to the village.’

  Kate shook the hand (hard, well-manicured), and responded to the smile – why not? She was here to make friends – though she didn’t quite feel it had a spontaneous warmth to it. ‘I’m not a complete stranger here,’ she said.

  ‘Her dad was from Exford,’ Dave amplified.

  ‘So I’m half Exmoor,’ Kate went on.

  ‘I should have known from the name,’ said Phil Kingdon. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Thanks, but I really have to get back to work,’ Kate said, glancing at the clock over the fireplace. ‘And I’m expecting a skip.’

  ‘A what?’ Phil said, startled.

  ‘Kate’s doing all her own work,’ said Dave, with a sort of proprietorial pride that amused her.

  ‘Hence my scruffy state,’ Kate got in, with a gesture towards her clothes. ‘I scrub up quite nicely, you know.’

  Another crinkling smile. ‘I’m sure you do,’ Phil said. ‘Perhaps I can buy you that drink another time? Tonight? Oh, no, wait, I can’t tonight. What about tomorrow night?’

  Woah, boy, Kate thought. Fast worker. And she wasn’t here to go out on dates, though it was flattering to get such an instant response. ‘Thanks all the same, but I’m not really fit to go out, after a day working on the cottage,’ she said.

  He wasn’t so easily put off. ‘Oh, come on, just a drink. I bet you’ll want to get out of that place for an hour or two. All work and no play, you know. One drink, all right?’ He was giving her the full force of his charm, but she didn’t know anything about him and, given his age and apparently comfortable income, she couldn’t believe he wasn’t married.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around the place some time, now I’m living here, but I’m going to be very busy for a while. Thanks anyway. I’d better get back now.’ She rose from the stool, noting out of the corner of her eye that the hard stare was back. Didn’t like being thwarted, did he? Bit of a control freak? She was glad she’d refused the drink, now. He didn’t seem like a man to get tangled up with.

  Wayne spoke up, looking towards the door. ‘I think I see a skip lorry just go past. Might be yours.’

  ‘Oh God. They’ll take it away again! I’d better run.’ And she legged it.

  It was hers, and she arrived at the top of School Lane, panting, just as the driver was getting back into his cab.

  ‘Don’t go! It’s me! I mean, it’s mine!’

  He got down again. ‘Gor, you don’t half live in the back of beyond,’ he informed her. ‘Couldn’t find the place. It’s not on satnav.’

&n
bsp; ‘So I was told recently,’ Kate said. Didn’t anyone look at a map any more? ‘But you’re here now.’

  ‘Yeah. Where d’you want it? It’s gonna block the road if I leave it here.’

  ‘Can you swing it over the wall into the garden? There’s nothing there it can spoil.’

  ‘I see that, but I can’t get the angle.’

  ‘What about if you go up on to the track?’

  He set his jaw. ‘Mud track. Don’t wanna get stuck.’ He was punishing her for not being on satnav.

  ‘It’s not muddy. It’s firm and dry. Have a look.’ Under her insistent urging he walked up with her to inspect the track, and agreed reluctantly that it would take his rig. In a very short time the skip had been swing delicately over into her garden, and the lorry had gone away, chains swinging noisily, back down School Lane. He would have had to go on to the track anyway to turn round, she noted, so his objections were spurious. It puzzled and amused her that men were so inflexible: throw any kind of spanner in their works and they went to pieces.

  ‘Never mind, I can get on with walloping walls now,’ she told a tortoiseshell cat that was tiptoeing delicately along the top of her wall. It stuck its tail straight up in agreement, ducked a cheek briefly against her offered fingers, and jumped down into the jungle of her garden to stalk away through the weeds.

  Wall-walloping was enormously therapeutic. Sometimes she imagined Mark’s face, and sometimes Oliver’s, and occasionally a composite of all the unsatisfactory men who had not even called back when they said they would. Over the next few days she knocked down the two-thirds of the dividing wall, finished stripping the paper from the staircase wall, and loaded all the debris into the skip. The latter was the most laborious part, because although she had a wheelbarrow – she had found a rusty one out the back under a riot of convolvulus – there was no way to wheel it up to the top of the skip and tip it, so everything had to be thrown up by hand. The work was so hard that at the end of each day she only just had the energy to bath, cook a meal, and fall into bed. But at least she was tired enough to sleep right away, without worrying about the silence outside.