by Anna Jacobs
Miles had hated to see Amy’s awkward, rolling walk, hated a child of his being ‘crippled’. His use of that old-fashioned and derogatory word had caused another huge row and his lack of real affection for his daughter had helped accelerate the process of alienation between him and Ella.
‘Did you have a good day, darling?’ she asked as the cuddles with Porgy came to an end.
‘Wicked. We had sport this afternoon. I played rounders and guess what – I hit the ball right to the edge of the field. My running partner got to third base.’
‘Who was your running partner today?’
‘Louise. She’s terrible at hitting the ball, with her bad eyes, so we make a perfect team, Miss Baker says.’
Thank heavens for understanding teachers, Ella thought as she drove back to the house and parked at the rear.
‘Oh, wow! Look at this car!’ Amy hurried over to examine it. ‘I’d love a ride in it. Wouldn’t the other kids stare?’
‘You are not to ask Mr O’Neal for a ride. He’s a guest.’
‘But if he asked me to go for a ride, you’d let me, wouldn’t you?’
‘He won’t ask if you don’t hint.’
Amy hunched one shoulder and scowled, understanding the hidden warning. ‘Who is he, anyway?’
‘Mr O’Neal is from the bank.’
‘Oh.’ Amy wrinkled her brow in thought. ‘But you said they’d send us a letter or phone us.’
‘Well, they sent this man to see us instead.’
But the child’s innocent words had added to the worry lurking at the back of Ella’s mind. Why had Cameron O’Neal decided to stay at Willowbrook? A quick inspection of the property wouldn’t have taken more than an hour or two, surely? And now she came to think of it, he didn’t seem like a bank minion. He looked too affluent, too confident. What sort of job did he hold there? Her heart lurched and a leaden feeling settled in her stomach and set up camp there. Was he here to prepare the ground for a forced sale?
What other reason could he have for staying on?
As she prepared the meal, still puzzling over that mystery, she watched a mature rabbit and two young ones move slowly along the nearer edge of the lake.
Lately these everyday sights and sounds had seemed more charged with emotion because if Miles pushed things too far, she might not be here for much longer. Her worries swirled inside her in a black flood and she rubbed her aching head. If she lost the farm, where would she go? Jobs weren’t easy to find in Chawton Bassett and she didn’t have very marketable skills. Worst of all, if she had to find employment elsewhere, how would she bear living in a town?
‘Mummy, there’s a man coming to the house. Is he the one with the car?’
Ella jerked to attention and peeped out of the window to see Cameron strolling towards them. Gone was the business suit, the crisp white shirt, the immaculately styled hair. Instead, his hair was damp, his skin rosy from a shower and he was wearing a tight-fitting pair of jeans and casual sweater.
He’d looked good before, but now he looked absolutely gorgeous. She deliberately finished rinsing two mugs before turning to nod to him casually as he stood in the open doorway.
‘This is Mr O’Neal – my daughter Amy.’
The child limped across to give him a wide, gap-toothed smile and hold out her hand. ‘My name’s Amy Parnell, but I’m changing it to Turner like Mum when I grow up. My dad won’t let me change it now, though.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Parnell.’
Amy giggled at this formal way of addressing her and shook the hand he was offering.
‘Have you hurt your foot?’
She gave him another of her sunny smiles. ‘No. I’ve got SMA, so I can’t walk properly.’
He didn’t move away, either mentally or physically. Ella always watched carefully to see how people took her daughter’s frankness about her disability.
‘I don’t know what that is, exactly.’
‘Mummy can tell you about it best.’
Ella explained briefly about the faulty cells in the spinal cord, which meant that messages from the brain didn’t get through properly to the muscles in her daughter’s body, and how this would have more effect on mobility as Amy grew bigger.
She was pleased when he continued to talk normally to her daughter afterwards. So many people behaved as if the child was slow mentally as well as physically, when actually this disability had no effect on intelligence.
‘Must be a nuisance for you,’ he said.
Amy considered this, head on one side. ‘Sometimes. But it’s a nuisance to wear glasses all the time, like Ruth Makerby does. They mist up on hot days or when she’s doing sport. And Colin Seeble has to use a spray for his asthma. He has to carry it everywhere and sometimes he can hardly breathe.’ She imitated the wheezing sound her friend made with a fair degree of accuracy, then added philosophically, ‘Most people have some problem or other, Mum says.’
Cameron nodded gravely. ‘I guess you’re right. I’m allergic to cats. Being near one makes me itch and sneeze.’
Amy nodded. ‘I like dogs better anyway.’
‘So do I.
Ella judged it time to intervene. ‘How can I help you, Mr O’Neal?’
‘You said you sold snack foods.’
‘Yes, we do.’ Ella turned to her daughter. ‘Amy, can you deal with it for me? I have to start making the tea.’
The child came forward, very self-important, and indicated the display area. ‘What would you like, Mr O’Neal?’
‘I’ll have some lemonade, I think. A couple of cans. A packet of nuts – and are those chocolate bars on sale, too?’
‘Uh-huh. And I get to have one every Saturday after I’ve finished my jobs. They’re yummy.’
‘Then as you recommend them so strongly, Miss Parnell, I’ll take one as well.’ He hesitated, looked at Ella and when she shook her head as if guessing he was going to offer to buy one for her daughter, he said nothing more. Not slow on the uptake, Ms Turner.
Amy opened the glass door of the display cabinet, reached up to get the things he wanted then shut the door carefully. She took a printed list from the nearby holder and a pencil stub from the drawer below it. ‘Which chalet are you in, Mr O’Neal?’
‘Number six.’
‘And how do you spell your name?’ Laboriously, she printed his name and chalet number on the paper, then ticked off the items he’d bought and showed the list to him, before putting it into the numbered slot of the bill holder.
‘You did that very efficiently,’ he told her gravely.
She nodded several times. ‘I like to help my mummy. She works too hard, my Auntie Rose says. Hey, I love your car. It’s—’
‘Amy, don’t gossip!’ Ella warned. ‘Can we get you anything else, Mr O’Neal?’
‘No.’ Sensing the dismissal in her tone, he turned towards the door. ‘Seven o’clock, then.’ He strolled off, whistling softly.
‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ Amy put her head on one side. ‘And quite good-looking for someone so old. He’s probably even older than you.’
‘Yes.’ Ella watched him walk back to the chalet, wishing there were some other guests to interrupt the strange sensations that swirled between her and Cameron O’Neal. What was there about the man that attracted her so strongly? Maybe his aura of confidence or no, the twinkle in his eyes. And of course, the kind way he’d dealt with both her daughter and her dog.
Amy’s indignant voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Mummy? I just asked you a question twice and you didn’t answer!’
‘Sorry, love. What did you want?’
By six o’clock, Ella had heard Amy read, fed her, supervised the nightly shower and made sure everything was ready for school next day. She switched on the TV in their private sitting room and left Amy watching it with Porgy sprawled on the carpet beside her, then went to set the table for her guest.
When someone knocked on the door just before seven, she called ‘Come in!’ assuming it was Mr O’Neal.
Brett Harding appeared instead, beefy face red, brandishing a bottle of wine. ‘Surprise!’ He moved forward, dumping it on the nearest surface and eyeing her up and down in a way she detested.
She dropped the lettuce back into the colander. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Thought you might be lonely t’night, Ella.’
‘Well, I’m not, so go away!’
‘Well, I’m very lonely.’
He was swaying on his feet and she could smell his beery breath from right across the room. Not liking the look on his face, she moved quickly to put the table between them. ‘Look, just go home and sleep it off, will you?’
Strange. She had never been afraid of Brett before, not after going to school with him, even though he was a big man. But tonight he had a dangerous gleam in his eyes and he was so drunk she doubted she could reason with him.
He ignored her request to leave and moved forward quickly, shoving the central table towards her. That caught her by surprise and he crowed gleefully as it banged against her thighs and pushed her back towards the sink. A plate slid dangerously close to the edge of the table.
‘Ouch! Stop that!’ She kept her voice low, not wanting to alarm Amy.
‘Aw, loosen up. I c’n give you a real good time, Ella.’
‘Will you stop this!’
‘Stop this!’ he mimicked. ‘Why stop? It’s been three years since Miles left. You must be missing it, Ella. Wouldn’t you like someone to warm your bed?’
She abandoned reason and picked up the nearest heavy implement, which happened to be a meat tenderizing mallet. ‘Get out of my house, Brett Harding. At once!’
In response, he shoved the table backwards again, trapping her against the workbench.
‘I’ll call the police,’ she threatened, trying to push the table away and failing.
He sniggered. ‘I’ll tell them you were begging for it. Only your word against mine.’
‘Not quite!’ snapped a voice behind them. ‘There’s my word, too. And all I heard her begging for was that you go away.’
To be discovered in this embarrassing situation was the final straw that lit Ella’s temper to white heat. Hefting the meat mallet, she took advantage of Brett’s surprise to shove the table away, making him yelp as it hit his thighs. She started round it purposefully.
‘I’ll deal with this.’ Cameron moved in front of her, grabbing Brett’s shoulders and spinning him away from Ella. When Brett made a flailing attempt to punch him, he countered the blow easily, even though he wasn’t as big, then twisted the other man’s right arm behind his back. Ignoring Brett’s bellows of helpless rage, he frog-marched him out of the back door.
Ella let her weapon drop, rage still humming through her. She could have dealt with this herself, she thought angrily. Brett had caught her by surprise, that was all. She could damn well look after herself.
There was the sound of shouting from outside, so she ran to the door and watched as Brett broke away from Cameron and tried to punch him. The blow didn’t land and Cameron was clearly refraining from decking his drunken opponent. This restraint gave Brett the chance to grab him and both men fell to the ground. Behind her, Porgy growled and she said, ‘Shh, boy!’ without turning her head.
In the parking area, the two men rolled away from one another and got to their feet in a crouching position.
‘Get away home, you drunken fool!’ Cameron yelled.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do! That bitch has been askin’ for it for months.’
When Brett took another clumsy swing at him, Cameron moved swiftly out of reach, circling the drunken man and clipping him sharply with a quick counter-punch to the jaw. Brett reeled back against his van, shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it and swung his fist again, missing completely and falling to his knees.
‘You aren’t going to win, you know.’
‘Oh, aren’t I? I will if you’ll stand still an’ fight like a man.’
Cameron sighed and as Brett jerked forward again, punched him even harder on the chin. ‘Just go home and sleep it off.
This time Brett stayed down on all fours, groaning.
Behind Ella, a voice said, ‘Mummy, what’s happening? Why is Mr Harding fighting Mr O’Neal?’ Clad only in her pyjamas, Amy stood beside her, goggling at the two dishevelled men, holding a still growling Porgy by the collar.
‘Mr Harding is drunk. He was being very silly. Mr O’Neal had to throw him out.’
‘Oh, wow! Like on the TV. Can I stay and watch them fight?’
‘No, you can take yourself back inside, Amy. Ten minutes more and it’s time for bed.’
‘But I—’
‘Go inside now!’
Amy stamped away indignantly, dragging Porgy with her. The sitting room door banged shut and the volume went up on the television.
Brett dragged himself to his feet and stood for a moment, swaying, fists still clenched. He took out his keys, dropped them and scrabbled for them, unable to find them till he saw the lucky figurine attached to them poking out from behind the car tyre. He’d carried that figurine about with him since school, an ugly little creature with glass eyes that glittered in the light. Ella had always disliked it.
Muttering something under his breath, he opened the van door. There he stopped and turned to look back at Ella. ‘I’ll be back. Fancy boy won’t be here for long. If you’re giving it out, I’ll get my turn later.’
‘Then I’ll be sure to keep the meat mallet handy from now on,’ she called back.
Cameron remained where he was, arms folded, a cold expression on his face, as Brett closed the van door.
She wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of that icy stare, Ella decided, watching her guest. Goodness, how different he looked at the moment to when he’d been talking to Amy earlier! Dangerous and powerful.
Only when the van had bumped off down the drive did Cameron turn and come back towards the house, the icy look softening. As he reached her, he flourished a bow and said with a wry grin, ‘Sir Galahad at your service.’
Dropping him a curtsey, she clasped her hands together and replied in a breathless, girlish voice, ‘Oh, my lord knight, you’ve driven away the evil dragon. How can I ever repay you?’
His hearty laughter took away some of the nasty taste the incident had left.
But she was still worried about Brett’s parting words. He’d not looked like a buffoon then, but like an angry and brutal man.
Four
As the light began to soften and colours lose their vibrancy, Rose put down her paintbrush and rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness. She’d been painting from early afternoon, enjoying what she was doing too much to stop. Yawning, she released her hair from its bonds, shaking her head as it fell about her shoulders. At least she didn’t have to work tonight. She was fed up of serving behind the bar in the Green Man pub, nice as people were there, but she needed the money.
What she really wanted to do at this time of year was go out to Willowbrook with her camera. The place was teeming with wild flowers, birds and small animals like hares, rabbits and frogs. She loved to listen to the bird calls, to watch the changing patterns of flowers as the seasons changed and slid into one another. And then she’d take her photographs home and use them as the basis of wildlife paintings.
Was she fooling herself? she wondered. Was she really good enough to make a living as a painter? She’d been trying for years now and still hadn’t managed more than half a living. And was her special project the most foolish dream of all? Who knew?
She sometimes thought the whole village knew about her project because of her working in the pub. There had been considerable interest from customers she chatted to there in the secure box she’d bought to protect and store her finished paintings, and of course in her ongoing progress. Occasionally one of them would buy a painting from her. She was never certain whether that was from kindness or because they liked what she did.
All she was certa
in of was that she couldn’t stop painting. Something in her would die if she did.
She studied her work, her spirits lifting a little. It was good, one of her best ever, and it was commissioned, so would earn her some much-needed money.
Putting the wet canvas carefully on the high shelf at the rear of the room, she began to clear up her painting equipment. She worked in the larger of the two bedrooms in the tiny one-storey cottage, which stood right on the main road into the village and was very cheap to rent. She made do with the smaller bedroom to sleep in, didn’t care about fancy furnishings as long as the place was clean and she had a bed. But she couldn’t bear her studio to be untidy, or her equipment to be left lying around, so had bought a huge old mahogany wardrobe in a junk shop. It not only held her paints, brushes, rags and stores, but some of her finished canvases. Beside it stood her precious metal box.
Suddenly she heard the screech of brakes outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of cars colliding. Before she could move, something slammed into the side of the cottage, the window shattered and one wall of her studio caved in.
The open door of the wardrobe protected her from most of the flying glass and she cowered back among the equipment, one arm flung up protectively across her face, praying the vehicle wouldn’t come any further inside.
When silence fell, she peered out from behind the door, to see the nose of a large van poking through the wall. Pieces of glass were still falling with a faint tinkling sound, the air was full of dust and the metal of the vehicle was settling and protesting about being twisted out of shape.
The driver of the van was motionless, slumped over the steering wheel, but she recognized him at once. Brett Harding! Anger filled her. She’d bet he was drunk again.
On the thought that he’d destroyed her home, she turned to scrabble among the dusty debris for her precious box. There was a shallow dent in one corner, but it was otherwise intact. She looked up at the shelf where she’d put her new painting and although it was dusty, it was safe. It was in oils, so she could clean that. Groaning in relief, she tried to work out what to do next.