by Gilli Allan
‘That’s one of the things I have to decide. I’m a London girl. I miss it. But it is lovely round here and there’s Rory to think of. Where would he be better off?’
Sheila’s face had fallen. ‘It’s a no brainer. Here! Where there’s clean air and open countryside, trees to climb, streams to fish. Anyway, property in London’s so expensive …’
‘No problem, unless my credit rating is permanently buggered! I might not have the money instantly accessible but I could release enough for a substantial deposit. And Rory and I could rub along comfortably for a year or two before I need worry about finding a job. But … I don’t know whether I want to do that. The stock market’s still depressed and I’d rather not raid my ISAs. I’d prefer to wait, consider the options, before finally deciding my next move.’
‘Wow! A woman with money! From your own efforts or inherited?’
‘Never inherited a bean and don’t expect to. I earned a fair whack when I was working, topped up with bonuses. So I invested quite a bit. The value has dropped from the heights it reached before the crash but I’m still in profit. It’s nice to have that cushion. Fingers crossed that things continue on an upward trajectory.’
‘No wonder Sean was so pissed off when you walked out on him!’
‘I began to realise that he saw me as a cash cow.’
‘Do you manage your own portfolio of investments?’
‘It was part of the culture when I was working. I’ve been out of the loop too long now. In the current climate it’s not so clear cut what’s the best thing to do.’
‘Mummy, I’m bored.’
‘Bored! What, with this whole nursery to play in?’
Rory had been in and out of the Wendy house, scrambled on the apparatus, then tumbled and rolled on the mats underneath. Now the novelty was wearing off.
‘But I’ve got nobody to play with!’ He dragged at her skirt as he scuffed and elbowed his way onto her lap. She wrapped her arms about him and kissed her favourite spot on his neck. The fact was unarguable. Even the delights of the whole room, with all of its equipment, had failed to hold his interest for more than fifteen minutes.
‘So, while we continue to live here,’ she remarked quietly to Sheila over the top of her son’s head as he delved into her shoulder bag that was hanging on the chair, ‘I can’t leave this little chap in limbo. I’ve got to start networking, though probably not with Alison, to help him to cement new friendships.’
‘Hello. Hello, mistra shop man. Bocker glory. Now!’
‘Rory! It’s not a toy!’ She removed her mobile phone from his hands and zipped it back into her bag. Quietly she asked, ‘Who do you think he gets on with?’
‘I would have said his best friend here is Sasha.’
Jessica was surprised. ‘A girl!’
‘It has been known.’
In the cottage Jessica gathered together the handful of cards for recycling. She unhooked the ornaments from the tree, showering dry pine needles everywhere. She wound the fairy lights around a cardboard tube and folded up the paper chains. All the while she pondered the power they possessed – these concertinas of coloured paper, the images of a bearded man in a red suit, the dying tree – to brighten your mood. It seemed chill and dreary without them.
As the anti-climactic lull of January stretched ahead, she had to remind herself constantly that there was no reason not to be happy. Hadn’t she exchanged a kind of nightmare for a life of unexpected blessings? There weren’t even streetlights along Northwell Lane, let alone a pavement, and the sky at night was so profoundly dark, it was like dense, black pinpricked velvet. Over London, even at midnight, the sky was a rusty prune colour. An unremitting drone of traffic, punctuated by raised voices, other people’s music, and roadworks, had been the backdrop to her life. At first she’d missed the familiar hum of the city’s twenty-four hour soundscape. Her sleep had been disrupted and shallow. Now, though still a novelty to go to bed to silence, a silence hardly ever interrupted by anything more disquieting than the wind in the trees above her roof, the profound quiet had become a sedative. She woke, refreshed, to nothing but the winter twittering of birds. There were cars of course, most who lived in the lane had a car, but it was not a route to anywhere significant. Traffic was so infrequent even a passing bike was notable. To be able to park her car directly outside her house was a daily miracle.
All her life, since those golden childhood visits to her godmother, she’d cherished the idea of one day living in the country. Looking out onto fields and distant hills, to see cattle and horses and swooping birds, she still had to pinch herself. Yet there was a continuing unease. Weren’t her reasons for coming here based on the storybook fantasy of a thatched cottage with roses round the door? A good life had to be based on something more than lovely views, quiet nights, and clean air. If her old life had become a nightmare, then this was a dream, a dream she would eventually have to let go. And when that day came what would facing up to real, wide-awake life mean?
Many mornings, while Rory was occupied, she went out walking. She wondered what her old friends would think of Jessica, the ultimate urban animal, tramping through the countryside decked out in a waxed jacket, jeans tucked into wellingtons. Some days she’d be crunching through several inches of snow; on others the ground was frozen hard or had thawed to soft, sucking mud. Always she clutched the Ordnance Survey Rangefinder map, to keep her on the accredited footpaths. The river – crossed by Skirmish Bridge on the Warford side – looped around Spine Hill and meandered along the back of the fields in front of her house. Here a row of willow, of elder, alder, blackthorn, and birch trees bordered its banks. A path followed the shingly, overgrown bank upriver and this became one of her favoured routes, far from roads, cars, and habitation.
She could walk for miles, breath pluming steam, cold air stinging her cheeks, the pull of exercise warming her muscles. And while she was out, whether climbing over stiles, or pushing her way through rusting metal gates, boots sucked down into the claggy, trampled swamp left by the cows who’d gathered there, she wondered if she’d been phoned on the landline. But when she got home there’d never been any missed calls or messages.
It was the finale of the interlude with Danny that sprang most readily and uncomfortably to mind. The frustration of the moment had faded swiftly, leaving only shame. He must have me down as some rapacious, sex-starved lush. Perhaps he was a virgin and I terrified him, she thought, although he hadn’t seemed terrified. Equally shaming was her crass stupidity. It would have been understandable, although still dangerous and very foolish, if they’d had unprotected sex when she was drunk and ignorant of his age. But to have come so close in the cold light of day, when she not only knew how young he was but also knew he mixed with people liable to be drug users – the blood flushing through her veins turned icy. His subsequent failure in the sex department suggested he was unlikely to be a health risk but this tardily acquired knowledge hardly absolved her from responsibility. She had put herself in danger once before and been terrified; she thought she had learned that lesson.
The other aspect of the occasion that ignited her guilt was her failure to listen to him. When he’d suggested they go out she should have realised why. It was quite reasonable that he wasn’t keen to stay in a place contaminated with cat hairs. But staying in was the only option she’d given him. He had every reason to think her highhanded, overbearing, and insensitive.
Yet, when she’d driven him to Skirmish Bridge, there’d been no trace of constraint or embarrassment on his part. They’d chatted away like old friends, mostly about the by-pass, but also about the surrounding countryside and his work. He’d even asked her birth date and seemed pleased to discover she was a Scorpio. But perhaps this was just his new-agey way of being polite. Though she’d privately decided it would be best to draw a line under the whole encounter, when Danny asked for her phone number she’d been pleased – even though he qualified the request by suggesting she bring Rory over to see the chickens and d
ucks and, once they’d started to arrive, the baby lambs. But she’d failed to transfer her phone from the bag she’d used at the party. So she gave him her landline number, an easy sequence to remember. His silence since indicated that the whole incident had held little significance for him. It was likely he’d already hooked up with a more suitable girl. If so it was a good thing. It was for the best. His life had moved on. But there remained a rankling disappointment. Without intending to do anything of the sort she began to speculate how she might track him down.
Rory’s friend Sasha was also a ‘mornings only’ pupil. On several occasions she’d come home with them at lunchtime. The arrangement was negotiated with her grandmother, Gilda. Jessica would give Sasha and Rory lunch, typically chicken or fish bites served with mash and peas, then she would leave them to play. Play involved much running up and down the stairs and squealing. The door at the bottom especially enthralled Sasha. To her this proved the staircase must be a secret passage. Jess was willing to put up with a bit of noise and some interruptions as long as they were happy. Around five o’clock, when the children were drinking milk and snacking, Gilda would pull up outside in her bright red Golf.
‘You must let Rory come to me next. How about next Tuesday?’
Practised at judging quality, Jessica studied the older woman as they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Possessed of the confident elegance that money and a sense of your own good breeding endow, Gilda looked fit and energetic. She was well spoken, her hands were manicured, her clothes from the Jaeger end of the high street, and the car she drove was new. It was easy to see the line of inheritance through to Sasha. They shared an olive complexion, and Gilda had the same liquorice brown eyes, although the skin around hers was darkly pigmented. Sasha’s hair was as dark as, if not darker than, Rory’s and it seemed likely that her grandmother’s had been the same ebony colour. Now, Gilda’s thick, silvery white hair, sculpted into a fashionable shape by a very good stylist, only emphasised her appearance of tanned health. It was evident the woman had been a beauty; even though the crazing of her complexion revealed a life of over-exposure to the sun, and the skin of her neck had loosened beneath her chin, she still retained the unconscious assurance of the good looking woman.
‘That would be lovely. It would give me the whole day free.’
‘Well, that’s the idea. I want to repay the favour. Sasha is my only grandchild and I do love her to bits, but it is so refreshing to be able to go shopping in Ciren or Bath, perhaps meet friends for lunch, without worrying about the time.’
To Jess the idea of an unencumbered day of shopping and lunching seemed suddenly very desirable indeed. ‘I take it you’re Sasha’s full-time carer?’
‘Sadly, yes. I’ve been living with my son and looking after her since his wife died two and a half years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes. You get to a point in your life where you just don’t expect to be thrust back into the role of mother again and it comes a bit hard.’
‘I meant … How tragic! She must have been young, your daughter-in-law?’
‘Serena? Oh, somewhere in her mid-twenties,’ Gilda responded vaguely, then added with more feeling. ‘Poor Sasha. Not that she remembers her mother.’
‘Your son must be grateful for your help?’
‘He’s not yet completely recovered from the trauma and he still takes me for granted, as he should. When you love someone you don’t expect reward. I daresay James will come to appreciate my support, what I have given up, when things are a bit less fraught.’ She paused at the front door and gave her head a little shake. ‘Anyway I shall look forward to having Rory next week.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and make sure you keep your mobile phone safe while you’re entertaining my son. He has a fixation about mine and keeps swiping it. If I’m lucky I find it in his toy box.’
Gilda laughed. ‘And if you are unlucky?’
‘I’ve the number saved on my landline. So I phone it and when it starts chirruping, I hunt it down!’
‘And if he has turned it off, or the battery has run down?’
‘Don’t! That hasn’t happened … yet!’
‘They are rascals at this age, aren’t they? Into everything. Come along, Sasha. Time to go.’ She gazed for a moment out of the open door. ‘You have a lovely view from here. Such a pity …’
Chapter Eight
Stark against the blue-white fields, poplar cypresses lined the long driveway. At their foot, the grubby shovelled snow was banked up. Just as well. If left uncleared she’d have been driving blind over deep potholes. The car bumped slowly down the long driveway, across the narrow river on a single-track bridge, then climbed again. When the house came into view Jessica’s mouth dropped open in a silent ‘Oh!’
Even in the fading light she could appreciate its charm. Built from the honey-coloured stone of the region – drip mouldings, a central front door and the roof stone-tiled – it had to be at least three hundred years old. Outbuildings on two further sides of the square forecourt gave the impression of driving into a courtyard. The central area of the flagged yard had been swept, but around its perimeter the snow lay undisturbed by anything more than the tracks of birds. Near the house, last year’s bedding plants were just a blackened tangle in the snow filled stone troughs. The only living plants Jess could see were in tubs on either side of the front door, but even these pansies had been pole-axed by the cold.
Ever since Gilda had given Jessica the address, anxious speculation had run around in her head. So, Gore Farm, the site of an apparently bloody civil war battle, was where dark-haired, dark-eyed Sasha lived with her granny and …? Her daddy and who else? Jess had asked no one directly, but from her own gradual amassing of knowledge about the area she’d begun to realise that this was the major farm in the locality. And its gates were only a quarter of a mile from Skirmish Bridge.
Only Gilda’s Golf was parked in the courtyard, and a bike leant against the huge double doors of a stone built barn. Plenty of room for her BMW. All was quiet. Nobody appeared to be about until she heard the sound of hammering coming from one of the barns. Bracing herself Jessica knocked on the front door. It was Gilda who answered it. From another room could be heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner. When they’d first conversed about Gilda’s situation as carer for her granddaughter, Jessica had assumed ‘head cook and bottle washer’ included in the job. Typical of a man to get his mother in to do his dirty work as soon as the wife was out of the picture. But these people didn’t do their own cleaning; Gilda probably never had. Doubtless there was some poor old Mrs Mop who struggled around this big house with her Dyson, dusters, and beeswax.
‘Come in, come in, welcome. Have you had a good day?’
Allowed a day off from childcare duties, Jess had been tempted by the cornucopia of delights Gilda described. In the past ‘just looking’ would have been sufficient inducement for her to head for a fashionable shopping centre. She’d no need to justify a shopping spree. But now? Earlier, she’d stood in her bedroom and looked at the jam-packed wardrobe and stuffed chest of drawers. What did she need so urgently that a trip to Cheltenham or Cirencester was warranted? And as for lunch — who with?
‘Nothing exciting. Spent the morning on the computer and then intended to get on with making some curtains, but instead went to the supermarket.’
‘Are there not curtains there? I thought the cottages were let furnished?’
‘They are. It was. The only piece I needed was a bed for Rory. I’d be hard pressed to get another stick into the place. But the curtains are old and musty, and in Rory’s room they started to shred when I looked at them. So …’
‘I suppose you can’t afford to have them made?’
‘I could afford to, but I’d like to do it myself.’
‘You are clever!’ Gilda said, in the tone of one who would never in a million years even consider such a thing. As they’d talked in the hall Jess had taken off her jacket and removed her shoes.
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br /> ‘Hardly. For me it’s all a part of the attraction of living in the country, like growing vegetables, wine making, home-made bread, but …’
‘Come through to the sitting room.’
Jessica’s qualification had missed its moment. The hallway had been large enough, but the drawing room took up the depth of the house. Windows gave out onto the flagged forecourt and an enclosed kitchen garden at the back. The furnishings had been chosen with taste, but were not the conventional country house chintzes and antiques Jessica might have expected. Positioned between two facing sofas was a sturdy oblong table. Made from a dark wood and its chunky legs primitively carved with mythic and fabulous creatures, it looked like a piece from the Far East.
‘And you work on the computer! Goodness! My son has one, of course, but I don’t know what he does on it apart from using it as a glorified typewriter … and emailing of course. And he has one of those … blackcurrant things.’ Jess bit her lip. ‘Do you surf the interweb?’ Gilda continued, with an arch, self-conscious flourish. ‘And I suppose you are a Twitterer! Do sit down.’
Again, Jess had to suppress amusement, but this time it was a mixed emotion. She’d bowed out of all social networking since she’d left London. It would be too easy for Sean to track her down. Even if he couldn’t find her physical address, she’d not put it past him to harass and cyber-stalk her.
‘No. I don’t tweet, but I’ve been using computers since childhood! Couldn’t live without being connected. I don’t do much random surfing, but the internet is invaluable for email, shopping, banking … oh, and for looking up share prices and trading.’ True, but it had been a while since she’d done any buying or selling. This morning, while still flirting with the idea of going out to shop, she’d been using her laptop to find local stockists for her favourite fashion houses.
‘Obviously you’re a modern, self-sufficient young woman of many talents.’