House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  Money was always a contentious matter with Robert. He raided the children’s piggy banks. He raided money set aside to pay the greengrocer and the butcher.

  She never failed to tackle him about his nefarious ways. ‘And what about the housekeeping?’

  ‘Your father won’t let you starve.’

  She bridled at that sort of comment. ‘You have to make money yourself, Robert. You have a business that should be thriving.’

  ‘Stop nagging, woman. It takes care of itself,’ he said with a dismissive wave.

  ‘No business does that,’ she retorted.

  Her sharp retorts, and the fact that he was beginning to discover that her mind was sharper than his, unsettled him. To that end, he’d taken to avoiding her more and more.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said. And he’d gone.

  Hearing thudding feet on the landing immediately below her, she moved sideways so she could peer down unseen. She heard someone whispering.

  ‘Have you got keys?’

  There was no mistaking the childish voice; Jennifer, Robert’s elder daughter, speaking in a loud whisper.

  ‘Of course I have!’ It was Jennifer’s sister, Evelyn, who responded. Jennifer was fourteen and Evelyn twelve. She felt like an interloper, an intrusion into their world. That’s why she liked it up here. All the same, she leaned forward straining to hear. She had an inkling of what they were up to.

  There followed a jangling of iron against iron as one key after another was inserted into the lock before one finally turned.

  She heard other footsteps, softer, smaller ones.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked a small voice.

  ‘Never mind what we’re doing. What are you doing here, turnip? Go away! Go away now!’ She recognized Jennifer’s voice.

  ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not a turnip. What are you doing?’

  Catherine recognized Charlie’s voice. Charlie was seven years old and the result of Robert’s liaison with a barmaid at the Llandoger Trow, an old inn on the Welsh Back at the end of King Street.

  There followed the sound of a slap. ‘Yes, you are a turnip. I said you are and so you are.’

  Jennifer was fond of treating the boy cruelly. Robert seemed oblivious to her behaviour. To him she was the apple of his eye and spoilt to distraction.

  ‘Why don’t you let me play with you?’ Charlie whimpered. He sounded close to tears. Catherine imagined him rubbing at the redness on his cheek. Her first instinct was to rush down the stairs and intervene at once. Robert’s instructions that she stay clear of his children held her back.

  There followed a series of whispers. ‘All right. You can come with us. We’re going to look at her things. But you have to keep quiet.’

  It was no surprise to Catherine that Jennifer had referred to her with as much contempt as she treated Charlie. She heard the door to her room groan on its hinges as they opened it and went in.

  This was too much! A wave of anger swept over her. If Robert wasn’t going to correct his daughter, then she certainly was.

  She was about to leave her hiding place when Betty came running from the direction of the servants’ rooms.

  ‘Oh, madam, come quickly. It’s Polly. I think she’s having another of her funny turns.’

  Catherine looked down to where the children had disappeared into her room. She was in two minds about what to do, but made a snap decision.

  ‘If you could come, madam,’ said a worried-looking Betty.

  ‘I’ll be right there. Keep her quiet for the moment.’

  ‘I see,’ said Betty, sounding just as put-out as she looked. ‘Hmm! No appreciation nowadays.’ With that, she stormed off.

  There was no time to explain that the children were rummaging in the small dressing room adjoining her and Robert’s bedroom, intent on looking through her personal things. It didn’t do to share family problems with servants. Robert had been adamant about that. Besides, she didn’t want their prying fingers inside the old coffer that she’d still not opened. Just looking at it brought a lump to her throat and, for now, she couldn’t bring herself to open it; not until her life improved; not until she felt happy again.

  Catherine swung out on to the landing and rushed down the stairs. She found the two girls hunched over the coffer arguing over which key they should try next. Their heads spun round when they heard her.

  She snatched the keys. ‘Get away from that!’

  Surprised at first, they swiftly recovered. Jennifer, her pudding face framed by a lion’s mane of uncontrollable hair, recovered first. Her small mouth pursed, she sprang to her feet.

  ‘Those aren’t yours.’

  Catherine stood her ground, her fists bunched on her hips. ‘Whose are they then?’

  Jennifer glared back defiantly. ‘They’re my father’s.’

  ‘And I am your father’s wife!’

  ‘He only married because you came with a discount. That’s what he said. Shellard gave me a big discount on his wine for marrying his daughter. My father’s a businessman. That’s why he married you!’

  Catherine was dumbstruck. To have this… this… child… telling her…

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  Only it wasn’t. Deep inside she knew it wasn’t. Robert had reeled her in like a fish on the line. The whole scenario of her brief courtship had been designed to snare her into the marriage arranged by her father.

  ‘He doesn’t love you,’ her younger sister added. ‘He loved our mother. That’s who he loved.’

  Catherine looked up at the ceiling. ‘Why am I arguing with these children? Get out,’ she ordered, pointing at the door. ‘Get out of here right now!’

  ‘We’re going,’ snapped Jennifer, giving a toss of her unruly mane. ‘Come along, Evelyn.’

  Catherine shut the door after them. Leaning against the door she considered whether her father had brokered a business deal. It made no difference to her estimation of her father; she still hated him. On further consideration it made little difference to her estimation of Robert. He’d sprung too many surprises on her; she didn’t hate him, but she certainly didn’t trust him.

  It came to her suddenly that Charlie had been with the girls. Where was he now?

  ‘Charlie?’

  She heard a bumping sound from within a mahogany wardrobe. On opening it, she found Charlie inside, rubbing at red raw eyes. Her heart went out to him.

  ‘Oh, Charlie. Come out from there. Let me give you a cuddle.’

  He came out willingly, but took a step back when she attempted to throw her arms around him.

  ‘They said I’m not to cuddle you. They’ll beat me if I do. They said they would.’

  Clasping her hands behind her back, Catherine told him she understood. ‘I wouldn’t want them to do that,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait until you’re older and bigger before I mother you.’

  He looked at her round-eyed. ‘They say my mother, my real mother, is nothing but a cheap tart.’

  ‘They would say that. They’re jealous.’

  He thought about that for a moment. ‘She works in a bar.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean to say she’s not a good mother.’

  ‘So why did she give me to my father?’

  Catherine understood how he felt, but managed a smile of reassurance along with a viable explanation. ‘She thought she was doing the best for you. Your father can afford to give you a decent education. Won’t you be going away to school shortly?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m frightened of going to school, but I want to. I don’t like Jennifer and Evelyn. They’re horrible.’

  Catherine considered the alternative. ‘You’ll be among other boys of your own age. Let’s face it, are they likely to be any worse than your half-sisters?’

  His tight little face stiffened into a brief moment of contemplation. ‘I think I would prefer the other boys to them,’ he said vehemently.

  Catherine brushed his hair from his eyes and smiled at him. ‘I think you would too.’

&
nbsp; Suddenly he reached up for her. ‘Daddy said he was having second thoughts about sending me away. I’ll hug you if you promise to persuade Daddy to send me away to school.’

  Her heart went out to this little boy. How sad he must be if he actually wanted to be sent away from home.

  ‘I promise,’ she said, and they hugged as she thought how best to live up to her promise.

  Having decided that opening the coffer was on hold for the moment, she went to check that Polly had recovered and then went to bed feeling tired and drained by her mixed emotions. She did most of her thinking lying alone in bed; her mental list of things to be done as clear as the one she’d written on paper. Twenty-five pounds was not enough to buy a quarter of Castile Villanova let alone the whole place. She had to find a way to make money. She certainly couldn’t rely on her husband. Robert was a gentleman in the old sense; he liked income but hated work. He never went near his study if he could help it. The running of the warehouse which received produce from his own vineyard was left to a manager. How stupid to leave one’s livelihood in the hands of an employee, she thought. How stupid not to keep an eye on what was going on, and how stupid to spend money you didn’t necessarily have. Someone should take things in hand.

  ‘You,’ she muttered.

  Swinging her legs out of bed, she reached for her dressing gown, tied the silk cord tightly around her waist, donned her slippers and headed for the study.

  Because Robert rarely used the study, it wasn’t likely to be locked. Luke Townsend, the warehouse manager, had brought a copy of the month’s transactions just the other day. And there were bound to be other records; details of the property lease or freehold – employees, equipment – everything she could need.

  On slippered feet, she padded over the thick brown carpet. Moonlight diffused through a thick lace curtain. She pulled it back and the heavy furniture and bookcases were silvered with light. For added efficiency, she turned on a green-shaded, brass-stemmed desk light.

  The latest batch of company records was slung in an unlocked drawer. Portfolios of property owned – plus debts owed – were filed in dark wooden cabinets. They were neatly stacked and labelled, though not by Robert. A clerk, a Mr Maddingly, came in once a week to ensure things were in order.

  File after file, ledger after ledger, page after page, she checked through Robert’s business records. When her eyes were too tired to continue, she sat back in the brown leather chair and closed them. The details of what she’d been reading were imprinted on the back of her eyelids. The main warehouse was in an old building in Colston Avenue. The main storage consisted of deep cellars on two levels running beneath the road at the front of the property. The offices of Arthur Freeman and Son were situated at street level and also on the first floor. There were two floors above that appeared to be used only for storage. Above that was an attic floor which was not used for anything.

  Sales were made via commercial travellers who took lists around to wine shops and other varied outlets. Delivery was by way of two bull-nosed black Morris vans with white lettering on their sides.

  Catherine rubbed at her eyes. Going over the details had made her tired, but had also inspired her. Tomorrow she would go and inspect the premises. Should I ask Robert for permission? she asked herself. She decided not to. Mr Townsend, the manager, would be arriving by taxi tomorrow with copies of the latest records for her husband. She’d go and visit the warehouse with him.

  Thirty-Six

  The next morning Catherine found herself being given a guided tour of the tall property that served as warehouse and business premises in the very centre of the city.

  Townsend explained to her that the area now referred to as the Tramways Centre and covering a vast oval in the city centre, had once been open to shipping.

  ‘All covered in now,’ he said to her.

  She couldn’t help but notice how he seemed in awe of her, as no one had taken any interest in the business for ages, and he’d resigned himself to seeing it run swiftly and surely downhill.

  ‘I take it that’s why it’s so chilly down here,’ she commented, shivering as they traversed the dark cellars that ran between the building and the river.

  ‘But not damp,’ said Mr Townsend. ‘Wouldn’t do to store port wine and suchlike in damp conditions.’

  Catherine brushed at a spider’s web that had chanced to cling to the sleeve of her navy-blue jacket. The jacket had a nautical look about it, a blue and red stripe running around the cuffs and brass buttons fastening a neatly fitted jacket.

  She’d been aware of the men in the warehouse pausing in their work to take a look at their employer’s wife. Far from being impervious to their approving looks, Catherine had felt a great surge of confidence rush through her. She’d smiled at them and wished them a good morning. They’d looked surprised and had responded in kind.

  ‘My, my, Mrs Arthur Freeman. You’ll have them eating out of your hand with that kind of treatment,’ said Mr Townsend, his face slightly pink when she caught him studying her.

  ‘Being civil costs nothing,’ she replied.

  ‘Aye. Yer right there.’

  He nodded and looked totally approving. He even looked far happier than when she’d first inveigled him into accompanying her.

  ‘This way to the office and general loading area.’

  She followed him as he slowly climbed the stairs back up to street level. The front office was an untidy place of desks, paperwork and odd crates serving as makeshift desks. Sheets of brown paper covered the broad window of what was essentially a shopfront. Catherine wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of dust and neglect.

  ‘It needs cleaning,’ she said, swiping at a dusty shelf with a pair of kid gloves.

  Mr Townsend sighed and leaned against a bookshelf. ‘The old place is past its best.’

  A small, wiry clerk was flitting in and out with order sheets, darting out to the backyard where a van was being loaded, and darting back in again, down the stairs to the cellar, up again and back out to the van.

  Seeing her looking, Mr Townsend asked her if she’d like to go through to the back.

  ‘It’s only a yard,’ he explained. ‘And that fellow you saw running in and out was Mr Maddingly.’

  Catherine, with her usual observance, noticed a lot more than ‘just a yard’.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, jerking her chin at a pair of wooden doors set at a slant between the building and the ground.

  ‘Cellar doors,’ said Mr Townsend.

  Catherine could not possibly know it, but Townsend was experiencing a nervous anticipation. Ever since Robert Arthur Freeman had inherited his father’s business, he’d been asking permission to open those trap doors. Mr Arthur Freeman had been quite adamant about keeping them closed.

  ‘The steps are broken going down from the doors and in need of repair,’ Townsend had told him on one of his visits to Cornwallis House. The fact was they’d rotted away and a new set was needed.

  ‘I’ve no money for bloody wooden steps,’ his employer had retorted. ‘Manage as best you can.’

  Catherine looked from the cellar doors to the backyard, her scrutiny shifting to the wiry clerk and the men loading the van. All of them were walking miles in order to check and load an order. It seemed ridiculous when there were cellar doors here waiting to be opened.

  ‘Why don’t you use them?’ she asked.

  Townsend explained. ‘It would cost at least two pounds two shillings and sixpence to replace the stairs,’ he added.

  Without him having to tell her, Catherine knew Robert had refused to fund the repair.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said, and got a notepad and pen out of her handbag. She made a note regarding her thoughts about the front office, the broken stairs and the fact that the front shop was used as a storeroom-cum-office.

  Townsend, a man of her father’s age who had worked for Robert’s father, seemed to come alive in response to her interest, ‘Would you like to see the upper floors?’ Hi
s face was brighter, and the aimless air of despair she’d surmised on his visits to Cornwallis House had lessened. His shoulders were less rounded; his step a little lighter.

  After informing him that she would very much like to inspect the other floors, she followed him up the stairs.

  The landing on the first floor was bright by virtue of a sash window letting in the morning light. The sun was shining brightly, the window was open and the screams of wheeling seagulls added life to what would otherwise have been a dead space.

  ‘There seems to be a lot of space up here,’ she said, whirling from room to room, one plan succeeding another in her fertile brain.

  ‘Six rooms.’

  ‘Six! And only one of them used as an office.’ She sounded and felt utterly astounded. She noted the details. In her mind she was questioning why Robert was not making the best use of these rooms. A small return was better than none at all; her Aunt Lopa had told her that, she of the many items of crochet she’d sold door to door.

  By the time she’d reached the attic rooms and saw the long iron staircase going down from a small door to the yard below, the building she saw bore no resemblance at all to the one in her mind.

  ‘Can we sit somewhere and talk in private, Mr Townsend? Perhaps you can get someone to bring us tea?’

  Mr Townsend’s face was a picture. His pale-blue eyes twinkled with renewed faith. Someone in the family had finally shown an interest in the source of their income.

  His voice was as big as his body. ‘Indeed I will, Mrs Arthur Freeman.’

  Earlier she’d noticed a stoop to his shoulders. Now, there was none.

  There was a table and two long-forgotten chairs in one of the first-floor rooms. Light flooded into the room from an uncommonly lovely oriole-style window at the front of the building.

  ‘It’s Elizabethan,’ he said on noticing her interest.

  ‘It’s a lovely view.’ Bending her head back to her notes, she sipped tea from a chipped china cup. It didn’t matter that it was chipped. All that mattered to her at this moment was this building, the fact that they weren’t selling enough wine to cover their outgoings, and that the amount produced at the vineyard in Spain was greater than the amount being sold from their own premises.