Dovecote

by Oleson, Anne Britting;

  Fleetingly, she wondered what had happened to the last of the wood. Surely her great-aunt had not used it all up, planning her death that carefully? A morbid thought, that, unbidden and ugly. Once more her eyes went to the full-laden work truck. “Yes. Thank you.” Then, remembering herself, “Can I give you a cup of coffee before you start?”

  He shook his head. His dark hair, she saw, was graying at the temples. “I’d best just get it done. I’ve a few more deliveries before dark.” He took a step away, pulling on a pair of heavy work gloves, then turned. “Maybe after, then?”

  She nodded.

  GWYNN HAD NEVER used a French press, and now stood looking at it in perplexity.

  She had found the coffee and the grinder, but had no idea where to go from there. She set the tray, then again cursed herself at not having the solicitor make sure there was Internet laid on; she could have at least then looked up the process. She’d have to call and get that taken care of. Hands on hips, she glared at the press. The sound of Colin Moore’s barrow wheeling around the side of the cottage grew stronger, only to be replaced by a measured series of thunks as he emptied the wood into the shed. She’d offered the man coffee and now couldn’t make it. What kind of failure was she?

  There was no help for it. When he next wheeled a load up the drive from the street, she called out to him from the front doorway. “Can we do tea instead?”

  He set the barrow down, lifted a piece of wood in each hand. “You don’t have coffee? Leah down at the shops has some, next time you’re down in the village.”

  She felt her face warm. “I have the coffee. I just don’t know how to use the press.”

  Colin stepped out of view into the shed and just as quickly emerged empty-handed. He tripped off the gloves and handed them to her at the door. “Let me must wash my hands and I’ll start it for you.”

  Feeling somewhat stupid, she pulled the gloves onto her own hands—they were way too big—and approached the barrow. The wood was small, cut and split as if expressly for the stove in the sitting room; it was so dry that its light color was fading to gray. She grabbed a couple of pieces, took them into the low shed, returned for more. After a moment Colin reappeared, letting the front door swing shut behind him.

  “Coffee’s brewing now,” he said.

  She nodded, carrying another armload into the shed. There was something zen in the movement, something soothing.

  He watched for only a moment before he loaded up his own arms, waiting for her to emerge before he entered. He had to duck.

  “You want your gloves back?” she asked.

  Colin Moore shook his head, his gray gaze even on her face. “No. You wear them.”

  When the shed was filled, Colin lifted the barrow back onto the remainder of the truckload and tied it down. Gwynn handed him his work gloves, and he tossed them through the open window into the cab.

  “If you want to pour the coffee, I’ll get the money,” she offered.

  Over lunch, she had decided to make the dining room her studio office. Now, when she returned from it with the notes, she found he had carried the tray through from the kitchen to set it on the low table before the sitting room sofa. Then he bent to the stove, laying paper, kindling, and a small bit of firewood. In a moment the crackling of the hungry flames and the ticking of the warming stove pipe filled the room.

  “Milk?” Gwynn asked. “Sugar?”

  “Both,” he said, straightening. “For you, too, most likely—I forgot the coffee while we were stacking the wood, and it’s brewed probably until it’s Turkish.”

  She handed him a mug, then fixed one for herself. Colin was right—the coffee was strong, and bitter, but hot and fortifying. She took the wing-backed chair across from the sofa, her own mug cradled in both hands. Like Mary, he sat, but on the edge of the sofa cushion, as if prepared for flight. Gwynn wasn’t sure why she thought that; it wasn’t that he seemed nervous—far from it. Rather, he seemed impatient, as though he had somewhere to get to, something else to take care of. There was an energy that felt held in check. Well, he did have the rest of the firewood in the back of the work truck; he had told her, too, that he had another delivery to make.

  They drank in silence for a few moments.

  “You haven’t changed anything here,” he said finally.

  Gwynn shrugged. “I’ve been here one day. I came with a suitcase.”

  He nodded.

  They drank.

  Gwynn felt uncomfortable in the silence, but she felt incapable of witty conversation. At last she said, “You knew my great-aunt.” It was a statement, not a question. He’d delivered wood to the old woman. He’d known where the kitchen was. He was familiar enough with the furnishings that he would recognize change, apparently.

  Still, Colin took a moment to answer. “As well as anyone could, I suppose.” He took a long drink from his mug. “She didn’t like people.”

  This assessment surprised her in its baldness. She stared across the table at him, but he was examining his coffee as though the world depended upon it.

  “She liked you,” Gwynn objected.

  He shook his head. “No. But I didn’t pay much attention to that.” His smile was more of a grimace. “She was old. I delivered the wood. She paid me. After a while, when I saw something needing doing, I did it. She didn’t like it. But she could hardly argue, because she couldn’t do some things herself.”

  Gwen’s eyes traveled around the sitting room; she wondered what other things he mighthave done for her great-aunt. In an older cottage like this, it might have been anything. Everything.

  “I was surprised,” she said slowly, watching him, “that she willed me this house.”

  He looked up, raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “We never met,” she explained. “Never spoke on the telephone. Never exchanged Christmas cards.”

  “Odd.”

  Gwynn poured more coffee into her mug for something to do, took a sip. Quickly she reached for the milk. “It does. I knew she existed—my grandmother used to talk about her sometimes when I was a kid—but I figured, like everyone else in my family, that she had probably died long ago.”

  Her hand shook, and the hot coffee spilled onto her lap. She swore, set the cup down quickly, grabbed a napkin.

  Colin had not moved. “All right?” he asked after she threw the crumpled cloth onto the table.

  He was the most still person she thought she had ever met. Few words, few motions, much consideration. His eyes, though, were watchful, weighing—something.

  She felt herself flush. “Sorry.” But she wasn’t sure for what she was sorry. The shaking hands, the spill, the swearing. “What do you know about her?” she asked, the words coming fast to cover up her discomfort. “My great-aunt? Surely there are other relations she might have chosen to leave the house to.” She considered picking up the coffee mug again, but decided against it, and clasped her hands together between her knees instead. “I feel sort of guilty about this.”

  Another admission she had not meant to make. Damn. It had to be the stillness which forced her to let these things escape. Which made her say these things to a perfect stranger. She didn’t make small talk with people, hadn’t for years. Easier that way.

  Colin considered. “There were others. Paul Stokes, publican across at The Stolen Child—he’s one. Grandson of her older brother. No one any closer than you. She didn’t have children.”

  “No?”

  “Husband died young. She never married again.”

  Still he was watching her.

  Gwynn shivered. Cold? She got up quickly, moved to the stove to check the fire. It was still burning well, but she put another log into the firebox anyway.

  Her husband died young. And her name was Gwynneth.

  And I’m living in your house, Gwynn thought.

  She held her shaking hands out to the fire, trying to warm them.

  Behind her, Colin was collecting the coffee things; without speaking, he took the tray back
through the kitchen. When he returned, he cast her a single glance.

  “I’ve got to get this wood over to the Flynns’,” he said.

  He let himself out.

  4

  “MRS. TENNANT—” GWYNN was hesitant.

  “Mary, now. I’ve told you that, Mrs. Forest.”

  “Gwynn, then.”

  They were walking side-by-side along the pavement to the Co-op, to pick up staples for the house, Mary with an old-fashioned string bag over her arm, fat and swinging with her black purse. She wore her short black coat over her twinset—having changed out of her work dress—and sensible shoes.

  “What is it, then, Gwynn?” she asked, sounding uncomfortable but determined.

  Even with the prodding, Gwynn was unsure how to ask. “First, thanks for getting Colin Moore for me.”

  Mary nodded. “He’s a good man. Brought the firewood right over, I expect.”

  “He did.” They rounded the corner and headed up toward the B-road. “It made all the difference in the world this afternoon. The whole cottage is so much more comfortable with the fire in the stove.”

  Mary looked her, her dark head cocked to the side. “But—? There’s something else. Speak your mind.” Her brows were knitted, as though she expected some criticism. Of Colin Moore? Why, if he was such a good man?

  A pillar box appeared on their right. Mary stopped, snapped open her purse, and withdrew two envelopes, which she dropped through the slot before continuing.

  “He said—Colin Moore said—that my great-aunt didn’t like anyone.”

  Mary visibly relaxed. Her grimace was very much like Colin’s had been earlier. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s more than likely right about that.”

  “He said she had no children, never married again after her husband died.”

  They had reached the Co-op lot. “Get us a trolley, if you like,” Mary said, pointing to the serried rows in a rack to the side. “Put a pound in the slot.”

  Inside, they strolled down the aisle examining the vegetables. Gwynn frowned at the metrics. Mary shook her head sadly at the state of the produce.

  “Get a few things,” she advised. “Wait for the rest until market on Thursday.”

  She examined the beetroot, selected a bunch. Gwynn did as well, and then chose a couple of potatoes. When she paused beside the peas, Mary again shook her head; and Gwynn withdrew her hand.

  “You seem to have got quite a lot out of Colin,” Mary finally said, turning into the next aisle. “A man of few words, that one.”

  No more than he got out of me, Gwynn wanted to say, but didn’t. “You know him well?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes. Cousin to my husband, he is.” Mary reached purposefully for a package on the shelf, then changed her mind and chose a different brand.

  Gwynn pushed the trolley slowly; it had a recalcitrant wheel. Even in another country, she managed to choose the cart with the wheel that didn’t turn properly.

  “More like son of my husband’s cousin.” Mary shrugged. “All related one way or another around here. More than likely you’re some sort of cousin to us, too, if we went far enough back up the family tree.”

  They’d have to climb back up to her grandmother, who’d run off with a pilot once the war was over, straight across the Atlantic Ocean, never to return. And her grandmother’s older sister, and in turn, their older brother. The all had parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. No doubt Mary Tennant was right. No doubt the village of strangers she’d found herself in was actually a village of family. The thought shook Gwynn again, another shock in a series. Maybe she really wasn’t alone in the world. Maybe there were others. Maybe this was a place where she could fit in.

  “You look as though someone’d walked over your grave,” Mary said, placing a package of Bird’s custard mix in the trolley.

  “No,” Gwynn replied slowly. “No, I’m not dead yet.”

  She didn’t know why she said that.

  UPON THEIR RETURN to the cottage, Mary stiffly accepted the offer of a cup of tea.

  “Tell me more about my great-aunt,” Gwynn said, leaning against the door frame of the sitting room; Mary was again seated uncomfortably on the sofa, back straight, hands crossed over the handle of her purse. “Gwynn.” The name, her name—their name—tasted odd in her mouth. “Colin Moore said she didn’t like anyone. Not even him.”

  Mary did not look up, seeming to find great interest in the dying afternoon outside the window. “Oh, there’s plenty don’t care for Colin, I’m afraid. Find him stand-offish.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Mary sighed, and now her gaze dropped to her hands playing with the catch on her purse. She frowned and twined her fingers together. The silence between them grew and lengthened. Gwynn fought the urge to prod further, in an attempt to emulate Colin Moore: he needed only wait to have someone spill the beans. She found herself half-smiling at the thought. No doubt people here would find her stand-offish as well. But she could wait out Mary. She was willing to wait for the answer about her great-aunt, because that answer seemed suddenly very important.

  Behind her the tea water was boiling. Gwynn turned to fix the tray—what a civilized thing it was, the tea tray—then brought it out to the low table.

  “Mary,” she said. “Relax. Take off your coat.”

  Mary reluctantly undid three buttons, but stopped there. She looked poised—not for flight, but for cleaning. Had Mary ever been invited to sit down by Gwynn Chelton? She didn’t like anybody. Somehow Gwynn didn’t think her great-aunt had.

  “I can’t stay long,” Mary protested weakly. “I’ve got to get home to make Mr. Tennant’s tea.” She pursed her lips. “We spent more time at the Co-op than I’d intended.”

  Gwynn shrugged, implacable. “I’ll pay you extra.”

  Mary’s eyes flashed, a spark of anger momentarily animating her expression. Gwynn kept her own face still, watching. She poured a cup of tea and handed it to Mary, who immediately looked reproachful and reached for the milk and sugar.

  “You poured the tea the wrong way,” she said. Another dodge.

  “My great-aunt,” Gwynn repeated.

  “She was an angry old woman,” Mary said suddenly, setting the creamer back on the tray with a decided click. “Col was right. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like me. If she could have done without either of us, she would have.”

  It was a bald statement, like Colin’s, one that obviously made Mary uncomfortable. She glared across the table at Gwynn as though to challenge her.

  “But you both worked for her anyway.”

  The look Mary cast at her now had something of the Colin-ish in it. “She paid.” Then she backed down. “She always paid. She paid Colin extra when he did other things around the cottage for her—general handyman things he did in passing, when he delivered the wood.” She sipped her tea cautiously. “It was as though she wanted to make sure we kept a proper distance. She didn’t want our friendship. She didn’t want our kindness.”

  “She sounds sad.” Gwynn was suddenly awash with an unfamiliar kind of sorrow for the old woman she had not known, but who had left her home to someone as far away as possible without leaving it out of the family. Never met her, never spoke to her on the telephone, never wrote. Her great-aunt had been the stuff of myth when she had been growing up. Gwynn did not even remember her grandmother speaking of her older sister without a kind of I wonder what she’s doing now tone of voice. As though it were impossible to find out. The sadness in her chest suddenly steeled, morphing into a hard, angry loneliness, and Gwynn caught her breath at the foreignness of the feeling. She lifted her eyes to find Mary staring at her speculatively.

  “She sounds lonely,” Gwynn said quickly.

  Mary lowered her gaze and began to inspect the shortbread laid out on the china plate. She slowly reached a hand to take one not-quite-perfectly round cookie and bit into it, as if suspicious of some further shortcoming.

  “That’s how I always thought. That’s why I
really kept coming back, and Col, too. I lied to you when I said it was for the money. It wasn’t really. Of course, Mrs. Chelton would never have admitted to any such feeling. But you can be lonely without admitting it to anyone, can’t you?” Mary cocked her head, thinking through this radical thought. “Without even admitting it to yourself.”

  Yes, you could. You could live that way until you died.

  The voice in her head didn’t even sound like her own. For a moment Gwynn felt tears threatening behind her eyelids, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  5

  GWYNN SPENT THE rest of the evening restlessly rearranging the dining room, trying to make it conform to her idea of a makeshift studio. Without a desk, the dining table, heavy and dark, would have to do; she pulled it out of the center of the room and closer to the front window, choosing the armed dining chair from the head of the table for her own. The other dining chairs she ranged along the wall until she could figure out what to do with them. She should have asked Mary; perhaps there was someone who would need the set? The ornately carved legs, foursquare and stocky, were enough to put her off. The room, with only the single window, was gloomy enough without the dining set’s heaviness to drag it down further.

  The two occasional chairs and small coffee table found their way to the rear of the room. The arrangement was highly unsatisfactory from an aesthetic point of view. Gwynn wiped her hands down her jeans and frowned. It was a workspace, that was all, until she could figure out what to do with the cottage. She’d never had a studio. All those years working in the office, all those years after art school when she’d followed Richard’s star and not her own—even with the unsatisfactory lighting, this room pleased a tiny hidden place in her. A studio. To see if she could do it, come up with the whimsical drawings Belinda had requested for her book. To see if she could at least make a start as an illustrator.

  Now she considered, looking down at her empty palms. She should have asked Colin Moore’s help in shifting the furniture earlier. Yet he had been the one to remark upon her not changing anything in the house—in the first twenty-four hours. Would he approve? Even if he didn’t, she had a feeling he wouldn’t speak his thoughts. She slid into the chair at the table, where she could look out on Eyewell Lane, and wondered whether she’d moved things around now just to spite his judgment. An old boxy Volvo passed, laboring its way up the hill away from the village. A man in a red windcheater and tweed hat was walking downhill opposite; he turned into the pub doorway and let himself in. A customer? Gwynn put her chin in her hand and imagined he was her cousin. Grandson of her great-uncle, actually. Second cousin? Something like that. She wished she’d asked the solicitor for more details about other relations.