Dovecote

by Oleson, Anne Britting;

  “Wait.” The book made her speak. “Tommy Chelton.” Gwynn cleared her throat. Why were the words so slow in coming suddenly? Her throat felt thick. “Do you know when he died?”

  Mary now settled her black purse over her arm.

  “I don’t recall,” she said. “I was only a child. I wasn’t paying attention at that point.”

  As though she had been paying careful attention to the goings-on of the village since then, was the implication.

  Mary stopped at the front door and turned partway.

  “My old father, though,” she said slowly, “might have your answers.” She was frowning, as though trying to work through a difficult decision. “I’ll ask him.”

  She let herself out, shutting the door with a decisive click.

  SLOWLY GWYNN LOWERED her eyes to the book in her hands, then let it fall open to the place Mary had marked.

  The Sleeping Beauty.

  13

  THERE WERE NO windows, Gwynn suddenly realized, at the back of the house, no windows overlooking the rear garden. Nonsensical. What was the point of a garden behind the house if there was no way to see it? Even the kitchen door had only a tiny clouded pane of glass, impossible to see out of; otherwise the door was solid, stout oak.

  From her seat in the wing-backed chair, Gwynn examined the rear of the sitting room. The wood-burning stove in its alcove took up most of the wall. She stood and crossed to the dining room. On that back wall, a framed print of a man reading, a bowl of grapes at his elbow, but no window. There were none in the bedrooms upstairs either, where there might have been dormers, but weren’t. The cottage made no sense, architecturally speaking. None.

  The curious thing, Gwynn realized as she sank back into the chair, was that, with all her years working with and then without Richard at the company—a construction company, for heaven’s sake—she had not thought of this before. Gull Cottage was totally blind on one side. Gull Cottage faced Eyewell Lane and steadfastly turned its back on the garden, the wood, and—the dovecote. Just as, it would seem, her great-aunt had, for half a century.

  Gwynn bit her lip and turned back to the front window, where she could see The Stolen Child, and its bow windows encroaching on the pavement. Not an overly cheerful view in that direction, either.

  COLIN MOORE APPEARED an hour later, knocking briskly. “I’ve brought clippers,” he said without preamble, as she opened the door to him. “To do something about the brambles in the back garden.”

  Gwynn nodded. “I think just clippers might be optimistic. We probably need an exorcism.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” He cocked his head. “Can I come through? It’s the only way into the garden. We’re going to have to throw the brambles over the wall.”

  “Or carry them back through the kitchen.” Gwynn stopped, reminded forcefully of her morning’s musings, then turned to stare up into his face. “Hold on.” She shook her head. “Hold on. Colin. That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” he agreed. “There should be another way into the garden. From the path up from the road. On the side.”

  “But there isn’t.”

  “There isn’t.”

  Gwynn pushed past him, out onto the tiny terrace, around the side of the house and past the woodshed. Here the high garden wall met the hillside, and turned to surround the back, where the gate was now broken, open to the woods beyond. Colin had followed her.

  “Why have I never thought of this either? Why?” Gwynn shook her head, held her hands out helplessly. “There should be a gate on this side.”

  Colin scuffed his boot into the ground. “Look at the path.”

  She did as she was told. It ran up from the road, where Colin’s work truck was parked, the back empty of wood this time, the barrow strapped down inside. Well-worn, a path that had been used for years, for decades. It met the terrace and moved to the woodshed. Turned right into the woodshed.

  “Did there used to be a gate here?” Gwynn asked, reaching an unsteady hand to the woodshed door. “Through here?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Someone built the shed here and blocked it off. The only way into the garden, unless you went into the house.”

  “Looks like.”

  Brambles, thorns, gateways blocked off.

  Sleeping Beauty.

  “Something is very wrong here,” she muttered.

  “It is.” Colin’s gaze was steady.

  HE WIPED HIS boots carefully on the mat before making his way through the sitting room and kitchen to the rear door. His was the ease of familiarity, but then, he had slept, the other night, on that sofa. She felt herself flush at the thought. Colin had also worked for years for her great-aunt. Had filled that woodshed, the one built to block the side entrance to the rear garden.

  “How long did you work for my great-aunt?” she asked, trying to make sense of this new nonsensical thing.

  Colin tossed her a look over his shoulder. “That’s a bit strong a term, ‘worked for.’ I did odd jobs for Mrs. Chelton when she asked.” He looked over the brambles thoughtfully, his eyes resting for a long time at the space in the wall where now they knew to look, they could make out the newer stonework, fitted carefully into the space where a gate had once been. “Sometimes when she didn’t. And I brought her wood.”

  “Of course.” Gwynn swallowed, shutting the kitchen door behind her. “You didn’t build the woodshed?”

  He shook his head. “That’s been there as long as I remember. From before my time.”

  “So someone blocked off the exit a while back.” Why would anyone do that? Who had done it? Had Gwynn Chelton hired someone? Had Tommy Chelton done it? The questions piled one on top of another in her mind. Then she realized what he had said. “Sometimes when she didn’t ask?”

  Colin shrugged, again with that offhand look tossed over his shoulder. “She was an elderly lady. She needed help, and for the most part, she wouldn’t ask for it.”

  There was something in his tone which implied things not given words. He stepped further into the watery November light, she following. The stoop was damp, and the brambles reared their ugly heads, glistening darkly from the rain overnight. Gwynn thought of the thicket of thorns which surrounded Sleeping Beauty’s castle, keeping suitors at bay: the story her great-aunt had been reading when she died. The story Mary had marked in the book. The thorns had overtaken the garden at the end of the long-widowed, long-lonely Gwynn’s life; but she, Gwynn Forest, was no princess, and she felt no need of suitors, nor protection from them. She did, however, feel the need to see the end of the brambles, especially as they caught at her clothing, and at her skin. She swore lightly, and, seeing the loose threads where the thorns had pulled at her sweater, swore more loudly. As she moved along the overgrown path, this kept happening, so she kept swearing.

  Colin looked at her with something akin to interest. She looked away quickly, stuck her hands into her pockets.

  “This is going to be some job.” Colin lifted his chin toward the side wall, the path on the other side. “We should start over here, clear the way to throw the canes over the wall. Do you have gloves? A heavy coat? If you’re going to help with this work, you’ll need them both.”

  Chastened by his tone, and by the thorns, she fought her way back to the house.

  THE WIND WAS picking up; it was cold. Despite the gloves and heavy coat, the brambles continued to scratch at her like wild things: between the glove and the sleeve, through the legs of her blue jeans, across her cheek when she turned too quickly. They pulled up the canes, piled them, threw them over the high stone wall. Colin got the barrow from his truck, and she could hear him filling it, rolling it down to the road, wheeling it back up again. For her part, she continued to build the pile, pulling until she had an armful of thorny canes, and throwing them next to the wall. Each time she returned to the spot where she’d been dragged out the last handfuls, she looked around her, feeling more and more hopeless.

  �
��The back of the truck is filled,” Colin said at last, returning through the kitchen. He pulled off his gloves and wiped his forehead with his rough sleeve. His look at the garden was calculating. “I don’t know how many more loads it will take to finish.”

  “Where will you take them?” Gwynn too wiped at her forehead, knowing herself to be flushed, hair a mess, bleeding where the thorns had dragged across her skin.

  “Farm tip,” he said, tossing his head in the general direction of the village outskirts. “A friend’s. He doesn’t mind.” He slapped the gloves against his leg. “Won’t take long. Want to come?”

  Gwynn threw a glance around, knowing she could keep working, feeling it was of no use.

  “All right,” she said.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Might want to wash your face first.” He reached out a finger and touched her cheek. Then he showed her the blood.

  They both washed up at the kitchen sink, and he examined her face under the light. “Little scratch. Don’t think you’ll die of it.”

  “Am I scarred for life?” she asked.

  Colin cocked his head. “You tell me.”

  14

  THEY HEADED INLAND, away from the estuary and the village, the sun now pushing the shadow of the truck along in front of them.

  “Just watch out for Giles, is all,” Colin warned as he turned left down a long farm track. A five-barred gate blocked the way; Colin climbed down from the truck, opened it, drove through, closed it behind them. “He fancies himself a bit of a ladies’ man.” The look he cast sideways at her was unreadable.

  They bumped along the track toward a low stone farmhouse in the midst of a cluster of outbuildings; as they neared, two geese lifted their wings and made an angry show of getting out of the way. Colin tapped the horn twice, but did not stop at the house. He skirted the barn, where an elderly man in an overall raised a hand—the ladies’ man’s father?—and followed the track up the hill toward a pile of wooden scrap and litter. He swung the truck around and backed up to the mound.

  “For Bonfire Night,” he explained as she came around to join him at the bed of the truck. “Giles always throws a good one.” Colin reached under the pile of canes and pulled out a rake. “Stand clear.” With a couple of sweeps, he pulled the canes from the bed of the truck and into the pile.

  Gwynn reached in a gloved hand, pulled out a few stragglers, and tossed them with their brethren. “Party?”

  Colin nodded, closing the truck gate. “Ceilidh. After a fashion. Bonfire. A bit of cider.”

  The elderly man was stumping up the track toward them, a border collie to heel. Colin raised his hand, and remained standing next to the truck.

  The old man wore a cap and had a snowy beard, and, Gwynn noted, fingerless gloves, as though his hands were cold, but he needed his fingers for fine work. He leaned against the side of the truck and appraised her with black eyes like currants. The dog lay down at his feet.

  “You’re Gwynneth, then,” he said, nodding. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

  Colin shook his head sadly. “I warned her, Giles.”

  Not Giles’ father.

  The farmer threw up his hands.

  “You’re Giles,” Gwynn said. “You’re the ladies’ man.”

  He held out his hand, and when she put hers into it, he covered it with his other one. The grin split his wide red face. “He spoils everything, does our Colin. Can I help it if I’m full of charm?”

  “Full of something,” Colin retorted, tossing his gloves into the cab of the truck.

  Still Giles held onto Gwynn’s hand as though on to some sort of lifeline. “Giles Trevelyan. Of Trevelyan Court Farm since the dawn of time.” He nodded to the dog, who lay still save her brown eyes, which studied each of them in turn. “This is Star. And you’re Gwynn Chelton’s niece, come to live in her house now, I hope.”

  Gwynn shrugged, smiled noncommittally. “We’ll see how things sort themselves out. I’ve just been here a few days.”

  The snapping dark eyes widened, and then the farmer winked at Colin. “A few days, and already fallen into the clutches of our Colin.” He laughed. “And he calls me a ladies’ man, does he?”

  “Just cleaning up the back garden at Gull Cottage,” Colin said. His voice was still pleasant, but he shifted slightly. “Mrs. Chelton—it got away from her. Brambles.”

  Finally Giles let go of Gwynn’s hand, but only to reach into his side pocket and withdraw a short-stemmed pipe. He searched his other pocket, then patted his trousers. “Blast. You haven’t got a match anywhere about, have you?”

  Gwynn shook her head, and Colin laughed.

  “Best you find a match by Bonfire Night, then, Giles.”

  “You be coming, then?” A second time Giles searched all his pockets, as though certain he had had matches only moments before. Perhaps he had. “And you’ll be bringing your lady here?”

  Again the shift. “Gwynn’s not my lady, Giles.”

  Again the wink. “Then the field’s wide open for such as me.” Giles leaned closer to Gwynn. “You’ll be coming? Fine craic.”

  He was charming, that was for certain. She smiled at him warmly.

  Giles jerked his beard at Colin. “Get the lug to give you a lift. Least he can do, the unchivalrous bastard.”

  Now Colin looked up at the sky, where the weak sun was drawing the afternoon along. “Have to get going. Give you a ride back down?”

  Giles shook his head, the pipe stem clamped between his teeth. “Best not. I’d just cramp your style. I’ll walk.” But instead of heading downhill, he turned up to circle the burn pile, raising a genial hand over his head in farewell.

  They climbed back into the work truck, and Colin turned the key.

  “What’s your style, then?” Gwynn asked as they bumped back down toward the farmyard.

  He kept his eyes steady on the track. “Haven’t got one.”

  WHEN THEY PULLED back up in front of the Gull Cottage, the first thing Gwynn saw was Paul Stokes, leaning against the stone front of The Stolen Child, smoking his ever-present cigarette. He kept his eyes on them as they climbed out of the truck; Gwynn could feel his angry gaze on the back of her neck all the way up to the terrace. Her hands fumbled as she attempted to unlock the front door. Then she turned, and found him staring at her. As she met his eyes, he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it away contemptuously. His expression, even from this far away, was clear, making plain he’d like to do the same with her: flick her away contemptuously, like so much trash.

  “Ignore him,” Colin murmured, leaning close to her ear.

  Inside, she offered Colin coffee, knowing he’d refuse, knowing what he’d say.

  “Best get back to work. Not much time before sundown.”

  They had, she realized as she opened the kitchen door to the back garden, forgotten to shut the gate in the stone wall; but then, since they’d pried it open, it had refused to close all the way anyway. Still—and somehow she had expected it—somehow she had feared it—the brambles seemed to have returned, growing closer now to the kitchen door, growing more thickly across what formerly had been the path to the gate.

  “How can this happen?” she whispered, dumbfounded.

  “More things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” Colin said thinly, pulling on his gloves once more and stepping outside.

  15

  “DINNER?” HE ASKED as the sun began to fail them, and their courage began to flag.

  Gwynn looked around the rear garden hopelessly. In her mind’s eye she could see it laid out properly, with borders, roses in the spring and summer, perhaps a garden chair or two around a table. Now she felt defeated: her romantic imaginings of a walled garden—her own secret garden, perhaps—looked as though they’d never come to fruition in the face of this stubborn jungle of brambles.

  She sighed heavily. “I’m hardly in any shape to go anywhere.” She spread her hands and looked down the length of herself, scratched skin, torn jeans. She b
lew her hair out of her face, and it fluttered back down and stuck to her sweaty forehead.

  “Me, neither.” Colin, she though appraisingly, did not look any worse for wear; if anything, he looked more rugged, his dark hair glinting with that silver at the temples in the fading light. “But neither do I feel like fixing tea, and I expect you don’t, either.”

  Gwynn’s shoulders slumped. Her back ached, and she was bone-weary, but hungry, too—the kind of hungry that woke a person in the night and held her hostage if she didn’t eat before bedtime.

  “Leave this,” he said. “We’ll walk to the harbor.”

  Again they washed up at the kitchen sink before setting out. After she locked the front door carefully behind them, Colin led her down Eyewell Lane to the corner, where they turned left, he taking the outside of the pavement, near traffic. What traffic there was, of course, which was next to none. The shadows were long and deep, the whitewashed buildings hulking toward each other. As they walked, a streetlight flickered on ahead of them, and then another, and soon they were following lights like a string of pearls down the winding street.

  “Here.” Colin touched her elbow at the end of a block, where two wide plate-glass windows fronted on the pavement. He opened the wooden door for her. Inside, two granite steps led to a second door. Beyond this was a narrow space with a handful of well-worn tables and mismatched chairs along one wall, and a counter at the back. Two men at one of the tables nodded in greeting; one had, in front of him, a paper plate mounded with fish and chips.

  The man behind the counter was round and red-faced, wearing a grease-spattered butcher’s apron. He grinned as they approached.

  “Colin,” he said, nodding.

  “John,” Colin returned. He glanced at Gwynn. “Cod and chips do you?”

  She nodded.

  “Two, then, John, please.” Gwynn reached into her pocket, and Colin put a hand on her arm. “On me.”