Gifthorse: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  By mid-afternoon she climbed down the wall-ladder into the office and announced that she would take the letters for posting a little earlier than usual.

  “We had some more snow while you were working in your room,” Marnie said. “Would you like to take the Discovery? The keys are on the hook.”

  Anne gave an impish smile. “No thanks. I don’t need quite so many horsepower to get up to the village.”

  Marnie looked pensive. “You don’t need …? Ah, right. Will Poppy go with you?”

  “She seems to know what’s what. I don’t know anything about horses, but this one seems to have everything worked out.”

  “And Willow isn’t going to meet Ben from school herself?”

  “Not as far as I know. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to be taken to school like a little kid. He’s quite an independent sort.”

  *

  All the way up the field track Anne was wondering how far to go with Poppy. By the time she reached the gate, she had decided to let the horse choose for herself. She had already learnt that Poppy was as bright as she suspected. When she went round to the stable barn the horse was looking out for her. As soon as Anne approached, Poppy walked out between the straw bales and grunted what sounded like a greeting. Anne offered her an apple, which was accepted, and the two of them set off on their walk.

  They were clear of the buildings before Anne remembered the halter and leading rein. She stopped and turned to go back for it. Poppy stopped and looked at her. Their cloudy breath mingled in the chilly air. After a few moments’ thought, Anne thrust her hands into her pockets and walked on. Poppy followed, and they plodded together through the snow to the top of the field. At the gate, Anne turned to the horse.

  “Well, are you going to wait here or come to the shop? It’s up to you.”

  She set off again. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Poppy advance a few steps, look up and down the road and cross over to walk on the other side. This time Anne followed her. When they reached the school entrance the horse stopped.

  On both sides of the road cars were parked, some with engines running. Mothers were waiting for their children at the end of the school day. Here and there small groups of women were chatting in clusters. Anne was aware of faces pointing in her direction. Now she realised she had taken a wrong decision when they left Glebe Farm. She had no means of securing Poppy to the railings.

  “Stay there, Poppy,” she said, emphasising the point with a finger. “I won’t be long.”

  Anne slithered as quickly as she could to the post-box, pushed her letters through the slot and hurried back to find Poppy standing where she had left her. A minute later the school doors opened and children rushed out. Ben was among the first. He wasted no time on greetings, apart from a quick pat on the horse’s neck.

  “Let’s go.”

  Anne wondered if she had made a mistake in bringing Poppy up to meet him, but as soon as they were walking down the road, Ben smiled up at her and surprised her by taking her hand.

  “How was school?” Anne asked.

  “Not bad.”

  “Have you been to school much, in the past, I mean?”

  “On and off.”

  “How does this one compare?”

  “Most of the kids are okay. Not sure about my teacher, though.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “It’s a he, Mr Meadows, only man teacher in the school.”

  “Why aren’t you sure about him?”

  A pause. “Not sure he likes me. He doesn’t make me feel very welcome.”

  *

  It was an evening for comfort food. The canal was frozen, and more snow was falling when Walker and Co finished work for the day. In the galley on Sally Ann Marnie crushed three cloves of garlic and fried them in butter in the pan, which she filled with tiger prawns. While Marnie stirred them, Anne made a mixture using six free range eggs, plus milk and seasoning. Two part-baked baguettes were cooking in the oven. It was not just food; it was Sally Ann supper food.

  Ralph laid the table for three in the saloon and opened a bottle of red Rioja. The timer sounded, and Anne took the bread out to cool on the workbench. When the wine was poured and all was in place, Marnie tipped the egg mixture into the pan with the prawns and stirred everything continuously until it was moist and fluffy. The smell of cooking in the cabin was glorious, though Marnie reflected that she was glad not to be sleeping on board that night.

  Steam rose from the plates as the meal began amid appreciative sounds. Ralph proposed a toast to the chefs and they clinked glasses across the table.

  “Revuelto de gambas,” Marnie proclaimed.

  “Viva España!” said Anne.

  Ralph made the observation that Marnie seemed in better sprits than she had been earlier in the day.

  “That’s because I’ve made a decision. I’m going down to see the flat in Docklands and make up my mind about it once and for all.”

  She explained about Quentin Blunt’s proposal and how she knew it was time to put the memory of Simon behind her and face the future.

  “When will you be going?” Ralph asked.

  “The sooner, the better.” Marnie’s tone was firm. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  Ralph tapped the window lightly. “Will you be hiring a sledge and a team of huskies?”

  Marnie looked at Ralph, undaunted. “I know it won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible.”

  “Drive to the station in the Disco?” said Anne.

  “Exactly.” She turned to Ralph. “Do you need to be away from here tomorrow?”

  “No. I have everything I need for now.”

  “Then I can leave you two in charge. I’ll be there and back in a day.”

  Anne made a throat-clearing sound and looked stern. “You’ll need me to ride shotgun.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Ever heard of wild horses?”

  “What about boat horses?” said Marnie.

  “I can leave Poppy a big bag of apples. She’ll survive.”

  Chapter 15

  Butler’s Wharf

  The plan for Tuesday morning was simple. Anne would take Ben and Poppy to school, collect the mail from the shop and lead the horse back to Glebe Farm. Correction. Poppy would lead Anne back.

  At the gate Anne explained that she would not be there to meet Ben after school. He looked briefly downhearted, but rallied to kiss her quickly on the cheek before going into the playground. On her way back, clutching that morning’s bundle of mail, Anne was within twenty paces of the school gate when Poppy bobbed her great head up and down, snorted and turned for home. The small gathering of mothers at the gate parted to let them through. One of them turned to Anne as she passed.

  “Hallo, Anne. We had to restrain the children.”

  Anne looked across the deserted playground. “Rather drastically, it seems.”

  The mother laughed. “Mrs Giles called them in to save the horse from danger.”

  Anne stared. “Danger?”

  “I think just about every child in the school brought an apple to give to, er …” She inclined her head towards the horse who had stopped to wait for Anne.

  “Poppy,” Anne said. “Her name’s Poppy. She’s a boat horse. They’re staying with us, frozen in on the canal.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “So the danger was what, a surfeit of apples?”

  “Absolutely. I think she’d had about six before we got the children to stop feeding her.”

  *

  Down at Glebe Farm Anne found the Discovery standing in the courtyard, with Marnie heaving her shoulder bag onto the back seat. She went off to see Ralph while Anne sorted the post. Minutes later they were slipping and sliding up the field track, Marnie steering through the snow, careful to avoid the treacherous channel of impacted ice that they had dubbed the Cresta Run.

  Once out of the village they found the main road was clear, though gathering clouds were threatening a further fall. By the time they r
eached Milton Keynes central station the heavy morning traffic was past, and Marnie slotted the Disco into a space in the multi-storey car park.

  They caught the first available train, a non-stop express, and arrived in London soon after ten. It had been a useful journey for Walker and Co. Armed with compliments slips, envelopes and stamps, Anne had dealt with the correspondence before they arrived in Euston and dropped the replies in a post-box on their way to the Underground at Euston Square.

  Emerging from the tube at Tower Hill, they felt as if they had arrived in another country. The view from the train down to London had shown a landscape blanketed white in every direction. Glimpses of the canal had revealed an impenetrable highway of ice, boats encased in snowdrifts, lock gates encrusted with frost, the air misty and chilled. In contrast, the streets of London had scarcely a trace of snow, the pavements merely damp underfoot. Marnie and Anne raised their collars against the frigid atmosphere and crossed the river by Tower Bridge.

  Taking the first turning on the left after the bridge, they walked between the ancient wharf buildings, now converted into a precinct of luxury apartments, shops and restaurants, linked with wrought iron overhead walkways. At the furthest entrance, Marnie keyed in the security number on the touchpad and pressed her access card against the panel. The door clicked and allowed them to enter.

  They took the lift to the fifth floor and turned to cross the lobby towards the flat’s entrance. Both of them stopped abruptly. The door was half open, and momentarily Marnie wondered if they had exited at the wrong floor by mistake. She checked the number on the wall, glanced at Anne and stepped forward. From inside came the sound of machinery. Marnie signalled to Anne to stay in the doorway and walked into the living area.

  She had advanced barely three paces when a woman emerged from another room and caught sight of her. They stared at each other, the stranger clearly disconcerted. She said something that Marnie could not hear properly. A vacuum cleaner was running nearby. The woman turned her head and called out.

  “Maria. Can you stop that for a moment, please.”

  The sound faded and the woman turned back to Marnie, this time looking more composed.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d agreed eleven o’clock with Mr Blunt, my colleague.”

  Marnie was puzzled. “I haven’t spoken to Mr Blunt.”

  “You haven’t? Then, can I help you? I’m Ginny Spielman. Did someone else from the office send you?”

  Marnie put her shoulder-bag down on the nearest sofa, a gesture observed by Ginny Spielman with evident disapproval.

  “Ms Spielman, nobody sent me.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying you didn’t make an appointment to view?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “The thing is –”“The thing is,” Marnie interrupted, “I don’t need an appointment to visit my own flat after my tenants have vacated.”

  “Oh …”

  “Who were you expecting?” Marnie asked.

  The question took Ginny Spielman by surprise, and she was clearly not sure how to answer.

  Marnie continued. “You don’t want to give the name of a client. I can understand that. On the other hand, you’ll probably need to contact her, or him, or them, to save them a wasted journey. You can use that phone if you wish.”

  *

  At Glebe Farm it was snowing again. Ralph was installed in the office barn proof-reading a chapter for his latest book. Every ten minutes on average the phone rang, and by mid-morning he had compiled a list of several messages for Walker and Co. He wondered how Marnie ever managed to maintain the concentration she needed for her design work.

  He was reading a paragraph for the third time, trying to make sense of what he had written, when the phone rang again.

  “Ralph Lombard. Sorry, I mean Walker and Co.”

  “Hallo Ralph, it’s Molly Appleton at the shop. I’ve got a delivery for you, well for Marnie, actually.”

  “I thought Anne was collecting the post, Molly.”

  “No, this is different. It’s flowers from Interflora. They were supposed to deliver them yesterday, but couldn’t get through. The van’s here now, but the driver says she can’t get down the field, too much snow.”

  “Could she leave them with you, Molly? We’ll fetch them later on.”

  *

  When they had the flat to themselves, Marnie wandered slowly from room to room. Since Simon’s death it had been let to a small number of tenants, mainly bankers from abroad, and they had kept it in good order. The apartment held few memories for her, but most of them included Simon. Had he really been dead nearly two years? The emotion she felt had been dimmed by the unexpected encounter with the agent and the cleaner.

  Anne stayed in the background to give Marnie space to roam at will in her private thoughts. Marnie stopped by the window to stare down at the river, curving away towards a horizon of low hills beyond the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. As she took in the view, snow began falling on Docklands, and the hills receded behind its white curtain. Anne appeared at her elbow.

  “Feel like a drink?” she said in a quiet voice.

  Marnie nodded. “Good idea.”

  “There’s a coffee place downstairs. Won’t be long.”

  Anne was out through the door and in the lift before Marnie could call her back. She knew it was just a pretext on Anne’s part to give her time alone in the flat.

  It was as beautiful as she remembered it. In contrast to the muted tones of the sofas and rugs, Simon had selected large oil and acrylic paintings for the walls, abstract interpretations of the Docklands riverscape in strong, deep colours. The apartment was a monument to the new Simon, the successful businessman he had become after years of struggling to keep up with Marnie. Any unfavourable comparison had been in his imagination only. For her, it had never been a competition. His sense of failure and stagnation had ultimately ruined their marriage.

  Ironic, she thought, that all that now remained of Simon were these symbols of wealth and achievement. This had been Simon’s home, Simon’s residence. What did it mean to Marnie? Was there any point in holding on to it?

  Marnie started as the doorbell rang. Of course, Anne had no key and was no doubt standing outside balancing two take-away coffees, possibly almost too hot to handle. Marnie was hurrying into the lobby to the front door when she realised that Anne had no means of gaining access to the inside of the block. Before opening the door she looked through the security peephole. A man was standing on the threshold. She opened the door.

  “Mrs Walker? So glad to catch you.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m Quentin Blunt.”

  *

  Ralph glanced up at the office clock. Almost noon, and he was starting to think of lunch. Through the window he could see snow falling again. The complex of farm buildings looked like an idealised Christmas card. For the umpteenth time that morning the phone rang. He took a pen in one hand and the receiver in the other.

  “Walker and Co, good morning.”

  “Oh …” The customary surprise in the tone on not hearing Anne’s or Marnie’s voice.

  “This is Ralph Lombard. May I know who’s calling?”

  “Ralph, of course. It’s Margaret Giles. I’m very sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, Margaret, I’m holding the fort. Can I take a message?”

  “Well, actually, it’s not really Marnie or Anne that I need to contact.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sorry, I’m talking in riddles. The thing is, I need to be in touch with Willow, Ben’s mother. Glebe Farm is my only contact address.”

  “Is there a problem with Ben?”

  “I’m afraid there is.”

  “Perhaps I could go and fetch her from their boat and she can ring you back?”

  “Would you mind? It’s an imposition, I know, but –”

  “Has there been an accident?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “Is Ben hurt?”

  “
It’s the other way round. We’ve had a violent incident in the playground. One of the boys has been hurt, and Ben was involved.”

  “I’ll take my mobile, Margaret. Expect a call in five minutes.”

  *

  They sat at the dining table with the great panorama of the City of London and the new business district beyond it as a backdrop. Quentin Blunt had taken a folder from his briefcase and it lay open on the table. Marnie had steadfastly left her bag on the sofa and was sitting with arms folded, eyeing him coolly.

  While Blunt made a fuss of taking out an expensive fountain pen and unscrewing its cap, Marnie wondered what had become of Anne. She had been gone for several minutes and should have returned by now. Marnie became aware that Blunt was speaking.

  “… to your considerable advantage, Mrs Walker.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was saying that in the current market with prices fairly stagnant, to have a firm offer above normal levels shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand.”

  “You told me you’d been put in touch with me by Roger Broadbent.”

  “That’s correct. He gave me your number. It’s on file.”

  “He gave you my office number two years ago, Mr Blunt. Your instructions were to deal with all matters through him as my solicitor.”

  “Of course. But when we received the offer it seemed appropriate to speak with you direct as the vendor.”

  “Who said I was a vendor?”

  Blunt said, “Potential vendor would possibly be more accurate.”

  Marnie stood up and walked to the window. She resented being put on the spot by a hustling estate agent. Perhaps even more, she resented her own indecisiveness. If she behaved as a designer the way she dealt with Simon’s estate, she’d be out of a job before you could say agent’s commission. While she looked down on a Victorian Thames barge lining up for Saint Katharine Docks, Blunt was droning on behind her.