Night Music

by Jojo Moyes

  Matt pulled the little leather box from his inside pocket, and opened it, allowing the ruby ring with the seed pearls to glint in the sunlight. It had been so easy to spot what had been hers. 'Nice ring,' the jeweller had said. 'Victorian. Unusual.' It had glowed in the little shop, stood out from other jewels. Like she did.

  Matt suspected he had been charged twice what Isabel would have received for it, but he didn't care. He wanted to see her face when she opened the box. He wanted to see her gratitude when she saw what he'd done for her.

  What did the money matter now? He and Laura had had money sitting in the bank for years, and what good had it done them? He had not yet managed to convey to Isabel how he felt. The ring would prove to her that he understood what she wanted and what she had lost. He liked the fact that no one else knew about her ring but him. A ruby: the colour of passion, of desire, of sex. Holding it had felt like holding part of her.

  He was about to drive his van out of the woods and on to her driveway when he saw another car pull up. A man in a suit got out.

  Matt watched him glance up at the house. Some old friend, perhaps. Or an official. His sense of anticipation evaporated. He had wanted to pick his moment carefully, make sure the children weren't there. It would only work if the two of them were alone.

  He put the ring back into his pocket. He was a patient man. He had all the time in the world.

  'Yes?'

  For a moment he was stumped. He had knocked on the door for nearly ten minutes, then decided that nobody was in so had taken a few steps back to get a comprehensive view of the house that had occupied his thoughts for so many weeks.

  There was a large crack running from the upper window diagonally downwards - subsidence or heave, which was perhaps not surprising when the house bordered a lake and woods. A new window had been poorly fitted, daylight visible in the gap between wood and brick where no one had filled it. A piece of pale blue plastic flapped listlessly over the glass. The roof was unfinished, plastic guttering unfixed. The walls were partially clad in scaffolding for which he could see no obvious purpose.

  He took another step back. An assortment of mismatched and ramshackle garden furniture stood on the lawn, but even that could not detract from the beauty of the setting. The lake made up for everything. This beautiful, peaceful place had an atmosphere he had rarely encountered, the kind of ambience one expected to find around a Scottish loch or somewhere much further out in the wilds. This part of Norfolk was commutable - Mike Todd had told him so. Work in London and live in the heart of the countryside. He could almost see the glossy brochure now. Perhaps he and Laura would take one of the houses - there was something so seductive about the place.

  And then he saw her: a tousled woman in a crumpled linen shirt, squinting at him. 'Yes?'

  For a moment he forgot what he wanted to say. He had had his opening prepared for so long and her unexpected appearance had wrongfooted him. This was the woman who had caused Laura such unhappiness.

  'I'm so sorry to disturb you,' he said, striding forward and extending a hand. She allowed him to shake hers. 'Perhaps I should have rung first. I've come about the house.'

  'Oh. Gosh. That was fast,' she said. 'What time is it?'

  He pulled back his cuff. 'A quarter to ten.'

  This appeared to surprise her. When she spoke it was to herself. 'I don't even remember dropping off . . . Look, I need to make a cup of coffee. Would you like one?'

  He followed her in. She walked a couple of paces ahead of him into the kitchen. He tried to suppress his instinctive dislike. He was not sure what he had expected - someone less chaotic-looking perhaps, someone a little more calculated.

  'In here,' she muttered. 'Do sit down. This may sound a silly question, but have you seen any children around?'

  The kitchen was badly in need of updating. It had not been touched for decades. Nicholas gazed at the cracked linoleum, the faded paintwork, which had been decorated with odd photographs, dried flowers and a piece of painted clay - an attempt to bring domesticity into an environment that, frankly, he would have considered uninhabitable. Around the outside of the house, visible through the windows, fruit and vegetables hung in orange nets in the shade of the eaves, like multicoloured teardrops.

  She ran water into the kettle and placed it on the stove, then opened the larder, reached in and sniffed at a carton of milk. Still okay. Just. 'We have no fridge.'

  'I'll take mine black, thank you,' Nicholas said stiffly.

  'Probably sensible,' she conceded, placing the carton back inside. She handed him the coffee, then picked up on his surprise at their surroundings. 'This is the only room that hasn't been touched. I don't suppose it's any different from when my great-uncle lived here. Do you want to take a look round?'

  'You don't mind?'

  'I guess you'll need to see everything.'

  Who could have told her he was coming? He had thought she might be defensive, suspicious, even, but she seemed to be anticipating whatever he had to say.

  She picked up a piece of paper from the table, and studied its scribbled contents for a minute. Then she glanced out of the window at the lake. 'Do go ahead,' she said, taking a swig of coffee. 'I'll follow you up in a minute. I need to pull my head together.' She smiled apologetically and gestured to some steps. 'It's all right. There's no one here to disturb.'

  He didn't need telling again. Nicholas took his mug and went to re-examine the house that would be his future.

  It was almost twenty minutes before she reappeared. She had changed into different clothes, a fresh T-shirt and loose skirt, and had tied her hair back.

  He glanced up from his notes. From the landing, he had been staring in through the door of what must be the master bedroom. 'Are you knocking these rooms through?' he asked. Rubble and plaster dust lay on the bedlinen.

  'That,' she said carefully, 'is a long story. But no. We won't be knocking through.'

  'You need to repair that hole quickly, or get someone to fit an RSJ. It's a major gap in a load-bearing wall.' He inspected a crack in the corner, but when he turned back to her she was peering out of the window. 'Mrs Delancey?'

  'Yes? I'm so sorry. I . . . haven't slept much. Perhaps we should discuss all this later.'

  'Do you mind if we go outside? I've seen everything I need inside.'

  He had certainly seen enough to clarify his thoughts. Laura's husband was a cowboy. The house was a bizarre mixture of high-quality craftsmanship and demolition job, as if two separate tradesmen had carried out the work, almost in opposition to each other. What was clear, however, was that repairing the house would be a greater challenge than even Laura could have imagined. When he had last come here, it had seemed merely tired, a series of jobs that needed doing. What he had seen today had confirmed his belief that the best thing for this building would be to bring it down and start again. But how to put that to Laura?

  He followed her downstairs and out into the sunshine. The sun was hot and he regretted wearing a jacket almost as soon as they set foot outside. He followed her to the scaffolding, swatting vainly at flies.

  'That chimney is going to be capped,' she said, pointing. 'At least, I think it's that one. And there's a new drainage pipe under here . . . or it might be there . . .' She listed some other works, most of which were impossible to quantify.

  He felt sudden pity for her. Her house was being brought down around her ears, and she was sitting in the midst of it all, apparently unaware of what was going on.

  'So, what do you think?' she said, perhaps catching his solemn expression.

  'Mrs Delancey,' he began, 'I . . .' He was lost for words.

  They stared at the cracked brickwork, the piles of rubble and bags of cement.

  She regarded him carefully. 'You think it's awful, don't you?' She didn't wait for him to reply. 'Oh, God, I do know it's a mess. I suppose . . . I suppose when you live with it you stop seeing quite what a disaster it all is.'

  She looked crushed, and Nicholas fought the urge
to comfort her. He could see in her then what had captivated Laura's husband. She was a girl-woman, whose air of vulnerability demanded that he protect her. Inadvertently she would bestow on any man the sheen of a suit of armour.

  'So, what should I do?' She had painted on a brave smile.

  'I suppose,' he said, 'it might be helpful if I outlined what I thought was wrong. If you really want me to.'

  'Yes,' she said firmly. 'I need to know.'

  'Okay. Let's start with the roof . . .'

  Matt watched through his windscreen as the man showed Isabel his notebook, then pointed past the scaffolding at the back of the house to the point where the ridge tiles met the chimney stack. At first he had thought he might be a musician, then perhaps a teacher - there were so few men round here who wore suits - but now he was apparently discussing Matt's house, Matt's work. And from the shaking of his head, and Isabel's tense expression, what he was saying was not complimentary.

  Matt placed the little jewel box in his pocket and climbed out of the van. He closed the door quietly and walked closer, taking care to remain partially hidden by the trees. It was no one from the council. He knew almost everyone in the building regulations department. This man was well spoken, unfamiliar. A touch of bookishness about him, like a professor.

  'Structurally, something has become weakened here,' the man was saying, gesturing at the wall. 'We haven't had a particularly dry summer, or a wet winter, and the crack looks fairly new so I assume that it was caused by the building work.'

  'The building work?' Isabel's voice was shocked.

  'I'm afraid so. Has there been much knocking around inside? It looks like it's taken a bashing.'

  She half laughed, a mirthless sound. 'Well, you've seen it all. So much has gone on inside, and I wasn't always keeping track.'

  Matt's heart beat an uncomfortably vigorous tattoo. What the hell was the man trying to do?

  'I can't say much about the drainage and sewage, but obviously the bathroom's unfinished. The kitchen is completely unmodernised. But these are cosmetic. The master bedroom is the only room that appears to have been renovated to any kind of standard, but there you have the damaged wall . . . There's evidence of damp, and possibly dry rot in the east wing. I took the liberty of removing a piece of skirting-board and I'm afraid it warrants further investigation. I suspect death-watch beetle under the stairs. And you only seem to have half of a hot-water system - some of the pipework is incomprehensible in its layout.'

  'Are you saying all this is because of our builder?'

  The man in the suit seemed to consider his response. He tucked his notepad under his arm. 'No. I think the house was in a terrible state to begin with. But it's still in a terrible state, and your builder may, purposely or otherwise, have worsened that.'

  Isabel's eyes widened. 'Purposely?' she repeated.

  Matt could take no more. He burst out of the woods and strode towards the man. 'What the hell are you telling her? Who the hell are you?' he shouted. 'What lies are you telling her?'

  He felt Isabel's hand on his arm. 'Matt, please--' She grimaced at the tall man, who didn't notice.

  He was looking at Matt as though he was sizing him up. As though he were superior to him. 'You're Matt McCarthy?'

  'Who the fuck are you?'

  The man didn't answer, just stared at him, which enraged Matt even more. 'What do you think you're doing coming here and telling Isabel lies? Eh? I heard you! I heard every bloody lie! You don't know anything about this house or what I've done here! Anything!'

  The man didn't seem frightened of him. Instead he looked at Matt with unmistakable contempt. 'I've been telling Mrs Delancey the truth about what has been done to this house. And I can tell you, Mr McCarthy, that I heard tales of what you'd done here long before I saw it.'

  'Tales of what he'd done here?' Isabel echoed. 'What do you mean?'

  A mist descended and Matt was yelling now, roaring. He flailed, preparing to take a swing at the pompous, besuited intruder. 'You think you know, do you? You think you know about this house?'

  Isabel was pleading with him to calm down, he could smell her faint perfume as she tried to pull him back - but even that could not stop him.

  Laura was in the garden, deadheading roses, when she heard Matt raging, a harsh, ugly sound. Then another man's voice, calmer. And a woman's cry, tinged with fear. Laura's stomach churned. Nicholas had told him.

  'Mum?' Anthony's face, still bleary with sleep, appeared at the window. 'What's going on?'

  Laura looked blankly at him. Then she dropped her secateurs and, with the dog following her, walked and then began to run towards the Spanish House.

  The Delancey woman was standing between them, braced, as if waiting for another blow. Nicholas's handkerchief was pressed to his nose. Blood was trickling down his face and spattering his pale blue shirt. Matt was bellowing at him, his mouth almost frothing, his speech all but incomprehensible. Around them, the bucolic scenery threw the ugliness of their actions, their voices, into sharp relief. Oh, Lord, Laura thought. What have I done?

  'You're not wanted here!' Matt howled. 'Now, go away before I really hurt you!'

  'Matt?'

  He stepped back as Laura approached, turned to face her.

  'Oh, God, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I didn't want you to find out like this.'

  Her husband was unrecognisable as the cool, distant figure of this morning: he was wild-eyed and radiated a kind of loose energy. 'What the hell are you talking about?' he said.

  'Laura, don't--' Nicholas began.

  But Isabel Delancey interrupted. 'Is this true? What he said?' she asked Matt. 'That all this time you wanted the house for yourself? Is that why you've been purposely damaging it?'

  It was the first time Laura had ever seen Matt look truly shaken.

  'No,' he protested. 'No - it wasn't like that. I wanted the house to be beautiful.'

  'Huh! You've knocked it to pieces,' said Nicholas, indignantly. 'You've made a complete dog's dinner of it.'

  'I was renovating it!'

  'There's virtually nothing left to renovate! I don't know how the ruddy place is still standing!'

  'All this time?' Isabel's voice resonated with shock. 'Your jokes and your advice and your help and your bags of croissants . . . and all the time you just wanted us gone?'

  Matt had paled. 'No, Isabel.' Laura flinched as her husband stepped towards the woman. 'No . . . it wasn't like that. Not by the end.' He cast around, as if seeking evidence. 'The master bedroom was a labour of love. There is truth, beauty in that room. You saw the effort I put into it.'

  'How can you say that? You knocked a great hole in it! Like a madman!' She mimed it for them. 'I couldn't stop you.'

  'But that was because of Byron,' he yelled. 'Byron shouldn't be in that room.'

  Laura struggled to understand. None of this made any sense.

  'Okay,' Nicholas interrupted. 'Let's move this on.' He had recovered his composure. He mopped his lip with the bloodied handkerchief. 'This is obviously an unusual situation. I would suggest, Mrs Delancey, that you work out what you're going to do about the house as a matter of urgency.'

  'But we have nothing left. He's taken all our money.'

  'It wasn't just me,' Matt pleaded. 'I wasn't straight with you at the beginning, but I did my best to put it right.'

  'Mrs Delancey, I suggest--'

  'Don't listen to him, Isabel. Everything I've done wrong I'll put right. Haven't I always looked after you?'

  There was a long silence. Laura was staring at Isabel, whose expression was of despair.

  'You have ruined us,' she said quietly. 'I trusted you and you have ruined this house.'

  Almost before she knew what she was doing Laura stepped forward. 'I will sort it out.' Her voice cut into the air. 'I will pay for whatever damage Matt has done. I will personally cover whatever it takes to put it right.' She could not bring herself to apologise to the woman, but she would not be indebted to her either.

 
'There is an alternative,' Nicholas interrupted. 'You might consider selling it to me. The condition of the house, such as it is, is not an issue for me.'

  'Selling it?' Isabel Delancey frowned.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I'd be glad of the chance to talk to you about it.'

  'But why would the council want to buy this house?' She seemed nonplussed.

  'The council?'

  Nobody spoke. Then she said, 'You mean Byron didn't ring you?'

  'Who is Byron?' Nicholas asked blankly. 'My name is Nicholas Trent. I'm a property developer.'

  Isabel Delancey stared at him. 'A property developer? So you came here today because you wanted this house.' Suddenly realisation dawned. 'Oh, my God - you all want this house.' She backed away from them, her hands over her mouth. 'All this time . . .' she said, almost laughing now. 'Is there anybody else? Someone in the village, perhaps? The Cousins? The milkman? All this time you all wanted the house!'

  'Actually, no,' Laura said slowly, looking at Matt. And then, with certainty, 'I don't want it any more.'

  Matt spun round. She saw him take in what she had said, saw his frown of incomprehension as Nicholas smiled at her, a smile filled with history. She saw Matt recall her apology, Nicholas's use of her name. Her husband looked at her and, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, she turned away. Anthony, behind her, was staring at Nicholas, his face unreadable.

  This is it, thought Laura. There is no going back.

  'Here is my card,' said Nicholas, urbanely, pulling one from his inside pocket and handing it to Isabel Delancey as he moved closer to Laura. 'I appreciate that this has been an odd morning. But have a think about what I've said, Mrs Delancey. I'm sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.'

  Twenty-three

  The slender hazel switches were no more than seven years old - you could use them as hurdles or thatching spars; he would save the older, sturdier ones for walking-sticks or hedge stakes. He had gathered a small pile of sweet chestnut, for cleft rails and stakes, but the returns on hazel coppicing were higher, and Byron had agreed to restore this ancient woodland almost entirely to hazel. He trod carefully, examining young shoots for signs of vermin. People thought all he was doing was cutting things down, destroying them, but native hardwood trees and shrubs that were cut in this way could produce shoots that grew over a foot in a week. A coppiced tree would live many times longer than one that hadn't been cut back. Byron was sure there was a life lesson in that, but he was damned if he could see it.