The Dead Summer

by Helen Moorhouse

  As well as being startled, Martha was slightly annoyed by his assumption that he could just walk in, but she didn’t say anything. This was the country. Not London where you had to book a visit weeks in advance and then almost ring from outside the front door to say you were there. Ruby calmed slightly in her arms, although she still regarded the man with trepidation.

  “It’s fine,” laughed Martha. “You just startled us. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Rob Mountford smiled, showing huge teeth. He was at least six feet four, reckoned Martha as she looked up at him.

  “Yes, please, that’d be just the thing,” he said.

  Martha noticed that his cheeks were a little pink and wasn’t sure if it was from the sun or if he was blushing. “No problem,” she smiled, settling Ruby back on her playmat in the middle of the floor and turning to the kettle.

  “I’ll just nip up and take a look at the wall,” said Rob and took a step toward the doorway. His eyes were fixed on Martha and he narrowly avoided stepping on Ruby’s arm as he turned to leave, but didn’t seem to notice, and Martha heard him stomp up the stairs in his dusty boots.

  She plugged the kettle in and popped two teabags into a pot before going to the fridge for milk. She set down the carton on the worktop and then picked Ruby up, popping her into her high chair. “Best to be out of harm’s way,” she whispered to the little girl who giggled and reached out to tug her mother’s hair. When Rob eventually returned, Martha was glad she had made the wise move to lift her daughter to safety as he stomped back into the kitchen and stood on Ruby’s playmat, his steel toe-capped boots coming to a halt exactly where her head had been. Martha handed him a cup of tea. It looked like one from a doll’s tea-set in his giant hand.

  “It’s all quiet up there at the moment,” he said, refusing a chocolate biscuit.

  “Yes,” confirmed Martha. “It only starts at night, presumably when the house goes quiet. I hear it through Ruby’s monitor.”

  “Annoying,” said Rob and slurped his tea noisily.

  Martha imagined that he could probably inhale the drink in one go and then crunch the cup between his teeth.

  “Have you seen any droppings?” he asked.

  “Thankfully, no,” said Martha and shuddered. “I’ve actually got nothing against mice except the incontinence. We used to get them in London and I’d just spend all my time bleaching everything – eurgh!”

  Rob seemed not to hear her. “Right then, no droppings. Sounds like it’s confined inside then. It’s these old houses – vermin find all sorts of nooks and crannies, bloody buggers pardon-my-language.”

  Martha tried not to grin. The ‘pardon-my-language’ was simply an extension of the word ‘buggers’, tacked on out of habit to negate the swear word. The man looked like he could kill you with a single swing of his fist and yet he apologised by rote for swearing.

  “There’s a bit of a crack in the breast as well,” continued Rob.

  “Pardon?” said Martha, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

  “The breast. The chimney-breast. There’s a crack in it.” He looked at her as though she had asked him to explain what his shoes were. “Bang anything off it?”

  Martha turned around to the sink so that he couldn’t see her grin. “No,” she said, barely able to prevent herself from giggling.

  Rob seemed not to notice. “Right then. I’m going to have to take down the whole thing and start from scratch.”

  That was sufficient to wipe the smile from Martha’s face. “How long will that take?” she asked, dismayed at the thought of the intrusion.

  “I should get to you in about three weeks. Got a lot on with a new development.”

  “But when you actually start, how long will it take?”

  “Can’t really say,” replied Rob. “We’ll have to try to flush out whatever’s nesting in there first and then close up all the places that it can get to and then we’ll have to . . .”

  Martha wasn’t listening. “Oh look, it’s fine. Once you promise to get in and out as fast as you can when you start. I work from here as well as live here and I can’t really afford too much intrusion.”

  Rob shrugged. “We’ll do our best. Can’t do no more’n that.”

  “I suppose not,” replied Martha resignedly.

  There was a moment of silence, broken by Rob handing her back the cup that looked so tiny in his hands. “Thanks for the tea. I’d best be off.”

  Martha took the cup from him. “Well, thanks for coming to check it out.”

  Rob turned to go, then hesitated in the doorway of the conservatory. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come for a drink in the Abbot’s on Saturday night?” he asked, timidly.

  It was the last thing that Martha had expected him to say.

  “Oh,” she said in surprise, her cheeks turning pink. “Wow. Um, well . . . yeah, sure. Why not?” She instantly regretted accepting but it was too late, the words were out. She hadn’t been out with anyone since Dan, and sure as hell didn’t want a relationship on the agenda along with everything else. A part of her felt that it might be a good idea to accept, however, if she wanted the rodents out of the walls sooner rather than later.

  “Oh!” said Rob, clearly taken aback. He had obviously been expecting rejection. “That’s great. I’ll pick you up here round eight then?”

  Martha was about to nod when a light went on in her head. “Oh hang on,” she said. “I can’t. I’ve no baby-sitter!” She was so thrown by the unexpected invitation that she had momentarily forgotten Ruby.

  Rob’s face was crestfallen. “I could see if Alison Stockwell is available,” he suggested. “Mary’s daughter. She’s about fifteen, baby-sits for my sister occasionally.”

  Martha’s smile slipped a little. “Perfect! See you at eight then!”

  Rob’s smile returned. “Brilliant,” he beamed. “If there’s a problem I’ll let you know – what I’ll do is bring Alison with me to mind your little boy when I come.”

  With that he turned on his heel and left before Martha had time to correct him. She looked at her daughter who was engaged in rattling a small toy as hard as she could.

  “Oh dear, Ruby-Doo,” said Martha as she put the teacups in the sink. “It looks like Mummy’s got a date.”

  Chapter 10

  June 21st

  With no call from Rob Mountford by five on Saturday, Martha assumed that Alison Stockwell’s services had been secured. She hadn’t mentioned the date to Mary the previous day at crèche in order to keep it as low profile as possible. Hopefully, something would go wrong.

  Sue hadn’t been at all sympathetic.

  “But I don’t want to go!” wailed Martha down the phone eventually, having patiently listened to a long lecture from her friend about ‘getting back out there’ and being ‘back in the saddle’ and other clichés.

  “Nonsense,” said Sue. “Of course you want to go!”

  Martha heard her exhale a long puff of smoke. “Aren’t you in a hotel room?” she asked with a shocked tone in her voice.

  “It’s got an open window. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. Even if it’s not the romance of the century, at the very least it’ll get you out of the house and meeting a few people.”

  Martha sighed as she stood in the shower while Ruby napped. She didn’t object in the slightest to meeting a few people – it was having drinks with her landlord that made her wary. Apart from the fact that he was at least three times her size, she was nervous that he wanted more than she was prepared to give, and that if it went wrong she might never get the rats out of her ‘breast’, as Rob might put it.

  The lights flickered as she stepped from the shower. She wondered had the break forecast in the weather finally come, and padded back into her bedroom, wrapped in a towel, to look out the window. The sky in the direction of the motorway was slate grey although it was still sunny in her garden. There was a storm on the way, most likely.

  It t
ook almost an hour to get Ruby to bed. She knew something was up, having seen her mum blow-dry her hair and apply make-up. She knew that her mum didn’t smell right either and Martha kicked herself for spritzing on perfume before the baby was asleep.

  Eventually she settled, her moons and stars circling the walls, and Hugo in his habitual position by her head. Martha stood in the kitchen wearing jeans and a floaty chiffon top and poured herself a large glass of wine. As she did so, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the darkening garden and she jumped, feeling the static in the air. She was wondering if she should go and cover up mirrors, when the doorbell rang. Five to eight, she noted on the clock. Someone’s eager. She turned to go and answer the door.

  “On second thoughts . . .” she said aloud and turned back to the countertop, picked up the glass of wine and knocked it back in one. Then she opened the door to Rob and the baby-sitter.

  Alison Stockwell was a chubby teenager, dressed in skinny jeans, a long T-shirt and cardigan, a scarf, and scuffed ballet pumps over which her feet spilled slightly. She had a friendly smile underneath her bed-head hair and patiently took in Martha’s long-winded explanation about what to do should Ruby wake, stir, or even breathe loudly. Alison recognised a new mum, not used to baby-sitters, but Rob was showing signs of impatience.

  By the time Rob and Martha were leaving, thick raindrops were beginning to plop down onto the windscreen of Rob’s Land Rover and he was muttering about being late. Martha wondered how on earth they could be late for a simple drink but the rain began to bucket down suddenly and she stayed silent while Rob tried to negotiate down the lane through sheets of rain that the wipers couldn’t keep pace with.

  Martha usually loved the route into Shipton Abbey – a short half mile but beautiful. The country lane off which Hawthorn Cottage was situated ran parallel to the shoreline four or five miles away across green fields filled with ripening corn and barley, the sight of which Martha adored. Tonight, though, she was glad to finally make out the Shipton Abbey sign and begin the descent down the hill to the little village, dominated by the ruined abbey overlooking the estuary which brought the sea curling round the land and almost right up to its walls.

  At the bottom of the hill, Rob turned the Land Rover into the sheltered car park of the Abbot’s Rest. A sheet of lightning lit up the car as the storm grew closer overhead. Martha looked at Rob and made out a look of grim annoyance on his face – presumably at having to drive in difficult weather conditions. He pulled up as close to the front door of the fourteenth-century building as he could and dashed out to open Martha’s door for her. He seemed disappointed when she determinedly pushed it open herself and ran for the door of the pub, taking shelter in the outer porch while he lumbered through the rain, locking the Land Rover with his key fob.

  The pub was relatively deserted when they stepped down onto the flagstoned floor.

  “Oh my goodness, that rain is something else!” said Martha breathlessly, going through the rituals of stepping out of the rain like shaking her hands and smoothing down her damp hair.

  Rob ignored her completely and instead peered worriedly down the bar, looking for someone. Martha was taken aback by this rudeness and wondered if his annoyance had in fact been at her and not at the difficult driving conditions.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Rob suddenly to a man who appeared behind the bar.

  “No problem at all,” said the man and smiled at Martha. “John Farnley. Landlord and proprietor of this establishment.” He looked back to Rob. “We’re very quiet tonight with that weather so there’s no pressure. Come through.”

  Martha glanced at Rob and for the first time took in what he was wearing – charcoal-grey slacks, a white shirt and a black cashmere V-neck sweater with shiny black loafers – very smart compared to her jeans and top, and she wondered what the hell was going on.

  Martha followed Rob through the pub, giving the other customers a cursory glance as she did so. One old man at the bar, an old lady on her own staring at them as they went by, a biker couple with pints of cider. Martha thought it all looked decidedly grim.

  John Farnley had stepped out from behind the bar and was holding open a small wooden door at the back of the pub with a sign saying ‘The Refectory’ on it. “Here you go, folks,” he said.

  At first all Martha saw was candlelight in the dim room but as Rob walked her through the doorway she made out that she was in a small dining room, each table lit with tea-lights. The ceiling was low and beamed, like her cottage, the windowsills deep and the walls whitewashed. To her right was a huge open fireplace freshly stocked with logs, with a mantelpiece lit by more tea-lights. There were no more than eleven or twelve tables, some with benches for seats, others with ancient-looking chairs, all with gleaming white linen tablecloths and shiny cutlery. John Farnley indicated that Martha should follow him to a secluded booth created by two high-backed church pews.

  The table sat beside one of the small, leaded windows, lashed by the thundery rain and lit up occasionally by flashes of sheet lightning. So this is what they were late for. It was all very cosy and romantic, indeed. Oh shit, thought Martha as she scooched in toward the wall and Rob squeezed into the pew to sit directly opposite her. As he did so, he shifted the table with his knees so that it tilted precariously and Martha grabbed her drinking glasses to prevent them falling into her lap.

  “Do you like it?” asked Rob grumpily when he was finally seated and nothing was broken.

  “This is lovely, Rob,” she said. “I never knew it was here actually. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble – a drink would have suited me fine. I’m sorry for making us late though – I thought a drink was all we were coming for.”

  Rob’s huge face softened a little at the apology and she found herself faced with the same man who had asked her out in the kitchen.

  “I thought you might like a meal to say welcome to Shipton Abbey,” he mumbled.

  Martha realised that she was, in fact, very hungry and it would be lovely not to have to cook for herself. “That’s really thoughtful – thanks, Rob,” she smiled.

  The Refectory was an absolute treat. While not Michelin-starred, it was Michelin-recommended and Martha was very impressed indeed. There were only three or four other diners, creating a gentle hum of conversation which added to the atmosphere. Martha ordered a goat’s cheese and beetroot salad to start and scallops with asparagus risotto for her main course. It was a little difficult to enjoy, however, as she found herself having to do most of the talking.

  Rob seemed to be working from a list of questions that he had memorised: “So, how do you like it at Hawthorn Cottage?”, “Is your baby boy settling in?”, “Oh, you’re divorced, that’s a shame – how long?” and so on, with Martha giving answers that seemed to get longer and longer as Rob stared blankly at her, never taking the cue that Martha had finished speaking. She found herself continuing to speak to avoid the long silences.

  In turn, Rob wasn’t very forthcoming with answers to any of the questions that Martha managed to sneak in. “How is business doing?” – “Fine”; “Have you always lived in Shipton Abbey?” – “Yes”; “Is there a Mrs Mountford?” (Stupid question, she thought. If there was, it was unlikely that she’d be sitting here with the Man Mountain.)

  She got a break when Rob went to the toilet after the main course. It afforded her the chance to pick up her knife and fork again and demolish the rest of her scallops. They were slightly cold by this time, but still delicious.

  This place really was perfect, she thought, looking around her. If you were on a date with someone you actually wanted to be there with, of course. It wasn’t that Rob was bad – scrubbed up, he was actually very handsome with his tanned face against the crisp collar of his shirt. His eyes were a charcoal grey, similar to his expensive trousers, she’d noted. There was just no chemistry between them – partly because she wasn’t looking for a relationship, partly because they had nothing in common in the slightest.
And, despite the amount she talked, she got the feeling that none of it was going in. She sighed. What a waste of a perfectly romantic situation.

  There were things about Rob that rankled with Martha also – like the way he constantly referred to Ruby as a boy and had already called her both Rudy and Reuben during the meal – when he bothered at all. It was clear that he wasn’t remotely interested in the little girl and totally unaware that this was a problem for Martha.

  Another fly in the ointment was the way he spoke to the waiting staff. They were flawless by Martha’s standards and in her ten years in advertising she had dined at some of the finest restaurants in London. Rob, however, spoke down to the staff as if he had been taught that this was the correct thing to do by someone from a different era.

  Martha was mortified when he returned from the bathroom and spotted the main-course dishes still on the table.

  “They haven’t cleared away yet?” he bellowed, clearly outraged by the sight. He was still standing up when he bawled toward the kitchen doors. “Can we get a little service in here!”

  “No, Rob, sshhh! It’s my fault,” said Martha, glancing around to see if the other diners were staring at them. They were. “I had some more of my scallops when you went to the loo and the staff didn’t clear up because I was still eating!”

  Rob didn’t listen and looked agitatedly around him until the friendly waitress appeared. He instantly ordered her loudly to “Clean this away and bring us the sweet trolley.”

  Martha cringed, and smiled apologetically at the girl who said, “Of course, sir” to the rude request.

  Rob sat down again, looking pleased with himself and his control of the situation. Thankfully he didn’t object when the ‘sweet trolley’ turned out to be a menu of delicious-sounding desserts and ordered himself a chocolate brownie. Martha couldn’t resist the Sicilian lemon tart and savoured every mouthful.

  Rob was silent after the meal, to Martha’s relief. Despite her protestations of tiredness, however, he insisted on having another drink at the bar before they left. John Farnley’s house white was excellent by pub standards but Martha felt brought down to earth, having enjoyed the wines in the restaurant which were chosen to complement each course.