‘It’s been hectic. I’ve been trying to sell Phoebe’s clothes. And the band take up quite a bit of time. I’m in London a lot.’
Sally could sense he was making excuses.
‘Well, lucky you. Think of us poor country mice with no excitement in our lives.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Look after him. I hope you know how very lucky you are.’
Her voice dripped innuendo, and she gave a wink before turning and leaving the café.
Sally looked at Alexander, who couldn’t meet her eye.
‘Did you want her to think I was your girlfriend?’ she demanded.
‘Honestly, I was only trying to protect myself. You don’t know what she’s like.’
‘Is she an old flame?’
‘Well. Sort of.’
Sally’s eyes widened. ‘She must be much older than you.’
‘Hilly doesn’t take no for an answer.’
‘And isn’t she married? She was wearing a wedding ring.’
‘She’s very predatory. She’s like a sparrowhawk.’
‘And you’re the poor little defenceless mouse?’ Sally raised an eyebrow.
Alexander fiddled with his teaspoon. He seemed a bit abashed.
‘I know. I know. To be fair to me I had no idea at first. She chatted me up at some drinks thing Mum made me go to, and then it all got a bit . . . well . . . By the time I clocked she was married she’d got rather attached.’ Alexander pulled some money out of his pocket to pay for the tea. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while. I’ve been trying to avoid her. I don’t want to hurt her but I couldn’t carry on.’
‘Gosh.’ Sally sat back. ‘I didn’t think things like that went on in the countryside.’
‘I’m sorry if you felt I was using you.’
‘It’s fine.’ Sally grinned. ‘At least I’ve saved you from her clutches.’
Alexander pretended to shudder. ‘Or her gun-wielding husband. Anyway, at least you look happier now. I’ve given you something else to think about.’
This was true. She felt much more robust, reinforced by the tea and distracted by the exchange. She picked up her basket, where she’d left it by the café door.
Alexander took her by the arm and led her outside. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
He looked down at her, genuinely concerned, his dark brows knitted in consternation. Sally could see why someone like Hilly would crave his attention. He made you feel like the only person on the planet who mattered.
‘I’m fine. I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘Supper’s at seven thirty.’
Or it would be, if she went and got the vegetables she needed. She’d better get her skates on or it would be custard creams all round again.
*
It took Sally more than an hour to restore order to the kitchen when she got back to Hunter’s Moon.
It was a curious mixture of brilliantly well equipped and totally antiquated. In the cellar there was a twin tub and a washing line strung up, but it was far too damp and cold down there for anything to dry. She went outside to see if there was anywhere she could hang a washing line. How could anyone not have a proper washing line? She had found a pile of bills in the kitchen for laundry – washing and ironing and dry cleaning. The amount per week was astronomical – almost as much as Margot was paying her.
There was a brand new refrigerator and a large chest freezer, but they were both almost empty – the chicken Annie had been trying to defrost must have been one of the last things in the freezer’s cavernous depths. Sally made a mental note to gradually fill it up with soups and stews. There were mouse droppings in the pantry, and about twenty pots of raspberry jam lined up on a shelf with handwritten labels, but nothing else. The Aga would need servicing and the chimney sweeping.
It was all going to need a proper spring clean, but she cleared up enough to get the casserole on. She’d already told Alexander it would be ready for half past seven, so she went and told Phoebe in the dining room.
‘I’ll tell Mum,’ said Phoebe. ‘She’s savage if she gets interrupted. I’ll tell Dad as well.’
Sally went back to the kitchen, then dug about in the drawers for a pen.
‘I thought I told you not to do that,’ said a voice, and she jumped out of her skin before remembering the parrot was surveying her from his cage. That definitely needed cleaning out, but she was a little nervous of him so she decided that could wait.
She sat down at the table with an old envelope. What she needed was a list.
FOOD ESSENTIALS
Cereal Dusters
Butter Fairy Liquid
Sugar Vim
Eggs Mousetraps
Bisto Lux
Cornflakes Pegs
Marmalade Iron and ironing board
Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. Brillo pads. Cocoa. Bovril. Mop and bucket. She thought of the kitchen at home, and how ordered it had been. How comforting. Whatever you wanted, you could find. She thought of the piles of ironed clothes her mum would leave for them. Cups of Horlicks on a cold winter’s night; jugs of squash in the summer. Plates of sandwiches. Home-made flapjacks. She thought how safe it had made her feel. She wanted, desperately, to recreate that feeling here, for the house was crying out for it. Never mind the Willoughbys, Hunter’s Moon needed looking after.
Dai was the first one into the kitchen, just after seven o’clock. He poured himself a glass of beer and offered Sally a cocktail, but she refused. It was Monday. She never drank on a Monday: in fact, she rarely drank at all. She thought the Willoughbys probably had no notion of what day of the week it was between them, nor cared.
Dai sat at the table while she put the finishing touches to the meal and set a proper place for everyone. With his broad shoulders and his head of wild shaggy black hair, he was like a gentle giant, and she found his rumbling voice tinged with the traces of singsong Welsh rather soothing.
‘How are you settling in?’ he asked, watching her with fascination, as if she were an illusionist, rather than simply putting a pan of water on to boil for the peas.
‘There’s a couple of things I’m confused about,’ she said to him. ‘Why does the drawing room look as if no one ever goes in there?’
‘Because no one does. Margot had it done by some mad posh woman who does up houses, and we’re all too scared to go in there. She uses it for photo shoots. And that’s about it. We don’t even go in there on Christmas Day. We hate it.’
‘But that’s such a waste.’
Dai nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah, well, it’s OK, because we told her to sling her hook after she’d done the drawing room. This is supposed to be a house, not a museum.’
Sally thought there was probably a compromise between a house feeling like a museum and looking like a bomb had hit it, but she didn’t comment.
‘What’s the other thing, then?’ Dai tipped the rest of the bottle of beer into his glass.
‘The raspberry jam. There’s twenty jars of raspberry jam in the pantry and nothing else.’
‘Ah. That was Margot’s attempt at being domesticated. We had a glut of raspberries so she decided to make jam.’
‘She made all of that?’
‘Yes. But none of us wants to see another spoonful as long as we live.’
Sally lifted the lid on the casserole and the rich scent of stewing beef curled around the kitchen. Dai groaned in appreciation.
‘Proper food. I can’t remember the last time we had a decent meal.’
‘Can’t you cook, then? Isn’t it all about equality these days?’
Dai looked at her as if she’d asked if he could fly. ‘No.’
‘I could teach you.’
He frowned. ‘What would be the point of that? You don’t keep a dog and bark yourself.’
Sally raised her eyebrows. ‘It might come in useful if I ever decide to leave.’
Dai chuckled. ‘You’re not leaving, cariad. Not now we’ve got you. Not a chance.’
Sally was surprised when al
l of the others arrived in the kitchen by twenty past seven. Even Margot, who was astonished to see knives and forks set out and a glass at everyone’s place.
‘You’ve laid the table properly. Napkins and everything!’
‘Actually,’ said Dai, ‘she made me do it.’
Everyone stared at Sally in amazement. She laughed.
‘Everyone’s got to pull their weight, I’m afraid.’
Margot sat down. ‘Everyone who’s not in paid employment, you mean.’
‘Listen to Lady Muck.’ Dai threw his napkin at her, and she threw it back with a smile.
‘Darling, don’t forget it’s the agency party tomorrow night. Shall we stay in town?’
Dai frowned. ‘Do I have to come?’
‘Please. It’ll be no fun on my own. I hate talking shop.’
‘I don’t fancy it.’
‘You had a fantastic time last time.’
‘I did not. That awful woman with the glass eye would not leave me alone.’
‘Edith? You were flirting with her.’
‘I felt sorry for her. You’d think with all her money she’d get an eye that swivelled.’
‘She’s eccentric and lonely.’
‘Will she be there?’
‘Of course. All Niggle’s clients will be.’
Dai shook his head.
‘I’m not in a London mood.’
‘You are so boring these days. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’m boring because I don’t want to be mauled by a woman with one eye?’
‘There’ll be stacks of other people there. She won’t notice you.’
‘She damn well will. Her other eye doesn’t miss a thing.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be so irresistible.’
‘Go on your own, Mum,’ said Phoebe. ‘You know what Dad’s like when he’s in one of his antisocial phases. He’ll only be a ball and chain.’
Dai raised an eyebrow. ‘I am here, you know.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Alexander. ‘Liven things up a bit.’
‘It’s OK,’ sighed Margot. ‘I’ll go on my own.’
Sally was looking round at them all in amazement. She was used to her brother’s banter at the table, but this was something else.
Phoebe caught her eye. ‘It’s always like this,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve gone in the morning.’
Sally put a large cast-iron casserole in the middle of the table and lifted the lid.
‘I hope you like this. It’s my mum’s recipe. Hopefully there’ll be enough for lunch tomorrow.’
There wasn’t a single spoonful left over.
13
‘Ooh. What about him? He looks nice. Very handsome and he’s got a nice shirt on. Oh, he’s a widower, poor thing. Lost my wife five years ago but finally feel ready to go out into the big wide world . . . Aaaah.’
‘Cathy – please stop. Nothing would induce me to hook up with someone when I have no idea who they are.’
‘But he’s got kind eyes. And a Labrador. So he must be all right.’
Belinda sighed. Every morning Cathy trawled through various Internet dating websites for the latest additions on her behalf.
‘Just send him a message. It can’t hurt,’ Cathy pleaded. ‘He’s thirty-nine. That’s the perfect age for you.’
‘Where the bloody hell is Bruce?’ Belinda frowned at her watch.
Cathy clicked off the site. She could see there was no cajoling Belinda.
‘He knows your appointment’s at ten. I reminded him last night before I left the office.’
‘If he’s got a hangover . . .’
‘He promised he’d be on time. It’s only just gone half nine and it won’t take you long to get to The High House.’
Belinda loved Cathy for her calm reassurance. She knew not everyone worked at her pace, Bruce in particular. He was cutting it fine, though. The sun was out but there was no guarantee it would stay out, so they needed to get going.
Photography days were her favourite days. Most agents didn’t bother going out with their photographers, but Belinda loved being part of the process. She didn’t interfere with Bruce – she respected his talent far too much to micromanage him – but she used the opportunity to get to know the house she was selling a little better.
The only thing that enraged her about Bruce was his timekeeping. Or lack of.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ she said, looking at her watch again, just as Bruce loped into the office, his long legs in faded skinny jeans, shrugging off his black leather jacket, his hair windswept from roaring around in his battered vintage Porsche.
He was fifty if he was a day but he still looked as if he’d just walked offstage after kicking over a drum kit. He was an anomaly in genteel, countrified Peasebrook. He’d taken refuge back at his father’s house three years ago when he was careering off the rails – ‘It was Peasebrook or the Priory,’ he was fond of saying – but he still dressed like an off-duty rock star. He was constantly being pursued by middle-aged faded blondes, who sported a tad too much leather and leopard skin, and Belinda was always getting him out of scrapes.
Bruce usually did weddings: glorious tableaux that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Belinda had seen some of his wedding photos, hunted him down and begged him to come and work for her. She was surprised when he said yes, because she couldn’t afford to pay him anything like what he got for a wedding, but she threw in her cellar as a studio and that tipped the balance.
‘It’ll get me out of the house,’ Bruce told her when he agreed. ‘I work most Saturdays, but the rest of the time I’m stuck inside editing and touching up. This will suit me down to the ground. And it stops me ending up in the pub.’
Belinda could see from day one that Bruce might be trouble, but working for Belinda gave him more structure to his week. And he couldn’t pour himself a stiff Jack Daniels in the morning in case she called him out – he had a habit of turning to the bottle when self-doubt set in, because, like her, he was an obsessive and a perfectionist.
‘I don’t drink at weddings, though,’ he told her. ‘Not any more.’
There had been an incident with a bridesmaid, apparently. For all his observance, Bruce had failed to notice one of the ushers was her husband.
‘I thought bridesmaids were unmarried,’ he had protested. ‘Isn’t it matrons of honour you’re not supposed to bang?’
Potential troublemaking aside, Bruce made her brochures look like a magazine spread. Other agents tried to copy their style, but without Bruce’s eye, they couldn’t pull it off. He was the David Bailey of house photographers, and her clients loved him. All of a sudden they saw where they lived through fresh eyes.
Belinda went to hug him. His cheeks were cold: the spring air still had quite a bite to it.
‘Come on. We’ve got two to do this morning. One in town, then we’re going to the most beautiful house, Hunter’s Moon. Out on the Maybury road?’
Bruce’s eyes gleamed. ‘You know who that used to belong to?’
Belinda nodded.
‘Yes. Margot Willoughby.’
‘She was an absolute stunner. My father knew her. He was utterly besotted.’ Bruce gave a wicked grin.
‘But he must have been way younger than she was. She’s long dead, isn’t she?’
Bruce just laughed. ‘You know my dad. He’s still got an eye for the ladies, even now.’
‘Your father’s a poppet.’ Belinda adored Bruce’s father, a sprightly octogenarian with twinkling eyes and a story to tell. He was always in Peasebrook high street, in his tweed cap with a walking stick – he’d broken his hip out hunting at the age of seventy-four.
‘Get him to tell you about the parties. They were quite wild. Lots of fancy dress and bad behaviour.’
‘I will!’ Belinda was fascinated, and now Bruce had begun to paint a picture of life at Hunter’s Moon, she wanted to know more of its history. ‘Come on. Chop-chop.’
Bruce gr
abbed his camera bag. ‘Am I driving or are you?’
‘Me,’ said Belinda, who knew only too well Bruce’s disregard for the speed limit. ‘I’d like to get there in one piece.’
They did The High House first.
Despite Suzi’s protests that she was some sort of domestic slut, it was immaculate. She welcomed them in.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Suzi said. ‘There’s probably nothing more annoying than a vendor trotting round after you making helpful suggestions.’
Bruce eyed her approvingly. ‘You can trot round after me if you like, darling.’
Belinda nudged him with her elbow to shut him up. Not everyone appreciated Bruce’s innuendo. ‘You’re right. It’s best if you leave us to get on with it. We won’t be more than an hour.’
Somehow, going back into The High House for the second time felt less traumatic. And having Bruce there, with his constant banter and his enthusiasm, chased away any ghosts. He bossed her around, getting her to move furniture and put vases of flowers in strategic positions.
‘This will fly,’ he said. ‘Nice gaff. They must have put a lot of hard work into this.’
Belinda found it tempting, for a moment, to drop it casually into the conversation. That the staircase had been stripped by her own fair hands. And the tiles in the hall. That she had painstakingly designed the sleek cream kitchen with the wooden worktops. But if she told Bruce The High House had been hers, she’d have to tell him more.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she agreed. ‘Someone’s dream home. It’ll be snapped up.’
‘Why don’t you buy it? I can totally see you here.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘You’re looking for somewhere though, right? You’ve been saving like mad.’
Everyone at the office knew about her Forever House fund.
‘This is way beyond my budget.’
She was just a few thousand pounds shy of her target deposit. That, combined with her income, wasn’t nearly enough for a house like this. She would only be able to afford a small cottage. Although that would do for her. As long as it was hers, a house she could call her own, and put her own stamp on.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 10