Whilst Ratty drew Graham a wiring diagram and offered to get hold of a new loom for him, Tess waited patiently, watching an old black Labrador lie on his back in a slice of winter sunshine by the bronze-look water feature. Customers were customers and this was one of Ratty’s.
But oh, to be floating among the myriad, gorgeous colours of the oil pastels and watercolours, enjoying the papery smell of the art supplies shop!
And surely, when she’d made such superhuman efforts not to look at her watch, Ratty could just take his cheque and go, now he was at the handshaking stage? But no. Outside, Ratty stopped on the modern-day substitute for proper cobbles. ‘Graham, is a computer kept at home but used for the business an allowable expense? Or would the taxman claim duality of purpose?’
She sighed, but prepared for another wait.
Graham laughed halitosis over them, probably remembering gleefully Ratty dropping out of accountancy; he rubbed his chin and rebuked, ‘After free advice, Miles?’
Tess’s brain clicked abruptly back into the conversation. She smiled sweetly. ‘Does professional advice always have to be paid for, Graham?’
He smiled smugly. ‘’Fraid so.’
Words thrust themselves well in front of brain activity. ‘So you’ll expect an invoice for the hour and twenty minutes Miles has just spent advising you! Don’t look so shocked, I expect his hourly rate is well below what you covetous bastards charge!’
Silent, on the way to the pay-and-display in town, she checked the road to the left, daring a glance at Ratty who was gazing uncooperatively out of the window.
‘I’ll apologise to him if you want me to!’ she sighed when she’d reversed into a parking space. ‘I shouldn’t piss off your customers –’
Ratty turned to her, grinning brilliantly. ‘Don’t spoil it! You were right! People are always doing that to me, usually accountants or solicitors, gits who charge you just for picking up your file. You were fantastic, standing up for me like that.’ Her jaw slackened with surprise and was mashed against his jacket as he squashed her into a jubilant hug. ‘And you know what? I am going to bill the bastard!’
A celebratory lager, then she finally got her anticipated treat of selecting pens, pencils, pads in three sizes, acrylic paints, a rainbow of watercolours and soft, new sable brushes, all rustling in paper bags in the back as they drove home.
Ratty was ready to line up another jaunt. ‘By the way, I’m going to pick up some bits from Oxford next week, if you want to come?’
She was quite positive. ‘No.’
‘I could drop you at your parents’ house, see the guy, pick you up?’
‘No.’
She felt rather than saw his shrug. She added, ‘They’re not talking to me.’
He nodded. ‘That Jenna stunt of Olly’s?’
She changed down and edged the Freelander over to let a clodded tractor, the big-wheeled kind, between herself and the hedge. ‘I phoned my father about giving Olly my address and swore at him. He took offence. My mother was “shocked and disappointed” – at me, I presume, it might’ve been Dad or Olly, she didn’t say.
‘Since I was sixteen I seem to have been battling them over something – the right to grow up, maybe. God knows what they’d have done if I’d actually been difficult. All that for someone who never got in a fix! Or hardly ever.’ She didn’t mention disappearing during her A levels. She had, after all, come back. ‘When I was ill I kind of fell back into their clutches and they’re reluctant to let me go again.
‘It would be nice if I wanted to see them more, there must be some mileage left in the relationship. But while they’re so prohibitive I avoid them like a diabetic avoids sugar.’
Ratty eased down into his seat. ‘We should introduce mine to yours, they could have a disapproval party. Perhaps watching through glass as we romp naked on the lawn.’
‘I don’t think I’d want anyone to watch!’ Then she realised that sounded as if she wouldn’t object to the romp. And blushed.
‘Sorry about Angel,’ Pete apologised when he returned to work in the New Year. ‘She thinks you need a shove.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I told her. No broad hints, no secret words with Tess, no heavy-handed manipulation. Really, she’ll behave.’
‘She’d better.’ Ratty flipped over job sheets and wondered if the guy with the Ford Anglia Super would remember his booking for a new gearbox and clutch assembly this morning. He’d blanched at the estimate. ‘Or I’ll ring your mother and say Angel needs some advice about the children. Angel would like that. Jos, can you check over the jobs for the next few days against the stock bits? Particularly, the headlights for the Bristol. And the Lucas electronic ignition we’re fitting on the MGB.’
Jos nodded. ‘What’s Angel been up to?’
‘Helping out,’ Ratty answered ironically. ‘Good Christmas?’
Eyes shining, Jos nodded and smiled his shy smile, tucked stray hair behind his ears. ‘Got a new woman.’
Ratty had known this through the grapevine and suspected for even longer but he steered Jos through admissions that yes, they were sleeping together and yes, she was quite pretty. Discovered Jos wanted to get off early, she was at his place and had promised to cook.
Later, when Jos was safely on the phone, Pete re-emerged from beneath the bonnet of the white E-Type, now on blocks, looking as if he wore black gloves. ‘Everybody’s doing it but you.’
‘Yep, I get that feeling.’ Ratty lifted his head and looked thoughtful. ‘But I do have a plan. Or, at least, I’m planning a plan. I’ll need a bit of backup from you and Angel, though.’
Chapter Seventeen
He knew how to plan. He’d planned projects for the garage or funding the rent-accruing properties he owned round the village.
First, he must establish what he wanted and how he intended to get it. What would be the consequences? The ramifications? Could he manipulate the personality and emotions involved?
Mmmm. The tricky bit.
‘Shall I tell you my plans for Lucasta’s house?’ Ratty burst into Tess’s kitchen. ‘Sorry, am I stopping you working?’
Tess blew out her lips and tossed down her pad. ‘I’m struggling anyway, attempting to be authentic, traditional and innovative. It’s like rubbing your tummy and patting your head.’
Ratty turned her sketch pad and studied the roughs of cowherds and meadow flowers. ‘Aren’t lederhosen shorter?’
‘Various lengths, according to the books. Tell me about your plans.’
Ratty dropped into a chair. ‘Now that Lucasta’s obnoxious son has cleared the house of everything not screwed down, it’s time Pennybun had a bit of attention.’
Derry Meredith had been with a big truck to clear his mother’s cottage of everything possible. Had needed reminding, in fact, that there were individual bequests to come before his claim on the remaining contents. Ratty, and then Tess, had made offers on japanned cabinets, the bed frame, the boxed ornaments and crockery that formed Derry’s inheritance. But he’d turned them down, saying he preferred to take his chances at auction.
‘The survey’s arrived.’ Ratty waved a thick envelope. ‘If you could spare me an hour ...’ So, huddled in jackets, they let themselves into Pennybun’s empty-house chill.
It always took Tess a minute to orientate herself to Pennybun, being a mirror image of Honeybun.
In the little sitting room, outlines on the wallpaper reminded her of where Lucasta had stood the drinks cabinet, the oil painting of Singapore, the ivory tusks carved with a train of trunk-holding-tail elephants. Even the carpet and curtains had gone. Tess sighed. ‘Bleak.’
Ratty touched her shoulder. ‘I try not to think she’s gone, just remember her dispensing lapsang with one hand and WKD with the other.’
He changed the subject. ‘Look, as well as the cottage, she left me this.’ From the mantelpiece he picked up a little pewter-coloured cigarette case a few inches across and flat. ‘Evidence of old sins.’
A
t the window, they crowded close, Ratty stooping so that Tess could see his new treasure. ‘She kept it all these years, a gift from my reprehensible grandfather. This side, see, their signatures have been engraved and then gilded. Lucasta and Jerome.’
Tess ran her tapered fingertip over the old, engraved Lucasta. ‘Bless her. All these years.’
The case looked small in his capable hands, gleaming with dull light. He turned it. ‘Then, here, Adored Lucasta, my life, my love and Jerome, reason for living.’
Tess sighed mistily. ‘What a love!’
He grunted a laugh. ‘What a sizzling affair, maybe, what terrific fun. He dumped her when the scandal threatened his real life.’
Ratty’s warm nearness countered the room’s chill and Tess inched closer to take the case, revolving it in her hands. ‘You men. Bastards all.’
He took it back, searching with blunt fingertips for the catch. ‘Evidently he was.’ The catch was stubborn, he had no nails.
She flicked it open for him. ‘Like you’re not a bastard with women!’
‘I’ve never said “I love you” if I didn’t. Here they are – Lucasta and Jerome!’ Inside the case, tucked in the corner, a small golden heart opened locket-style to cradle a tiny sepia in each half. Photographs when photography was young and Lucasta and Jerome were flung about by illicit passion.
Gently, Tess took the case back. ‘There they are. So tiny.’
Ratty’s cheek brushed her temple as he craned to see. ‘Not very clear. Could be anyone, if we didn’t know. See the words, inside? Lucasta, holder of the heart of Jerome Arnott-Rattenbury. Do you notice, on the outside, where it might be spotted, it’s only first names? Inside he feels secure enough to be revealed – but refuses to use her married name?’
‘Cynic!’
‘No. But I think he was.’ His warm hand smoothed her hair down to the small of her back, one of those absent, affectionate caresses of which Angel had exaggerated the importance. ‘And hard, to allow the affair to be so torrid, then turn his back at crunch time.’
She laughed. When she turned her face, his was very near. ‘Whereas you’re as moral as a priest and as faithful as a puppy.’
He stared down at her for long moments. She tried to read his expression as he slid the case into an inside jacket pocket. Was he going to say something significant? He had that look, thoughtful, considering. No. He’d turned to the surveyor’s report. ‘What do you think of this?’
It was a long time since the cottage had been updated. Ratty intended to give it the full works, he explained. ‘Damp proofing first. Rewiring. Replastering after the proofers and electricians. A lot’s unsound.’ Tap, tap.
She followed him into the kitchen, missing his warmth. ‘And you’ve got the funds?’
‘More or less. I’m hoping to get some grant money. I’ve been in touch with the council and the heritage people. No, I’m wrong, new windows then replastering.’ He flicked the report.
‘Where do I come in?’ She leant against the old pot sink with him, surveying Lucasta’s kitchen: an inappropriate free-standing electric cooker, space where the table once stood against the wall, two oak dressers Ratty had screwed down to become fixtures before Derry could claim them as moveable estate.
‘Two ways. I wondered if you’d let people in occasionally, when I can’t? Take messages if I’m out chasing bits somewhere?’
‘Should think so, yes.’
‘Then design. I’m going to have a kitchen handmade round these two dressers.’
‘And the sink?’
‘Is it worth keeping?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Think how stainless steel would look, in here!’
‘Right. Dressers and sink, then. Range in the chimney breast?’
Tess nodded.
‘Tiles behind, hand-painted china doorknobs ... I thought, maybe, you’d help with the design – you’ve got the eye. I want your picture of McLaren up here.’ He rubbed his chin again. ‘Maybe I could commission you to do something bigger for above ... I don’t know quite what.’ Brow furrowed, chin rasping, he got caught up on this minor point.
She threw back her hair and put her head on one side, stroked her own un-rasping chin, suggested, ‘Portrait of your father?’
His eyes gleamed as he turned his grin on her. ‘He’d love that! It would be nice to have a portrait of Lucasta.’
‘Can’t be done,’ she denied firmly, reading his sidelong, hopeful look accurately. ‘No sitter, no up-to-date photographs, I couldn’t do her justice.’
Opening the under-sink cupboard, releasing a smell of dampness and Ajax, Ratty came out with a bubble-wrapped parcel. ‘There’s this.’ From a monochrome photograph hand-tinted with watery colour, behind the glass Lucasta was just beginning to smile. A much younger Lucasta with glossy hair piled high on a head tilted on a long, elegant neck. A curving crack marred the glass and the mount was damp-marked and buckled, the frame parting at the mitres.
‘That should’ve gone to Derry!’
‘But I stole it. Like it?’
She leant against him to get a better look. ‘I wouldn’t want to copy that, the original’s too good. I’ll remount and frame it, if you want.’ What would make it special for him? She considered. ‘If the mount is very broad,’ she indicated a size, ‘it can be decorated. Pencil sketches of Pennybun? Lucasta’s favourite flowers? What d’you think?’
He took several moments to reply. ‘I think,’ he returned eventually, ‘you’re a very clever lady.
‘I also think that, if you rest your delectable chest on somebody’s arm like that, you’ll give somebody the wrong message altogether.’
She leapt away, flaming. ‘I didn’t notice!’
Carefully, he replaced the photo in the polythene. ‘Thanks a lot.’
As work began on Pennybun Cottage, Ratty’s moods varied. He was missing Lucasta, of course, Tess understood that. So when he turned up at Honeybun seeking her company on a jaunt, she generally went along.
‘So,’ she puffed up the sloping grass, watching her footing where the cows had lately been, trying to keep up with Ratty’s strides. ‘Why move into Pennybun when you’ve got a perfectly good place?’
He waited until she’d caught up. ‘I like Pennybun, it was Lucasta’s. The house at Ladies Lane is somewhere to live but I think I could be at home in Pennybun.’
She paused to look behind her, across the field to the old orange tile roofs of Pennybun and Honeybun, surrounded by trees behind the six-foot wall that marked the beginning of the farmland. ‘You sure we’re allowed in this field?’
‘The farmer won’t mind, I don’t know about the bull ... Don’t be such a wimp, there’s no bull! Wasn’t it you who said you were sick of being indoors, sick of travelling by car, and needed to blow the cobwebs away?’
‘But this is a cross-country hike. I would’ve settled for a brisk walk to the pub. Ouch!’ For about the fifth time she turned her ankle on the clumpy grass.
‘What a princess you are sometimes!’ His voice slid from impatience to cooing sarcasm. ‘Give Watty your lickle-ickle handie, let me help you up this nasty steep slope, Pwincess Tessie.’
She grinned and blew him a raspberry. His hand, a grimy layer over the usual oily layer because he’d been shovelling old plaster into a skip, closed firmly over her ink stains and golden rings. Walking in the same beat was much easier and her breathing steadied. Her huge jumper kept her just about warm enough and it was half pleasant to shake the fidgets out in a kind of a canter over the grazing land that encircled the village.
Work at Pennybun tended to eat up time. The damp proofing company had left a God-almighty mess; the electricians had rewired, fixed a plentiful amount of sockets and a shower unit and made more. Now Ratty was fuming over a letter from the heritage people disagreeing with the replacement of the windows.
‘Anyone would think I was going to replace them with PVCu, not hardwood to match the existing! Some bossy bloody bureaucratic bitch has decided the old glass
should be used, would you believe? Has she tried salvaging and reusing glass of that age? It’s not original anyway, probably replaced about a hundred years ago. Any window frame less than one-third rotten she wants repairing instead of replacing! A bloody inspired idea, eh? Half the windows replaced and half repaired.
‘Anyway, the joiner got her sorted. “I don’t do bodged jobs, duck.” Brilliant! Mind that cow-do, Princess.’
She could hardly reply for the furious pace, but at least they were swinging downhill now, towards a stream. She’d never struck out across the farmland since the early run-in with Simeon, always keeping carefully to footpaths. Ratty had no such qualms. ‘Have you got permission to replace the windows, then?’ she gasped.
‘Bureaucratic Bitch has gone away to consider but I think she’s run out of steam. The man from the council was told-you-so-ing, he’s got no more patience with impractical idealism than me. The Commuters got your windows replaced. I only want to do the same.’
Good job it was The Commuters who’d modernised Honeybun Cottage. Though if they hadn’t, they might not have sunk in financial sewage and wouldn’t have sold and she’d be living in a different house in a different village with a whole load of different friends. Different shop, different pub ...
‘Can you manage eight steps across this tree, Princess, or shall I whistle up an alabaster-white winged horse to purvey your delicateness?’
‘I think I can manage.’ She achieved the necessary steps across the fallen tree over the stream, pausing to watch the water rush in paw-prints across the shale bed, an excuse to get her breath. Her hand was still in Ratty’s. It was warm, so she left it there.
He seemed to have rushed some of the frustrations from his system and they strolled the bank, snapping twigs, looking out where the land rolled away from them combed in brown furrows. She shivered in the uninterrupted wind and he pulled half his fleece jacket across her back as they moved on, away from the sharp smell of nettles.
Crossing the second of two lanes, he remarked, ‘Carlysle land from here. If you cross the stream and go right through the coppice you’ll find the stile and the footpaths back to the village.’
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