by Ann Bennett
She looks into his eyes, ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I feel as though I’ve neglected you all these years. I’ve been so wrapped up in the business. Time has just flown by. I’ve been so selfish.’
‘Nonsense. Now, like I said, you can stay here as long as you like, until you decide what to do. You might even decide to go back to Alex, you never know.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ she says vehemently.
‘You say that now, but you might think differently in a few weeks’ time.’
She shakes her head. ‘No. I’m going to look for somewhere round here to live. To be close to you, Dad. Make up for lost time.’
‘What about your friends? Your life in London?’
She laughs, ‘My life was the restaurant. It was all-consuming. I hardly had any time for real friends. I lost touch with most people I knew from school and college over the years. They were all settling down, having families. We drifted apart. No, there’s no real reason for me to stay in London. In fact, there are plenty of reasons not to. I need a clean break.’
He gets up and switches on the oven.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘If you need me to advance you some money you only have to say the word. I’m sure it will take time to sort things out with Alex on the finance front. I’d be only too happy to help. It’s all yours anyway. Well, it will be one day at least.’
Seven
Sarah
The days pass. Sarah falls into her father’s undemanding routine, welcoming the change of pace. Each day begins with them sharing breakfast in the kitchen. After that, Dad usually has somewhere to go in the mornings. It might be to the garden centre or shopping for groceries, or to a meeting of one of his clubs or societies.
While he’s out she potters around the house, listening to the radio, tidying or cleaning, preparing lunch, sometimes just sitting in Dad’s sun room at the back in a basket chair, soaking up the weak rays of winter sun and reading through Dad’s collection of detective novels. Except that she can’t really ever relax. All the time she thinks of Alex, imagining him embracing Jemma, the girl with the thick mascara, the bottle-blonde hair. Picturing them together makes her shudder, but she can’t stop herself.
She goes back over every conversation she ever had with Jemma. Even at the interview Sarah had thought how unsuitable she would be, how she didn’t really fit with the image of the restaurant. She’d decided to take the risk, though, because they were short-staffed and busy. She goes over all the times she’d called the girl into the office to reprimand her; either for being rude or over familiar to customers, or for causing trouble, complaints from customers, arguments amongst the staff. Eventually, she had to ask her to leave when she’d taken money from the till. Jemma tried to deny it at first, but soon dropped that when she saw that Sarah was deadly serious.
She’d left sulkily, grabbing her bag from her locker and storming out of the office. As she left she turned and fixed her eyes on Sarah and gave her a strange smile. It was only fleeting, but it had seemed a very odd thing to do. Sarah had wondered then what it was about, but now as she recalls the moment, it sends chills down her spine. She now knows that at that time Jemma must already have been sleeping with Alex. She must have been laughing at her. They both must have been. Sarah tries to shut it from her mind but the images keep forcing their way back. When she thinks of him paying the girl every month for the past two years out of their own money, it makes her seethe with anger.
She tries to visualise times she’d seen Alex and Jemma together, trying to pin-point when it had started between them. How could he have lost his judgment to such an extent? It goes round so much in her mind that she begins to think she’s going crazy. In the end she tries to blot it all out, to empty her mind of the pain.
The trouble is, her mind can never be empty for long. Whenever she makes a conscious effort not to think of Alex and the restaurant and that girl, she worries instead about the police investigation. The stress and humiliation of watching them rifle through all the files and papers. Why wouldn’t they say what they were looking for? What had led them to investigate the business so suddenly and so dramatically? Whatever had Alex got himself mixed up in? He had always been impulsive, sometimes naive, but it would be a shock if he really was involved in criminal activities.
These thoughts and worries harry her so much she often feels near to breaking point. Then she buries her head in her hands, screws her eyes up in frustration. In those moments it’s the old house that appears in her mind. It seems to beckon her. She tours it again and again in her imagination; a welcome distraction. She is always alone walking round those musty rooms, staring at the pictures, at the old furniture, at the decay. She also dreams of it at night. It won’t leave her in peace.
Those first few days Alex tries to call her many times. At first she doesn’t answer the calls, and doesn’t listen to the messages he leaves either, but on the third day she gives in and picks up.
‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’
‘To be honest I couldn’t face talking to you, Alex. I needed some time to think.’
‘Time to think? You didn’t think very hard before you went to see a lawyer, did you? I got her letter this morning. What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You could have let me know what was going on?’
‘I did try to tell you Alex. I told you I wasn’t coming back.’
‘Yes but this letter is about a bit more than just not coming back. I suppose you’ve seen a copy? You could have told me yourself! Let me read you this bit. It’s priceless; My client has grounds for divorce on the basis of your adultery. She would like to come to an amicable settlement with you as soon as possible. In order to assess what is fair please send me a schedule of your assets, your income and expenses and recent accounts of all your business concerns as soon as possible. I would suggest you take your own legal advice without delay.’
Sarah digs her nails into her hands as he reads. Her face goes hot and cold. It is a blow hearing the letter read out like that. It had somehow felt safe and remote discussing it in that comfortable office with Judith Marshall. Now it feels real.
‘I thought it might be better coming from someone else,’ she says. ‘Someone impartial.’
‘Adultery! Where the hell do you get that from? We could have sorted this out, Sarah. We could have talked about it. I’m up to my ears in this police thing, running the restaurant single-handed and short-staffed, and now you lay this on me! Great fucking timing, I must say.’
‘I don’t know why you’re playing the innocent. I left for a reason. I couldn’t go on pretending I didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t know? Didn’t know what?’
‘About… about you and that girl.’
‘What girl? There is no girl,’ he laughs an incredulous laugh, ‘You really have gone mad.’
A pause while she bites back the anger, stops herself from yelling at him.
‘I don’t know how you’ve got the gall to deny it. I’ve seen the proof,’ she says, icy cold.
‘What the hell are you on about? What proof? There can’t be any proof because there isn’t anything to prove. Look, you’re doing my head in now Sarah. I’ve just seen that bastard O’Leary coming into the restaurant. I’ll have to go now. I’ll call again later. You’re talking bullshit and you know it.’
He hangs up. Her heart is pounding, she bites her lip hard. I’ve got to be strong, she tells herself. She goes outside into the garden and lights a cigarette. She stands on the step, drawing on it gratefully, letting the nicotine creep through her veins, calm her jangling nerves. She stares down at the river at the bottom of the garden, brown and wide and fast flowing, at the bare winter trees blowing in the breeze.
Finishing the cigarette, she drops the butt end onto the patio and grinds it in. She needs to get out of the house for a few hours; a change of scenery. She goes upstairs, and pulls on her jeans and a sweater. Staring in the mirror she notices her face has got thinner over the past few days despite Dad’s cooking. He
r skin is sallow and there are frown lines on her forehead, dark smudges under her eyes. She puts on her makeup carefully, layering on the blusher. She scribbles a note for her father on the kitchen table and locks the house up.
Pulling out of the drive onto the main road she turns right, in the direction of Weirfield. It isn’t a decision she made consciously, but as she drives along parallel to the river, she realises she needs to go back there to look at the old house again, to see if the For Sale sign is still up, or if it’s been replaced by another one saying Under Offer. It surely won’t have sold yet, but why not check anyway?
As she drives through the outskirts of Weirfield a tingle of anticipation runs through her. As she approaches Cedar Lodge she slows down and stares. A white removal van is parked in the yard behind the house. She pulls up on the other side of the road and winds the window down to get a better look, but from this angle it’s difficult to see what’s happening; the house is in the way. She gets out of the car and crosses the road, noting that the For Sale sign is still up beside the gate. She walks along the pavement beside the overgrown hedge and stops by the entrance to the stable yard. The gates to the drive are open. She can see very little except that the double doors at the back of the van are open. There are thumps and bangs coming from inside, and the sound of men’s voices. The words Jamieson House Clearance, No job too small are painted on the side. They must be moving everything out. Does this mean someone has bought it already?
She’s about to turn to go, when two men in suits appear from behind the van and start walking across the stable yard, deep in conversation. Now she spots the black Range Rover tucked in the corner of the yard next to the coach house. She realises that one of the men is Jeremy Squires, and with a jolt of recognition she sees that she knows who the other man is too, although his back is to her. She recognises his unruly blond hair. It’s Peter Cartwright, the solicitor she’d met briefly in Judith Marshall’s office.
As she gets back into the car she realises she ‘s parked directly in front of the newsagents. She glances through the window. The woman is staring straight at her, smiling a knowing smile, her pencilled eyebrows raised in expectation. Sarah raises a hand in an awkward wave and gets into the car.
She parks on the market square. It’s quiet today; there are no stalls. She crosses the square quickly to Country Squires and without pausing, goes inside. The woman behind the desk looks up.
‘I’d like the particulars for Cedar Lodge please.’
The woman smiles politely. ‘Please take a seat madam. Would you like to register with us? We have a number of very desirable properties in the same price bracket.’
‘No thank you. I’m just curious about this particular house. Is it still on the market?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s now under offer and the vendors have instructed us to take it off the market.’
‘That’s a surprise. The sign in the window says nothing about that.’
‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t had time to change the display. It was only confirmed this morning.’
Sarah swallows, taking in this new information. Disappointment washes through her.
‘Could I take particulars of the house anyway? In case the sale falls through?’
‘I suppose so,’ the woman says reluctantly, handing her a glossy brochure from the pile on her desk. ‘But I very much doubt that will happen. The purchasers are regular clients of ours.’
Sarah thinks for a few minutes, absently fingering the brochure.
‘Can you tell me how much it went for?’ she asks eventually.
A flush appears on the woman’s neck and travels up to her cheeks. She shuffles the papers on her desk.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do that. If you’d like to speak to Mr Squires, he’ll be back later. In the meantime, would you like to look at any other properties? As I said, we have several on our books in the same price range.’
‘No. I’m only interested in Cedar Lodge. Mr Squires showed me around a few days ago.’
The woman frowns. ‘Really? What’s your name please? I don’t think you’re on our books. Perhaps you’d like to register?’
‘It’s OK,’ says Sarah, getting up. ‘Thank you. I might call to speak to Mr Squires.’
She crosses the market square deep in thought, aware that she must acknowledge now what she’s been afraid to acknowledge before. She has to admit to herself that she does want to own that old house. She has wanted to ever since she first looked over the rusty gate and inside the garden. She needs to own it for a reason that she can’t quite fathom. Perhaps it’s because she needs to start something new, put her imprint on somewhere without Alex in the background? Or perhaps it might be in order to establish some sort of connection with her father’s past?
Into her mind steps a young woman – a teenage girl; the picture is blurred because she has no idea what the girl’s features might be like, but she’s dressed in thin, cheap clothes, wrapped in a shawl, her face pinched and pale. She would be walking along the High Street in the dead of night, carrying a baby. The baby would be crying, the girl might be too. There would be no traffic rumbling on the road then. The little town would be quiet and dark; the street lamps would have gone off hours ago. The girl creeps along the front wall of the orphanage and hesitates near the front steps. There’s a narrow porch in front of the entrance, and she holds her bundle to her for one last agonising precious moment before laying it down on the step inside the porch. Then, she’s walking slowly backwards down the steps, and turning to run back the way she came, tears streaming down her face.
By now Sarah has walked the length of the High Street, barely noticing her surroundings. She pauses outside of Le Gastronome. There’s a sign in the window: Waiting and kitchen staff wanted, ask inside. She sighs and smiles sadly, thinking that the perennial problem that besets restaurant owners is no longer her worry. Inside, an awkward young man shows her to a table in the window. Only two other tables are occupied, one elderly couple and at the other two middle-aged women deep in conversation.
She glances at the menu, noting the tired, obvious choices; the steak tartare, the beouf bourguignon. Alex would have a field day here. He’d turn this place around in a few months; change the menu, revamp the décor, energise the staff. She sighs and supresses the thought.
The waiter is hovering over her, waiting for her order. He has pimply skin and looks very young, unsure of himself. ‘I’ll just have the French onion soup and baguette please.’
While she’s waiting for her soup she glances through the brochure for Cedar Lodge. The photographer has done a good job. The rooms are transformed. They don’t look dirty and neglected in these pictures. The furniture appears shiny and the rooms elegant, light and cavernous, with the aid of a wide-angle lens. She bites her nail. Perhaps if she could find out how much it had gone for, she could make a higher offer. Perhaps she could accept an advance from Dad until things are sorted out with Alex. But how would Dad feel about her buying somewhere that has such poignant connotations for him? He might not like it at all.
‘Interested in the old Burroughs house?’
She looks up. A man is standing beside the table. He holds out his hand.
‘I’m Matt Drayton by the way. I own this place, for my sins…’
She shakes his hand. ‘Hello. I’m Sarah Jennings. And yes, I am interested in the house.’
‘I’ve lived in the town all my life. It’s a beautiful old place. Very neglected, though. The Miss Burroughs lived like church mice there for years. Hardly went out. It will be great if someone buys it and restores it to its former glory.’
Sarah puts the brochure down with a sigh. ‘It would. That someone won’t be me though. Firstly it’s a massive project and secondly I’m probably too late. I’ve just come from the estate agents. It’s already under offer.’
‘Already? It only went on the market the other day.’
She shrugs. ‘Bad timing on my part, I suppose.’
He smiles and
shrugs sympathetically. ‘Are you from round here? I don’t recognise you.’
‘No, but my dad is,’ she replies without pausing for thought. ‘I’m staying with him for a while.’
‘Really? What’s his name? I might know him.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so… he left when he was still a baby…’ she looks down. There’s a short silence.
‘Well, here comes your soup now. I hope you enjoy it.’
‘Thank you.’
She looks up at him, noticing him properly for the first time. He must be in his early forties, his dark hair is streaked with grey, there’s a film of stubble on his chin and although his eyes are smiling there are fatigue lines under them. She recognises the familiar exhaustion and desperation of the restaurateur who is working harder and harder only to find their business losing money and customers each day.
She tucks into the soup, noticing with surprise that it is actually rather good. Home-made with excellent quality beef stock. The bread is fresh and warm too. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. When she’s finished she sits back and stares out of the window. Not a great position, this place. Right at the end of the town and the pavement here is narrow so people might not want such a long walk from the car park.
Across the road is a row of businesses in redbrick buildings that must once have been houses. There’s an accountant’s, a dentist’s and a doctor’s surgery. As she looks at the surgery, housed in one of the few modern buildings in the row, the front door opens and someone steps out. An old man with a shock of white hair, dressed in an oversized anorak. He stands on the step for a moment. It’s a few seconds before it registers.
‘Dad,’ she breathes. She begins to push back her chair intending to rush out to him. But something stops her. He’s walking slowly away from the surgery towards the town now, hunched in the cold air. He has a defeated look about him. Her instinct tells her he needs to be alone.
Eight