by Grace Lowrie
Several of the items may once have belonged to Cornelia, but many of the others seemed to date back generations. They’d presumably been retained for children to play with and parade around in, or for fancy dress parties, but to my knowledge Wildham Hall had not hosted a single party of any sort. At least not since I’d lived there. I tried on a variety of pinafores, blouses, skirts, belts and scarves, one after the other and sometimes in combination, analysing ruffles, hemlines and demure sections of lace, and repeatedly scrutinising myself in a floor-length mirror. Recently I’d been browsing online music videos to gain an idea of what was fashionable and what was not – and this stuff was definitely not. But I had an eye for detail, a sewing machine and a streak of stubborn determination a mile wide. And anything else I needed could be sourced second-hand on eBay.
Of course I didn’t dwell on my reasons for suddenly wanting to update my wardrobe – I told myself it was long overdue and nothing whatsoever to do with the gentle giant I’d made friends with in the garden. As I hastily unpicked, pinned, and re-sewed the hem of a dress, I stole glances at him in the distance through the window. It looked like he’d started dredging the silt and muck from the bottom of the stream this morning and was working his way towards the lake, though he was too far away for me to be sure.
Was I right to consider Liam Hunt a friend? I had no experience to go on, but everything I’d read on the subject of friendships made me quietly optimistic. He didn’t treat me like a freak and that alone was a great sign.
Every carer, housekeeper or tutor I’d ever had resented my silence. Many would start out seemingly understanding, patient and kind, only to inevitably turn angry. They found my failure to speak peculiar, frustrating and offensive, and often took it as some kind of personal insult. But so far Liam appeared to be different; he refrained from questioning or snapping at me, and he never grabbed at me either. Despite his size and the amount of time we spent together, he was careful not to touch me at all – a simple courtesy that most people, in my limited experience, didn’t bother with.
And I enjoyed the way he talked to me as he worked; explaining his actions and teaching me things without expecting anything in return. I liked the way he was clever with his big, rough hands; the way he ate messily and without restraint; and the way he smiled at me with a golden warmth in his eyes. In short, I liked spending time in his company and surely that was what friendship was all about, wasn’t it?
My alterations complete, I slipped the dress on over my head, snugly buckled a belt around my waist, and stood back to eye myself in the mirror, marvelling at the waft of air circulating around my bare knees. It would have to do. In the bathroom I spent time scrubbing at my forearm with soap and hot water in a futile attempt to erase my communications with Gregory, and made a mental note to stop using my own skin to write on.
In the kitchen I removed the leftovers from the fridge and packed them into a wicker hamper along with a chilled carton of orange juice. Did Liam like orange juice? I guess I’d find out. Pleased with my preparations, I slipped on a pair of sandals at the back door and made my way down to the lake.
The man was wearing welly boots attached to weird rubbery trousers, which extended right up to his chest and were held up by braces – making him look like an ogre from an illustrated fairytale. His arms were coated in mud past his elbows and he was sweating profusely, but Liam smiled when he saw me.
‘If it gets any hotter I’m going to have to strip off these ruddy waders and do this job in my undies.’
I stopped a few paces short and blinked at him as I tried to process this unexpected possibility in my mind.
‘I’m joking,’ he said with a grin. Clambering up the bank he unhooked the braces from his shoulders and peeled the ‘waders’ down to his waist. I was both relieved and faintly disappointed to see he was wearing another pair of trousers underneath. ‘What’ve you got there, lunch?’ He indicated the hamper with a jut of his chin, while his eyes skimmed my new outfit; my chest, my waist, my hips and my exposed bare legs. It was a fleeting glance, but it weighed more; as if his gaze alone warmed my skin. The curious sensation was not unpleasant and I was glad to have made an effort.
Liam used a couple of lengths of twine to tie back the trailing branches of a willow tree, like swagged curtains either side of a stage. By doing so he created a shady green arbour on the bank of the stream. ‘After you, mi’lady,’ he said with a mock bow. He waited for me to make myself comfortable before dropping down beside me, just out of reach.
While I set out the food, he talked me through his progress, emphasising that the water would run clear again once the churned up silt had settled. He’d left great mounds of excavated mud and roots at intervals along the bank, so that any wildlife he’d disturbed would have a chance to return to the water before he cleared the debris away for good. It was only once I’d opened the orange juice that I realised I hadn’t brought any cups.
‘We can just swig from the carton,’ he suggested with a shrug.
My face must have betrayed my misgivings as I looked at him.
‘But I understand if you don’t fancy sharing – I can have water instead...’
In my haste to shove the carton at him, juice spilled from the top, but after only a moment’s hesitation he accepted it. I stared as he took a drink; his soft-looking mouth yielding around the opening and his Adam’s apple shifting beneath a fine sprinkling of golden stubble with each swallow. He handed it back to me and I kept my eyes on his as I took a sip myself, the juice tangy and refreshing on my tongue. My thoughts were racing and my lips tingled afterwards as I licked them. Sharing saliva with a man I barely knew was oddly intimate – in my over-active imagination I had just kissed him.
Chapter Thirteen
I only realised I’d been set up when I returned from the camp-site facilities to find a female interloper bent over pitching a two-man tent, not five metres away from mine.
‘Ah, Liam, there you are,’ Maire said, slinging her arm casually around my smirking brother’s waist. ‘This is my friend Bridget – she’s joining us for the weekend.’ The interloper straightened up, and turned to me with a smile, dusting her hands on her jeans. ‘Bridget, this is Lester’s little brother, Liam.’
‘Little?’ Bridget said, clearly amused and looking me up and down as we shook hands. ‘If you say so...’
She herself was tall for a woman – maybe five foot nine or ten – with long, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail and womanly curves in all the right places. Her open smile and her firm handshake were warm and appealing, and though I was irritated by my sister-in-law’s ambush-style attempt to set me up, I wasn’t about to take it out on Bridget.
‘I understand you’re a gardener too, is that right?’ she asked.
‘Landscaping more than maintenance, but yes... how about you; what do you do?’ Taking a handful of loose pegs from the ground I squatted to secure the guy ropes on her tent. I’d never been one for introductory small talk – especially not with women.
‘I work at the British Library in London, have you been?’
‘I’m afraid not, no – what’s it like?’
Thankfully Bridget was content to waffle on about her job with minimal encouragement from me. It started to rain and under Maire’s direction we unloaded the collapsible table, deck chairs, camping stove and other equipment from the back of Lester’s van, while he erected a waterproof tarpaulin over the communal space between our three tents.
It was a long-standing family tradition that my brother and I went camping on the first weekend in August – regardless of the weather – we’d done it every year since we were small. Once he got married, Maire started tagging along with us. It might have bothered me, but Lester and Maire had been together since high school so I was used to her being around, and they were good at not making me feel like a spare wheel. Maire and I had repeatedly tried to get Cally to join us, but she never fancied it – she’d never been much of an outdoor person.
In
our youth, Lester and I would venture into the wilds of the Scottish highlands, the windswept coasts of Ireland and Wales, and the peaks and valleys of the lake district, making camp wherever we ended up. But recently, a concise travelling duration had become the priority when picking a destination, in order to make the most of our limited free time. This year we’d booked pitches on a working farm in Suffolk – albeit a picturesque one – and the onus would be on me to make polite chitchat with a stranger all weekend.
While Bridget was busy lacing up her walking boots I shot Maire a disgruntled look, but she smiled to herself and pretended not to notice. Now that she was four months pregnant and the worst of her morning sickness was over, nothing got her down. For me, this trip was not going to be the relaxing break I’d hoped for.
*
By midday on Sunday I was ready to admit defeat; cut the long weekend short and head home. It didn’t help that the weather had been against us, though it wasn’t really the wind and rain that was getting to me. We’d managed a decent hike or two, and Bridget was lovely; attractive and friendly, and genuinely seemed interested when I described Wildham Hall. She backed off once she realised that I wasn’t big on conversation and, for the most part, left me alone with my thoughts. But, as it turns out, that was my real problem – my thoughts.
I couldn’t get her out of my head – the girl from Wildham Hall; my silent stalker; my sylph-like student; my shadow – and it was driving me to distraction. Was it crazy to miss someone when you didn’t even know their name?
Every little detail about her had me fascinated. The way she ate, for example: the other day she’d opened a packet of cheese and a bag of crisps, broken the cheese into chunks and then taken the time to garnish each individual crisp with a precariously-balanced piece of cheese. Once her food was arranged to her satisfaction she steadily consumed each bite-sized morsel, delicately one by one with her fingertips. Something inside of me yearned to be on the receiving end of her precise attention. I’d never wanted to be a piece of cheese before...
And her ongoing, comprehensive silence was intensely intriguing. Was she simply reluctant to speak or actually unable to? And if it was the latter, was that due to a physical problem or psychological trauma? Her tongue looked healthy enough when she was licking orange juice from her lips, and there were no outward signs of scarring at her throat – on the contrary the skin there looked as smooth as white marble, the delicate throb of her pulse visible beneath the surface.
But not all her skin was flawless; her left arm showed faded evidence of more writing. I assumed that was how she communicated with Sinclair when he was at home – when she wasn’t hiding from him, of course. It was pointless making assumptions based on a jumble of scribblings which may, or may not, represent one side of a conversation, but words like ‘no’ and ‘please don’t’ seemed to leap out at me and made me worry about relations between them.
In the last few days her outfits had changed – her clothes were shorter at the leg, lower at the neck line and more-closely fitting – not indecently so, but enough that she no longer resembled a rag doll or a child. I couldn’t help thinking that these changes might be for my benefit – a concept both flattering and worrying in equal measure. I still had no idea if she was my client’s wife or daughter, but either way, and regardless of whether they got on or not, she was off-limits for me. I did not get involved with clients.
Besides, she was not the sort of woman I wanted to get mixed up with – she was far too unpredictable, mysterious and complicated. I needed someone who was normal, easy-going and straight-forward; someone I could rely on; someone more like Bridget, maybe...
‘I might head off early,’ I said.
‘What, why?’ Lester looked genuinely disappointed. ‘We’re booked in for a session at the shooting range tomorrow...’
‘I know.’
‘You won’t have to kill any real animals – it’s just target practise – it’ll be fun.’
‘It’s not my thing.’
‘That’s kind of ironic – with your name being Hunt,’ Bridget said.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I shrugged.
Lester put a hand on my shoulder and steered me away from the women. ‘What’s going on?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Nothing, I’m just tired.’
‘I thought you and Bridget were getting on – you look great together – don’t you like her?’
‘No, she’s a lovely girl, it’s not that.’
Lester sighed. ‘You can’t stay hung up on Cally forever – I know she hurt you, but—’
‘No, it’s not that either, I don’t know, I—’
‘Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but Maire mentioned that Marguerite knows where Cally is. Maybe you should go down to London and see her? Then maybe you can put that relationship behind you and move on.’
It was no surprise to me that Marguerite had Cally’s address; she’d probably had it all along. Was unfinished business with my ex really holding me back? It was definitely easier to let Lester think that than try to explain how I was being haunted by a strange female client. ‘OK, maybe I’ll do that.’
Chapter Fourteen
He was back! He’d mentioned he was going to be away for a few days but I hadn’t expected it to feel like a year. I watched from a bedroom window as he made his way down to the lake, a blue T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and his waders dangling limply over one arm like a deflated sea-creature. It was only 7 a.m. – still early – too early to go and see him. But the sun had been up for over an hour; as had the birds; as had I...
‘Morning,’ he said, his face lifting into a big smile and making my stomach lurch with excitement and fear. I had a ferocious and entirely foreign urge to hug him, but instead I grinned back at him like a fool. ‘The water’s looking much clearer, don’t you think?’
Stepping over I stood beside him at the water’s edge, and as the sleeve of my cardigan brushed his arm he shifted away.
‘I’ve still got to tackle the clump of reeds at that end by the boathouse, but then I reckon it will be good enough to swim in.’
This was a surprise. Why would anyone want to swim in it? Peering through the water at the murky bottom I shivered. Admittedly I didn’t know how to swim – but the idea of sinking barefoot into all that cold mud didn’t appeal at all, and I’d never known Gregory or anyone else to swim here. Reaching past Liam, I idly ran my hand up the tall upright stems of the bulrushes, letting the long, brown velvet heads skim through my fingers. Again my sleeve brushed his arm and again he shifted away from me, a subtle sign of respect that I would have been grateful for in anyone else, but which left me crushed. I wanted to touch him; I wanted him to touch me. More than that; I wanted him to want to touch me, as disturbing as that concept may be.
‘I brought you something,’ he said, withdrawing a small notebook and a Biro from his pocket. ‘You might think it’s silly, and you don’t have to use it, but... just in case you ever want to tell me something... anything...’
It was amazing that he had waited this long to try to get me to communicate, and even now he was doing it in a gentle, unpushy way. And yet, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. There was a certain safety and security in my anonymity – once he got to know me he might not like me anymore. With reluctance I accepted the pen and paper, still warm with his body heat, and stared at the blank white page. Where should I start? What should I say? Thank you for being so kind to me? I like being around you? Touch me...? No, it was no good, he would run a mile.
‘You don’t have to write anything right now.’
With an apologetic smile I tucked the pad and pen into my pocket and he set about pulling on his waders. It seemed improper to watch him dressing, so I wandered over to the nearest tree – the large old cypress with distinctive spreading limbs, which provided a striking focal point when viewed from the house. In the past I’d climbed up and sat in it, but over time the lowest branches had been removed and now, as I reached
up on tiptoe, bracing a foot against the trunk, I found I could no longer scale it without making an ass of myself.
‘Want some help?’ He was standing close behind me as I turned to look at him, and my heartbeat picked up with anticipation. ‘If I help you up there do you promise not to fall and break your neck?’
Smiling, I nodded.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting; maybe I’d imagined he’d crouch down and give me a leg up; a boost, but instead he cupped my waist in his enormous hands, lifted me straight up into the air as if I weighed nothing, and gently set me down on a branch six foot off the ground. My hands automatically shot out and gripped his shoulders as all the blood rushed to my abdomen and left me light-headed, but he kept a firm hold of me, gazing up at me with concern.
‘You OK? You’re not going to fall, are you?’
I blinked a few times, breathless with the exhilarating physical sensation his touch provoked inside me. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Was this desire? Coming to my senses I snatched my fingers back from where I’d been clinging to his body and grabbed the branch either side of me instead. Once he was sure I’d regained my balance, he slowly withdrew his hands and their warmth lingered like a pleasant ache long after he had walked away.
After that I became obsessed with thinking up new excuses to make physical contact; the heady rush of heat I got from his touch was addictive. As he worked I tried to predict which tool he might require next, simply so that his long coarse fingers might skim mine as I passed it to him. When we ate lunch together, or walked side by side, I tried to position myself close enough that his arm would brush mine. And every time we came across a suitable tree I would climb it, with his obliging assistance of course, that and his large and powerful hands. It made me smile every time. Who was this person I’d become?