by Grace Lowrie
Chapter Fifteen
A messy oil change and a brand new carburettor later, the lawn mower finally growled into life. It was built like a small tractor and made a farmer of me as I drove up and down creating stripes across the land. The steady monotony gave me time to reflect on recent events. In a disturbing case of history repeating itself, my best mate’s girlfriend had left him – abruptly walked out on him, like my ex had four months previously – as if the urge to run away was catching. But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the situation was completely different. James and Kat were suited to each other in a way, I now realised Cally and I never were. Their relationship was obviously complicated but I had enough faith in them to believe they would work it out. Whether I’d ever figure out my own love life was another matter.
The ride-on machine didn’t have an attachment for collecting the cuttings, and it was hot, back-straining work raking them up by hand. But as the underlying slope of the main lawn began to take shape, forming sweeping curves and revealing the elegant trunks of trees, I couldn’t help being pleased. The unfurling green carpet led the eye effortlessly down through the landscape, providing a perfect canvas for the spectacular view, framed by trees and sky. On the east side of the estate, a good half-mile away from the house, the long grass was dominated by wild flowers – a proliferation of ox-eye daisies, purple knapweed and yellow loosestrife, buzzing with insects. On impulse I left the area of flowering meadow almost intact, deciding instead to mow a track around the periphery and one sinuous path meandering through the middle, from which the space could be enjoyed from within.
But by lunch time the temperature had reached thirty degrees; I was soaked with sweat and itchy with cut grass, and the cool, clear water of the lake called to me. Keeping my trousers on – so as not to offend the lady of the house, who was reading her book in the shade of a nearby tree – I emptied my pockets, peeled off my shirt, and threw myself in.
The water was deliciously refreshing and almost sweet as I swam a few lengths with a lazy front crawl and then stopped in the middle to simply float on my back with my eyes shut. After a while, a sound drew my attention to the water’s edge, where my silent companion was gingerly tiptoeing into the lake in her white cotton dress; her limbs rigid with tension. Was it the shock of the cold or was she genuinely afraid? Turning over I trod water and watched as she inched forwards, the water rising up her calves, over her knees and soaking into the hem of her dress. Abruptly I turned away, cursing under my breath, when I realised her clothes were becoming transparent.
But a splashing sound had me turning back to where she must have slipped and submerged herself before she was ready – the water now reaching her chin. The abject terror on her face had me swimming towards her.
‘You OK? You can swim, can’t you?’
Shaking her head she folded her arms defensively across her chest, her eyes wide and locked on mine. I stopped a few feet away from her.
‘Right, well you should be OK as long as you don’t come any further – the bottom drops away quite sharply, as I guess you’ve discovered.’
She didn’t respond to this, but kept staring at me as if attempting telepathy.
‘Unless... I mean... I could try to teach you to swim, if you like?’
She smiled, and for a split second I felt fantastic until the reality of the situation hit me and I recognised my spur-of-the-moment offer for the bad idea it really was. Unfortunately she looked too excited by the prospect for me to take it back.
For the next half hour or so I gently supported her in my up-turned hands; issuing instructions and encouragement while she kicked her hands and feet. It was torture. Keeping her from drowning was the easy part. The sheer effort of not noticing the soft feminine contours of her body, her raspberry-like nipples or her seductive scent, was rivalled only by the immense concentration involved in not letting her detect my hard-on.
At last she returned to the water’s edge like a bedraggled mythological nymph, exhausted but exultant, while I swam the deepest, coldest parts of the lake in order to regain my composure. It had been many, many years since I’d been so physically affected by a woman. In fact I couldn’t recall ever having been so turned on before.
By the time I joined her on land, she was wrapped safely inside a shawl and brandishing a long stick in her hand.
‘What’ve you got there?’
Crouching down to where water had lapped onto the shore, she scratched something into the soft mud, before standing back to reveal two words.
‘Melody Sinclair?’
She pressed a palm to her chest, her expression tight with anxiety.
‘That’s your name? Melody?’ The cruel irony of it was shocking and explained her reluctance to share it with me. And yet she had. She could have lied – made something up or shortened it to something else, but instead she had gifted me with the truth.
Melody was scrutinising my face; silently gauging my reaction and waiting for a response. So I said the only honest thing I could:
‘That’s a beautiful name.’
Chapter Sixteen
At first the shock of the water made me gasp and grit my teeth; my clothes dragged as they grew heavy, and mud oozed between my toes, sucking at my feet and filling my mind with notions of swamp monsters and decay. But it had all been worth it. Not only was I learning to swim, something as alien and exciting to me as flying, but it gave me the perfect excuse to be close to him.
Even now, as I returned to the house, damp and itchy in my shawl, I could still sense the heat radiating from his body; the imprint of his strong hands on my belly; the splay of his long fingers as he held me up in his calloused palms with a look of intense concentration – as if he were presenting something precious to the Queen.
I tried to focus on his instructions and advice by taking deep breaths, putting my face in the water, relaxing my body and kicking my toes... but a secret voice in my head spent the entire duration begging him to move his hands – either higher up to cup my breasts, or lower down to where I ached between my legs. But of course, frustratingly, he kept his hands on my stomach the whole time.
Liam Hunt didn’t resemble any of the male pop stars or models I’d been curious about in my teens, but I could no longer deny it – he turned me on. All the songs about lust and desire I’d heard; all the sex I’d read about in books and on the internet; all the hype and fuss I’d once considered irrelevant to me, disregarded and skimmed over, now seemed vitally significant. I wished I’d paid more attention. For instance, how was I supposed to know if he wanted me the same way I did him, or if he was simply being friendly?
He’d said my name was beautiful – which was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to me – but he hadn’t tried to hold my hand or kiss me or anything. For a moment in the lake I’d felt something in his trousers prod my hip, and hoped he might be aroused too, but I couldn’t be sure, and with all the mud I’d churned up splashing about, the water was too murky for me to see.
Wasn’t the man supposed to make the first move? What would he do if I tried to kiss him? Oh crap, what if he was married?
The thought brought me up short and I stopped abruptly on my way through the laundry room, dripping water on the stone floor. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He was certainly old enough to be married... and have kids... several kids in fact. Over the past few weeks he’d mentioned his brother Lester, his pregnant sister-in-law, various friends (someone called James in particular) and several guys he played rugby with... surely by now he would have mentioned a partner or children if he had them...?
‘Just look at the state of you.’
The unexpected voice made me jump as I passed the kitchen and turned to find Mrs Daly stood there with her arms crossed and a mocking expression on her face. It was Tuesday, she didn’t work on Tuesdays – what was she doing here?
‘Having fun out there were you?’
Unease unfurled in the pit
of my stomach.
‘Oh yes, I saw you. He knows you’re frolicking about half-naked with the gardener, does he?’
I scowled at her, pulling my shawl tighter around me. How dare she speak to me like that.
‘No, I’ll bet he doesn’t. How’s about I mention it to him when he’s next home, see what he says...?’
It was moments like these, in which any normal person would simply open their mouth and verbally defend themselves, in which I felt my mutism most acutely. It was bullies like her who made me reluctant to venture out into the world – and here she was threatening me in my own home.
‘What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?’ she crowed. Pushing past her into the kitchen I grabbed the white board where Gregory left her instructions and wrote: What do you want? in marker pen.
‘Now there’s a good question,’ she said, smirking. Slapping the pen down on the counter and trembling with fury, I stared at her with my jaw clenched while she made a show of deliberating.
‘Well now, let’s see, for a start you can clean your own bedroom and bathroom from now on – seems to me you have plenty of time on your hands and I have enough to be getting on with in the rest of the house... and now that you ask, a bit of financial appreciation wouldn’t go amiss – you know – in recognition of all my hard work...’
I don’t have any money, I scrawled.
‘Is that so? Explains a fair few things that does – your dress sense for one,’ she added, eyeing me disdainfully.
‘But, now, I’m sure you could find some cash, if you put your mind to it... or shall I inform Mr Sinclair of your floozy ways and see how quickly your man disappears, never to return?’
Bitch. Pursing my lips I blinked my acquiescence.
‘What was that? I can’t hear you?’
Chucking the pen across the room, I stormed out, my feet slapping the floor. Her cackling laughter followed me all the way up the back stairs.
In the bathroom I locked the door, plugged the bath and turned the taps on full blast before catching sight of myself in the mirror. Was there ever a more pathetic sight? In a fit of rage I swept my toiletries into the sink where they clattered, bounced, and smashed against the enamel, the din reverberating off the tiles. Then I ripped all my damp clothes off, flinging them in too. But I stubbed my toes on the clawed-foot of the bath and with the shot of pain I collapsed to the floor. Powerless, naked and alone, I huddled in the corner listening to the cascade of rushing water, with angry tears spilling down my face.
Chapter Seventeen
From Liverpool Street Station I caught the Metropolitan line four stops back to Kings Cross. The morning rush hour was over and I managed to get a seat opposite a woman with talon-like fingernails, wearing an indecently short gold skirt and stiletto heels. Despite her dark shades I could tell she was fast asleep; her head lolling back against the window and her lipsticked mouth gaping slackly. I idly wondered what her story was; whether she’d been out all night partying or whether she was a sex worker. I tried not to judge people by their appearances or for their life choices, but I hoped for her sake that it was the former and not the latter.
The train jolted on the track and she woke with a start, glancing around self-consciously. As she raised a hand to her hair, a tattoo – a faded string of hearts – was revealed along her arm, and I offered her a sympathetic smile, but she didn’t seem to notice. The train stopped, she disembarked, and was quickly swallowed up by the city.
My unannounced visit to my ex-girlfriend had gone well, all things considered. She didn’t own, or even rent, the swanky penthouse apartment she was currently living in – few people could afford that kind of abode in central London. Marguerite worked for a house-sitting company, and Cally was simply contracted to stay there, as some kind of caretaker, until the rightful owner returned.
It was strange seeing Cally again, but not as uncomfortable as I’d imagined. She too had looked tired and she’d lost too much weight, but despite that she seemed happier; more confident, almost glowing with a vitality I’d never noticed in her before. It confirmed my suspicion that we’d never been right for each other; friends – yes – but lovers...? I’d never induced her to glow like that, and she’d never aroused me the way someone else had recently – someone I barely knew.
So we made polite conversation, my ex and I, over a cup of tea, and as I was leaving I met the man she’d become involved with – her neighbour; a man who had clearly fallen for her hard. He was openly hostile and belligerent towards me, but I figured that anyone who could draw Cally out of her shell and cause her to shine the way she did could not be all bad. At her request I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt for now, and reserve judgement until I knew him better.
From Kings Cross tube station I made my way over to the British Library where someone in the Registration Office checked my ID, issued me with a reader’s pass and quietly directed me to a Reading Room. At the security desk I flashed my new pass, switched my mobile to silent, retrieved a notebook and pencil from my pocket and gazed around the room.
For once I didn’t feel too big for the space I found myself in. It was a vast angular room with a central atrium, several storeys high, which drew in diffused natural light for an arrangement of balconies and mezzanine floors, which in turn were supported by lines of boxy white columns. Rows upon rows of smart writing desks spread out in regimented succession across the floor – each one with its own leather-upholstered chair, reading lamp and power socket – primed for the serious matter of studying in earnest.
Most of the seats were occupied, and I found the respectful hush of the place perversely stimulating; giving me an urge to clear my throat much like churches and art galleries did. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated libraries; I’d read my fair share of books, and such places were invaluable resources to both local communities and civilisation as a whole. But a profound, prolonged quiet in a building filled with people seemed unnatural, unsettling, as if the air itself was tense with potential sound. Then again, given the choice, I always preferred to be outside surrounded by nothing but trees, birds and sky.
‘Liam, you made it,’ a low voice said behind me. I turned to find Bridget smiling at me, hands on hips.
‘You got me intrigued.’
‘Good,’ she whispered, ‘... follow me.’
The last time I’d seen Bridget she’d been clad in high-vis waterproofs on a windswept hillside, rain dripping off her nose. I recognised the same warm smile, but she now sported a glossy haircut, a pencil skirt, high heels and an officious-looking lanyard around her neck. As she led me across the room I couldn’t help but notice the assured swing of her hips, and I wasn’t the only one; heads turned and eyeballs swivelled as she navigated the space; Bridget was a sexy woman.
Stopping at a desk where she had already deposited a sheaf of papers, she gestured for me to take a seat. Her knee brushed mine as she pulled up a chair beside me and started talking in a hushed voice.
‘I did a background search on Wildham Hall and, to be honest, not a great deal turned up. The house itself isn’t particularly old or large, or even especially grand compared to other country estates in the area, and it has always stayed in the Sinclair family, so there are no records of sale or auction details to go on.’ Bridget looked at me, her eyes bright with enthusiasm; clearly in her element.
‘I can hear a ‘but’ coming...’ I whispered.
She smiled. ‘But, in 1878 Aubrey Benjamin Sinclair commissioned the famous French landscape architect, Édouard Marcel, to create a rose garden in the grounds of Wildham Hall, and that was big news at the time.’
The copies of articles she showed me were from the Herts Guardian and the Bedfordshire Times, both dating from the 1870s. In a few brief sentences, the appointment of Monsieur Marcel was announced in a typically understated, British manner. But there was no disguising the sense of civic pride written between the lines, and I myself was impressed reading the news, over a century later.
‘So why was he famous?’
‘He was a leading horticulturalist as well as a landscape architect, and during his career he designed many private parks for nobility, right across Europe; from France to Lithuania. But the really exciting news is that in the 1870s he was in regular correspondence with a British plant hunter called Montgomery Broome, who kept all his letters...’
‘And you have them?’
‘Yep – the British Library has the complete collection archived.’ Leaning across the desk she retrieved a smart-looking folder. ‘These two letters refer to the rose garden at Wildham Hall, by name...’ Opening the file she carefully turned the crinkly, faded, hand-written pages within before I had a chance to read them, ‘... and on this page Marcel loosely sketched out the design itself!’
‘Wow,’ I muttered, studying the geometric pattern inked into the paper. The central layout of the design was instantly recognisable; a clear footprint for the sunken rose garden that was now drowning in weeds.
Bridget left me alone to read the documents from beginning to end; jotting down all the various rose varieties that Marcel mentioned, and carefully photographing the sketch plan on my phone for printing out later. In the second letter the Frenchman also made reference to a grotto that he had been asked to advise on at Wildham Hall – presumably the same locked-up, ‘dangerous’ structure Gregory Sinclair had pointed out to me. But Marcel was cryptic and vague on the details. Maybe it was just a vocabulary issue, though his written English was excellent, but I got the distinct impression that Marcel had misgivings about the grotto; reservations which he was reluctant to put into words.
‘How’s it going?’ Bridget murmured, leaning over my shoulder from behind.
‘Great, thanks, I think I’m just about finished, but it’s been really useful.’
‘Wonderful, do you have time to grab lunch before you go...?’